Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (9 page)

 
          
“Most
young B-52 troops are standing in line for a B-l assignment,” General Elliott
remarked.

 
          
“Not
me,” McLanahan said. He nodded toward an old, dusty model of a B-52 hanging in
a corner. “There’s my baby.” He gave an amiable grin and said, “Sorry about
Pease. Those guys were tough this year.”

 
          
“Thanks.
The FB-llls will come back next year, I’m sure of it. They were beat out by the
best.” No reaction from the young radar navigator.

 
          
“You
say you
want
to stay in B-52s,
Patrick?” Elliott asked curiously. “Why? The B-ls will be replacing them by the
turn of the century.”

 
          
McLanahan
paused before answering. “I don’t know. I guess it’s just that people see a new
aircraft come on-line and they think all of the older planes are history.” He
took another sip of beer. “They’ve condemned the B-52 a little early. She’s
still got a lot of fight left in her.”

 
          
Elliott
raised his eyebrows. His thoughts exactly. “Old warhorses can still kick ass,”
he said.

 
          
McLanahan
smiled. “You know it, sir.

 
          
“Well,
congratulations again, Patrick. Fairchild Trophy, Bombing Trophy, two years in
a row. You’re unbeatable, it seems.”

 
          
“I
got the best crew in the business, General,” McLanahan said. He drained the
last of his beer and crumpled the cup in his hand. “We work hard—and party even
harder. Gotta go.”

 
          
“Stop
by the Headquarters Hospitality Room later,” Elliott said as he shook hands.
“Let’s discuss the old monster some more.”

 
          
“You
got it, General,” McLanahan said. He hurried off after his crew.

 
          
Not
much spit and polish to him, Elliott thought. But then he smiled as he recalled
a young pilot thirty years before of whom the same could have been said. Had it
been that many years? Elliott shook his head. Like the B-52, he was fast
becoming a relic. He only hoped that, like the B-52, he had a little fight left
in him yet.

 
          
The
Strategic Air Command
Giant Voice
Bombing and Navigation Competition Center was an immense aircraft hangar,
remodeled and converted into the awards and hospitality center that was used
only once a year for just this event. Surrounding the hangar itself were dozens
of smaller offices and conference centers that, on Hospitality Night, were used
by all of the units represented in the competition as specialized drinking and
socializing rooms. Each room had a theme, depending on the unit’s mission or
its geographical location.

 
          
The
first task at hand, however, was to get inside to visit them. The Competition Center
was so crowded, so packed with military men and women in various stages of
inebriation, that Gary Houser’s crew took ten minutes, once they entered the
hangar’s immense lobby, to even get near the hospitality rooms. There was a
large directory inside the lobby that described where each unit was located,
but that defeated the purpose of Hospitality Night. The object was to visit
each and every room before the
three
a.m.
closing time.

 
          
“I
don’t believe this,” Luger said as he and Patrick moved through the crowd.
“This Hospitality Night gets bigger and better every year.”

 
          
Their
first stop was the Texas Contingent, where five rooms had been combined into
one long beerhall. The center of attraction in the jam- packed room was a
massive Brahma bull lounging in the middle of the beerhall. It had a mural of a
B-1B painted on each side. The bull was standing in a huge sandbox. In the back
part of the sandbox, already half-covered with bull droppings, was a strip of
r^d sand labeled, “To Russia With Love, From the Excalibur.” The bull wore a
ten-gallon cowboy hat and was busy eating out of a trough filled with party
snacks and corn.

 
          
Luger
and McLanahan were welcomed by two girls dressed like Dallas Cowboy
Cheerleaders, who promptly filled their hands with Lone Star beer and bowls of
chili.

 
          
“Where
y’all from?” one cheerleader asked.

 
          
“
Amarillo
,” Luger drawled. “Patty here’s from
California
but he’s okay.”

 
          
“I
just love
Amarillo
,” the other cheerleader said, giggling.

 
          
“And
I just love
California
,” the first one said.

 
          
“Well,”
McLanahan said, slipping an arm around one cheerleader’s waist while the other
took his arm. “Why don’t you two Southern belles show us around your little
Texas
tearoom here?”

 
          
McLanahan
weaved unsteadily in a corner of an old-time Western saloon, wearing a toy
six-gun at his side and a red felt cowboy hat behind his neck. The place was
packed with riotous crewmen, some celebrating, some trying to drown their
sorrows with massive amounts of beer and chili. A non-com bartender, a crew chief
from the 5th Fighter Interceptor Squadron from
Minot
,
North Dakota
, patiently waited on each one of them.

