Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 (67 page)

 
          
“With
a goddamn
nuke?”

 
          
“Yep,”
McLanahan said. “Looks like we’re one radio call from starting a new war in
Korea
—and this one might go nuclear or
biochemical right away.”

 
          
“Oh,
shit, this is incredible! ” Elliott cursed. “We’ve got to get in the ball game,
Muck! We’ve got to talk with Hayes or Samson. All I see is this stuff on the
news about ballistic missile subs put out to sea—I haven’t heard squat about
the bombers.”

 
          
“Samson
put them on alert,” Patrick said.

 
          
“Well,
no shit,” Elliott said. “But why in hell hasn’t he deployed them here?”

 
          
“They’re
on SIOP ground alert, Brad,” Patrick replied. “Samson’s not at Barksdale—the
President ordered STRATCOM to stand up the Combined Task Forces. Samson’s at
Offutt.”

 
          
“SIOP
alert? What beanbrain activated the SIOP?” Elliott thundered. “The Chinese know
we’re not going to use nuclear weapons on anyone, especially not a third world
country like the People’s Republic of
China
! We should have launched non-nuclear
strikes against the Chinese sub and missile bases by now, knocked out their
nuclear warfighting capability. The bombers should have been over their targets
hours ago. We don’t need nukes to send the Chinese to the bargaining table.
What in hell is Earthmover doing at Offutt, anyway? We could have this thing
over with by now. ”

 
          
“Brad,
relax,” Patrick said. “Things are quiet right now. Everybody’s backed off to
neutral corners.”

 
          
“Oh,
sure—after they nuke
Taiwan
into another dimension! ” Elliott retorted.
“How long do you think that’ll last? Not long—probably just long enough for
everybody to load up their artillery shells and gravity bombs with nuclear or
chemical warheads.

 
          
“I’ll
call Samson at Offutt and get him to stop with the nukes, put conventional
cruise missiles on the bombers, and start laying down the law to the Chinese
before someone starts another nuclear exchange.

           
With the Megafortresses already
here, we can take care of the radar sites and long-range strategic defenses, if
Balboa or Allen haven’t already sent the EA-6 Prowlers in. ” The EA-6 Prowlers
were the combined Navy and Air Force medium-range and carrier-based anti-radar
planes, able to jam and attack enemy radar and air defense sites. “Maybe I can
get some charts and draw up a flight plan so you can have it in the computers
ready to go in case we get the word to—”

 
          
“We’re
grounded, if you remember, Brad,” Patrick said. “We’ve been doing nothing but
getting the damaged bird ready to go and packing up all our equipment before
the Navy or the federal marshals seize it. We’ll be ready to depart in a couple
days.”

 
          
“No
one is going to seize anything, Muck,” Elliott said. “Balboa was just blowing
gas.”

 
          
“They’ve
got marshals surrounding the hangars and our headquarters, backed up by Navy
SPs,” Wendy McLanahan said, as she entered the room just then. She gave Elliott
a welcoming kiss. “Nice to see you up and around . . . but the nurse says—”

 
          
“Who
said you two could talk to my blabbermouth nurse, anyway?”

 
          
“Never
mind that—you need the rest, not more work,” Wendy admonished him.

 
          
“What
about the Megafortresses?”

 
          
“Balboa’s
for real, Brad,” Patrick said. “We’d probably have been flown back to
Washington
to appear in federal court already, except
for the
Independence
disaster—air traffic has been shut down
completely over the Pacific.”

 
          
Elliott
sighed wearily, looking as if all the moisture had been sucked out of his body.
Stuck in bed, grounded, facing legal action, and having his prized
Megafortresses shut down and one step out of the Boneyard was almost too much
for him to handle. He had been calling everyone he knew back in the States,
gathering information, asking for favors, trying to find some avenue he could
pursue to get the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff off his back and get
the Megafortresses flying again, but no one returned his calls. With this new
disaster in the Pacific, George Balboa had all the power and influence now.
“Dammit, I need to talk with Samson soonest.”

 
          
“I
brought bad news, then,” Wendy McLanahan said. “Terrill Samson called from
Offutt. He’s been relieved of duty as commander of Combined Task Force Three.”

           
“Oh, shit,” Patrick exclaimed. “How
did that happen?”

 
          
“One
word—CINCSTRATCOM. Henry Danforth,” Elliott said. “He’s a younger but stupider
clone of George Balboa. He doesn’t know how to handle the heavy bomber fleet
and doesn’t trust Samson or anyone else to run the fleet for him, because he’s
afraid the Air Force would kick ass and overshadow the carriers and Navy air.”

 
          
“He
got into an argument with CINCSTRATCOM over releasing some of the B-ls and B-2s
for conventional missions,” Wendy said. “I guess the argument got too
personal.”

 
          
“He
probably asked for Major-General Collier to replace him, Samson’s vice at
Barksdale,” Elliott guessed. “Collier’s a good guy, but he hasn’t run a wing in
almost ten years. Samson’s the bomber guy. I think we’re aced out completely.”

 
          
“At
least Earthmover was in there trying to get STRATCOM steered in the right
direction,” Patrick McLanahan said. “The bombers don’t belong in the nuclear
mission now—probably not ever. If the shit really hits the fan and we have to
go nuclear, the subs and ICBMs are the best weapons then—we should be using the
bombers for non-nuclear strikes deep into
China
. But with the B-52s retired and the B-ls
and B-2s stuck on nuclear alert, there’s no long-range aircraft to be used for
non-nuclear strikes.”

