Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (129 page)

“Based at Battle Mountain or Elliott air bases, I assume,” Secretary of Defense Gardner interjected.

“The beauty of the Black Stallion launch system is that we can
launch from almost any runway, sir—if it can handle a big fighter jet like the F-15 Eagle or F/A-22 Raptor, it can launch a Stud,” Boomer said. “Vandenberg and Cape Canaveral are good for large rocket launches not only because it's more efficient to launch polar and equatorial flights from those bases, but the various stages fall safely into open ocean. We don't drop anything. If the folks down below don't mind a distant sonic boom, a Stud can go into orbit from anywhere.”

“That nickname is starting to get on my nerves,” Sparks commented under his breath.

“General Glenbrook, would the spaceplanes fill the requirements we've established for long-range strike?” Vice President Hershel asked.

The Joint Chiefs chairman nodded noncommittally. “It certainly is an impressive system,” he said. “As the Pentagon sees it, the Black Stallion is in the same class as a fighter or light bomber but with almost twenty times the speed and range of present aircraft. Its performance envelope gives it capabilities that very few bombers have—namely, the ability to put small payloads—or itself—into Earth orbit in a very short period of time. It has the huge advantage of hypersonic speed, suborbital flight, and payload delivery throughout its flight envelope.”

“What are the negatives?”

“Well, we can always use more payload—six thousand pounds max is very small for today's weapons,” Glenbrook said, “although with advances in weapon and satellite technology, soon we should be able to do the same mission with smaller payloads. The biggest negatives are that we have no idea what sort of tactics and procedures we'd need to match the system with the mission. Normally we never change the mission to adapt to the weapon system; we don't field a weapon, then change procedures and tactical doctrine to match the weapon. It looks like we're being forced to do exactly that. With the stealth bombers and sea-based systems, we have well-developed doctrine in place suitable for a large array of contingencies.”

“Doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement, General.”

“It's not, sir,” Glenbrook admitted, “but only because I don't know that much about it. Quite frankly, I think it's too advanced. But after reading the reports from General McLanahan, Captain Noble, and their team for the past year during advanced development, I think the system is worth serious consideration. But I'm not yet ready to endorse it, or fly in it…and I don't think you should either, sir. We test aircraft and weapon systems every day—the President of the United States has no business riding in any of them before they're made fully operational.”

“Hear, hear,” Sparks said under his breath.

“I get the message, General,” the President said a bit perturbedly. The outer office secretary entered and handed the President a note. His face adopted a half-excited, half-amused expression. “Well, well, it seems this meeting has been leaked to Congress already,” he said. “Senator Barbeau is here and wishes to speak with me”—he turned to Patrick and added—“and General McLanahan.”

Maureen Hershel couldn't help noticing General Glenbrook, Chief of Staff Minden, and Secretary Gardner straightening up in their seats and adjusting ties, and even the President wore a rather goofy school-boy-in-love expression. But National Security Adviser Sparks was anything but anticipatory: “Damn the information leaks in this town,” he muttered. “If I ever catch who it is, I'll roast his balls on my radiator.”

“Mr. President, do you want to do a meeting like this?” Minden asked. “She doesn't have an appointment, and it's improper etiquette for a member of Congress to just show up at the White House unannounced—the Senate would squawk if you just showed up on Capitol Hill like this, without notifying the leadership. Besides, if you allow one to do it, they'll all want the privilege.”

“I'm not one to stand on formality, Carl,” the President said. “Miss Parks, ask the senator to come in.” The outer office secretary had barely left the room before a red-haired whirlwind
whizzed past her, and the men in the room were scrambling like startled chickens to get to their feet.

Boomer had seen Stacy Anne Barbeau on TV, of course, but she looked even more striking in person. He noted she was not the tallest woman he had ever met, nor the thinnest or most curvaceous. But whatever it was, Stacy Anne Barbeau had it. He couldn't tell if it was the round green eyes, the flowing curly red hair, the lush red lips, the killer body, or the attitude of supreme confidence and control she exuded—perhaps all of the above—but she made an entrance all right, like a famous actress exiting her limo and walking down the red carpet in front of thousands of adoring fans. She created a presence, a force that drove almost everyone before her—mostly the men, even the very powerful ones in this very powerful office—to their hormonal knees.

