Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 (56 page)

 
          
“Unfortunately,
since you are the only ones who know how to fly those things you’ve been
screwing with, I can’t confine you in the custody of federal marshals until you
return to the States. Within three days, you are to make repairs to your
aircraft sufficient to make them airworthy, and then you will return all of the
aircraft leased from the government directly to the Aerospace Maintenance and
Regeneration Center at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Tucson, Arizona—the
Boneyard.”

 
          
“You
can’t do that, sir,” McLanahan said quickly. “Those planes are out on a
long-term lease with Sky Masters, Inc. The money’s been paid.” “Well, that
explains a lot, McLanahan—you only care about your contracts, your money, not
about obeying orders, or preserving national security, or selling out the
commander in chief,” Balboa said. “Forget the money, McLanahan—your company
will never see it, and anything already paid will be seized by the government.
The lease will be canceled. The money we’ll seize will be used to pay for the
federal marshals I’ve assigned to guard the aircraft and to keep you and the
folks from Sky Masters, Inc., under surveillance.”

 
          
“But
those planes belong to Eighth Air Force and Air Combat Command,” McLanahan
said. “I signed for them myself from General Samson and ACC. They’re not
fragged for the Boneyard. They still have assigned hangar space and a project
office at Edwards.”

 
          
“Not
anymore they don’t,” Balboa said. “I recommended they be dismantled and the
program canceled, and the Chiefs will agree.

 
          
“If
the aircraft are not flyable, the aircraft will be destroyed in place, wherever
they are, and the costs of the destruction and cleanup will be charged to Sky
Masters, Inc., in the lawsuit that will be filed that same day. Written orders
will be transmitted to you shortly. That is all.” The computer announced that
it had cut off
Guam
from the videoconference.

 
          
“Shit,
I can’t believe it,” Elliott swore. He got up slowly, massaging his left arm
and shoulder. He popped a couple of antacid tablets and washed them down with a
cup of coffee. “Balboa’s an asshole. He always was. He’s probably still
carrying a grudge from our days at the
National
War
College
. He can’t stand to lose face. He’ll blame
everybody else for the smallest failure and take away anyone else’s
accomplishments.” Patrick McLanahan opened the door to the command post battle
staff room, which signaled Jon Masters and Wendy McLanahan that they were
permitted to enter. He saw the looks on their faces, and knew that they had
been listening in to the entire communication—after all, Jon Masters had
designed the satellite-based communications system they were using, so he would
know how to bypass the Pentagon security encryption routines. “I can’t believe
this—it’s like a nightmare,” Wendy said, as she came over and put her arms
around her husband. “They can’t do this! You risked your lives for this
project, and now he wants to throw you in
jail?”

 
          
“I
believe he can do it,” Patrick said. “He’s got my attention. Jon?”

 
          
“Already
called home plate, and the legal beagles are on their way— plus they’re filing
injunctions in D.C. and in
Arkansas
federal court, trying to prevent Balboa from canceling the contract
\Hthout a performance review,” Jon Masters said. “But Balboa moved even
quicker—he’s already got Navy SPs from Agana Naval Base guarding the planes.
They’ve got the ramp shut down—nothing’s moving.

 
          
“The
lawyers say we can probably keep ourselves out of court, maybe even get the
contract money, but they think Balboa can throw us in jail just by uttering the
magic words ‘national security,’ and they’re positive he can have those planes
chopped up into little pieces anytime he wants. He’s got my attention too.”

 
          
“Let
me call in my markers, Muck,” Elliott said earnestly. He had found a seat and
was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands holding his head. “Balboa’s got
plenty of skeletons in his closet, and I know the boys who can take ’em out and
put ’em on display. He’ll back off pronto, I guarantee it. If it doesn’t work,
we’ll go right to the White House—heck, Muck, you and me, we got dirt on
Martindale that I know will make him squirm.”

 
          
“Brad,
I told you already, I’m not interested in fighting the Pentagon over this,”
McLanahan said. He studied Elliott for a moment, and decided that he felt much
worse than Elliott looked right now. “We’ve lost. We’ve invested millions in
the project, but it just won’t get on track with brass like Balboa fighting us
from the top. We just can’t do it. It’s not fair to ourselves, it’s not fair to
our loved ones, and it sure as hell isn’t fair to the shareholders.”

 
          
“Why
in hell are you so concerned about shareholders, Patrick?” Elliott said
angrily. “Jeez, have you completely lost your entire spine?”

 
          
“My
damned priorities are different, Brad,” McLanahan said. “I work for Jon now,
not the
U.S.
government. I’ve sold everything I own to invest in Sky Masters, Inc.,
and help this company, and I don’t want to see Balboa and the federal courts
drain our capital and our life savings fighting lawsuits. If we cooperate and
let the government hide us, we can walk away with our company intact, ready to
develop more technology and compete for more contracts. But if we fight them,
they’ll sic federal marshals and lawyers and judges on us for the next ten
years—and we can still lose. I don’t want my child to have a father in a
federal penitentiary. ”

 
          
“Listen
to yourself!” Elliott shouted, jumping to his feet. “We did good out there,
Patrick. You’re letting bozos like Balboa make you think that you screwed up.
Nobody screwed up here—not you, not
Denton
, not me. We did what we
knew
was right. Balboa is trying to make
us believe we did the wrong thing and that we deserve to be punished—next,
he’ll be telling us that we’re not going to jail because
he
interceded on our behalf. It’s bullshit, Patrick! Don’t fall for
it! If you give up, if you let assholes like Balboa chop up nearly ten years of
hard work, we lose— just as surely as if we lost a one-hundred-million-dollar
lawsuit.”

