Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05 Read online

  “You’re CIA?” Jamieson retorted. “You’re a goddamned CIA agent?”

  “I’m a crewdog, not a CIA agent,” McLanahan said.

  “You’re a contractor, a former crewdog working for the CIA,” Jamieson corrected him. “You got canned because of some fiasco at HAWC, so now you sell your services to the guys with more money than brains—”

  “You don’t know shit about me or my mission, Colonel! ”

  “I don’t fucking care to know!”

  “All right, both of you, shut up,” General Samson interjected. “Colonel, you listen to what this man has to say. I’ll give you an opportunity to talk. Now you listen.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jamieson relented. “Sorry, but I’m a little confused and a little angry that I’m being ‘volunteered’ for some illegal ops. So what does this Future Flight want with me?”

  “General Griffith is taking command of Air Vehicle Oil and assigning it to Future Flight,” McLanahan explained. “My job is to assist Colonel Dominguez in equipping it, then to recruit, train, and fly reconnaissance and defense-suppression missions in the Middle East. Eve chosen you to be my aircraft commander.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been tasked with forming a group that can support secret high-risk deep-strike and reconnaissance operations worldwide. The B-2A stealth bomber is the best strike platform out there; the President and the National Security Council agree. Eve been tasked to recruit B-2A flight and support crews from the active-duty ranks, among others, to support group operations.”

  “You mean, you’re forming a secret squadron to fly B-2A bombing missions?” Jamieson asked incredulously. “That’s the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard. Pardon me, General, but I don’t believe what I’m hearing here.”

  “You go ahead, Tiger,” Samson said, fixing McLanahan with a satisfied smile. “You got something to say, say it.”

  “So what about it, McLanahan?” Jamieson asked, arms crossed on his chest.

  McLanahan didn’t need to be an expert on body language to know that Jamieson wasn’t going to buy any explanations—those crossed arms were like a wall erected against any suggestions. “I don’t have to explain anything to you, Colonel. My instructions were to recruit you to fly missions for me and my team and see to the refit of my plane.”

  “Your plane?”

  “Air Vehicle Oil,” McLanahan said. “Colonel Dominguez’s techs are modifying it as we speak.”

  “Modifying it? Are you crazy? That’s our best plane!” Jamieson cried. “That bird is tweaked tighter than any other bird Northrop’s ever cranked out! It’s got the lowest radar cross-section, the best engines, the best hydraulics, the best...”

  “It should have the best of everything—I spent two years on that bird back in Dreamland, redesigning and improving almost every aspect of that plane’s performance,” McLanahan said. “Air Vehicle Oil used to be Test Vehicle 002 ...”

  “The one that was supposedly tested to destruction?”

  “Yes, sir,” McLanahan said. “HAWC rescued it, rebuilt it—we probably spent a quarter of a billion dollars on making it airworthy and upgrading it. I spent plenty of long nights with the engineers to squeeze every knot of performance out of that plane, before the Philippines conflict. That’s the plane I flew into combat—twice. It’s the only bird in the fleet already modified to carry reconnaissance pods, anti-radar missiles, cruise missiles ...”

  “It can’t be the same one,” Jamieson pointed out. “AV-011 doesn’t have a MILSTD data bus yet for the release systems—it’s only hardwired for dumb bombs. It can’t carry any ‘smart’ weapons without a—”

  “We didn’t use MILSTD buses on test articles at HAWC,” McLanahan said. MILSTD, or Military Standard, was the generic term for the standard electrical and electronic circuits and systems developed by the U.S. military for civilian contractors—every weapons design used MILSTD, so the plane could “talk” with the weapons or other systems. “They were too slow, too old, and too easy to jam or disrupt. We borrowed a few commercial-grade data buses from a company in Arkansas—sixty-four-bit logic, clock speed well into triple digits, fiber optics ready, secure and hardened. It’s all plumbed for our own data bus—the Sky Masters people I brought with me are going to reinstall the system in about three hours. Ever have any problems with the radar?”

  “No,” Jamieson replied, “but we haven’t had much trouble with any of our radars.”

