Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (36 page)

“Let's give her the go-ahead right away, then,” Goff said. “Let her staff start laying the groundwork for a diplomatic visit and high-level talks.” Thorn nodded his approval. Goff added, “You might even consider bringing a military liaison along. Turkmenistan's military is very small and run by Russian officers.”

Thorn looked at Goff, then smiled. “You mean McLanahan?”

“Why not? McLanahan has pretty good name recognition and respect here in the U.S., but at the same time he's not very well known overseas. He'll have the luxury of relative anonymity. He can look around and talk to folks without calling too much attention to himself. I know you don't care about political stuff, but the fact remains, McLanahan has pretty good poll numbers—about where Colin Powell was when he was Reagan's national security adviser.”

“Let's not get into a discussion again about asking McLanahan to be my national security adviser,” Thorn groaned. “I've already got
you
to tell me where I'm screwing up.” The president thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “There's an old saying in the military: ‘Screw up and move up.' McLanahan has done his share of bad decision making lately. I'm not so sure he deserves a plum posting like that.”

Goff shrugged. He certainly couldn't argue. “I'll draw up a list of candidates and send it over to State, then present it to you for your approval,” he said.

“I'll let Miss Hershel pick her own attachés from your list.”

Goff nodded. That was the way Thorn did business—pick good people, then delegate authority to them. It was faster, less stressful on him, and made his staff feel like they were part of the action every step of the way. “In the meantime why don't we talk to McLanahan and get his thoughts about what's going on over there.”

“Why him in particular?”

“Because he's smart, and he's in command of a unit that could very well be the tip of the spear if we decide to move out there,” Goff said. “Besides, he's on the way. We're heading to Lake Tahoe for that environmental-summit thing. There's plenty of time to reposition the support crews to Battle Mountain. I'll have General Venti transmit a request for an operational assessment from McLanahan's unit. We can have Miss Hershel accompany us out there. You can look over McLanahan's unit and get a briefing directly from him.”

“You're high on this guy, aren't you, Robert?” Thorn asked. “Why?”

Goff shrugged. “The same reason I'm high on you, my friend,” he replied with an uneasy smile. “You both have the strength of your convictions. You both know what you believe is right, and you're not afraid to fight for it.” His eyes danced a bit, and he added, “Besides, I have a feeling it'll be like the unstoppable force meeting the immovable object when you two get together. Patrick McLanahan on his own home turf, versus the commander in chief. I already know who'll win—but it'll still be fun to watch you two get in each other's faces.”

Four
|

Several days later

T
he massive shape of Air Force One appeared through the snowstorm like a giant fantasy bird and touched down on Battle Mountain's long runway in a puff of snow. One-eleventh Bomb Wing Security Forces units, including armored personnel carriers, were stationed along the infields and taxiways to escort the plane to its parking spot. The winds were right down the runway but gusting well over twenty knots, blowing snow nearly horizontally and creating large drifts on the runway and taxiway edges. Despite the poor visibility, Air Force One taxied quickly over to a designated spot several hundred meters in front of the base-operations building and shut down engines.

A set of covered airstairs was wheeled over to the entry door, and a few moments later President of the United States Thomas Thorn, Secretary of Defense Robert Goff, and Deputy Secretary of State Maureen Hershel emerged. Patrick met them at the bottom of the stairs, saluted, then shook hands with each of them. “Welcome to Battle Mountain, Mr. President, Mr. Secretary, Miss Deputy Secretary,” he said.

“Lovely weather you're having here, General,” Robert Goff groused.

“We don't build military bases on the waterfront in San Francisco anymore, sir,” Patrick said. “This weather suits us just fine.”

Goff looked unimpressed as he turned up the collar of his overcoat and motioned toward a nearby armored Suburban belonging to the Secret Service. “Thanks for parking us so far away from your base-ops building, General,” he complained. “Is that our vehicle? Let's get the hell out of this snowstorm.”

“Not necessary, sir,” Patrick said. He raised his head slightly, as if making a request of God, and said, “Ready on elevator three, surface to main ramp level.”

“What did you say, Gen—” Goff stopped in midsentence—because he felt the earth move beneath his feet. “
What in hell was that?
An earthquake . . . ?” And then he noticed that the entire parking spot, VC-25 and all, started to descend into the earth.

The Secret Service agents seemed right on the brink of panic, but the president held up his hands as he saw the look on McLanahan's face. “Very interesting, General,” he said.

“This is why working here in the middle of the high deserts of northern Nevada in a snowstorm is no big deal for us, sir,” Patrick said. Goff and Hershel gasped in astonishment as a six-inch slab of steel and concrete slid over the opening overhead, blocking out the wind and snow.

“I'll bet you had one hell of a time convincing Congress to fund
this,
” Hershel said.

“Thankfully, it was funded back in the Eisenhower administration. I don't think I would've stood a chance.”

“No shit,” Goff muttered.

Thorn, Goff, Hershel, and their entourage were taken aboard electric cars and shown around the vast underground aircraft-parking ramp. They received tours of all the aircraft. They were especially impressed with the two AL-52 Dragon airborne-laser aircraft. “Unbelievable,” Thorn said. “There they are—laser weapons aboard combat aircraft.
Star Wars
for real.”

“They're not officially operational,” Patrick explained, “but the first one was used successfully over Libya. It and the second one are being modified with the plasma-pumped solid-state lasers. They have fifty percent more power than the original chemical-oxygen-iodine laser design, nearly two megawatts of power—enough to destroy airborne or space targets as small as a Sidewinder missile three hundred miles away or ground targets up to one hundred miles away.”

“What do they cost, General?” Maureen Hershel asked.