“Mr. President, how good of you to see me,” Barbeau said in a rather loud but at the same time sweet Southern voice—sweet like indulgent champagne, not sugar, was the thought that entered Boomer's head. She strode quickly over to him. “You are looking mighty fine, Mr. President, the best I've ever seen you. You wear the mantle well, I must say.”

“Senator Barbeau, this is an unexpected surprise,” the President said. He was a head taller than she and eight years older, and Boomer had to admit they made a fine-looking couple—or maybe he had already heard that in any number of celebrity gossip magazines that continuously postulated on the bachelor President's love life. Boomer noticed the sudden presence of the President's famous “photographer's dream,” the two locks of thick curly silver hair that automatically tumbled over his forehead, one above each eye, whenever the President became agitated—obviously they also appeared when he was aroused too. “Welcome back to the White House. Let me introduce you to some folks you probably haven't met.”

She interlocked her left arm with the President's right, snuggling the side of her left breast seductively to him, then turned toward the others in the office and flashed her most brilliant
smile, nodding collectively to the others as she greeted them. She gave Boomer a quick appraisal from head to toe, then a hungry look, a mischievous smile, and an appreciative nod after apparently liking very much what she saw. The President stepped over to Patrick. “Senator, allow me to introduce…”

“Lieutenant-General Patrick Shane McLanahan needs no introduction, Mr. President, none what-so-ev-er,” Barbeau interrupted. She unwrapped herself from the President's right arm, went over to Patrick, and extended her hand. “An honor to meet you, General,” she cooed, locking her green eyes on his. She reached out with her left hand, placed it on the back of his neck, drew him closer, and kissed him lightly on both cheeks. “A true American hero. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. A real pleasure.”

It felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room as the other men looked on, wishing they were getting some of that preferential treatment from the Southern belle—and what little air was left was being ignited by Maureen Hershel's fiery stare at Barbeau. She quashed it right away and impatiently checked her watch.

“Nice to meet you, Senator,” Patrick said finally.

“Thank you, General,” she said, her voice still low and…husky, Boomer thought. Barbeau ran her left hand down Patrick's shoulder, and her eyes widened a bit as she gently ran her fingers over his shoulders and arms. “You're pretty tense, General.” She paused, then looked at him with that mischievous smile and added, “Or is that all you?”

“I'm afraid it's all me, ma'am.”

“Well, you must get out of the weight room more often and visit me on Capitol Hill, General,” she cooed. She glanced over at Hershel, noticed her impatient expression, hid a smile, and added, “And maybe take a bath before you do, if I may be so bold, Patrick—may I call you Patrick?” She didn't wait for a response. She turned and shook hands with Boomer. “Captain Noble, a pleasure.” She slid closer to him, placed her cheek against his, then gave him a kiss on the cheek as well. “Mmm, nice,” she whispered to him.

“That goes double from where I'm standing, Senator,” Boomer whispered back.

Barbeau stepped back, affixing Noble with a mind-blowing smile and a wink, then turned to the others in the Oval Office. “Good Lord, Mr. President, these men smell as if you have sentenced them to hard labor,” she said gaily, waving a hand under her nose and batting her eyes in her best Scarlett O'Hara imitation. “Do you normally allow airmen to come into the White House in flight suits, smelling like they just walked in from a thirty-six-hour mission?”

“Now you leave those boys alone and stop making fun of them, Senator—recruiting is bad enough these days without a senior senator chasing the good ones away,” the President said. Was it her imagination, Maureen asked herself, or was the President adopting a Southern accent all of a sudden? “Sit down, and tell me what I can do for you.”

“With your permission, sir, we'll return to duty,” Patrick said.

Chief of Staff Carl Minden nodded and started to herd the two toward the door, but Barbeau said anxiously, “No, General, Captain, please stay. Mr. President?”

