Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05 Read online

  “A what?”

  “He’s a ‘who,’ dear,” Wendy repeated, grinning broadly. “Special Agent Frank Zanatti, from Washington, D.C. He’s already showed me his ID. I tried to tell you, before you knocked my monitor over.”

  “Secret Service?” Patrick looked at the unconscious guy in total confusion, then pointed an angry finger at the large black guy standing in his office door. “Then who the hell are you?”

  “I am Philip Freeman, U.S. Army, retired, National Security Advisor to the President of the United States,” Philip Freeman bellowed.

  “Fr ... Freeman? General Freeman?”

  “Don’t just stand there gaping, Colonel,” Freeman shouted, “help Agent Zanatti up.” He half turned to the woman beside him and ordered, “Colonel, give him a hand. I swear, McLanahan, if you’ve killed him, we’ll all be skinned alive.”

  The woman standing beside Freeman hurried over to the fallen Secret Service agent. As she did, she passed close by Patrick and, to his amazement, whipped off her blond wig and handed it to him. “Hello, Colonel. Last time I saw you, you were blasting that rat bastard Maraklov out of the sky in Cheetah. Never thought I’d ever see you asking me if I wanted a hot appetizer. I couldn’t help laughing. Sorry.”

  Patrick blinked in total surprise: “Preston? Major Marcia Preston ... ?”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Preston, Patrick,” she said as she gave him a friendly hug. Preston had been former National Security Advisor Deborah O’Day’s personal aide and bodyguard, a U.S. Marine Corps F/A-18 Hornet fighter pilot, and one of the first female combat pilots in the American military. “It’s nice to see you, but let’s get General Freeman’s man up off the floor, shall we?” Patrick’s head was swimming in confusion as they helped Zanatti to an armchair and revived him. After he was up and around, Preston stood and walked over to Wendy and extended a hand. “You must be Dr. Wendy Tork .. . er, Dr. Wendy McLanahan. Marcia Preston.” They shook hands. “I’ve only flown once with your husband, but it was a ride I’ll never forget.”

  “This is Wendy Tork?” Freeman asked in surprise. He too walked over and extended a hand in greeting. “It somehow didn’t show up in any files that you two were married. Congratulations. I assume it was just before your . . . accident.”

  “That’s right, General.”

  “It was an unfortunate, tragic incident, a huge and incredible loss,” Freeman said, “but out of the ashes will come a newer, even stronger force.”

  He turned to Patrick and said, “I must ask a favor, Patrick. I need to speak to you right away, and since I see you’re one of the only ones on duty, it might be better if you closed up early. We have a lot to discuss. The White House will see to it that you’re compensated for your lost time.”

  The dark, cold expression came over Patrick’s face. “Somehow, I doubt that,” he said, “but since you’ve probably scared all the other customers out already ...”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Freeman acknowledged with a wry smile.

  “I guess we don’t have much choice ... as usual,” Patrick said, and he went to close and lock the doors.

  Freeman’s men swept Wendy and Patrick’s apartment for listening devices in just a few minutes—thankfully, there were none—and they sat down to talk over coffee and fresh fruit. Freeman winced as he put a slice of fresh kiwi up to his nose, wishing he had a nice thick, gooey doughnut instead, but he seemed to enjoy the kiwi and helped himself to a slice of mango next. “We’re nicknaming it Future Flight,” the President’s National Security Advisor began. “I’m bringing back your team, Patrick, at least as many as we can. Being the senior member, I want you to command the team. I borrowed Colonel Preston here from the Marine Corps again, and she’ll be your deputy.”

  “What exactly are we going to do, General?” Patrick asked.

  “Anything and everything,” Freeman replied. “The purpose of Future Flight is to support specialized intelligence operations with long-range, stealthy aerial assets—in particular, a certain B-2A Spirit stealth bomber, which you knew as Test Article Number Two, assigned to the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, and which you tested and flew for two years, loaded with various payloads, including reconnaissance, communications, intelligence, and combat strike.”

  “Sounds pretty. . . open-ended,” McLanahan observed warily. “A license to kill, so to speak.”

