Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (29 page)

the next morning

           
“Good morning, General Sivarek,
General Smoliy, ladies and gentlemen,” Brigadier-General Patrick McLanahan
said, as his image appeared on the secure videoteleconference screen. “I am
General Patrick McLanahan, here to brief the special mission portion of this
morning’s exercise. This briefing is classified Secret. Our rooms are secure,
and this videoconference is being conducted on a secure closed circuit.” In the
room with McLanahan were the pilots from the
United States
; in the conference room at Nellis Air Force
Base were the crew members from
Ukraine
and
Turkey
involved in today’s exercise.

 
          
Patrick
hit the button on his wireless remote computer controller, and the first
PowerPoint slide popped onto a separate frame on the Nellis videoconference
screen. “As you all know, the unclassified reason you’re here is that you’re on
a goodwill tour of the
United States
and as part of NATO exercises here in
Nevada
. The classified reason is to test your
aerial warfighting capabilities and to try to integrate your flight operations
with some of the technologies weTe developing for NATO. This is the first in a
series of six missions we’ll fly together to see how well we can coordinate
both defensive and offensive operations from an aerial platform,”

 
          
“We
have worked with AWACS controllers many times, General,” Sivarek pointed out.

 
          
“As
have we,” Smoliy added. “Both Russian and NATO versions.” The attempt at
one-upmanship had been going on ever since the two had met. So far, it was
still on a friendly, although sometimes childish, level.

 
          
“You
won’t be working with AWACS aircraft,” Patrick said. “At this point, we cannot
reveal what kind of aircraft will be involved.”

 
          
“I
should think we will find out soon,” Sivarek said, “If it is on the range and
interfering with our pilots, we will shoot it down.”

 
          
“It
is fair game on the range—if you can find it and take a shot, it’s yours,”
Patrick said. “However, we ask you both to follow the range controller’s
directions. If you are vectored away or are issued a ‘knock it off’ call, obey
it immediately. We will attempt to keep you outside visual range of our
aircraft, but we don’t want to interfere with training, either.”

 
          
“This
sounds very interesting,” General Smoliy remarked. “It is an allied plane, but
you do not wish us to see it. It will be controlling us, but you cannot tell us
who or what it is. Very mysterious.”

 
          
“The
entire concept is experimental at this point,” Patrick said. “Although we have
received clearance to perform these exercises, the actual program itself has
not yet been approved. If the program is canceled in midstream, the less you
know about it, the better.”

 
          
“You
are not placing a lot of trust in us, Patrick,” Sivarek said acidly. “We are
allies—at least, I think we are still so.” Sivarek had made it very plain that
he didn’t care for President Thomas Thom and his attitude toward supporting his
Eurasian allies.

 
          
“There
is no offense intended, sir,” Patrick said. “You will be briefed on the entire
program and the results of this exercise before you depart Nellis. Whether or
not the program is implemented will be decided by others later.”

 
          
“Bes
para etmez,
” Sivarek remarked grumpily. Literally it meant, “Does my head
have a bald spot?” but in actuality it meant, “What’s the problem here?” But he
nodded, indicating that he was through asking questions and was ready to
continue. Smoliy. far more animated and affable, took another sip of tea and
waited patiently.

 
          
Patrick
gave a time hack, a weather report, and then briefed the mission lineup. For
this first mission, both of the foreign general officers were “playing.”
Normally, Patrick discouraged this, but he could not talk them out of it—it was
part of their “perogative” and of course it was fun to be out on the Nellis
ranges playing war. And because both foreign general officers were going to
fly, naturally Patrick had to bump one of his flyers off one of the American
planes so he could fly, too. Yes, rank did have its privileges.

 
          
“Ornx
101 flight of two will defend inside the range,” Patrick went on. “You pick
your own patrol altitude. You will have your own controllers manning Tatil
Control during the exercise.” The Dreamland ranges had a simple
ground-controlled intercept radar facility set up for allied nations that still
relied heavily on ground controllers, although most NATO nations now used
airborne radar controllers. “Sila Zero One flight of two will approach the
range complex from the east—that’s as specific as I get. Vampire will also
enter from the east, plus or minus five minutes from Sila flight. You are
cleared to Level Two maneuvers—no maximum altitude, minimum altitude of five
hundred feet above ground level, maximum airspeed six hundred, maximum closure
speed twelve hundred miles per hour, minimum vertical and lateral separation
one nautical mile. We want you to be aggressive, but not dangerous.

           
“We will adjust separation from
Vampire as necessary for operational security. Please be aware. Vampire may be
employing a towed electronic countermeasures array, so be careful approaching
from the rear quadrant. Again, if the range controllers give you a vector away
from Vampire, follow their instructions exactly. You'll have plenty of
opportunities to attack. Questions?” Patrick waited for the translators to
finish and the two generals shake their heads, then concluded with: “I must
remind you, this briefing is classified Secret. Good luck, good hunting. This
concludes my briefing. End of transmission.”

 
          
Patrick
headed back to his office to pick up his flight gear and head over to the
mission planning room for his crew briefing when the secure phone rang. He
considered letting voice mail pick it up, but he knew that only a handful of
persons had that number, so he answered it. “McLanahan.”