“Almost a billion dollars, ma'am,” Patrick replied, “plus ten thousand dollars per flight hour to fly them and about fifty thousand dollars to fire the laser each time.”

“So on a typical patrol mission . . .”

“Twelve-hour patrol sortie, two hundred engagements . . . over ten million dollars per sortie, not including the air-refueling tanker support.”

“Ouch.”

“It's cheap compared to what it would cost to field enough aircraft to do all those attack jobs at once,” Patrick said.

He turned and got the opportunity to study the young woman for the first time. He'd seen her often on TV, of course, and was intrigued from the first moment he heard of her and her background. Shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes behind rimless reading glasses, mid- to late forties, a bit above average height, trim and shapely, wearing good-looking but casual slacks, jacket, and all-terrain boots—unlike the president and secretary of defense, she looked like she'd come to take a tour of a military base.

“For maximum coverage in a hot combat zone,” Patrick said to her, “we would field three to four aircraft: two in an orbit about a hundred miles from the forward edge of the battle area and one or two aircraft that cycle with the others—one in transit, one on the ground undergoing maintenance and crew rest.”

“You need to think of a way to do it with less,” Thorn said. “Those two birds may be all you ever get. Maybe not even that.”

“We could do it with two aircraft, sir, but we wouldn't have total coverage,” Patrick said. “An interim solution is to place a few EB-1C Vampire airborne battleships up, armed with Lancelot anti-ballistic-missile weapons and Anaconda long-range air-to-air missiles.”

“So now we're talking about maybe two squadrons of planes just for the anti-ballistic-missile job,” Goff summarized.

“The EB-52 Megafortresses will be capable of doing the long-range precision standoff bombing missions, and the EB-1C Vampires can also serve as long-range bombers. We can launch fast with a lot of firepower and swing easily from mission to mission.”

“It just doesn't seem likely we'd ever be able to justify that kind of expense, Patrick.”

“Here's how, sir: One engagement could destroy a single multiple-warhead ballistic missile, saving as many as twelve cities or military bases from annihilation,” Patrick explained. “A single laser shot could destroy a fifty-million-dollar bomber or a hundred-million-dollar spy satellite. I don't like focusing on the numbers, sir, because they usually tell only part of the story, but in this case, the numbers show that the Dragon is a superb force-multiplying combat system.”

“Most of Congress can't get past the purchase price, let alone the cost per sortie,” Secretary of Defense Goff said. “And when they realize they're paying a billion dollars for a plane that was probably built before most of them were born—let me just say it's a very tough sell.”

“I'd be happy to help try to make the sale, sir,” Patrick said. “We can dazzle them.”

“Well, dazzle
us
first before you go volunteering to take on Congress,” Goff said.

“Yes,
sir,
” Patrick said enthusiastically.

There was an odd assortment of other aircraft in the underground parking ramp: C-130 Hercules transports with weird, winglike spy antennae attached to various parts of the fuselage, wings, and stabilizers; huge helicopters with an assortment of radomes and sensor turrets on the nose; and two transport planes that had engines attached to their short, stubby wingtips. “Okay, stop,” Robert Goff said. “I recognize the Commando Solo C-130 psyops plane and the MH-53 Pave Low special-ops helicopter, but what in the heck are
those?
”

“We call it the MV-32 Pave Dasher—our modification of the CV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft,” Patrick explained. “The standard V-22 has turboprops. This one uses fanjet engines that swivel on the wingtips to provide vertical flight as well as high-speed forward flight. The fanjets give it much more lifting power as well as twice the forward speed of the Osprey. The MV-32 Pave Dasher can insert six Battle Force teams—twenty-four heavily armed combat troops—about two thousand miles, or farther with aerial refueling.”

“I don't recall those planes being authorized or funded,” Goff pointed out. He noticed Patrick's expression. “I see—another of your freelance, no-cost acquisitions. From Sky Masters Inc., I suppose?”

“One of their development partners, yes, sir.”

“McLanahan's private little air force again, eh, General?” President Thorn asked.

They continued through a series of wide corridors cut out of the rock and stopped at a set of large steel doors on immense hinges, reminiscent of the huge, vaultlike doors at the entrance to the North American Aerospace Defense Command's underground command center at Cheyenne Mountain. The doors looked tired and gray, definitely old—but inside, the large room looked modern and well lit, like a brand-new auditorium or theater.

Brigadier General David Luger, Colonel John Long, Lieutenant Colonel Nancy Cheshire, Lieutenant Colonel Hal Briggs, and Sergeant Major Chris Wohl were lined up in front of the stage inside the auditorium, surrounded by Secret Service agents. “Mr. President, Miss Secretary, Mr. Secretary, I'd like to introduce you to the rest of the command here.” Thorn, Hershel, and Goff stepped over to where the others were waiting. “I'd like to introduce you to my second in command, Brigadier General David Luger.”

The VIPs shook hands with Luger. “It's an honor to meet you, General,” Robert Goff said. He looked at Luger solemnly, glanced at Patrick, then added, “The last two surviving members of the Old Dog crew. Two living legends. I'm glad to have you both around.”

David Luger, tall and lanky and towering over Goff, looked bowed as he realized that it was true: There were only two of the original six crew members of the first “Old Dog” mission left. “It's good to be here, sir,” he said.

“This is Brigadier General Rebecca Furness, commander of the One-eleventh Attack Wing; Colonel John Long, the operations-group commander; Colonel Daren Mace, commander of the Fifty-first Attack Squadron with the EB-1C Vampires; and Lieutenant Colonel Nancy Cheshire, commander of the Fifty-second Attack Squadron with the EB-52 Megafortresses and the AL-52 Dragons.”