Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (107 page)

“I think this is an important and forthright first step, President Gryzlov,” Thorn said, “and I look forward to receiving the notifications and data from you.”

“We shall be in touch, Mr. President,” Gryzlov said, and disconnected the call.

 

T
horn replaced the phone in its cradle, then leaned back in his chair and stared at a far wall. Behind him was a plain light blue drape, which had served as the camera backdrop when he made his last address to the American people from his office in the converted Boeing 747. Since the attack he had made four addresses, which were broadcast around the world in many different languages. All of them had been messages seeking to reassure the American people that he was alive, that he was in control, and that their government and military were still functioning despite the horrific loss of life and destruction of American military forces.

“Mr. President,” Les Busick said, breaking the president's reverie, “talk to us.” The vice president was on a secure videoconference line at “High Point,” the Mount Weather Special Facility in West Virginia, along with Director of Central Intelligence Douglas Morgan and other cabinet officials and members of Congress. “You're not going to cooperate with that rat bastard, are you?”

Thorn was silent for a very long moment. “General Venti, where are McLanahan and his team members now?”

“Mr. President, with all due respect—are you
serious?
” Secretary of Defense Robert Goff interjected. He, along with Venti and other members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was also airborne in the National Airborne Operations Center aircraft, now orbiting over central New Mexico. “You can't recall them now!”

“I know, Robert.”

“Besides, Gryzlov can't and won't guarantee their safety,” Goff went on. “The minute they exposed themselves, he'd blow them all away.”

“I would never order them to reveal their location,” Thorn said. “I would expect them to execute their egress plan and get out as stealthily as they got in.”

“Mr. President,
there is no egress plan,
” Goff said. “The team had a due-regard point—a point of no return. Once they crossed that line, there was no plan to get them out again unless their operation was successful.”

“I was never told that!”

“McLanahan never briefed it, and there wasn't enough time to staff the plan before it was time to issue the execution order,” Goff said. “Once McLanahan's team goes in, it's a one-way mission unless they succeed.”

“Every mission has a contingency plan and an emergency egress plan,” Thorn said adamantly. “Even McLanahan has enough experience to know this.”

“There's an outside chance that special-ops forces could pull them out, but flying that far inside Siberia, retrieving several dozen men, and getting out again is difficult and dangerous for even our best guys,” Richard Venti said. “There was barely enough time to organize what forces we had. Communications are still screwed up, and every American military unit is in complete COMSEC and OPSEC lockdown—no one is talking or sharing data with anyone unless they know exactly who they're talking to.” A base in total COMSEC (Communications Security) or OPSEC (Operational Security) status would be virtually cut off from the rest of the world—no one allowed on or off the base, no outside unencrypted telephone or data lines, and no movement on the base itself without prior permission and only under strict supervision. “No contingency plan was ever built into McLanahan's operation—there just wasn't time to get all the players organized.” He paused, then said, “Aside from a complete nuclear-attack plan, sir, I think McLanahan's operation is the best chance we've got.”

“How in hell could Gryzlov discover McLanahan's plan?”

“He's guessing, Mr. President,” Busick said. “He's bluffing. McLanahan's whole damned operation is a hundred feet underground—no Russian satellite can see what he's doing. He's bullshitting you.”

“Gryzlov is smart, I'll give him that,” Robert Goff said. “He's a bomber guy, too, like McLanahan. He's certainly smart enough to guess McLanahan's next move.”

Thorn nodded, then turned to another camera and asked, “Maureen? Your thoughts?”

“Mr. President, I don't know the details of McLanahan's plan,” Secretary of State Hershel began. She had at first returned to Washington,
but then, in the interest of safety and security, she'd been flown to Atlanta, Georgia, where a Joint Strategic Information Operations Center had been set up during the 1996 Summer Olympic Games. The Atlanta JSIOC was a combined federal, state, and local command-and-communications center that securely combined information from the CIA, FBI, State Department, Pentagon, and other agencies to allow law enforcement to more effectively track down and stop suspected terrorists.