  “You’ll be attached to the Air Force Air Intelligence Agency— you’ll report to Major General Brien Griffith. He’ll report to me ... ”

  “And you report to the President,” Patrick interjected. Freeman nodded. “Sounds awfully dangerous to me—lots of chances for abuse.”

  “You did it all the time when you were a member of HAWC—”

  “And look what happened to us,” Patrick snapped. “HAWC is closed down, General Elliott was demoted and forced to retire, and everyone else was scattered to the four winds or kicked out. Lots of careers and reputations were ruined, General. If we wanted to appeal those verdicts, we’d have been thrown in prison for life for violating national security—”

  “You retired with an honorable discharge and a pension after only sixteen years of active-duty service, Colonel,” Freeman pointed out. “You made out pretty well, I’d say.”

  “Only because Brad Elliott used the last of his political markers to get us some leniency,” Patrick said. “Only because I agreed not to talk, not to go to the press, not to sue. I’m not proud of the way I exited, sir. One reason I’m not in the service and doing what I was trained to do is because Brad did everything the White House and the Pentagon wanted of him, and he was branded a loose cannon and taken down. My only other options were a less-than-honorable discharge or a demotion and reassignment to a remote non-flying specialty.

  “My point is, sir, what we learned after ten years was a simple lesson: If the government wants a strike or recon mission done, call on the armed services to do it,” Patrick said. “If they don’t have the equipment or the training, either get them what they need, or don’t do the mission.”

  “Neither are options, Patrick,” Freeman said. “We don’t have the funds to equip an active-duty unit with the equipment you developed at HAWC, and we don’t have the time to train an active- duty flier on how to use the equipment you designed, tested, and flew in combat. Our only other option is to withdraw all the ISA technical groups from their deployed positions, which would hurt our intelligence-gathering capabilities—to the contrary, we want to assist these cells and allow them the chance to do even more.”

  “ISA can take care of themselves, sir,” Patrick said. “If they can’t, if the situation is too hot for them, yank them out. If the situation’s too hot for ISA, it’s probably at the wartime stage anyway.” “That’s the whole point, Patrick. Future Flight’s mission is to prevent any situation from escalating into the wartime stage by the careful, controlled application of strike assets,” Freeman said, “and I’m talking about ISA, and I’m talking about the B-2A stealth bomber. Iran has done exactly the same thing: they’ve drawn a line at the entrance to the Persian Gulf, daring anyone to cross it. The rest of the world is completely paralyzed with fear; Iran knows this, and they’re going to take advantage of it.”

  “So your solution is to play high-tech terrorist, too, right?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes! ” Freeman replied resolutely, slapping a hand on his knee. “Who the hell says the United States has only two choices—war or peace?—pardon my language, Dr. McLanahan.”

  “Wendy,” she said. “And your language doesn’t offend me, sir— but frankly, your ideas do.”

  “Then I’ll try to explain them,” Freeman said. “Listen, Patrick, Wendy: my job is to coordinate the United States’ national security affairs before they get to the guns and bombs phase. In peacetime, that usually means intelligence operations—trying to find out what the bad guys are doing before they do it, so we can pursue diplomatic and legal solutions and avert war. Sometimes NSA uses field operatives, and in very r
are instances we’ll use military forces to help out in security or direct-engagement situations. But we’re expanding that role now to include military and paramilitary options. Our means are less ‘hide-and-seek,’ more offensive than pure intelligence operations, but the goal is the same: find out what the bad guys are doing before they do something so we can pursue diplomatic solutions and avert a war.”

  “You can sugarcoat it all you want, General,” Wendy said, “but the bottom line is the same—it’s terrorism. If Iranians were doing the same to us, we’d call it terrorism, and we’d be correct.”

  “And what about that Gulf Cooperation Council attack on Abu Musa Island?” McLanahan said. “Iran says the attack was conducted by an American stealth bomber and Israeli F-15E attack planes, which I believe is bullshit, but they got one observation right: the attack had to have been made by precision-guided weapons.”

  “So what if that’s true . . . ?”

