Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (172 page)

A hail of high-velocity, heavy-mass shells hit him from the right side, unexpectedly toppling him over. It was the first time in his short stint as pilot of a CID that he had ever been down on the ground. He wasn't hurt, and his systems seemed fully functional, but he was down—that was something he was not accustomed to. He immediately got to his feet, spotted the weapon system that had hit him—an ancient ZSU-23/4 quad 23-millimeter mobile anti-aircraft gun system, elevated down low to engage him—and he fired two high-explosive rounds into it, blowing it clean off its tracks.

“Hal, get out of there, now!” Patrick shouted. “We can take the site from the air! Get out!”

Hal took one more scan and thought he detected the laser itself inside the revetment. It resembled a Shahab-3 mobile missile launcher but was at least twice as large, with four service vehicles nearby with umbilical cables attached to it. “I've got the laser in sight, Genesis!” Hal called out. “Range less than one mile! I'm going in!”

“Hal, I said pull out!” Patrick shouted. “Your ammo is low! Withdraw now and switch backpacks! Do it, now!”

Hal fired two fragmentation and then two high-explosive grenades at the laser unit…which depleted the grenade stores on the backpack. He commanded the spent backpack to drop away. As he ran at almost top speed, he swung his last remaining grenade-launcher backpack off his arm and onto his back…but running so quickly, he couldn't make it latch into place. He jumped the base perimeter fence in one effortless leap and landed in a low crouching position, less than three hundred yards from the laser site. He readjusted the backpack, felt it latch into place, and received a good “READY” indication in his electronic visor. He quickly aimed at the laser truck…

…and at that instant he was hit by an SA-19 “Grison” missile from a Russian 2S6M Tunguska self-propelled air defense vehicle.
The SA-19 was a radar-guided anti-aircraft missile with a secondary anti-tank role. It had a two-stage solid-motor missile with a maximum velocity of a half-mile per second and a ten-pound high-explosive/fragmentary warhead with a contact and laser-triggered proximity fuze. Hal was blown clear off his feet and twenty feet in the air by the tremendous force of the hit.

“Hal!” Patrick shouted. “Do you read me? Hal!”

“I'm…I'm okay,” Hal said. He saw and heard several warning messages and tones, but his dazed mind couldn't sort them all out. He climbed unsteadily to his feet. He could feel cannon shells peppering his body, but they weren't doing a fraction of the damage as the…

…and at that instant he was hit by a second SA-19 missile, fired from less than a half-mile away. He was blown head over heels in a cloud of fire and smoke. He was still alive, but his electronic visor was dark, and he could barely hear, let alone decipher, all the warning tones beeping and buzzing in his helmet. He struggled to his hands and knees, trying to command the CID system to clear the faults and let him see again. More cannon fire raked his back, and he felt the concussion as the grenade launcher backpack blew apart.

“Hal, hang on!” Patrick shouted. “PAVE DASHER is on the way, ETE five minutes. Hang on!”

“No…no, don't come near here,” Hal breathed. He couldn't make any of his limbs move. For the first time since training and employing the Cybernetic Infantry Device, he felt like he actually was all along—a human being riding inside a hydraulically operated machine, instead of a running, killing, destroying, avenging superman. “I got hit by some big-ass gun and missile thing, a Tunguska I think. It'll chew up the PAVE DASHER into little bits for sure. Don't let it come near here, Muck.”

“No! We're bringing in the Vampires! They'll take out all the air defenses with the Wolverines and the PAVE DASHER will be able to cruise in and pick you up. Hang in there, Hal. They're just a few minutes out.”

“Hey, Muck,” Hal said weakly. “We've had one hell of a ride, haven't we?” He could hear Patrick yelling something over the satellite link, but that too was fading, getting darker and weaker by the moment. “We kicked some ass together, didn't we, boss? I remember…I remember when we first met, Muck. You were the clueless captain, no idea what was happening or what you got volunteered for. I took pity on you, man.”

“Hal! Can you hear me?” he could barely hear Patrick yelling. “The Wolverines are sixty seconds out, and the Dasher is three minutes out! Hang in there, buddy! We're coming to get you!”