 
          
With
one hand, McLanahan picked up a huge mug of beer from the end of the bar. He
strolled over to a dartboard at the far end of the saloon and looked over the
target—five darts, lodged in the exact center of the cork- board.

 
          
“Pretty
good shootin’, huh, Sergeant Berger?” McLanahan said to the bartender. The
sergeant, dressed like a
Barbary Coast
innkeeper, smiled.

 
          
“Your
Sergeant Brake’s the one who can do some shooting,” Berger said. “If anyone had
told me a B-52 would shoot down an F-15 in broad daylight, I’d have said they
were crazy. I was the crew chief on that F-15 that got shot down, but send Bob
Brake over here and I’ll buy him a beer.”

 
          
“It
would have been different if things were for real,” McLanahan said, taking a
deep pull of the draft. “You would have nailed us from thirty miles away with
one of those new Sidewinders or an AMRAAM, but you don’t get any points for a
beyond-visual range shot.” McLanahan took another swig of beer. That’s why it’s
all just a big game, he thought. Just a game.

 
          
As
he ambled over to the bar and found himself an empty seat, his thoughts took a
depressing turn. He had been in the Air Force, what? Six years now. And he had
never dropped a live bomb on a target. Each time that he had pressed his finger
down on the pickle switch, it had been a concrete blivet that dropped out the
bomb bay doors.

 
          
Not
that he should complain. The whole point of what he was doing was to defend his
country, after all. If defending it meant undergoing exercise after exercise,
then so be it. He couldn’t help wondering, though, what it would be like to
drop a bomb under true “game” conditions. He felt like a fireman who is waiting
to be called to his first fire, dreading and welcoming it at the same time.

 
          
McLanahan
looked up from his beer to find a pretty young brunette in civilian clothes
seated next to him. She was talking to another woman who had long blonde hair
tied up in a bun. On the blonde’s uniform lapel was a lieutenant’s insignia.

 
          
“Excuse
me, ladies,” McLanahan said, his voice slurring a bit. “But can I interest
either of you in a game of darts?”

 
          
The
blonde smiled. She looked at her friend. “Wendy,” she said, “why don’t you give
it a try. I never could shoot those things.”

 
          
The
brunette demurred. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Besides, what chance would I
have competing against the King of Bomb Comp himself.” She fixed McLanahan with
a bemused look, as if all the honors he’d received counted little in her
estimation.

 
          
McLanahan
mistook the look for active interest and charged forward. “Well, if I’m the
King of Bomb Comp, then I’m willing to let you be my Queen.” He clinked his
beer mug against hers and made a toast. “To . . . what was it? Wendy. To Wendy,
Queen of Bomb Comp and a credit to the United States Air Force.”

 
          
Wendy
smiled. “Actually, I’m employed by an independent contractor. We build and test
ECM gear.”

 
          
“Well,
we won’t hold that against you,” McLanahan said. He glanced at the blond
lieutenant.

 
          
Wendy
looked at McLanahan for a moment as if deciding something, then rose from her
seat and straightened her dress. She reached out her hand. “So nice to have met
you, uh—” McLanahan told her his name. “Yes, of course. Patrick. Well, it
was
nice to meet you. But I must be
going.”

 
          
She
waved to the blonde. “Catch you later, Cheryl,” she said. “Stay out of trouble,
okay?”

 
          
“I’ll
try,” Cheryl said, but something in her eyes told McLanahan she had no
intention of doing any such thing. As Cheryl looked at him over her beer mug,
McLanahan thought of the woman who’d just left.

 
          
T
wo days after the Bomb Comp
festivities ended, Lieutenant-General Elliott rode with General Curtis in a
blue Air Force four-wheel drive truck, bouncing and skidding on dark, dusty,
pitted desert roads. Elliott was wearing short-sleeved olive-drab fatigues and
a blue flight cap. Curtis was wearing a conservative gray suit and tie, even in
the dry desert warmth of the early evening. The sun had set a few minutes
earlier beyond the beautiful mountain ranges of the high
Nevada
desert.

 
          
“It’s
incredible,’’ Elliott said, closing the top secret file he held in his hand.
“Absolutely incredible.”

 
          
“And
those are the things we’re sure of,” Curtis said. “Those are the things that’ll
be presented in the United Nations. I believe—and I’m alone on this so far—that
the Russians have an extremely advanced, fully operational laser defense system
in place, right now. As a matter of fact, I believe it’s been operational for
months, ever since the
Iceland
summit.”