 
          
“Ever
wonder what we do when we retire, Patrick?” Patrick recognized the voice
instantly, although they had only spoken to each other a handful of times in
the past twelve years. “How are you, sir?”

           
“Sharp as ever,” the caller said,
pleased that McLanahan had recognized his voice. “I’m fine, General. You?”

 
          
“Fine,
sir. How can I help you?”

 
          
“I
have a project for you and your team.”

 
          
“I’m
sorry, sir, but this is not a topic for discussion, even on a secure line.”

 
          
“Don’t
worry—I’ll do all the talking,” the caller said. “Been reading the intelligence
files on the Balkans lately?”

 
          
“Other
than what happened a few days ago with the AWACS plane—no, sir.”

 
          
“Something
happened a few hours ago that could tear the whole place wide open,” the caller
said. “You’ll be getting a call in the next few hours from the Pentagon,
inquiring as to the possibility of your team participating in a high-risk,
high-value cover mission. I need you to build a flight plan for a mission into
Russia
for one, possibly two, Megafortress
bombers, and be ready to present it to the National Command Authority as soon
as possible.”

 
          
“But
I—”

 
          
“Just
do it. Patrick,” the caller said—urgently, almost but not quite an order.
Patrick knew he had no authority to order anyone to do anything. “Have it ready
to go ASAP, as complete as you can make it without having access to the
details. When the warning order is issued, I want you ready to present the plan
to the NCA.” And the line went dead.

 
          
Patrick
had absolutely zero time to spend on this—the crew bus was going to depart for
the flight line in ten minutes—so he furiously typed out an e-mail message to
David Luger, relaying the strange request and asking him to work something up.
He had no way of knowing if the voice on the other end of the line was really
who he thought it was, but whatever was really going on, it would be a good
exercise for David and the Operational Support Group.

 
          
A
few minutes later, the phone rang again. “Hey, Mack, what’s this about?” It was
David Luger, and he had already received the e-mail.

 
          
“A
project I’m working on.”

 
          
“Did
we receive a warning order?”

 
          
“No.
But the requester said we will I’d like to brief a mission package within three
hours.”

 
          
“Piece
of cake—seeing we have no concrete information such as a target time, weapon
load, threat assessment, or mission objectives,” Luger said. “But it would be
more valuable to you if I had a few more details.”

 
          
“As
soon as I get more information, I’ll pass it along,” Patrick said. “Meanwhile,
have OSG put a package together.”

           
“Should I ask General Samson to
review it if you’re still up flying?”

           
Patrick immediately recognized what
Luger was really asking: Is this job authorized? Does Samson know anything
about it? Does Samson
need
to know anything about it? “I’ll brief him
personally if and when we get a warning order,” Patrick replied. “Until then,
no need to notify the boss.”

 
          
“Okay,
Mack, you got it,” Luger said. “You know the boss will get a flag in his
security file the minute we open a new intelligence file and start pulling
overhead imagery and data on the
Russian Federation
?”

 
          
“I
know. If he asks. I’ll brief him, But he’ll be busy at Nellis with the
Ukrainians and Turks. This thing may go away— or it may start to spin up before
he has a chance to notice the security flag and call a stop. Get your guys to
work.”

 
          
“You
got it. Have a good flight.”

 
          
Oh
yeah, Patrick thought as he hung up the phone—he had a mission to fly. Enough
intrigue for now—it was time to earn his living.

Aboard an F-16 fighter of the
Republic
of
Turkey Air Force

A short time later

 
          
“Yyuz
iki
,
nah sihl sih nihz?”
the lead pilot of the American- made
Turkish F-16 Fighting Falcon fighter asked, glancing out his right cockpit
canopy at the fighter jet flying loose formation on his right wingtip. “Status
check, 102,”

 
          
“Cok
iyiyim, shef
” his wingman responded. Then, in English, he added: “Full of
joy, boss.”

 
          
The
flight leader, Major-General Erdal Sivarek, smiled at his wingman’s casual use
of American fighter pilot’s slang. All the years they had spent studying
Western fighter tactics, military procedures, and even Western life and
society, were obvious. Although using American slang was not officially
approved in the cockpit, it helped to get everyone involved geared up and ready
to fight.

 
          
Sivarek
settled into his seat, quickly scanned his instruments, engaged the autopilot,
and loosened his straps a bit, cursing his family’s bad genetic luck as he did.
Unlike the average Turk, Sivarek was just over five feet tall—he needed a
specially designed ejection-seat-pan cushion to get the proper cockpit sill
clearance, then had to extend the rudder pedals to their full extension so he
could reach them. He was built like a fireplug, with a thick chest, thick
waist, square head and jaw, and lots of hair—lots of hair on his knuckles, hair
on his ankles, and a perpetual “five o’clock shadow.” Sivarek, call sign “
Magara
oglan
, ” or “Cave Boy”, was quick to tell everyone that being short and a
little heavy helped him to fight off g-forces encountered in high-speed jet
fighter maneuvering, which partially explained why he always pushed himself and
his machine beyond the limits—and may have explained why he was the best of the
best. Even though he was the commander of the
Republic
of
Turkey
’s air defense fighters, he was also that
country’s best fighter pilot and one of the best F-16 Fighting Falcon pilots in
the world.