  “If your troops opened up the SAR on AV-011, you wouldn’t have known what to do with it,” McLanahan said proudly. “We modified some of its subsystems for reconnaissance as well as for targeting and terrain avoidance, far beyond Block 30 standards. Range is doubled, resolution tripled, and it has air, sea, and electromagnetic-

  spectrum search as well as ground mapping, terrain following, and targeting—the radar can act as a signal processor for programming anti-radar missiles and for jamming. We were doing terrainfollowing years before Block 30 was announced.”

  Now Jamieson was intrigued. He’d always suspected that organizations like HAWC did cool stuff like this, and he had always wanted to be a part of it—but was this the way to do the job? “I still don’t buy it, McLanahan,” Jamieson said. “You’ll be conducting military missions in support of... who? The National Security Council? The CIA? The Boy Scouts of America?”

  “Listen, Colonel, I was given a task to perform—to get you and Test Vehicle Double-Ought-Two ready to fly, for me, ” McLanahan said impatiently. “We were assured full cooperation by General Samson and General Wright. In exchange, I agreed to tell you a little bit about what’s going on. I was not authorized to answer any questions, and I’m sure I’ve told you far more than I’m supposed to tell. Now you’ll agree to cooperate in this project and prepare to—”

  “Hey, mister, I don’t fly for nobody unless I know the whole story,” Jamieson said. “I’m not participating in any secret backroom espionage Ollie North-Air America stunt that’s gonna get me in front of some congressional committee or a court-martial. You tell me what’s going on, and then I’ll think about helping you.”

  McLanahan noticed General Samson’s satisfied smile, as if he were saying, “I told you he wouldn’t take kindly to threats, boy.” “General Samson said that approach wouldn’t fly,” McLanahan said, “which is why I decided not to take the tough-guy approach with you.”

  “You’re smarter than you look, McLanahan ...”

  “So I’ll just say this, Jamieson.” McLanahan stepped closer to Tiger Jamieson and regarded him with an amused stare. “You will agree to accompany me on this mission and cooperate, or . .. I’ll get someone else. ”

  “You’ll what?” Jamieson was as surprised as if he’d just kissed him on the lips. “You can’t do that...” Jamieson instandy decided it was a bluff. “Yeah, right, don’t make me puke, McLanahan,” Jamieson said acidly. He noticed the shit-eating grin on McLanahan’s face, then turned to Samson—the big three-star was not smiling. “You’re crazy, McLanahan,” Jamieson sputtered nervously. “Who else are you going to get?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll find someone.”

  “Hey, buster, I trained each and every B-2A crewdog on the entire planetJamieson said, jabbing a thumb into his own chest to drive the point home, then jabbing a finger at McLanahan, “except maybe you, and I’m not totally convinced you’re fully qualified. I’ve forgotten more about the Beak than everyone else put together knows. You can’t get no one better because there ain't nobody better.”

  “I’ll get Ed Carlisle,” McLanahan said calmly. “He’s the 715th Bomb Squadron commander, young, lots of hours, bright guy, and the 715th hasn’t stood up yet.”

  “Carlisle? ‘Boondock’ Carlisle, the only guy ever to get lost while flying a B-2A bomber?” Jamieson exclaimed. “The guy’s got fifty million dollars’ worth of navigation gear sitting in front of him, and he still managed to fly out of the RED FLAG range during an exercise—he was nearly in Los Angeles before he figured out where he was.
The guy’s a former Navy pilot, for God’s sake!”

  “He’s also written the book on B-2 A combat tactics,” McLanahan repeated, standing up and packing up his briefcase. “He’s a forward thinker, an innovator, a planner—you’re just a throtde jockey. The bottom line, Jamieson, is this: you’re either in with me, or you’re out. We’re going to take aerial strike warfare into the next century, today, and if you’re not with me, you’ll be left behind. So what’s it going to be?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, McLanahan,” Jamieson said angrily. He realized that McLanahan was serious—he was not going to select him if he didn’t cooperate! “You’re obviously not thinking about the success or failure of your project—you’re only out to throw your weight around. This is some kind of damned power trip for you ...”

  “I don’t play games, Colonel,” McLanahan warned. “I’ve been given a job to do, and I’m doing it. I’m wasting my time talking to you.”