“Now look at you, you sorry mick genius. You're the boss, Muck, the fucking guru, feared and hated even more than old man Elliott himself.” Hal noticed that his electronic visor was working again, and he also found he could raise himself up by his arms. He looked toward the revetment…and saw that the object they thought was the laser that had destroyed Nano Benneton and the XR-A9 Black Stallion was actually just a trailer loaded with steel pipe and tubes. They had moved the laser long ago, probably right after they had commenced their attacks on the Strongbox's deployed Shahab missiles, and put this clever decoy in its place.

Hal's arms lost all their strength, and he rolled over on his back in the hard sandy soil. The 2S6M Tunguska anti-aircraft vehicle was about fifty yards away, its twin 30-millimeter cannons and two loaded SA-19 missile launchers aimed right at him. Hal used the remaining few watts of power left in the CID robot to raise one hand and flash the Tunguska his right middle finger…seconds before the cannons opened fire and forever turned out his lights.

The Wolverine cruise missile made short work of the Tunguska and all other Iranian defenders within five miles of the spot seconds later, and minutes afterward the MV-32 PAVE DASHER tilt-jet aircraft swooped in. Charlie Turlock herself ran out of the jet's rear cargo ramp, quickly found the shredded remains, and carried him aboard. With two Wolverine cruise missiles providing cover from anymore defenders from the base, the MV-32 lifted off and headed west toward the Iraqi border.

THE WHITE HOUSE OVAL OFFICE,
WASHINGTON, D. C.

“The situation in Iran is far more complex and dangerous than the media is portraying, Mr. President,” Director of Central Intelligence Gerald Vista said. He was briefing the President and his national security team on recent events in Iran following McLanahan's operation the day before. “All the media seems to be showing are happy Iranians celebrating the destruction of the Revolutionary Guards. But it's not quite that simple.

“The army is patrolling the streets of the major cities, and there is a dusk-to-dawn curfew, with violators being shot on sight. The curfew was set up because of reports of Revolutionary Guards soldiers in plain clothes, and displaced al-Quds and komiteh irregulars—the religious and government enforcers among the people—roaming the streets gunning down celebrating civilians and ambushing army patrols and checkpoints. There are already reports of terrorists, jihadists, and Islamic soldiers of fortune on their way to Iran from all over the world to help restore the theocracy.

“General Buzhazi has instituted martial law in Iran, but it's doubtful if he has control of more than a handful of neighborhoods in Tehran, let alone control of the entire country,” Vista went on. “There are reports of squabbling between Buzhazi, military chief of staff Yassini, and members of the various former monarchies of Iran.”

“So we have an insurgency and possibly a three-way civil war
brewing in Iran,” the President summarized, “with no consensus on who should govern. Meanwhile the theocrats, Islamists, and old government are in hiding and could pop up any time. It's Iraq all over again.” No one had any comments after that last remark—it was too terrible to contemplate. “Any idea where Mohtaj and the Revolutionary Guards high command might be hiding?”

“Tehran was the base of support for all branches of the government, of course, with Qom the choice of the clerics,” Vista explained. “We'll check all the major cities, but I'd put my money on Mashhad, in the east near the Turkmeni border. Mashhad is the second largest city; it's an important religious city because of the Emam Reza Shrine; and it has an extensive military infrastructure because it was the city farthest away from the fighting during the Iran-Iraq War. The population sextuples during the annual pilgrimage to the shrine, and that would be an easy way to get recruits and smuggle in supplies.”

“I don't think we should be hunting down the old government in any case, Mr. President,” Vice President Hershel said. “Let the United Nations and the Iranian people deal with it.”

There was a nod of agreement around the Oval Office. “That's fine by me,” the President said, obviously relieved. “We'll pledge our full support for a peaceful resolution to the conflict and full restoration of democratic institutions and the rule of law, yada yada yada.” He rubbed his eyes. “I just want this Iranian thing to be over with, and I certainly don't want to get bogged down in another ‘peacekeeping' mission in the Middle East. Patrick? Got all your guys pulled out of there yet?”

