Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (69 page)

 
          
“Sir,
someone has got to do something about that stealth fighter,” Patrick
maintained. ”I know it’s the key to everything that’s happening in the Balkans
right now.”

 
          
“We’ll
deal with that when the time comes, Patrick,” Hayes said. “We’re dealing with
you now.” Patrick looked deflated, disappointed that his efforts were all in
vain. “I’m told you didn’t agree to put in your papers and punch out. Why?”

           
“Because I’ve still got a lot of
work to do, sir,” Patrick said. “I’ve got a unit to train and a center to run,
and there’s a Russian warplane out there trying to set
Europe
on fire while we twiddle our thumbs and
toes and pretend it doesn’t matter to us anymore. I’m ready to get back to
work.”

           
“That’s not going to happen,
McLanahan,” Hayes said seriously. “SecDef and the JCS left the question about
what to do with you up to the Air Force, and SecAF left it up to me. I’ve thought
about it long and hard. You've done a lot of extraordinary things for the
United States
and the Air Force, McLanahan. You deserve a
whole lot better.

 
          
“But
Terrill Samson is one of our finest officers as well. If I thought there was
one milligram of malice in these charges, I’d dismiss them in the blink of an
eye. I’ve spoken with Terrill a half-dozen times in the past two days, and so
has most of my staff, and we all agree: the charges are real, and so are the
crimes. I’m sorry, McLanahan.

 
          
“I’m
going to repeat what you’ve heard today a dozen times at least: request early
retirement and you’ll get it, with full rank and time in service, an honorable
discharge, and all traces of these charges completely expunged. Fight it, talk
to the press, or file a countersuit, and you’ll end up in
Leavenworth
for seven years, a Big Chicken Dinner,
reduction in grade, and fines.” The “Big Chicken Dinner,” as Patrick knew too
well now, meant a Bad Conduct Discharge—the kiss of death for any ex-military
officer seeking a civilian job much above short-order cook. Jester could see
the hesitation in McLana- han’s face. “You don’t think you did anything wrong,
do you, McLanahan?”

 
          
“No,
I don’t, sir,” Patrick replied.

 
          
“Then
I’m sure you’ve been in Dreamland too long,” the chief of staff said. “Because
if any other crewdog did this to his wing commander, he’d be court-martialed within
twenty-four hours, and you know it. If one of your officers did it to you,
you’d see to it that they were grounded permanently. Am I wrong?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” Patrick said. Hayes’s eyes were wide with surprise, then narrowed in
anger and suspicion. “Sir, in my world, we reward airmen that show creativity,
initiative, and courage. In the flight test world, we build a game plan, and we
go out and fly the plan—but we leave it up to the crew to decide whether or not
it’s time to push the envelope a little. All of our crews are tough, smart, and
highly skilled operators. If we tell them to try a launch at Mach one point two
and they get there and they think the plane and the weapon can handle one point
five, they’ll fake it to one point five. We don’t punish them for breaking with
the program.”

 
          
“But
you weren’t flying a test mission, McLanahan.. ..”

 
          
“Sir,
every mission for us is the same—our job is to get the mission done, no matter
what it takes. We at Dreamland are not just program managers or engineers. Our
job is to test the new generation of aircraft and weapons in every conceivable
way. If we do our job, some crewdog in a line unit may not get his ass shot
down because he thought he had to slow down or climb to employ his weapons or
get out of a hostile situation.”

 
          
“I
say again, McLanahan—you weren’t in a flight test situation,” Hayes emphasized.
“You were on a support mission that depended on stealth and strict adherence to
the rules at all times.”

 
          
“Sir,
if you wanted strict rule-following, you shouldn’t have asked us to do the
job,” Patrick said.

 
          
“That’s
bullshit, McLanahan,” Hayes retorted. “I expect discipline and professionalism
in all of my combat-coded units, or they are
history!
You play by the
rules, or you're out.”

           
“HAWC doesn't play by the rules,
sir,” Patrick argued. “We never have. The brass hated General Elliott—they
cringed whenever his name was brought up. But I also realized that his name
kept on coming up for one good reason—he was effective. He did the job he was
asked to do, no matter how impossible it was. He wasn't perfect, he wasn't a
team player—but he was the best. Men like Terrill Samson play by the rules.”

           
“I’m sorry you feel that way,
Patrick,” Hayes said, the disappointment and frustration evident in his face
and voice. “I like you. You speak your mind, you stick to your beliefs, and you
get the job done. You have a lot of potential. But your loyalty to Brad Elliott
and his twisted brand of warfighting is turning you into a loose cannon.
Terrill Samson was right: you are dangerous, and you don't fit in’

 
          
“I’ve
taken the matter out of your hands and out of the UCMJ, Patrick.” The UCMJ, or
Uniform Code of Military Justice, was the separate set of federal laws
governing conduct and responsibilities of military men and women. “I've
recommended that you be involuntarily retired if you didn’t agree to request
early retirement, the Secretary of Defense agreed, and it was done. SecDef
doesn't want a court-martial, and personally I don't want to see you hauled up
in front of one. You were retired as of oh eight hundred hours this morning.
Your service is at an end.” He extended his hand. “Sorry to see you go,
General.”

 
          
Patrick
was about to shake his hand when a very distinctive phone rang in the outer
office. “Batphone,” someone called out, but it was picked up before the second
ring. At the same instant, Hayes’s pager went off—he acknowledged it, but didn’t
need to read the message. Moments later, an aide came to the door: “Meeting in
the Gold Room in fifteen minutes, sir.” The Gold Room was the Joint Chiefs of
Staff conference room. This was an unscheduled meeting—Patrick knew something
was happening.