  “I think you’re both two prima donnas who’re only out to see who can pee the farthest, and I’m sick of it. Button it, both of you,” General Samson said angrily, aiming a huge finger at both McLanahan and Jamieson. “McLanahan, I agreed to backstop this project because of one thing: you got the best players working for you, dedicated guys who won’t let America down no matter how bad the bureaucrats, politicians, and spooks want to screw things up. Now Carlisle is damned good, but he’s more valuable to me as a staff officer and squadron commander—”

  “Wait a minute, General,” Jamieson interjected, “where does that leave me?”

  “I said button it, Jamieson!” Samson shouted. “Tiger, you’re a damned fine officer and a great pilot—but you are not the last word in strategic aerial strike warfare. This is not a beauty contest, Jamieson, this is serious business, and I want it done right or not at all.

  “Now, McLanahan has proven to me that he can fly the Beak without breaking it, so I’m authorizing the refit of Air Vehicle Oil and the transfer to McLanahan and his Intelligence Support Agency group. In my mind, there’s only one B-2A crew member who I trust to do this mission, and it’s Tony Jamieson. There’s no alternative, no option—it’s you two, or nobody. And the choice is still voluntary— Colonel Jamieson can accept or reject the offer, with no official consequences.” He turned to Jamieson. “Talk to me, Tiger. Now’s your chance to talk—do it.”

  “This is total bullshit, sir,” Jamieson said angrily. “Since when do we turn tricks for a bunch of spies? If they want a target taken out, why don’t they just crank out a warning order and an air tasking order? We’ll blow up anything they want. We don’t need McLanahan. Fve got the best aviators in the world waiting right now to go to war, especially with Iran. Just say the word, and we’re locked and loaded.”

  “Colonel, they’ve got a ship that carries precision-guided weapons, anti-radar missiles, and reconnaissance gear that even Fve never heard of,” Samson said. “How long would it take you to train a crew to use the equipment?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Jamieson replied testily. “Maybe a week, maybe a month—maybe it’s so automated that it doesn’t require any special training, just turn it on and watch it work. Make McLanahan our tech rep or our civilian instructor—but don’t make him part of the flight crew.”

  “Colonel, you know the answer as well as I do, and that ain’t it,” Samson said, turning toward Jamieson and impaling him with the most evil, deadliest stare he had ever seen. “Face it—this wing is not operational. Your crews and your planes are at least a year, probably two, from going into combat. McLanahan and this Future Flight is the best we’ve got, and I want you part of it.”

  Jamieson still didn’t like it, still resented the break from his long- established and trusted chain of command. But it was the opportunity of a lifetime. “Who would I report to?”

  “Me,” McLanahan replied. “The plane, the weapons, the personnel—I own them all, as of right now.”

  “But you’re a civilian,” Jamieson protested, though with less vehemence than before. “I don’t report to a damned civilian.”

  “My boss is General Griffith; he reports directly to Philip Freeman, in regards to this mission,” McLanahan added. “And Freeman reports to the President.”

  Jamieson still had not finally agreed, but McLanahan knew he had his man. He turned away and nodded at General Samson. “Thank you for your help, sir. I’ll report to you and General Wright on the progress of the work on AV-011 at our noon briefing. Colonel Jamieson, you’ve got sixty minutes to clear your desk; then we meet back here at eleven hundred hours for an overview on the mods to tail number AV-011. Bring your tech orders and checklists; we’ll be updating them with lots of new stuff.” To Samson, he asked, “Anything more for me, sir?”

  “Just one more thing, Patrick,” Samson said. “I’ve been fighting for exactly this kind of role for our strategic bomber force for years. I never expected a group like the Intelligence Support Agency to be the one sponsoring my program, but it’s being done, and that’s the important thing. But I’ve built a career out of seeing that this kind of mission succeeds, and I’ll still be fighting even though it’s out of my hands once you sign for the plane. This will not turn into another Iran-contra debacle, or—and I don’t mean this personally—another Brad Elliott operation.”

  “I do take that personally, General,” McLanahan said, his fiery blue eyes narrowing in clear, immediate anger. “Brad Elliott is a good friend of mine. ”

  “Then I apologize,” Samson said quickly but, in McLanahan’s estimation, not sincerely. “But I reemphasize my point: We go all out, we play to win, but we do this by the book. Agreed?”

