Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (17 page)

Further, it really didn't look like very much work was being done now—he would've thought there'd be armies of construction workers swarming all over the place. What had they been doing here all that time? Was this base going to open or not? He did see a few aircraft hangars and decided that was the only place his new unit could be.

As it turned out, Battle Mountain Air Force Base did have a security force—a few minutes after driving onto the base, he was stopped by a patrol car. “Good evening, Colonel Mace,” the officer, an Air Force sergeant, greeted him, after stepping up to his car and snapping a salute. “I'm Sergeant Rollins, One-eleventh Attack Wing Security Forces. Welcome to Battle Mountain Air Force Base.”

Mace returned the salute. “How do you know who I am, Sergeant?”

“We've been monitoring your arrival, sir,” Rollins replied. “I've been asked to start your in-processing.”

“ ‘In-processing'?” Mace asked incredulously. He looked at his jogger's Timex. “It's seven p.m. Is the Support Group still open for business?”

“I just need your ID card and orders, sir,” Rollins said. After Mace fished out the paperwork from his briefcase, the sergeant held out a device and asked Mace to put both his thumbprints on it, like an electronic inkpad. “Thank you. Please stand by, sir,” the sergeant said, and he returned to his vehicle with Mace's ID card and orders. Mace had to wait almost ten minutes and was just on the verge of getting out of the car to complain about the delay—but he was pleasantly surprised when the officer returned with a base decal, an updated ID card, a flight-line pass, and a restricted-area pass. Mace looked at all the documents in wonder. “Where did you get this photograph?” he asked, motioning to the new ID card.

“I took it, sir.”

“When?”

“The moment I walked up to your vehicle, sir,” the officer replied. Sure enough, the guy's flashlight contained a tiny digital camera, because the face on the picture
was
him, sitting in his car.

“You can't use that picture on my ID cards, Sergeant,” Mace protested. “I'm not in uniform. I haven't even shaved yet.”

“Doesn't matter, sir,” the officer responded. “We use biometric identification equipment now—you could have a month's growth and we'd still be able to ID you. We've already taken your picture a dozen times since you've been driving around the base. We've registered your vehicle and correlated the registration with your identity, we've scanned you and your vehicles, and we've even noted that you're carrying unloaded weapons in your trunk. If you'd like, I can register them for you right now.” Mace opened the trunk for the officer and took the guns out of their locked cases. The officer simply scanned the weapons with his flashlight again, and minutes later he had electronically added the registration information to Mace's ID card. “You're all in-processed,” he announced.

“I'm
what?
”

“Security Forces can network in with the wing's computer system from our cars, so we can initiate in-processing when the newcomers arrive on base, sir,” Rollins said. “Everything's been done—housing, pay and allowances, official records, medical, pass and ID, uniforms—even predeployment. You'll be notified by e-mail if anyone needs to see you in person, such as the flight surgeon or base dentist. Orientation briefings are conducted by videoconference or by computer. Your unit duty section and the wing commander's office have also been notified that you're on base. Are there any questions I can answer for you, sir?”

“Is there a base gym?”

“Afraid not, sir. Each unit on base will probably set up its own facilities until the base builds one. Security Forces has a pretty good one, which you're welcome to use until the Fifty-first builds its own.”

“The Fifty-first?”

“Your squadron, sir.” The Security Forces sergeant smiled mischievously. “That happens all the time, sir—my system knows more about you than you do. The duty officer will be able to direct you to motels in the area that can accept your PCS orders as payment until you find permanent quarters.”

“Already taken care of,” Daren said. “Mind if I just drive around a bit?”

“Not at all, sir,” the officer said. “Your duty officer will be able to direct you, and she'll keep you away from any restricted areas. Call her using this.” He handed Mace a small plastic case. “This is your commlink. If you need anything, just call the duty officer. She's expecting your call. Let me be the first to welcome you.” He shook Mace's hand, then snapped him a salute. “Have a nice evening, sir.”

