Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (79 page)

“Yes, sir,” Zoltrane said.

“This really sucks,” Samson said. “We're forced to spend money on spinning up the fly-stores, while McLanahan and Luger get their pick of the best airframes to do their Q-conversion—and then we can't even use the damned things because no one except the weenies at Battle Mountain knows how they work.” The Q-conversion was the outrageous plan recently approved by the Pentagon to modify a number of B-1 and B-52 bombers to unmanned combat-strike missions, reconnaissance, and suppression of enemy air defense. The 111th Bomb Wing at Battle Mountain had developed the capability to control a number of bombers for global-combat sorties without putting one human being in harm's way. “They have code-one airframes and crews out there in Battle Mountain just twiddling their thumbs while the rest of the command has to bust our butts just to get to minimum force levels.

“And even if we had them, we don't even know how to employ robot planes,” Samson went on. “It's just like the Turkmenistan UN Security Council surveillance mission all over again—if we want to use them, we have to put one of their Trekkies in charge. I think we could stand David Luger or Rebecca Furness in our headquarters for a short period of time, but if they have to start bringing guys like Daren Mace or their civilian contractors Masters or Duffield in here, they'd drive us crazy in no time. No thanks. I'd rather spend the money and bring some of our fly-stores online before I bring in anyone from Battle Mountain.” He turned to the next officer at the conference table. “Gary, I hope you have better news for me.”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Major General Gary Houser said. “The good news is, one hundred percent of our spacecraft are operational, and we have
complete overhead coverage of Central Asia and southwestern Russia; all reconnaissance and surveillance air wings are fully combat-ready, and sortie completion rates are over ninety percent. True, we didn't see the air raid on Bukhara coming, and I will personally find out where the deficiency is and fix it. But now we have almost constant electronic surveillance on the entire region, and if the Russians try to make another move, we'll know about it.”

“Good work,” Samson said. “I'm going to be relying on you for the best and latest intel, Gary. I expect to be called to the Pentagon soon, maybe even the White House, and I need a constant stream of updates.”

“You should let me handle the heat from Washington, sir,” Houser said. “You'll have enough on your plate here organizing the force. Leave the intel mumbo jumbo to me.”

“Wouldn't be offering just so you can get more face time with the honchos in Washington, would you, Gary?”

Houser smiled conspiratorially. “Never crossed my mind, sir. I'll play it any way you'd like.”

“For now I'll take the meetings in Washington or Offutt or wherever they send me, Gary,” Samson said. “If we start sending strikers overseas, and they deploy me as part of the air staff, you may have to stand in during the intel briefs. That's your area of expertise.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, here's my take on the attack, based on what we know, folks,” Samson said, addressing everyone in the room. “I believe that this attack on Bukhara was an isolated reaction by General Gryzlov. He got his butt kicked by us at Engels and twice in Turkmenistan, and he lashed out. We've seen this kind of massive aerial assault recently in Chechnya—he does it for show, then backs off.

“But I believe that Gryzlov is under a lot of pressure from his military to retaliate against us, so he won't stand for any more attacks against Russian military forces, but the size and scope of this attack leads me to believe that this is not a prelude to a wider confrontation. Does anyone see any indication that he wants a war with us?” No response from the staff members.

“Then I think we concur. The CIA operation in Turkmenistan was discovered, they had to fight their way out, they killed some Russians, and the Russians retaliated by bombing their field-operations base. I'll
recommend to Air Combat Command and the Air Force that we step up monitoring and surveillance, but we feel that the Russians have shot their wad.

“What I need is a profile of Russian forces in Central Asia and the Persian Gulf and a look at other potential targets,” Samson ordered. “If you think a fight is possible anywhere in the region, I want analysis on where, when, and how, and I want a plan of action on what we should do about it. Naturally, the plan of action should place Eighth Air Force commanders in charge and assets at the pointy end of the spear, especially intelligence, reconnaissance, and information-warfare activities. Yes, make sure you emphasize joint warfighting—that's the important buzzword these days, and if you use it in your planning, you're likely to get your plan noticed. But the lead agency and the first units in combat should be the Mighty Eighth in every way possible.