“As we speak, sir,” Patrick responded. “The last patrol plane should be refueling over the Persian Gulf on its way back to Diego Garcia. But we still haven't recovered the body of Captain Lefferts or our missing equipment…”

“As soon as we make contact with Buzhazi or whoever's in charge out there, we'll make sure we expect them to locate Lefferts and our equipment and turn them over to us immediately—
it's the least they can do for all the blood and treasure we spent helping them,” the President said. Patrick nodded but said nothing. “Sorry if that's not the answer you're looking for, Patrick, but I think we need to back off so hopefully things will simmer down out there.” The President turned to the Secretary of Defense. “Joe, I think the Air Force and Navy can keep an eye on things out there—from a distance, a great distance. I want to send McLanahan's boys back to their sandbox.”

“We certainly can, Mr. President,” Secretary of Defense Gardner said. “I'll brief you and General Sparks on my plan later on this morning.”

“Thank you.” The President turned to Patrick once again. “Sorry about your loss, Patrick. Briggs was with you almost from the beginning, wasn't he?”

“Yes, sir, he was. He was a good friend and a real asset to everyone at Dreamland and Battle Mountain.”

“I'm sorry about the loss of the second spaceplane, too,” the President said. “But your losses take nothing away from the job your people did over Iran. I want you to pass along my congratulations and sincerest thanks to everyone out there in Nevada. They took on a hard job and did brilliantly.”

“I'll do that, Mr. President, thank you,” Patrick said. “But I still want to address the future long-range strike mission. I still believe space is the answer, and I'd like to…”

“Hold on, Patrick, hold on,” the President said. “I need a little time to recover from the fight, and I want to get the thoughts and reports from everyone before I put the topic of the long-range strike fleet back on the front burner. Your spaceplanes did well, Patrick, but we still lost two-thirds of the fleet in battle. We have to be ready to explain why before Congress will authorize us to build more of them.”

“Frankly, General, I'd say your modified B-1 and B-52 bombers and those CID robots did exceptionally well out there,” Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman General William Glenbrook commented.
“Maybe you should be looking at building up a force of those things instead.”

“The small satellite fleet and that resurrected space station did well too,” National Security Adviser Jonas Sparks added. “I liked sitting in my office and listening in and watching the battle take place on my computer screen. Your spaceplanes are good, General, but they're too high-tech for my taste.”

“Maybe when us old farts are out of the way you can sell them, Patrick,” the President said, “but as long as our generation is in charge, I think we'll have to find something else to fly. But I want everyone's reports first and then we'll reopen this discussion. Anything else?” He didn't wait for a response, but got to his feet, prompting everyone else to rise. “Thank you all very much.”

As usual, the Vice President and Chief of Staff hung back as everyone else lined up to leave. The President shook hands with everyone as they departed; Patrick, being the youngest and lowest-ranking staffer, went last. After he shook hands with him, the President said, “I'm sending you back to Dreamland, Patrick. I spoke with the staff, and the bottom line is that you made too many folks look bad and stepped on too many toes, to put it mildly, for there to be a suitable work environment here, even with you in the basement. I don't expect you to stay out of trouble out there, but until January twentieth, try to keep me informed of things before you proceed to set the world on fire, okay?”

“Of course, Mr. President. Thank you.”

“I hope your son and the ticker are doing okay. Take care of them both.”

“I will, sir.” The President turned to Carl Minden, indicating he was done with Patrick; he purposely also did not turn to the Vice President, leaving her free to depart as well, which she did.

The Vice President and Patrick walked together without speaking until they reached her office and closed the door. She walked over to her chair in the meeting area in the center of the
office, but Patrick did not follow her there. “Patrick, I'm sorry about Hal,” she said. “I liked him. He was a good guy. I want to be there for his service.”

“Of course. Thank you. It'll be held at HAWC.”

“With Elliott and all the other heroes from that place. Good. That's appropriate.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “So you'll be heading back to Dreamland. When will you be back?”

“I won't be back, Maureen.”

She looked unhappy and a little embarrassed, but not surprised. She lowered her head. “How did you find out?”