Daren Mace sat in his car and marveled at what had just happened. No one else around for what seemed like miles except him and a sky cop—and he was already in-processed into his new unit. Amazing. In-processing was normally a weeklong drudgery of meetings, briefings, and paperwork. He just completed it in ten minutes. He put the commlink away. Someone would have to explain how to use it later.

Instead of asking for directions, Daren thought he'd drive around a bit. Although there were very few buildings anywhere, the northeast side of the base seemed completely deserted, with only construction equipment and concrete-making stuff—Portland cement, gravel, sand, and stone—piled everywhere. He noticed a forty-foot steel trailer painted in desert camouflage sitting about a hundred meters off an access road, with a few cars and trucks parked nearby. He could see no evidence of the container's having been dragged or trailered off the road—it must have been airlifted in, or brought in an awful long time ago.

Daren decided to check it out for himself, so he stepped out of his pickup truck and walked up the access road toward the big trailer. There was a power generator running—he could hear it, but he couldn't yet see it. As he got closer, he could see a small satellite dish, a microwave antenna, and several smaller antennas on top. What in hell . . . ?

He heard a loud
fwooosh!
and suddenly his path was blocked—by some kind of android-looking figure dressed in black. It had appeared out of nowhere. It wore a seamless dark suit, a full-head helmet with an opaque visor over the eyes, a thin backpack, and thick boots.

“This is a restricted area, sir,” the menacing figure said in an electronically synthesized voice. Daren stumbled backward in complete surprise, scrambled around, and started to run back to his car. “Hold on, Colonel Mace,” the figure said.

Daren didn't stop running—in fact began running harder—until he ran headlong into what felt like a steel post. It turned out to be the android figure, again appearing right in front of him as if out of thin air.

“Relax, Colonel,” the android said. Daren thought about running again, but this time the figure clamped its right hand around his left forearm, and Daren could tell right away it was not letting go. “Let's go, sir.”

The android led him toward the trailer. Daren hadn't seen it from the road, but two camouflaged tents had been set up beyond the steel trailer, with two Humvees nearby. The android led him over to the smaller of the two tents, then released his arm. “He's expecting you inside, sir,” the android said. It took three or four steps—then disappeared again after another loud, sharp
fwooosh!
sound stirred up a large cloud of desert dust.

Daren opened the tent flap and saw a man perhaps a few years younger than himself at a small camp table, typing on a laptop computer. Notebooks and computer printouts were scattered over the table. A small military field propane heater kept the tent reasonably warm, and on a small propane cookstove there were a pot of macaroni and cheese, half consumed, and another pot of water.

“C'mon in, Colonel,” the man said. “I didn't know you'd be here on base so early. It's my good luck you happened on us tonight.” He stood and extended a hand. “I'm—”

“I know who you are. Major General Patrick McLanahan,” Daren said. “I recognize you from the news reports—President Thorn's first national security adviser.”

“I doubt that,” Patrick said tonelessly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, sir,” Mace said. They shook hands. “You were involved in that Korean conflict a couple years ago—you developed a squadron of B-1 bombers that launched ballistic-missile-interceptor missiles.”

“That's right.” What was left unsaid was the rest of the story: that McLanahan got himself kicked out of the Air Force as a result of the recent conflict with Russia over activities in the Balkans and the much-publicized crash of a B-1B Lancer bomber in Russia. Before that, his name had come up a few times: his experience with the now-defunct (but soon to be resurrected) Border Security Force and his work in defending Korea right after unification made him the front-runner in both the Martindale and now the Thorn administrations for national security adviser.

McLanahan's was a strange career, Daren thought, most of it shrouded in secrecy, rumor, and legend. Whenever there was some explosive, fast-moving international crisis that threatened to expand into a nuclear conflict, his name started popping up. “I would guess you were involved in that recent incident in Central Asia. Iran is claiming that one of our bombers illegally attacked Muslim forces inside Turkmenistan—then, the same day, that B-1 crashes in Diego Garcia. Iran claims it was the one that violated their airspace.”