  “So the British Aerospace Hawks flown by Oman and the United Arab Emirates don’t normally drop precision-guided munitions,” McLanahan said, “and the Super Puma and Gazelle attack helicopters normally fire only AS-12 missiles, which are short-range optically-guided missiles, not very useful on high-speed night attacks—they need spotters to find targets for them. And those Peninsula Shield crews weren’t trained in using Maverick missiles, especially the imaging-infrared version. That tells me that the missiles were laser guided, probably Hellfires or French AS-30L missiles. And since none of the aircraft involved in the attack carries laser designators, the designators had to be on the ground, which meant you had commando teams lasing targets for the PeninsulaShield pilots. Who were they, General Freeman? Marines? SAS? Green Berets? The CIA?”

  “What in hell difference does it make, McLanahan?” Freeman retorted, silently very impressed with this civilian’s accurate analysis. “The GCC attacked hostile offensive weapon systems—”

  “You didn’t answer my question, General. Who was it?”

  “You don’t have a need to know,” Freeman shot back. “Why am I arguing about this with you, McLanahan? You of all people, you and your mentor Brad Elliott, Misters Damn-the-Torpedoes, Praise God and Pass-the-Ammunition. The GCC destroyed what they believed was a hostile force on disputed territory.”

  “Instead of negotiating!” McLanahan said. “General, they performed a terrorist actionl They weren’t defending themselves, they attacked a foreign base without warning or without a declaration of war. That’s an act of terrorism.”

  “That ‘foreign base’ was getting ready to attack GCC ships and American-flagged tankers transiting the Gulf.”

  “Really, General? When?” McLanahan interjected. “Iran has had those missiles on that island for years and hasn’t fired one missile except for live-fire exercises. But the GCC struck first, and I think the U.S. helped them.”

  “You’re guessing.”

  “It’s not a big stretch of the imagination, sir,” McLanahan said. “It’s a logical assumption. The GCC might have started this whole conflict because they got exasperated or impatient about the negotiations over Abu Musa and the Tumbs.”

  “And now the President has ordered the Abraham Lincoln carrier group to stay out of the Persian Gulf for the time being,” Freeman pointed out, “which is making many of our Middle East allies nervous—which means Iran is already winning the war that always occurs before the shooting starts, the psychological war.” McLanahan paused at that—he knew Freeman was right.

  “I’m sending in ISA and the team you worked with, Patrick, Madcap Magician, to keep an eye on Iran’s carrier battle group and other Iranian military assets,” Freeman went on. “Every suspected Iranian nuclear, chemical, or biological warfare base or storage dump will have an ISA agent nearby; every Iranian bomber, fighter, rocket, or missile base capable of striking the Lincoln battle group or reaching targets in Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Kuwait, or Israel will have an agent watching it. If the Iranians try to make a move, and one of those special bases is involved, I want to know about it, and I’ll recommend that the President order that base put out of commission.

  “Now, both of you know the chances of a Navy A-6 or a large flight of Tomahawk cruise missiles reaching an isolated Iranian military base are pretty slim—and you know the B-2A is the only platform that can make it. Loaded with the right mix of anti-air defense and Disruptor-type weapons, we can accomplish the mission with a very low probability of collateral damage or risk to the American crews involved.”

  Freeman paused as he noticed Patrick’s surprised expression, then smiled at the former bombardier. “Ah, I see the name ‘Disrup- tor’ got your attention. C’mon, Colonel, you didn’t think all of Brad Elliott’s little experiments could be kept secret forever, did you? Especially not the Disruptor series.”

  Wendy looked confused, which pleased Freeman—so Patrick McLanahan could keep a secret, even from his wife, who had once held as high a security clearance as he. To Wendy, Freeman added, “General Elliott was very involved in research and development of non-lethal weapons, which he called Disruptors. Elliott and HAWC became proficient enough in killing from very long range with very high precision—toward the end, he began to experiment in ways to simply disrupt, damage, or discombobulate something from long range and with high precision. The Disruptors are non-lethal air weapons, designed to confuse, frighten, interrupt, or intimidate the enemy without killing or destroying anything. We used some of these type weapons in the Persian Gulf War, but some of the new gadgets Elliott concocted put those to shame.