Since the Olympics the JSIOC had been redesignated as a Federal Continuity of Government facility and used during exercises to relocate several governmental agencies in times of crisis. This was the first time the facility had been used for the real thing: the virtual evacuation of the Department of State from Washington, the first time that had happened since the War of 1812.

“But I trust the general to plan and execute missions that are very limited in scope, swift, effective, and deadly. I'd trust my life with his decisions.” The president masked the thought that flashed in his mind: She said that, he was sure, because she was developing a very close personal relationship with McLanahan.

“On the other hand, I do
not
trust Anatoliy Gryzlov,” Hershel went on. “He rules the government by fear and the military by blind, almost mythic fealty—an arrangement more akin to a military dictatorship, like Saddam Hussein's Iraq or Kim Jong Il's North Korea. Gryzlov's Russia will probably end up like those two regimes—destroyed and disgraced. Unfortunately, also as in both those regimes, the dictator will probably attempt to scorch most of his adversaries on the way out, without any thought to the fate of any innocent persons, including his own people.” She paused, then ended by saying, “I recommend you let the general proceed with his plan, Mr. President. Bargaining with Gryzlov is an absolute no-win situation.”

“Lester?”

“I hate to say it, Mr. President, but that big Russian asshole has got you by the balls,” Vice President Busick said. “If you let McLanahan go ahead, he can claim you escalated the conflict instead of negotiating. If you agree to his demand, you could be tossin' away McLanahan's life—and that motherfucker could
still
hit us from the blind side again. It's the wacko in the catbird seat, sir.” He sighed, then said, “I recommend you let McLanahan proceed. We've always got the sea-launched nukes. If Gryzlov commences another attack, he'll be signing his own death warrant.
This time, though, I suggest you launch on alert—the second we see any more missiles comin' at us, we pound Moscow and every military base in our sights into carbon atoms.”

Thomas Thorn turned away from the camera and stared off toward the door to the office suite aboard Air Force One. He hated making decisions like this alone; he'd always had Goff, Venti, or his wife nearby to query or from whom to get opinions on something. Even though he was electronically connected to everyone, he felt completely isolated.

He turned back toward his teleconference monitors. Goff looked angry, Venti as calm and as unruffled as ever, and Maureen Hershel appeared determined and aggressive. “Robert, what's the chance of McLanahan's successfully accomplishing this mission?” he asked.

“Mr. President, it's impossible to guess,” Goff replied. “It's a good plan—simple, modest, and audacious enough to surprise the heck out of everyone. I don't believe for a moment Gryzlov knows where our boys are or what they're doing, or else he would've paraded shot-up aircraft and bodies out for the world press in a heartbeat. McLanahan's teams are small and rely too much on high-tech gizmos for my taste, but if anyone knows that arena, it's him. However, the sheer scope of what they have to do…hell, sir, I don't give them more than a one-in-ten chance.”

“That's
it?
”

“But considering our only other options, I think it's the best chance we've got,” Goff said. “Gryzlov's a mad dog, sir—totally unpredictable. If he were worried about the destruction of his regime and the Russian government, he never would have attacked us. The bottom line is, he could strike again at any moment. We've got to move before he does. McLanahan's our only option, other than an all-out nuclear attack.”

“And if I chose to recall McLanahan and wait to see if Gryzlov really will stand down his strategic and tactical nuclear forces?”

“Sir, you just can't trust Gryzlov,” Vice President Busick said. “More than likely he's hoping that we'll try to recall or freeze McLanahan, which will give the Russians an opportunity to pinpoint his location. The guy is obsessed with tacking McLanahan's scalp up on his wall, sir—you heard him yourself. My God, the bastard probably murdered Sen'kov and then attacked the United States of America with
nuclear weapons
just to lash out at McLanahan—he wouldn't hesitate to lie to your face if it meant getting a shot at McLanahan, dead or alive.”