 
          
Hayes
knew it, too. “Thank you.” He turned to General Falke: “Wombat, I need an intel
dump right now.”

 
          
Falke
had already been on the phone as soon as he heard the “Batphone,” the direct
line between the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff’s office and the chief of
staff of the Air Force.

           
“It’s on its way, sir,” he said.
“I’ll have an aide drop it off for you ASAP.” A few moments later, an aide
stepped into Hayes’s office with a folder marked “Top Secret”—the “intel dump,”
the latest intelligence summaries for the entire world updated
minute-by-minute, and the “force dump,” the latest force status reports from
the eight Air Force major commands. A moment later, another aide came rushing
in with the latest force status reports for the Single Integrated Operations
Plan (SIOP) and non-SIOP nuclear forces. Although, technically, the American
nuclear forces were under the combat command of the U.S. Strategic Command, a
unified military command, in day-today operations the nuclear-capable bombers, land-launched
in tercontmental ballistic missiles, and their warheads were under Air Force
control until gained by Strategic Command.

 
          
Hayes
was putting on his Class A blouse and getting ready to hurry off to the “Tank,”
what most everyone in the Pentagon called the Gold Room. He nodded to Patrick
as he hurried to the door. “I'll be seeing you, McLanahan. Good luck.” An aide
rushed into the Chief’s office to hand him another folder, and then he hurried
off, followed by his deputy and his chief of operations.

 
          
“I
have a message for you, sir,” the aide said to Patrick. “Your civilian attorney
is waiting for you at the Mall Entrance right now.”

 
          
“My
civilian attorney?” Patrick asked. “I don’t have a civilian attorney.” The aide
shrugged his shoulders and departed, leav ing him alone in the big office.

 
          
It
was a long, lonely walk to the Mall Entrance, and an even longer walk outdoors
into the hazy sunshine. Patrick felt as if he should take off his hat, remove
his jacket with his stars and ribbons on it. He felt strange, having junior
officers salute him, like he was some sort of spy in a military costume trying
to infiltrate the place. He had been kicked out of the Air Force almost the
entire time he'd been in that building, and he hadn’t even known it. The Pentagon
now seemed alien to him. A few hours earlier, he'd walked into this place
apprehensively, but feeling very much a part of what this place was all about.
Now all that had been taken away from him.

 
          
Patrick
didn't see anyone at the entrance who looked like he was looking for him. But
he didn't need to talk with an attorney anyway: there was going to be no
court-martial, no appearance in court, no opportunity to fight the charges
brought against him He was out, just like that.

 
          
There
was a big stretch limousine parked right in front of the Mall Entrance in a “No
Parking" zone, with a Secret Service-looking agent, a female, in a long
dark coat and sunglasses standing beside it, and he thought that had to be for
the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or the Secretary of Defense so they
could be whisked off to the White House.

 
          
This
was indeed a very exciting place to be. Patrick thought. He certainly had had a
very exciting, very unusual career. He thought back about all the missions and
all the situations he had found himself involved in over the past twelve years:
thought about how many times he had made that “Batphone” ring, how many times
the chief of staff of the Air Force had stood before the Chairman of the Joint
Chiefs or the Secretary of Defense or even the President and had been unable to
explain what was going on because Brad Elliott hadn’t informed him or anyone
else what he was going to do before he did it. How many frantic limo rides had
he been responsible for? How many sleepless nights, tirades, memos, confused
phone calls, and lost careers had he and HAWC caused because of their own brand
of warfighting?

 
          
No
matter—it was all over now.

 
          
But
as Patrick approached the limousine on his way to the taxi stand that would
take him to his hotel, the Secret Service-looking agent approached him. “Excuse
me. General McLanahan?”

 
          
“Yes?”

 
          
She
removed her dark glasses and smiled at him. “I’m not wearing a disguise this
time, Patrick.”

 
          
He
stared at her harder, his mind finally returning to the here and now. “Marcia?
Marcia Preston?” He shook her hand warmly, then gave her a hug. “You have this
thing for always popping up unexpectedly, Marcia.” Marcia Preston had been one
of the first U.S. Marine Corps combat fighter pilots, but she'd seen only limited
duty in that capacity. Her knowledge and expertise in military affairs, foreign
military capabilities, tactics, and both land and aerial combat had led her to
be chosen as an advisor and aide to two successive National Security Advisors
to the President. Patrick glanced into the limo’s windows, but of course could
not see anything. “Who are you working for now. Colonel? Last I knew, you were
working for General Freeman in the National Security Advisor's office.”

           
“It's not Colonel anymore, Patrick,”
Marcia said. “And my new boss wants to speak with you. He’s waiting for you.”

           
“He’s waiting for me? In there?”

 
          
“Hey,
General!” Patrick turned toward the familiar voice and was surprised to see
none other than Hal Briggs emerging from the limousine.

 
          
“Hal?
What are you doing here?”

 
          
Hal
Briggs waved him over to the car so they could talk discreetly. “I got a deal I
couldn’t refuse, sir.”

 
          
“I’m
not a ‘sir’ anymore, Hal. Just Patrick.”

 
          
“That’s
okay, because I’m just ‘Hal’ now, too,” he said with a smile. “Early
retirement, same as you.”