Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (48 page)

 
          
“Jesus.
Was McLanahan one of the men killed in the dogfights with DreamStar?”

 
          
“No.
He was chased away by the Mexican Air Force, missed his chance to try to even
the score ... I wanted to thank you for sticking up for me in there, and for
your help with the Mexican government. I think you see how important this is to
me. Maybe this sounds too dramatic, but those men and women are my
life.
I have to watch out for them—now
more than ever.”

 
          
“Well,
now that I know that McLanahan was one of the men in those
F-15S,
I’m glad I stuck up for him and you. I don’t think General
Kane will push for any official action against McLanahan or anyone else
involved.”

 
          
“I
appreciate it just the same ... Look, I’m not trying to start a palace revolt
here, but I just can’t stand the idea of sitting by while DreamStar is chopped
up into pieces and shipped off to Moscow. The President wasn’t interested in my
idea, but maybe you would be . . .”

 
          
“I’m
interested,” O’Day said. Elliott couldn’t be sure she meant it or was just
defusing him, but he had little choice right now, he realized. “It’s true,
Brad, the President isn’t interested . . . But what’s your idea?”

 
          
Elliott
spread his hands. “Simple. Make the Nicaraguans, and the Russians,
think
we’re going to strike at Managua .
. . Look,
Vm not
suggesting that we
send the Second Fleet over to shell Managua, but we could send it out into the
Gulf, on one of the Pentagon’s famous ‘previously scheduled’ exercises. We
could land the Eighty-second Airborne next door in Honduras. That could shake
them up enough at least to start dealing with us—”

 
          
“And
what if? The bad old ‘what if ... it doesn’t work?”

 
          
“Then
we have no choice. Mount a surgical strike. Photo intelligence would be
invaluable. If we can pinpoint where DreamStar is being kept we can plan a
discreet attack—”

 
          
“To
destroy it?”

 
          
Elliott
nodded. “Afraid so. We sure as hell couldn’t fly it out of Nicaragua—”

 
          
“Why
not?”

 
          
Elliott
stopped, looked at her. He had no ready answer to that one. “Well, first of
all, it would be nearly impossible to get near it anywhere on that KGB base.
Second, we’ve no one qualified to fly it. James—Maraklov—was the only pilot . .
.”

 
          
“The
only
one?”

 
          
Elliott’s
mind was racing now—Deborah O’Day seemed to be opening up possibilities he
hadn’t imagined. “We’ve had several men fly DreamStar’s simulator, but only one
man has actually flown DreamStar before. And no one has been able to control it
as well as James.”

 
          
“Well,
you could use him then, couldn’t you? If all he’d have to do is take off and
land . . . ?”

 
          
“True,
if we could provide him enough air cover during his escape ... steal DreamStar
back ... There are a lot of ‘ifs’ here. If DreamStar is still flyable, if we
can pinpoint DreamStar’s location, if we can get J.C. Powell on that base . .
.”

           
“J.C. Powell?”

 
          
“My
chief test pilot. He checked out in DreamStar in the early phase but was
replaced by James. He just might do it. He can’t dogfight in DreamStar like
James, but he could get DreamStar off the ground and land it again.”

 
          
“So
if we knew exactly where DreamStar was, and if it wasn’t already taken apart,”
O’Day said, “we’d need a plan to get this Powell on Sebaco and into DreamStar’s
cockpit. Then we’d have to arrange air cover for him after takeofiF since he
wouldn’t be able to defend himself ...”

 
          
“Right
. . . put Powell in under some sort of diversionary cover,” Elliott said. “Hit
Sebaco with a small air strike or guerrilla force and insert Powell. Get him
into DreamStar’s cockpit. Use the guerrillas to blow a path for him out to the
airstrip. With a carrier from the Second Fleet sitting in the Gulf of Mexico we
could provide enough air cover to fight off the Nicaraguan air force. A short
flight to Texas and we’d be home free.”

 
          
“Sounds
like a plan, General. Now you have just one problem . . .”

 
          
“I
know. The President. It’s what he
doesn't
want to do. That’s where I need your help. You have access to the man. Can you
talk to him? Try to convince him?”

 
          
She
sank back in her chair. “I’m not sure how much help I can be. The truth is, I’m
not a member of the President’s inner sanctum. His brother-in-law Benson and
Speaker Van Keller have his ear, not me. I’m a political appointee, damn near a
figurehead. Except I also happen to be qualified. He lucked out. I was put here
before the primaries to make the public think that Lloyd Taylor supports women
in government. I was good for a jump in the polls, or so they say, but I’m not
sure what else there is.”

 
          
“You’ve
got to try,” Elliott said. “Bring it up in staff meetings. Talk to the other
Cabinet members. Schedule a meeting with Van Keller or Danahall. They have got
to realize that we just can’t let the Russians get away with espionage and
murder. We can yell and threaten all we want, but it doesn’t work. It didn’t
eight years ago with Kavaznya, and it won’t work now, even with
glasnost
and
perestroika
and all the other peaceful coexistence stuff the
Soviets have been feeding us. If the President doesn’t want to authorize it he
can make it a blind operation—let me loose and I’ll do it and he can deny
knowing or authorizing everything.”