“You're the one who said they stink, Stacy,” the President quipped.

“Looks like a serious political discussion gearing up here,” Boomer said. “Way above my pay grade, I'm sure.”

Barbeau flashed her bright green eyes at Boomer and gave him a smile that could have been either amused or devilishly angry. “You are a deliciously plain-spoken young man, Boomer. Mr. President, I'm madly in love with both of them. You must order them to stay.”

“We've got a full schedule this morning, Senator,” the President warned, then nodded for Patrick and Boomer to remain. The chief of staff's mouth hardened in exasperation, but said nothing.

“I am so sorry to impose myself on you, Mr. President,” Barbeau said as she took a seat at the end of the sofa opposite Maureen—that way she could keep an eye on everyone in the room while she
spoke to the President, and she could also see whoever came into the Oval Office and even see anyone in the corridor outside when the door was opened. “But as you know, my committee will begin hearings on the new defense appropriation bill in a couple weeks, and I wanted to personally ask if there was anything at all I could do for you or Secretary Gardner to assist you in preparing your proposals for my committee?”

“Secretary Gardner sent the committee a letter stating our timetable for making our recommendations, Senator,” Chief of Staff Carl Minden said. “We won't be late, I assure you.” Boomer noticed that the chief of staff stayed on his feet during this meeting, standing opposite the President instead of on his left side as he had always seen him in photographs, almost outside the informal meeting area. It appeared as if Minden had situated himself so Barbeau would have to turn her head all the way to her right to speak to him. Do they sit around all day thinking of ways to gain every bit of advantage over a political adversary, even in the Oval Office? Boomer wondered.

“Your entire staff is the hardest-working and most dedicated in recent memory, Mr. Minden—ruthlessly so,” Barbeau said in a slightly flatter tone, only briefly glancing at him before returning her eyes to the President. “We did indeed receive the letter from the Pentagon, and thank you for the courtesy of keeping the committee informed. Mine is an informal and completely off-the-record courtesy call of my own, Mr. President—I'm not here at the request of the chairman or the committee.”

“I appreciate that, Senator,” the President said, “and I appreciate your time and attention, but we have everything well under control, and we'll be ready for both the closed- and open-door hearings, as scheduled.”

“I had absolutely no doubt of that, Mr. President,” Barbeau said. She looked at Patrick and Boomer, who were sitting farthest away from her. “The committee will be very anxious to hear from General McLanahan as well, and I in particular will look forward to his testimony with much anticipation.”

“The general's not scheduled to testify, Senator,” Defense Secretary Gardner said.

“He's not?” Barbeau made a show of looking completely surprised, although as ranking member she had certainly seen the list of government witnesses scheduled to appear before the committee and would have had to approve each one. “May I ask why, Mr. President? Patrick McLanahan is the nation's acknowledged expert on long-range aerial attack. He's been in charge of your fact-finding mission to replace the assets lost after the American Holocaust…”

“Senator, as I'm sure you well know, General McLanahan is an active-duty Air Force officer who has been temporarily assigned to the White House as a military adviser,” the President said. “He receives no compensation from the White House and has no budget. He serves at my pleasure but his service here is dependent on the needs of the Air Force. While here he reports directly to me, and to the best of my knowledge his activities haven't been announced publicly.”

“This is all very mysterious, Mr. President,” Barbeau said, her smile returning. “I'm sure I don't recall where I heard of what Patrick's responsibilities might be, but my sources are mostly well-placed and accurate. I didn't mean to presume.” The President nodded but said nothing. “Patrick's thoughts and opinions would be of enormous value to the committee, I'm sure. Could you please add him on the witness list, Mr. President? One day would be more than enough time, with minimal written follow-ups.”

“I respect the needs and wishes of the committee, Senator, and I appreciate your consideration, but in my opinion it's not General McLanahan's decision—it's the National Command Authority's,” the President said. “As you rightly pointed out, General McLanahan's the expert, but he's not the decision-maker. It's his job to answer my Cabinet's questions.”