 
          
“Forget
it, Brad,” McLanahan insisted. “It’s not worth the fight, not worth the
aggravation. We did some good jobs in the Megafortresses, but the Pentagon
doesn’t want them. We can’t fight them all.”

 
          
“At
least we’ll give it a fighting chance,” Elliott said. McLanahan shook his head
and headed for the door to the battle staff room. “Dammit, McLanahan, I already
lost one organization because I let the pencil-pushers and brown-nosers tell me
that I couldn’t cut it. Now it’s happening again—except
you re
letting it happen.”

 
          
“Brad,
I’m tired. I’ve been shot at and yelled at and kicked around all day,”
McLanahan said. “I’m getting out of here.”

 
          
Elliott
blocked his path. He was almost a head taller than McLanahan, but in size and
physical strength, he was no match for his young protege—but that didn’t stop
Elliott from getting into his longtime colleague’s face. “What’s the matter,
Muck? You ready to hang up your spurs and turn your back on your friends just
because you’re too scared or too tired to stand up to someone? You want to just
sit back on your ass at your desk and push papers and collect your salary and
pension, while jerkoffs like Balboa screw Jon and everyone else in this
project?” “Brad, give it a rest.”

 
          
“I
want to know exactly what you plan on doing about this, Mr. Mission Commander,
Mr. Corporate Executive,” Elliott shouted, sweat popping out on his forehead in
large glistening drops. “Answer me!”

 
          
“Brad,
c’mon,” Wendy tried.

 
          
“No,
wait just a sec, Doc,” Elliott said. “Let the corporate big shot here tell us
what he intends to do. How are you gonna sell us out? You gonna hide behind
Masters’s lawyers?”

 
          
McLanahan
was glaring at his old mentor and friend, his jaw tight, his blue eyes blazing.
Wendy saw the building rage in his eyes and tried to hurry him to the door.
“Brad ...”

 
          
“You
forgetting about
Cheshire
, and Atkins,
Denton
and Bruno, the ones who volunteered for the project?” Elliott said. He
was almost nose to nose with McLanahan now, his breath ragged and excited, his
eyes blinking from the tension, veins pulsing in his neck from the anger. “Are
your lawyers going to help them out? Or are they going to be chewed up and spit
out by Balboa and his JAGs?”

 
          
“Brad,
let’s table this discussion for later,” Wendy said resolutely, taking Patrick’s
hand and leading him to the door.

 
          
“Talk
some sense into your old man, Doc—hey, don’t you walk away from me! You show me
some respect, mister!” Elliott shouted—and then he made the mistake of trying
to pull McLanahan around to face him. Instead, he shoved Wendy in the back, and
she lost her balance and crashed facefirst into the door that Patrick had just
half opened.

 
          
Patrick
McLanahan caught Wendy before she sagged to the floor, stood her back up on her
feet, made sure she was going to stand on her own, saw that she wasn’t hurt—and
then turned on Elliott. With never- before seen quickness, Patrick had Brad
Elliott’s neck in his hands and slammed him back to the wall. “You old son of a
bitch!”
he snarled in a low, menacing
voice. “You ever touch Wendy again, I’ll break your neck!”

 
          
“I’m
all right, Patrick!” Wendy said. “Let him go!”

 
          
Patrick
felt hands on his arms right away—Cheshire and Atkins, ready to pull him away
from Elliott—and the anger dissipated immediately when he heard Wendy’s voice.
He loosened his grip on Elliott’s neck—but Brad still seemed to be choking.
When he released him, he immediately collapsed. Patrick was able to lower him
gently to the floor and noticed his shortness of breath, the panicked look in
his eyes, and the contortions and spasms in his left arm.

 
          
“Christ,
I think he’s having a heart attack! ” he shouted. “Get an ambulance—
now!”
Nancy Cheshire was already on the
phone, dialing the paramedics at the base hospital. McLanahan unzipped
Elliott’s flight suit, exposing his chest, preparing to give CPR if necessary.
“Hang in there, Brad, goddamn it,” Patrick McLanahan said. He felt crushed
inside, thinking that the last words his best friend might have heard from his
lips were words of anger and hate. “C’mon, Brad, you old warhorse, hang in
there. ...”

 
          
YOKOSUKA
NAVAL BASE,
MIURA
PENINSULA
,
REPUBLIC
OF
JAPAN

SATURDAY, 21 JUNE 1997
,
0644 HOURS LOCAL (
FRIDAY,
20 JUNE, 1644
HOURS ET)

           
“Can’t the damned harbor police do
anything about this?” U.S. Navy Captain Davis Manaus complained. “Where the
hell are they?”

 
          
“They’re
out there already, skipper,” U.S. Navy Captain Sam Anse replied, scanning the
area with his binoculars. “Every harbor patrol, prefecture police, and Maritime
Self-Defense Force unit stationed in the Bay is out there.”

 
          
It
was not hard to understand why it was impossible to believe that fact. Admiral
Manaus’s ship, the American aircraft carrier USS
Independence,
was surrounded by what one lookout estimated as two
thousand boats of every shape, size, and description, all decked out in white
sheets and flying white flags. Most of the people on each ship were dressed in
white, with white bandannas with the red “rising sun” of
Japan
over their foreheads. Interspersed among
the white-clad protesters had to be another several dozen boats with camera
crews from all over the world. The police and Navy security units had been
circulating around the
Independence
all night and all morning, keeping
protesters away from the carrier’s hull; many of the protesters were carrying
buckets of red paint, obviously destined to decorate the ship’s hull.