“About you and Joe Gardner? Hal discovered it,” Patrick said. “He investigated all the possible leaks from the White House and Pentagon to Senator Barbeau's office. I thought it was Minden, but Hal knew it was you. I think he told me, but I didn't—couldn't—believe him.” He turned toward the door. “Good-bye, Miss Vice President. Have a nice day.”

“You're not going to even ask me why, are you?” Maureen Hershel exploded. “You're going to leave and go back to the Nevada desert without even looking back, despite all the years we've been together. That pretty much sums up the bottom line of our relationship.”

“I think I know why, Maureen,” Patrick said, still without looking back at her. “I think I knew it ever since you realized I didn't want to give up my career because of my heart condition. You wanted me to be with you. You didn't care if leaving military or government service would make me unhappy.”

“You're wrong, McLanahan,” Maureen shot back. “It was way before your heart thing, way before you rigged up your own self-monitoring thing that everyone bought off on. It was the flying in the spaceplane, hanging out at Dreamland, being with your boys and girls out there instead of wanting to be with me. I wanted something more than a part-time relationship.”

“So you picked Gardner? Gardner is your full-time partner…
when he's not screwing Barbeau or his wife or the dozens of other women he's got on the side.”

“But he was there for me,” Hershel said, almost pleading. “That's something you never could do—even when you were with me, you were always somewhere else. At least Joe paid attention to me and treated me like I needed to be treated…”

“And we both know what that is, now, don't we?”

“Hey, buster, don't give me advice on how to live a good and proper life!” Hershel spat. “We both know how close you've come to being in prison for the rest of your life! Not even the President of the United States can keep you under control—but that's not the President's problem, it's yours. Even your son can't keep you from unnecessarily risking your life or breaking the rules for your own selfish, nihilistic reasons.” That remark seemed to hit Patrick like a physical blow, and he opened the office door.

“I'm not finished with you, mister!” Hershel snapped behind him. “You're pathetic! You're a disgrace! The only one besides yourself who could possibly be proud of what you do was Brad Elliott, and look where he is now!” He could still hear her yelling something as he walked out of her office suite and headed for the exit.

“Dad!” he heard moments later. He hadn't even noticed his ten-year-old son Bradley sitting in the reception area. He came running over to him and gave him a tight embrace, then attempted to pick him up as he always did when they hugged—not too much longer, Patrick knew, he would be able to do it too. “Miss Parks said you were in a meeting with the President and the Vice President. Can we see them? I want to say hi.”

“Not now, Brad. They're all busy.” He looked a little dejected, but nodded. They started walking downstairs for the exit. “It's pretty late for you to be up, big guy. Did you have dinner yet?”

“Yes. But I didn't have dessert. Can we go to Andrews for dessert? They have the best ice cream there.”

“I think it's too late for ice cream, Brad. But we'll go out to Andrews tomorrow morning for breakfast. How about that?”

“Good. Are we going flying?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Back to Las Vegas.” He looked for any hint of excitement or disappointment, but didn't really see either.

“What about school?”

“You get some time off until I sign you up for school in Las Vegas.”

Again, little reaction. Maybe he was getting accustomed to being displaced, having little time to say good-bye to friends and having to face the challenge of finding new friends, just like millions of other kids of military parents had to deal with for most of their youth.

They exited the West Wing and headed toward the parking garage without saying anything else except “good night” to the uniformed Secret Service officers. Patrick had no reason to fear walking the streets of the District of Columbia late at night: since the American Holocaust, there was plenty of federal and District police, and even some National Guard still on the streets, day and night. Patrick felt Brad lagging behind a bit. “Carry me, Dad?” a sleepy voice asked.

He hadn't asked that in years, or if he did Patrick had to say “no.” Bradley was not heavy but he was tall, past Patrick's chin and almost to his mouth when standing together. At the very least, carrying him would have been unwieldy. But he stooped down, scooped him up, and cradled him in his arms. “Thanks, Dad,” Bradley said, and fell asleep immediately.

For the first time, perhaps in a long time, Patrick found it easy
to keep his mind focused on this important task, rather than the dozens of equally important ones awaiting him.