Thorn nodded his thanks to his onetime political adversary, thought in silence for a few moments, then said, “I don't want to play Gryzlov's
game, but I don't want to provoke another nuclear attack either. And if there's any way to ensure peace, even if it means entering into negotiations with the Russians before we attempt a counterstrike, even if it means sacrificing a good man, I'll do it.

“McLanahan can continue to his objective—but he holds short before he attacks. He must contact Secretary Goff, General Venti, or myself for an update and instructions. If we have positive evidence that Gryzlov has stood down his forces and is ready to negotiate a verifiable arms deal, we'll recall McLanahan—preferably by getting permission from Gryzlov to fly a transport plane in and get him, rather than make McLanahan evade the Russian army halfway across Siberia. Under no circumstances can McLanahan or his forces commence their attack without a go signal from one of us.”

Reluctantly, Secretary Goff turned to Richard Venti and nodded. Venti picked up a telephone. “Get me General Luger at Battle Mountain.” Moments later: “Dick Venti here, secure, Dave.”

“David Luger, secure, ready to copy, sir.”

“We're going to issue written orders in a moment, but I'm relaying orders to you now directly from the president: Patrick's teams go in, but they hold in place and contact the National Command Authority or myself before initiating action.”

“That would be extremely hazardous for the team, sir,” Luger responded. “With their fuel states and reaction times, they're counting on a very precise sequence of actions to occur. Stopping someplace outside the fence to hide and wait wasn't in the game plan.”

“Unfortunately, that's the order, General,” Venti said. “Transmit yours and Patrick's concerns to me once you get the written orders, but get a message out to Patrick right away and give him the update. Ask him to acknowledge the orders immediately.”

“Yes, sir. Can I ask what prompted this change of plan, sir? Communications from President Gryzlov?”

“Affirmative.”

“Sir, I assure you, the team is still on schedule and still one hundred percent mission-ready,” Luger said. “If Gryzlov told you that agreeing to call off this mission is the only way to save the team's lives or to ensure peace, he's lying.”

“Issue the orders, General,” Venti said simply. He knew for damned sure Luger was right, but the president had already made his decision. It was a dangerous but prudent compromise—putting a small group of
commandos at great risk in the hope of averting a nuclear exchange at the same time. “If you have any questions or concerns, put them in writing and send them along. Out.”

 

Y
ou can't be serious, sir!” General Nikolai Stepashin exclaimed. “You are going to unilaterally
stand down our strategic and tactical forces?
”

“Of course not, General,” President Anatoliy Gryzlov said as he replaced the phone back on its cradle. He lit up a cigarette, which only served to make the cramped, stifling meeting room even gloomier. “Do you think I'm stupid? Give the Americans the locations of the missile bases, silos, and garrisons they already know about and monitor; move a few planes around; scatter around some inert weapons, fuel tanks, or ammo boxes on the ramps besides a few bombers—anything to make it appear as if we are disarming.”

“Such trickery will not fool the Americans for long.”

“It doesn't have to, Nikolai,” Gryzlov said. “All I want is for Thorn to issue the order to McLanahan to halt.”

“Halt? Why do you think he will tell him to just stop?”

“Because Thorn is a weak, spineless, contemplative rag doll,” Gryzlov responded derisively. “He sent McLanahan on some mission—more likely McLanahan
himself
launched a mission—so he does not want to order him to just turn around and come home, because it represents the only offensive action he's taken during this entire conflict. But at the same time, he wants to avoid confrontation and distress and will therefore clutch onto any possible hope that a concession from him will end this conflict.

“My guess is that he will not order McLanahan to turn back, but he will not order the mission to be terminated either—it is part of his pattern of indecisive thinking that will result in defeat for the Americans and disgrace for Thorn and all who follow him,” Gryzlov said confidently. “He will order McLanahan to stop at Eareckson Air Base and stand by until Thorn sees if we are serious or not. This will give us several hours, perhaps even a day or two, to find McLanahan and crush him. All of our strike forces will still be in place and still ready to deliver another blow against the Americans if they decide to counterattack.”