McLanahan shrugged. “I don't care much what Iran claims,” he said dryly, taking a seat and busying himself on the laptop. Mace noticed it was not a denial, but he knew better than to quiz the guy who was probably his new boss, or at least a very high muck-a-muck. “What makes you think I had anything to do with something in Turkmenistan, Colonel?”

“Your reputation definitely precedes you, sir,” Mace said. McLanahan glanced up; Daren couldn't tell if it was an irritated glare or an amused look. “If it makes any difference to you, sir, I think it's the kind of reputation
I'd
like to have,” Daren added.

“If you care about working here and about your career in the military, Colonel, I wouldn't recommend it,” McLanahan said. There was an uncomfortable pause. Then he went on, “I was impressed with your work with the Global Hawk wing at Beale Air Force Base. Those unmanned aerial vehicles had been in use for many years, but they still had some problems. You were able to overcome them and stood up the wing in very short time—the very first unmanned air wing. I thought you should have been given command of the wing—but their loss is my gain.”

“Thank you, sir. I had a lot of good folks working for me. Actually, I ripped off a lot of the technology I used to bring the Hawks online from Zen Stockard and you guys at HAWC—specifically, your ‘virtual cockpit' technology.”

“Glad to be of help. We've done great improvements with the VC, and we're building a state-of-the-art facility to exploit it. What we needed was someone with both operational and engineering experience. We're going to ask you to do the same for us that you did with Beale's Global Hawks—get our aircraft and organization up to speed as quickly as possible. Your job will be to work with the wing commander and the engineering staff from the Tonopah Test Range.”

Daren shook his head. “I'm confused, sir,” he said. “I thought this was a tanker unit.”

“We've got tankers here, yes.”

“What other aircraft do you have here?”

“You haven't spoken with anyone from wing headquarters yet?”

“Well . . . I did run into General Furness in town a little while ago, but we didn't really talk.”

Patrick's eyebrows raised in question at that. “I thought you two knew each other.”

“It wasn't a good time to chat,” Daren said, stumbling. He was thankful to see McLanahan nod, apparently willing to let it drop. “I just arrived tonight. My report date isn't until next week, but I decided to show early. I didn't imagine in-processing would only take ten minutes.”

“Now I see why you're in the dark,” McLanahan said with a slight smile. “You haven't had the nickel tour yet. I think I'll leave that up to General Furness or Colonel Long.”

“What are you doing out here tonight, General?”

“Trying to nail down all the interface parameters between my virtual cockpit and my plane,” he replied, “but we're missing something. We can't find it in the VC, I can't find it out here. It must be in the plane, but we still can't isolate it.”

“What plane are you talking about, General?” Daren asked. “I haven't seen any planes here yet. And why in hell are you—”

“Shh. Not so loud—and watch your French.” Patrick motioned with his head to his right, and Daren saw a small boy in a sleeping bag, lying on an inflatable mattress.

“Is . . . is that your
son,
General?” Daren whispered incredulously.

Patrick nodded. “Bradley James. I've been so busy the last several days, I haven't been with him very much. I couldn't stand being away from him any longer, so I told him we were going on a camping trip. I know it's forecast to go below freezing tonight, and he's got school, but I did it anyway. We cooked hot dogs and macaroni and cheese—his favorite comfort foods—we looked at the stars through a telescope, and he conked out.”

“You took your son out to the desert while you're working on a project?”

“Couldn't think of anything else to do,” Patrick said. He looked at his son and sighed. “I always wanted to take him out camping, but his mother didn't relish the idea. He has a rough night if we do something that we used to do together, so camping seemed to kill two birds”—he swallowed a bit, then corrected himself—“I mean, it seemed to fit the bill nicely.”

Daren had heard something about some great tragedy in McLanahan's life, but no one had laid it out for him, out of respect for the man. It obviously had something to do with his wife, Bradley's mother. This was a very surreal scene: a young commanding general, personally monitoring a major project being conducted in his high-tech unit, but concerned—disturbed?—enough to bring his son out to the site in a sleeping bag. How weird was this?