  The fair-haired, blue-eyed young man was silent for a moment. Samson was just thinking that this was someone he could work with, a fellow crewdog who would work on the “inside,” give a fresh perspective to the White House brain trust.. .

  ... until McLanahan’s features suddenly turned dark, and his blue eyes narrowed into dark cobalt pits, and he stepped closer to the big three-star general and said in a low voice, “You’re right, General: we’ll do this by the book—my book. This is not an Air Force operation, and this is not your operation, it’s my operation, is that clear?” Samson was too stunned by the guy’s sudden change in demeanor to respond.

  “General Samson, this team was picked for one reason only: to protect the lives of the agents on the ground that are following the orders of their leaders in the White House,” McLanahan went on. “If we fail, men and women die—some of them my friends. If they die, they are not just forgotten—it will be as if they never existed. I was given this opportunity to form a team to help them survive, and that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

  Jamieson was watching General Samson as the big three-star tightened his jaw muscles, but instead of exploding, he nodded, jabbed a finger in McLanahan’s direction, and said calmly, “Fine, Mr. McLanahan. You do your thing. When you need Eighth Air Force’s help to bail your ass out, just call.” He nodded at Jamieson, turned, and walked away.

  McLanahan’s eyes followed Samson as he departed; then he turned to Jamieson and asked, “Anything to add before we get started, Colonel?”

  “Yes: I think you’re an asshole, Mr. McLanahan,” Jamieson replied matter-of-factly.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” McLanahan said. “It’s nice to be working with you, too.”

  In the Gulf of Oman, Islamic republic of Iran 19 April 1997, 0612 hours local

  It was General Buzhazi’s first look at the aircraft carrier Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini since the thing had been towed into port two years earlier, and frankly, it didn’t look that much better—the crews had cleaned it up greatly, but now it seemed more cluttered, more disorganized. Two years earlier it had been in mothballs in a Russian shipyard in Nikolayev, Ukraine, abandoned and heavily cannibalized for scrap steel, wiring, even lightbulbs and screws—it had even been set on fire by shipyard protesters. After being brought to Bandar Abbas, it had been towed down to Chah Bahar and used briefly as a
floating prison for work crews, where it had been even further abused by the inmates during that construction “jihad.” Then, it had been the biggest, ugliest ship Buzhazi had ever seen in his life—and Iran was paying the People’s Republic of China $500,000 per month to use it!

  Now it had over three dozen combat aircraft on board and three thousand men working on it. Iran was still paying only a half a million dollars a month to use it, but now China was paying Iran millions per month for training, billeting, and installing new, modern equipment.

  “Welcome aboard the pride of the Islamic Republic’s attack fleet, sir,” Pasdaran Major Admiral Akbar Tufayli said effusively, as Buzhazi stepped off the Mil-8 helicopter that had flown Buzhazi from Bandar Abbas out to the carrier. Akbar Tufayli was one of Buzhazi’s young, energetic “lions” in the Pasdaran-i-Engelab. When the Pasdaran had been an independent, elite military force during the War of Liberation with Iraq in the 1980s, Buzhazi expected that Tufayli had had grand ideas about his future as a major commander, given his political and family connections, but when the Pasdaran had been integrated into the regular Iranian army, all of Tufayli’s chances for greatness had been reduced. Because of this, Tufayli sought out the highest-visibility positions, the ones no one else wanted to touch; then he would lie, cheat, steal, whine, beg, and murder his way to success. He thought of himself as bold and fearless, when in fact he was stupid, rash, and always looking for a scapegoat.

  Well, he’d certainly picked the biggest, most highly visible position now: commander of the Middle East’s first aircraft carrier. With a new, fat emergency budget following the GCC attack on Abu Musa Island, and lots of favorable attention from the mullahs, Tufayli was in a pretty good position to move up the Pasdaran chain of command. Being the first sometimes got men the glory, but most often it was a no-win situation. Tufayli’s future, as they say, was his to destroy.

  “Thank you, Admiral,” Buzhazi said. “I wanted to see for myself if all is in readiness—including the ‘special’ shipment...”