 
          
“You
can’t do that with this President,” O’Day said. “That might have worked with
Iran-Contra, but this Democrat has a very good memory for such screwups,
especially by a Republican President. No . . .” O’Day stared at the ceiling.
“Taylor is as hard-nosed as they come, and he rarely changes his mind ... This
plan ... this operation to get DreamStar. Do you really think you can put it
together?”

 
          
“I
can get my staff on it—”

 
          
“No.
I mean right now. Yes or no—can this J.C. Powell get in and get DreamStar?”

 
          
Elliott
hesitated only a moment.
“If
I get
the support from the White House I can get Powell into DreamStar’s cockpit. And
I believe he can get DreamStar out.”

 
          
“Okay.
I’m on the case. I’ve a plan to shake things up around here. After that I don’t
know what will happen. It could blow up in our faces. But I’ll bet it’ll cause
the White House at least to rethink its position on letting the Soviets get
away with the XF-34.”

 
          
“What
are you—?”

 
          
“No
questions. Just be ready with a dog-and-pony show for the boss within
twenty-four hours, and you better knock his socks off or it’ll be too late for
your XF-34. I can’t promise anything except some noise, but like Yogi said, it
ain’t over till it’s over. That might even be true for President Lloyd Emerson
Tayor the Third.”

 
          
Elliott
straightened his right leg, locked it and eased himself to his feet. He
extended his hand, O’Day came around her desk and took it. “I bet the woman and
the plan are much alike.”

 
          
“Don’t
be so sure—about either one, General,” she said. “I’m expecting a few sparks
around here. I’m just hoping they don’t hit any vital parts.”

 
          
“Actually,”
Elliott said as he turned for the door, “I’m hoping they come too close for
comfort.”

 
          
After
he left, O’Day returned to her chair and felt a very rare grin on her face.
Forget
that, she told herself sternly.
He may have this domineering presence that seems to fill the room when he
enters, but does he really have all his facts together when it came to this
DreamStar business? Sure he wants the XF-34 back—that’s understandable. But is
he acting like a man with little to lose, who’ll risk a major international
incident to get his own way?

 
          
Having
asked herself the tough questions, the answers came easy. Elliott wanted
DreamStar back because a goddamn mole stole it, because his people got killed.
He was willing to fight to get it back, even if his own government disowned him
or worse.

 
          
She
dialed a number on a private phone that could not be picked up or used by her
outer office. “Marty, this is your racquetball partner... yes, I know it’s been
a while since we’ve played. It’s been busy ... give me a break. I was appointed
by your President, remember? Listen, can we meet for a game? Today, if we can
get a court. . . better make it early. You may have a late evening ... you heard
me. Can you make it? Good. See you at seven, then . . . no, we can’t count this
one. That’s right . . . you’ll find out why. See you.”

Brooks Medical Facility,
San
Antonio

 
          
“Edema
in her right lung, possibly from inhaling fire or burning debris. We didn’t
catch it right away . . .” the doctor was saying as McLanahan and Powell
entered the intensive care unit.

 
          
Wendy
Tork’s parents were on either side of her. Her hands were heavily bandaged. She
had been on a respirator ever since she was found in the crash area, but now
there was a different one in place, one to keep her lungs clear of fluid and
help her keep breathing. Most of her facial bandages had been removed, exposing
ugly burn marks and cuts. Intravenous tubes were feeding glucose and whole blood
into her arms. One small vase of flowers rested on a nightstand—ICU would
tolerate no more—but Wendy had not yet been conscious to see them or her
parents.

 
          
Betty
and Joseph Tork glanced at Patrick and J.C. as they came into the room, quickly
turned their eyes back to their daughter.

 
          
“Doctor?”
McLanahan couldn’t get out the obvious question.

 
          
“She’s
a strong woman, Colonel, but her injuries are massive ...” He paused, moved
closer to Patrick and lowered his voice. “Did you know she was pregnant?”
Wendy’s parents heard the words anyway. “Oh, my God,” Betty Tork said, turned
away from Wendy’s bedside and gave in to the tears she’d been fighting back.

 
          
McLanahan
could only nod and clench his fists.

 
          
“She
suffered severe abdominal injuries . . .”

 
          
Powell
stepped firmly between McLanahan and the doctor. “I think that’s enough,
doctor. I think we ought to leave,” and he took the doctor’s arm and led him
out of the room.

 
          
Patrick,
Wendy’s parents and an ICU nurse stood in silence for a long time watching Wendy,
listening to the beeps of the body function monitor and the hissing of the
respirator. Several times Patrick could see muscles in Wendy’s face or
shoulders twitch, and for a brief instant thought that she might be about to
wake up.

 
          
Betty
Tork noticed her daughter’s movements too. “I wish they’d give her something ..
. something to help her relax. It’s so awful seeing her suffer. My daughter is
in pain,
Colonel
Can’t anybody around
here
do
something for her? What kind
of hospital is this, anyway?”

 
          
Should
he tell her it happened to be the best burn-and- trauma facility in the
country? That as long as Wendy kept fighting for her life there was at least
hope . . . ? He said nothing.

 
          
“How
did this happen, Patrick?” Joe Tork asked. “She was flying the B-52, I know,
but how did the crash happen?”

 
          
“I’m
sorry, Joe, I can’t—”