Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (82 page)

 
          
“There
was more damage to the wing structure after the last missile launches—”

 
          
“I
thought you had that problem solved.”

 
          
“We
could not reengineer the internal launcher system and still keep the plane
operational and on around-the-clock alert as you wanted,” Fursenko explained.
“We could do nothing else but make minor repairs and impose operational
limitations. The crew was restricted to firing internal missiles only in an
emergency, after all other missiles were expended, only if the aircraft was in
danger, and with a zero-point-eight Mach speed restriction, two-g acceleration,
and five point zero angle-of-attack limits.” Fursenko could tell that this
flurry of aeronautical technospeak was giving his young boss a headache, so he
quickly decided to conclude with more or less happy news: “But we have repaired
the damage, and I think we can be ready to fly.”

 
          
“So
if you had operational limitations, why was there damage to the wing?” Fursenko
hesitated, and Kazakov guessed the reason. “Obviously, because Stoica and
Yegorov violated the restrictions, is that correct?”

 
          
“Their
orders were to shoot down the patrol planes,” Fursenko argued. “They did a very
good job—”

 
          
“They
only got one bomber!”

 
          
“Which
is very good, considering the odds they were up against,” Fursenko pointed out.
“They faced four well-trained Turkish adversaries and managed to get two of
them, maybe three.”

 
          
Kazakov
looked up at the cockpit. Gennadi Yegorov was up there in the forward cockpit,
making notes on a clipboard as the technicians tested electrical circuits, his
head in a bandage. “What happened to Yegorov?”

 
          
“A
slight concussion during some of their evasive maneuvers. The corpsman thinks
he’ll be fine.”

           
“And Stoica?”

 
          
“Over
there.” Fursenko looked apprehensive. Kazakov saw Stoica nursing a cup of
coffee, one hand covering his eyes. “I think he has a touch of flu. When will
you give us a list of new targets, sir?”

 
          
“Right
away," Kazakov said. He stared angrily at Stoica and realized the bastard
did not have the flu. “There will be two of them, both to be hit on the same
night.”

 
          
“That
is risky, sir,” Fursenko said. “A heavy weapons load will mean using external
weapon pylons—”

 
          
“Why?
You have the internal weapons bay. Two air-to-ground weapons, two targets.”

 
          
“That's
risky, sir." Fursenko explained. “We typically plan on twice the number ot
weapons than necessary to ensure success of the mission—two targets,
four
weapons, in case of a miss or a weapons malfunction.”

 
          
“So
then use the external pylons.”

 
          
“If
we put air-to-ground missiles on an external pylon, it means we cannot put
air-to-air missiles on a pylon because of weight restrictions. The
air-to-ground weapons are much heavier than air-to-air weapons, and they have a
narrower carriage envelope.”

 
          
“So?
Use the pylons and the weapons bay for offensive weapons, and the internal
missiles for defense.”

 
          
“But
we cannot use internal defensive missiles, sir,” Fursenko said. “The damage—”

 
          
“I
thought you said you repaired the damage.”

 
          
“We
have repaired the damage caused by launching missiles from the last mission,
but we have not solved the underlying problem yet,” Fursenko said. “And there
is certainly much more damage to the wing that we can’t see. I would caution
against using any internal missiles at all except in an emergency, and to be
extra safe I would advise not even to load missiles into the launchers.”

 
          
“I
pay those men a lot of money to take certain risks, Doctor,” Kazakov said
flatly. “Besides, if it might help bring them and the aircraft back in one
piece, I want it used. The missiles go on, but they are not to be used except
in absolute emergencies—no chasing after targets of opportunity. Issue the
order.”

           
"But that leaves us with no
defensive weapons to counter known threats.” Fursenko argued. “We will need the
external pylons both for defensive and for offensive weapons.”

 
          
“Fursenko,
you are beginning to talk in circles,” Kazakov said irritably. “First you say
we cannot use internal missiles, and then you say we cannot do the mission
unless
we use internals. What are you really saying, Doctor? Are you saying we cannot
fly the aircraft?”

 
          
“I...
I guess that’s what I’m saying,” Fursenko said finally. “It cannot be safely
used without extensive inspection and repair.”

 
          
Pavel
Kazakov seemed to accept this bit of news. He nodded, then seemed to shrug his
shoulders. “Then perhaps we will strike just one target,” he said. “Will that
satisfy you, Doctor? You can use the internal weapons bay for offensive
weapons, and the pylons for defensive weapons.”

 
          
“Our
other problem came with using external pylons, because using them greatly
increases our radar cross-section and destroys our stealthiness,” Fursenko
explained. “If we only strike one target, we can still use the other two
internal launchers for emergency use, and then use the internal bay for
offensive weapons.”

 
          
Kazakov
nodded again. “And what of Gennadi and Ion?” he asked. “Will they be all
right?”

 
          
“Gennadi
seems to be well. He has been under close supervision, and seems to be
suffering no effects of his concussion.” Fursenko frowned at Stoica. “Ion .. .
we’ll have to see how well he can recover. From the flu.”

 
          
Kazakov
nodded. He looked at Yegorov, who was flipping switches and speaking on a
headset to the technicians. “If we need to do a test flight, Gennadi can do
it?”