“Next I want to make sure that every man and woman in this command—and every piece of hardware from the biggest bomber to the smallest microchip—is one hundred and ten percent ready to deploy and fight on a moment's notice. I want to be able to tell the Pentagon and the White House that we can send any unit, any weapon system, and every airman under my command anywhere on the globe just by picking up a telephone.

“However, it is essential to remember that, until ordered to do so, we must
not
appear as if we are stepping up our posture or readiness for a shooting war,” Samson went on. “This means you cannot step up orders for weapons, fuel, and supplies or increase your normal air order of battle. Your units need to prepare as much as possible within the current posture, but no one receives any more planes, weapons, supplies, or fuel than they're currently allotted.

“Finally, I want problems handled in-house, and I want strict, tight control on information and intelligence,” Samson said, his voice low and menacing. “Every piece of data that we collect stays in this command unless I authorize its release. If your staffs find a problem or think they find something important, it doesn't leave the command unless this battle staff sees it, deals with the problem, and releases the information with a solution attached. No one, and I mean
no one,
breaks the chain of command. The buck
will
stop right here, and I will destroy the airman and his supervisor if I find out that he or she takes key information and upchannels it outside the command without my signature. If we generate it, it stays with us. Is that perfectly clear?” Heads nodded all around.
“Anything else for me?” The battle staff knew better than to speak—they knew that the boss was done with the meeting. Any other questions were expected to go to the deputy commanders. “Good. Dismissed.”

As usual, Gary Houser and Charles Zoltrane stayed behind with Terrill Samson after the others had departed. “I apologize for McLanahan's performance today, sir,” Houser said. “He's new to the post, and he obviously thinks he can run things like he did at Battle Mountain and Dreamland. It won't happen again.”

“You know McLanahan as well as I do, Gary,” Samson said. “He's a smart and dedicated young officer who was detoured away from a successful career by some bad influences. He gets the job done by skirting the rules, just as Brad Elliott used to do. It's too bad.”

“Don't be sorry for him, sir,” Houser said. “I knew him before he joined up with Elliott, and he was an attitude case then, too. But back then the brass was letting guys slide if they made the wing king look good—and McLanahan was good, no doubt about that. He still thinks his shit doesn't stink.”

“He's probably better off retiring—in fact, that's what I thought happened with him after I got him bounced out of Dreamland,” Samson said. “But he's got balls of steel, loads of brain power, talented friends, and a real lock-and-load attitude that politicians like. He's a survivor. Unfortunately, he's your problem now, Gary.”

“We've had a heart-to-heart already, sir,” Houser said. “He won't be a hassle for you.”

“After today's performance I'd say you still have some work to do,” Samson said. “Just keep him in line and out of my face, all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who's your deputy, sir?” Zoltrane asked. “Have him give the Nine-sixty-sixth's briefings from now on.”

“That's Trevor Griffin.”

Zoltrane nodded, but Samson chimed in derisively, “You mean 'Howdy Doody' on steroids? Shit, last time he gave the staff a briefing, all I could think of was Opie Taylor giving a book report in front of the Mayberry schoolmarm. Christ, where do we find these characters anyway?” Houser did not respond. “Just do what you need to do to keep your folks in line and functioning, Gary,” Samson went on. “We don't need smart-asses like McLanahan giving us attitude in my battle-staff room. Clear?”

“Yes, sir. I'll take care of it.”

“See that you do.”

“One more matter for you, sir,” Houser said. “I wanted to ask you about the vice commander's vacancy here at headquarters. We talked about moving me here to get some combat command time before we—”

“Everything's on schedule, Gary,” Samson said. “The vacancy is still there. I need a firm commitment from the Pentagon about my fourth star and taking over Air Combat Command or STRATCOM. Once I hear for sure, I'll install you here as the vice, so you'll automatically take command when I leave. Don't worry about it. It's in the bag.”