 
          
“This
is amazing. The Russians are further ahead of us in beam defense than anyone
ever imagined. So what do we do? Go to the United Nations? Ask them to shut the
thing down?”

 
          
“That’s
one option we’re pursuing,” Curtis replied, loosening his tie against the
lingering heat. “But I’ve been authorized to explore two other possible
responses.” He paused.
"Ice Fortress
is one of them.”

 
          
Elliott
looked surprised, but nodded thoughtfully. “That certainly will get people’s
attention,” he said. “But it’s a sitting duck, if that laser is as capable as
you say it is.”

 
          
“They
wouldn’t dare shoot down a manned space platform,” Curtis declared.

 
          
Elliott
shook his head. “Tell that to the widows and widowers of that downed RC-135,
sir.”

 
          
Curtis
glared at Elliott, but said,
“Ice
Fortress
is different.’’

 
          
“You
bet, sir,” Elliott replied. “It’s worse.” They rode on in silence. Elliott
added: “Besides, wasn’t
Ice Fortress
cancelled? I know the Vanden- burg control center is closed.”

 
          
“It
was
cancelled,” Curtis said, “but not
because it wasn’t feasible. We had to cancel it because of that damned treaty
we signed. It’s frustrating. The Russians can shoot down one of our RC-135s,
but we can’t violate a treaty. We come out losers both ways.” His angry voice
seemed loud enough to be heard by the sentries at the guard shack a hundred
yards ahead of them.

 
          
“I
haven’t heard anything about the incident,” Elliott remarked. “Everything seems
very quiet.”

 
          
“The
situation politically has stabilized somewhat,” Curtis said. “The White House
is hoping this whole thing will just fade away. I’m sure the President will be
more than happy to let the matter fizzle out, take the Russians’ excuses and
minimal reparations. The President is really counting on Secretary of State
Brent to defuse the whole affair.”

 
          
“But
the Russians aren’t offering excuses or reparations, are they?” Elliott asked,
stretching his aching muscles.

 
          
“Hell,
why should they?” Curtis said. “They’re holding all the damn cards. We, the
military, whine and bitch that the Russians are shooting down our spy
satellites. Half the White House doesn’t believe us—and the other half doesn’t
want
to believe us.” He paused for a
moment, then added, “I’m sorry about the RC-135 crew, Brad. I know you worked
with them in the past. I’m sorry those crewmembers died.”

 
          
“I’m
sorry, too, Curtis,” Elliott said. “Those men and women were doing their job,
their
duty
, something they trained
hard to perfect. Their murder was senseless—premeditated, cruel, and
senseless.” Elliott shook his head and tried not to think of the friends he had
lost. “So,” he said finally,
“Ice
Fortress
is one option. And you’re out here to see what else we have up our
sleeves.”

 
          
“Putting
you in charge out here was the best move the Defense Department ever made,
Brad,” Curtis said. “What we needed was a guy who never said it can’t be done.
A guy happy to lock horns with Congress or anyone else who stood in the way of
developing new ideas. Now, I need you to find some for me. I want—”

 
          
“To
take out this . . . this site,” Elliott said quickly, glancing sideways at the
driver. “Attack it.”

 
          
Curtis
was somewhat taken aback. “No one said anything about ‘taking out’ anything,
especially in goddamned
Russia
.” He smiled. “Jesus, Brad, you’re a
sonofabitch.”

 
          
General
Elliott smiled back at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, then leaned
forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “We’ll walk from here, Hal. Meet
us back at the guard shack in an hour.”

 
          
The
truck ground to a halt, and the driver, a young second lieutenant wearing
fatigues and carrying a small Uzi submachine gun, trotted around to General
Curtis’ door and held it open for him. Both men stepped out.

 
          
“You
won’t get lost from here, will you, General?” the lieutenant asked Elliott in a
low enough voice to keep Curtis from hearing. “Straight down the road, about
four hundred—”

 
          
“This
is
my
desert, Hal,” Elliott growled.
With a smile he said, “Get out of here. Make sure they have fresh coffee at the
guard shack, and
don
7 drink it all.”
The young officer saluted, trotted back to the driver’s seat, and drove off.

 
          
“This,
sir, is Dreamland,” Elliott said, beaming. He spread his hands out across the
desert as he spoke. “Ideas become reality here. Theories become machines. Men
like you don’t come here just to visit—you come here to get answers.” Elliott’s
mind was racing—it was exhilarating for Curtis just to watch.