 
          
“So
we’re out of it,” Elliott summarized with an exasperated sigh. “We busted our
nuts and risked our necks out here for nothing. Man, what else could go wrong
today? ”

 
          
Just
then, a gentleman with a dark suit and tie—definitely the last outfit one would
expect to see on the tropical
island
of
Guam
in late June—walked into Elliott’s room.
“Mr. and Mrs. McLanahan? General Elliott?”

 
          
“Wrong
room,” Elliott said immediately. “Get out.”

 
          
“I’m
McLanahan,” Patrick said.

 
          
The
man immediately placed an envelope into his hands, then walked over and did the
same to Wendy and Brad Elliott. “Order to appear,” the man said.

 
          
“What
in hell is this?”

 
          
“Federal
court in
Washington
, five days from now,” the guy said. “Have a
nice evening.” He walked out.

 
          
“Balboa’s
for real, all right,” Patrick McLanahan said as he opened the summons. “The
list of charges against us is two friggin’ pages long.”

           
“I’ll get these over to the Sky
Masters attorneys and get the paperwork started on this,” Wendy said, taking
the summons and giving Elliott a kiss on the cheek and her husband a kiss on
the lips. “Don’t you boys worry about this. Brad, get some sleep, please.”

 
          
“I
will, babe,” Elliott said, giving her a reassuring smile. She left McLanahan
and Elliott alone. The ex-three-star general nodded toward the door. “Shit. I
always thought I’d buy the farm in the cockpit of a B- 52 after just saving the
world from thermonuclear meltdown. Instead, I’ll go down in a fucking federal
courtroom with a bunch of lawyers sucking my guts out through my ass with a
straw. ”

 
          
“I
know how you feel, Brad,” McLanahan said. He took a chair beside his friend’s
bed, folded his hands on his knees, and stared at the floor, looking as if he
were at confession or praying. “I’m sorry about what I said the other day,
Brad. ...”

 
          
“Forget
it, Mack.”

 
          
“I’m
serious. I’m really sorry.” He paused, then went on in a quiet voice. “You
know, all I wanted to do was fly. All I ever wanted to be was a flyer. Jon
Masters is great, and he’s fun and exciting to work with, and the money is
great, and it’s good to be working with Wendy in a low-stress environment, but
the truth is, I don’t want to be a corporate executive weenie. Wendy likes that
stuff, but I’m strangling to death. Jon fixates on the bottom line, the profits
and the publicity and the prestige he gets when he goes for another big defense
contract. I don’t look at it that way.”

           
“I know you don’t,” Elliott said
with a satisfied smile. “I know you, Patrick. Ever since the day I first met
you, I was inside your head. I had you pegged.” He chuckled as he remembered
the day, so long ago and so far away. “You with your flight suit unzipped, no
scarf, your boots looking like you polished them with a Brillo pad. You’d just
won your second Fairchild Trophy. You were hell on wheels, the hottest hand in
the Air Force, Top Bomb. Any other crewdog would have traded the name and the
trophies for a choice assignment. You could have worked for a dozen CINCs all
over the world. You could have had a staff of twenty at the Pentagon. Two- and
three-star generals were fighting each other to get to endorse your officer
effectiveness reports. But you, standing in the hallway with your beer and your
give-a-shit attitude—all you wanted was to climb aboard the B-52 and drop some
more shack bombs. You told me so, and you’ve proved it a dozen times since. Why
would I think you’d ever change?”

           
Patrick laughed as his thoughts
interlinked with Elliott’s, through time and space, from the present to the
past and back again over dozens of battles, through tragedy and triumph. “Hell,
I think Ive got to change, General. I’m afraid I’ll get left behind—” And then
he stopped abruptly, his cheeks flushing red under his longish blond hair.

 
          
“You
were going to say ‘left behind like you,’-like
me,
right, Muck?” Elliott said. Patrick raised a pair of sad,
apologetic blue eyes at his friend and mentor, to the man he had just betrayed
with his thoughts. Elliott smiled reassuringly back. “Hey, Muck, it’s okay. I
see myself in you, Patrick, but sure as shit, you’re not like me. I get things
done by blasting ahead, by kicking ass and doing things my way and to hell with
anyone that thinks they know better than me. You don’t do it that way. You
plan, you train, you build, and you let the smart commanders and the smart
decision-makers come to you. You’re smart, working with guys like Jon Masters—I
can only stand the skinny dweeb for a few minutes a day and that’s it. We’re
different, Muck. You’re the future of the Air Force, bud.”

 
          
“Some
future,” McLanahan said. “In five days, we’ll be entering a plea in front of a
federal judge on about twenty different charges. We could go to prison for ten
years.”

 
          
“In
five days, you’ll be a commanding officer in charge of the greatest strike
force the planet has ever seen, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat,”
Elliott corrected him proudly. “And after that, you’ll take your rightful place
in the world. It won’t be behind a desk, and it won’t be in a federal prison.
That’s my prediction.”

 
          
McLanahan
smiled a cautious, hopeful smile, but Elliott extended a confident, reassuring
hand, and the young bombardier took it warmly. “I like the way you think, sir,”
he told him.

 
          
At
that moment the door to the room opened, and a gentleman in a dark suit and
tie, similar to the federal marshal’s, came in. McLanahan quickly stood,
blocking the man’s path, and motioned for the man to step outside. “Excuse me,
sir, but the general needs his rest and can’t be disturbed right now. ”