“Yes, sir.” Houser didn't sound convinced.

“I don't think this recent flap with McLanahan will spoil things,” Samson added. “To the command, I jump in McLanahan's shit; to Washington, I tone it down a little. A lot of folks like the son of a bitch. He's still being considered for national security adviser, for Christ's sake. The politicians like getting their pictures taken with a real-life aerial assassin. We're below their radar screen, and we need to stay that way.

“Just keep McLanahan on a short leash. This nonsense about the Russians gearing up their bomber fleet has got to stay in this command, understand me? If word gets out, the politicians will wonder why we're not doing something about it, and then we'll look like jerks. If we play it cool, eventually McLanahan will resign to go work for Thorn, or he'll resign to be with his family on the coast, or he'll be shipped off to Dreamland and put back in his genie's bottle until the next war, like his mentor, Elliott.”

“Yes, sir. I agree. You won't have to worry about McLanahan, sir.”

Samson pulled out a cigar, lit it, then waved it at the door to dismiss Houser. The Air Intelligence Agency commander practically bowed before he headed out.

“I'll get that order to gin up the fly-stores going right now, sir,” Zoltrane said, picking up a phone to his office.

Samson nodded as he puffed away. “It's bad enough dealing with the Russians, Offutt, and Washington,” Samson muttered. “Now I have to deal with my own subordinate officers who might be ready to start rolling around on the deck during the storm, knocking guys into the ocean and wrecking my ship.”

“Sir, to be perfectly honest with you, I give McLanahan kudos for giving us that analysis so quick,” Zoltrane admitted as he waited for the secure connection to go through. “Part of the problem is that our guys are hesitant to upchannel their reports for fear of being labeled a crackpot or a nuisance. We
want
guys to give us educated opinions, and we want them soonest. McLanahan's only been on the job a short time, but he put together a pretty good analysis of Russian bomber capabilities and potential.

“And Trevor Griffin shocked the hell out of me. The guy's…what? In his mid to late forties? He climbs aboard an
unmanned
B-52 bomber, flies halfway around the world, then climbs into a high-tech Spam can and lets himself be dropped
out of the damned bomb bay
. Fuckin' incredible. And he made it out of Turkmenistan, too, after the Russians attacked—that's even more incredible. Maybe we should—”

“What? Let him have some satellites and maybe even some field operatives and send them into Russia looking for supersecret Backfire bombers?” Samson asked. “How the hell can you hide a Backfire bomber? And we know damned well the Russians aren't modernizing Backfires—they're scrapping them. McLanahan couldn't possibly have collected enough information from that raid on Bukhara to come up with valid conclusions that warrant additional intel missions. He's
guessing,
Charlie. We don't waste our time or resources on guesses. We need some hard evidence before we can take a field-intel-ops plan to Air Combat Command or the Pentagon. And that goes triple for a proposed operation into Russia. McLanahan is guessing, plain and simple, and he wants to rub our noses in the fact that he's here against his will.”

“He doesn't
seem
like the kind of guy to pull shit like that, sir,” Zoltrane said, adding the word “sir” to distance himself from his own remark and defer to whatever his boss told him. He really didn't know McLanahan that well, and he certainly knew his reputation—he was not about to defend the guy before he personally saw him in action. “He seems like a straight shooter to me.”

“I worked with him long enough at Dreamland to know that he's a sidewinder, Charlie,” Samson said. “He's quiet and hardworking, but when he decides he wants to do something, he'll step over anyone to do the job—and if there aren't enough bodies and careers piled up high enough to get him to where he want stobe, he'll create more. The
sooner we get his ass out of the Air Force—for good this time—the better.”

A short time later

S
o how was your first battle-staff meeting?” Trevor Griffin asked when he met Patrick back in his office. The grin on his face told Patrick that he already knew the answer to that one.