 
          
“Kavaznya.
Heavily defended, I’d say, according to your intel.”

 
          
“That
would be an understatement,” General Curtis replied. “They converted their
small supply airfield into a full-scale year-round base.”

 
          
“Rule
out a carrier task force, then,” Elliott said, nodding. “They’d be blown out of
the water thirteen hundred miles north of
Japan
. The Russians would see a flight of F-15s
and their tankers long before they reached Kavaznya, and you might need two
squadrons to beat past the defense and take that complex out.” He looked at
Curtis.

 
          
“Bombers.
Heavy bombers. B-ls, perhaps?”

 
          
“What
else would I get from an old SAC warhorse?” Curtis said, smiling.

 
          
Elliott
went on: “We don’t want the Russians to think we just declared war on them. One
bomber, launch three, but pick the best for the attack. One lone penetrator,
even against heavy defenses, has a chance. Especially a B-l.”

 
          
“My
thoughts exactly.”

 
          
It
was Elliott’s turn to smile. “You didn’t come here to shop, did you, sir? You
came to buy. Cash and carry. Price is no object. All that stuff.”

 
          
“I
wanted to see your little playland here, too,” Curtis said, “but I knew you’d
have what I’m looking for.”

 
          
“I
don’t have a B-l here,” Elliott said as they approached the guard shack. “But
I’ve got something . . . you won’t believe.”

 
          
“I
knew you’d put on a show for me,” Curtis said. “But where the hell are we?”

 
          
“We’re
in
Nevada
, sir,” Elliott said, scanning the horizon
with the corners of his eyes. It was an old Navy seadog trick taught to him by
his father: the corners of the eyes can detect motion easier than the center,
because of the lesser concentration of light receptors at the edges. “In the
middle of nowhere. That’s the
Groom
Mountain
range over there,” Elliott said, pointing
to the twilight-streaked horizon. “You can just barely see
Bald
Mountain
over there.
Papoose
Range
is over there to the south. We are on the
northwest corner of
Groom
Lake
.”

 
          
“
Lake
?” Curtis said, kicking up a cloud of
hard-packed sand and dust.

 
          
“Dry
lake,” Elliott explained. “Properly tested and reinforced. It makes a natural
and easily concealed three-mile-long runway.” Elliott scanned the horizon,
breathing in the fresh, clean, slightly chilling air. “Dreamland.”

 
          
They
walked for a while longer. Suddenly, two streaks of light could be seen several
miles in the distance, diving and turning over the nap of the rugged mountains.
A moment later, two ear-shattering sonic booms rolled across the desert floor
and echoed up and down the valley.

 
          
“What
the hell was
that,
” Curtis asked.

 
          
“Red
Flag,” Elliott said with a smile. “Probably a couple FB-llls on a night
terrain-following sortie out there on range 74. Going max afterburners and
supersonic at two hundred feet.”

 
          
“But
that was so close,” Curtis said. “What about—”

 
          
“Relax,
relax,” Elliott said. “They were at least fifteen miles away. Besides, those
bomber pukes know better than to come any closer to Dreamland. The airspace
from ground level to eighty thousand feet is absolutely prohibited from
overflight—civilian, military, anybody. It’s an instant aircrew violation and a
security debriefing they’d not soon forget—
I'd
guarantee that.”

 
          
Finally,
after a few minutes of searching, Elliott spotted the low, dimly lit guardhouse
and steered Curtis and himself toward it. “I come out here once a week,”
Elliott said, “and I still have trouble finding the damn guard shack.”

 
          
“I
don’t think your sky-cops would let us wander around out here for too long,”
Curtis observed.

 
          
“True,”
Elliott said. “They’d send a German shepherd to fetch us back.”

 
          
A
few moments later, they arrived at a small concrete block building. The shack
had one large bullet-proof double-paned glass window in front, one door, and
numerous gunports around it on the other walls. A twelve- foot-tall fence
stretched on either side of the building, and the fence was topped with large,
silvery coils of sharp barbed wire. Three fully rigged Air Force security
guards emerged from the building and quickly and quietly surrounded Elliott and
Curtis. All three were armed with M-16 rifles, one with a mean-looking M-203
grenade launcher attached to the underside of his rifle barrel. A German
shepherd dog was led out and began sniffing around the two visitors. The dog
took one sniff of Wilbur Curtis and sat down directly in front of him, no more
than six inches from the tips of his shoes.