  “When Dreamland was closed, we turned some of Elliott’s work over to the Air Force Air Weapons folks at Eglin, but most we turned over to Sky Masters. They have some prototypes ready for testing.” Freeman turned again to Patrick, the same mischievous smile on his face. “All we need is a seasoned B-2A crew member or two to test and train and get ready to fly. Interested, Patrick?”

  “I can’t fly a B-2A by myself,” Patrick said. “You’ll need several crews.”

  “One for now,” Freeman said. “We may recruit more later.”

  Patrick hesitated, looked at Wendy, then shook his head. “Sorry, sir, I’m still not interested,” he said resolutely.

  “If you agree to begin, you’ll be fully compensated by the National Security Agency,” Freeman said. “You’ll receive pay and benefits equivalent to a GS-19, the equivalent to an 0-6 in the military, whether or not you fly a mission. You’ll be relocated completely without charge, given dependent and survivor privileges, plus extra personal-support services granted to senior NSA members.” He paused for a moment, looking at the floor, then said, “I know you’ve been thinking about selling the tavern. We could assist with that, or assist in helping you keep it.”

  “How in hell did you find out about... ?” But Patrick already knew the answer—it was easy for anyone, not to mention the National Security Agency, to find out those things.

  “In fact, one such opportunity has already presented itself,” Freeman said. “One cover we were considering using was Sky Masters, Inc. They’re a well-known defense contractor, downsized like all contractors but still viable. They’re relocating some of their offices and R-and-D facilities to San Diego, and they have a new rocket test facility on unused government land near Tonopah. We even know that the Top Gun bar on the waterfront in San Diego is for sale—if you wanted to stay in the tavern business, that would be your opportunity. I know Dr. Masters has already given you several job offers. It may be time to accept one. You can of course accept his generous pay and benefits package as well as NSA’s. The climate change might be of some benefit to you as well, Wendy.”

  “Is that your medical opinion, General?” Patrick snapped. “If I wanted to work for Masters, I’d have accepted his offers. I didn’t because I’m not interested in working for a company that does business with the same government that uses its best people, then discards them like so much dirty tissue paper. That goes for your offer, too. The money and the climate don’t concern
me as much as the way you treat—or should I say, mistreat—those who believe in what they do.” “I’ve told you what your mission is, Patrick,” Freeman said. “Your mission is to protect your fellow ISA agents. If the job calls for a military response, we’ll send in the military, but we’re going to send in ISA and other NSA assets before the military, just as we did before you went in as a HAWC bombardier, so we can gather as much intelligence information as possible. I’m just looking for a way to protect those men and women who will risk their lives to avert war.” “You haven’t convinced me that we won’t be called on as the President’s private little gang of thugs and assassins,” Patrick said warily.

  “Colonel, I listened to the entire proposal, and I’m for it,” Marcia Preston interjected. “I’ve worked for the NSA in the past, and we’re not a private mercenary group for the White House or the CIA. We’ve got an honorable mission, Patrick. Our mission is to stop war. Iran is butchering our agents in—”

  “In where?” Wendy asked. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s classified,” Freeman said. “I didn’t want to bring it up....” Preston looked at Freeman for permission to continue; he granted it with a slight nod. “Happened not long ago,” Preston said. “The ISA intelligence vessel Valley Mistress—you’re familiar with it, of course. ...”

  “Paul White’s group?” Patrick exploded. “What happened?”

  “They were flying a stealth reconnaissance drone over the Khomeini battle group, trying to keep an eye on it,” Preston replied. “Drone had a malfunction, and the Iranians tracked it back to the ship ... and sank it. Thirteen crew members missing, including Colonel White ...” Freeman held up a hand, ordering her to stop. “My God...”

  “We do what we do to beat up on the bad guys, Patrick, not against innocent persons,” Freeman said. “We do the job to fix the problem at hand—we worry later about the long-term consequences. That’s the unfortunate aspect of our work: we don’t have time to analyze or determine the effect of our actions. A problem needs fixing, we fix it; a crisis develops that needs attention, we attend to it. We know what we do is necessary and vital for the national security and safety of Americans—we pray that what we do is for the long-term benefit of all.”