 
          
“Of
course. Gennadi is a trained pilot and is almost as familiar with the Tyenee as
Ion. We would substitute myself or one of the other technicians in the weapons
officer’s position for the test flight.”

 
          
“Excellent.”
Kazakov strolled over toward Stoica. The pilot did not stand or even
acknowledge Kazakov’s presence, just sat with his hand covering his eyes. “Ion?
I hope you are feeling better. Is there anything I can do?”

           
“I’ve done everything I can think
of, Pavel,” Stoica moaned. A faint whiff of fortified wine caught Kazakov’s
nostrils. “I just need a little time so I can get my head together.”

 
          
”It’ll
take more than time to get your head together. Ion,” Kazakov said. Stoica
raised his head and looked at Kazakov through bloodshot eyes and was about to
ask his boss what he meant when Kazakov pulled a SIG-Sauer P226 nine-millimeter
pistol from a shoulder holster, held it to Stoica’s forehead, and pulled the
trigger. Half the contents of Sloica's skull splattered out onto the table, and
his limp, lifeless body collapsed on top of the mess of brains, blood, and
bone. Kazakov fired three more rounds into Stoica's eyes and mouth until his
head was nothing more than a lump of gore.

 
          
He
turned back toward Fursenko, still holding the smoking pistol clenched in his
fist, and wiped blobs of blood and bits of brain matter across his face until
he wore a macabre death mask. “No more excuses from any of you!” he screamed.
“No more excuses! When I say I want a job done, you will do it! When I say I
want a target destroyed, all the targets, you had better destroy them, or don’t
bother returning to my base! I don’t care about safety, or malfunctions, or
caution lights, or excuses, or danger. You do a job or you will
die.
Is
that clear?

 
          
“Fursenko.
I want that aircraft airborne with as many weapons as you need to do the job.
and I want it airborne
tonight
, or I will slaughter each and every one
of you! And you will destroy
both
targets I give you, both of them, or
don't bother coming back—in fact, don't even bother living anymore! Do I make
myself clear? Now, get busy, all of you!”

The White House Oval Office

That same time

           
The three Air Force general officers
entered the Oval Office and stood quietly and unobtrusively along the wall, not
daring to say a word or even make any sudden moves. They all expected the same
thing: a major-league ass-chewing, thanks to Patrick McLanahan and his
high-tech toys.

 
          
The
President finished reading the report that Director of Central Intelligence
Douglas Morgan had given him moments earlier. After the President read the
report, he gave it to Vice President Les Busick, then stared off into space,
thinking. Busick glanced at the report, then passed it along to Secretary of
State Kercheval. Robert Goff had already briefed both men; Kercheval seemed
even more upset than the President. After a few moments, President Thom shook
his head in exasperation, then glanced at Secretary of Defense Goff. “Take a
seat, gentlemen," he said.

 
          
After
several long, silent, awkward moments, the President stood, crossed in front of
his desk, then sat dow n on its edge. The seething anger on his face was
painfully obvious to all Thom stared at each of the generals in turn, then
asked slowly and measurably, “General Venti, how do I stop McLanahan?”

           
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of
Staff thought for a moment, then replied, “We believe McLanahan’s raid started
off from a small Ukrainian base near
Nikolayev
. Special Operations Command is ready to
dispatch several teams into the area to hunt them down. Meanwhile, we retask
reconnaissance satellites to scan every possible base for their presence.”

 
          
“If
we get lucky, we'll find them in a couple days—if they haven’t packed up and
moved to a different location,” Morgan interjected.

 
          
“If
they modified other Ukrainian helicopters to act as aerial refueling tankers,”
Air Force Chief of Staff General Victor Hayes pointed out, “that could double
the size of the area we’d need to search. It’d be a needle in a haystack.”

 
          
“Not
necessarily,” Morgan said. “If we knew what their next move was, we might be
able to set up a picket and nab them.”

 
          
“And
if we got a little more cooperation from the Ukrainians or the Turks, we’d find
them easier, too,” Kercheval added. “But this Black Sea Alliance is refusing to
give us any information, although we’re certain they’ve been tracking and
perhaps even assisting McLanahan in his raids.”

 
          
“They
stole a damned supertanker loaded with a million barrels of oil in the middle
of the
Black Sea
,” Vice President Busick retorted. “Who
would’ve guessed they’d try something like that? Are we supposed to set up
surveillance on every tanker in the area? What are they up to? What do they
hope to accomplish?”

 
          
"McLanahan
told me exactly what he hopes to accomplish, sir,” General Hayes said.

 
          
"Draw
the Russians out into the open,” the President said. "Attack Kazakov’s
center—his oil empire—and force him to retaliate.”

 
          
"Exactly,
sir.”

 
          
"Oil
tankers first, then oil terminals next?”

 
          
‘They’re
fairly easy targets for the weapons McLanahan has at his disposal, sir,”
Lieutenant-General Terrill Samson added.

 
          
"We
can set up round-the-clock AWACS patrols and nab him as soon as he appears,”
Hayes said. "We interdict every nonconrelatcd flight in the area. A few
fighters and tankers on patrol should take care of it. We can set that up
immediately.”