Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (191 page)

“If anyone can convince him, Stacy, it's you.”

They looked into each other's eyes for a long moment, each silently asking and answering the questions they dared not verbalize. “So, Stacy, I know this isn't your first time in the residence. I assume you've seen the Lincoln Bedroom before?”

Barbeau's smile was as hot as a bonfire, and she unabashedly looked Gardner up and down hungrily as if sizing him up in a pickup bar. She slowly rose from her seat. “Yes, I've seen it,” she said in a low, breathy voice. “I played there as a young girl when my father was in the Senate. It was a children's playroom back then. Of course it has an entirely different connotation now—still a playroom, but not for children.”

“It's still the best fund-raiser in town—twenty-five grand a night per person is the going rate.”

“It's too bad we've been reduced to such tawdry acts, isn't it?” Barbeau asked. “It spoils the feel of this place.”

“The White House is still a house,” Gardner said distractedly. “It's impossible for me to see it as more than just a workplace. I haven't seen a tenth of the rooms in here yet. They tell me there are thirty-five bathrooms here—I've seen
three
. Frankly I don't have much desire to explore the place.”

“Oh, but you should, Joe,” Barbeau said. “I think you will, when you get over the tumultuous first few months in office and get a chance to relax.”

“If McLanahan can stop stirring the shit, maybe I could.”

She turned, her arms outstretched, looking around the room. “I asked Mr. Kordus if we could meet here, in the Treaty Room, because I don't recall ever being in here although it's right next door to the Lincoln Bedroom. But the history in this place is so strong you can
feel
it. The Treaty Room has been used as a Cabinet meeting room, reception and waiting room, and as the President's study. It's
historically been the place in the White House where the real political business gets done, even more so than the Oval Office.”

“I've had a few informal meetings in here, but mostly the staff uses it.”

“The staff is usually too busy to appreciate the energy that flows through this room, Joe,” Barbeau said. “You should take the time to sense it.” With her arms still outstretched, she closed her eyes. “Imagine: Ulysses S. Grant conducting his half-drunken Cabinet meetings here, followed by a card game and arm-wrestling matches with his friends; Teddy Roosevelt nailing animal hides to the walls; Kennedy signing the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty here, then days later seducing Marilyn Monroe in the same place, right down the hall from where his wife and children slept.”

Gardner stepped behind her and lightly put his hands on her waist. “I never heard
that
story before, Stacy.”

She took his hands and pulled them around her waist, drawing him closer. “I just made that last one up, Joe,” she said in a whisper, so quiet that he moved his cheek to hers and pulled her tightly to him to hear. “But I'll bet it happened. And who knows what a man like Kevin Martindale did in here after his divorce—the divorce that should have wrecked his political career but only
enhanced
it—with all his Hollywood starlets flitting in and out of here all the time at all hours?” She took his hands, swirled them around her belly, then took his fingers and gently lifted them to her breasts, encircling her nipples. She could feel his body stiffen and could practically hear his mind whirring as he tried to decide what to do about her sudden advance. “He probably had a different bitch in here every night of the year.”

“Stacy…” She could feel Gardner's breath on her neck, his hands gently caressing her breasts, barely touching…

Barbeau whirled around toward him and roughly pushed him away. “Martindale was an
imbecile,
Joe, but he spent two terms as president and two terms as vice president and became a damned
fixture
in the White House—and he got to fuck Hollywood starlets in here! What are
you
going to do to beat that, Joe?”

Gardner was frozen in shock. “What the hell is wrong with you, Stacy?” he finally managed to blurt out.

“What is it you want, Mr. President?” Barbeau asked loudly. “What is your game plan? Why are you
here
?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You're the President of the United States of America. You live in the White House…but you've
only used three bathrooms
? You don't know what's been done in this room, this house, the enormous history of this place? You have a three-star general under your command that has twice the voter approval rating you do, with a heart condition no less, and he's
still
in uniform? There's a space station orbiting the planet that you don't want and it's
still up there
? You have a woman in your arms but you touch her like some sweaty lovestruck adolescent on his first date trying to get to second base? Maybe all you
really
did with Maureen Hershel is ‘business,' is that it?”

Gardner was flustered, then angry, then indignant. “Listen, Senator, this is no damned game. You're hot as hell, but I came here to discuss business.”

“You've been honest with me since I called you for this meeting, Joe—don't fucking lie to me now,” Barbeau snapped, taking one step away from him and letting her green eyes bore into him. Her sudden change in persona, from seductress to barracuda, startled him. “I didn't have to threaten you to invite me to the residence; I didn't drag you down that hallway and into this room. We're not children here. We're talking about joining forces to get an important job done, even if it means siding with the Russians and ruining a distinguished military career. What did you think we'd do—shake hands on it? Sign a contract? Cross our hearts and hope to die? Not on your life. Now, if you don't want to do this, you let me know right now, and we'll both go back to our offices and responsibilities and forget this meeting ever took place.”

“What is this shit—?”

“Don't give me the innocent-waif routine either, Gardner. I know this is the way politics is played in Louisiana—don't tell me you've never played it like this in Florida or Washington. We're going to do
it, right here, right now, or you can just tuck your tail between your legs and crawl back to your nice safe cozy apartment down the hall. What's it going to be?” When he didn't answer, she sighed, shook her head, and tried to step around him…

…but when she felt his arm across her chest and his hand on her breast, she knew she had him. He pulled her close, grasped her behind the head with his other hand, and pulled her lips to his, kissing her deeply, roughly. She returned the kiss just as forcibly, her hand finding his crotch, massaging him impatiently. Their lips parted, and she smiled at him confidently, assuredly. “That's not going to be enough, Mr. President, and you know it,” she said. She smiled at his quizzical expression, darkly this time, confidently, and his mouth opened when he realized what she meant, what she wanted. “Well?”

He scowled at her, then moved his hands back to her breasts, then to her shoulders, pushing her down. “Let's seal the deal, Senator,” he said, leaning back against the Grant conference table, steadying himself.

“Good boy. Get over here.” She dropped to her knees and quickly began to undo his belt and pants. “My, my, look what we have here. Are you sure you don't have a little coonass in you, Mr. President?” He didn't reply as she began her vigorous, rhythmic ministrations.

A
BOARD
A
RMSTRONG
S
PACE
S
TATION

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, E
AST
C
OAST TIME

“Joining us live from Armstrong Space Station, orbiting two hundred some odd miles above Earth, is a man that needs no introduction: Air Force Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan,” the cable news morning show host began. “General, thanks for joining us today. The question everyone wants an answer to, of course, is: How are you, sir?”

There was a second or two delay because of the satellite relay, but Patrick was accustomed to waiting those few seconds to make sure he wasn't talking over the host. “It's nice to be with you, Megyn,” Patrick responded. He was Velcroed as usual to the station commander's console, wearing his trademark black flight suit with black insignia. “Thanks for having me on the show again. I'm doing fine, thank you. I feel pretty good.”

“All of America is relieved to see you up and around, General. Have they determined what exactly happened?”

“According to Navy Captain George Summers at Walter Reed National Medical Center, who reviewed all my tests remotely from up here, it's called long-QT syndrome, Megyn,” Patrick replied. “That's an infrequent prolongation of the electrical activation and inactivation of the heart's ventricles, caused by stress or shock. Apparently, other than eyesight, it's one of the most common disqualifying conditions in the astronaut corps.”

“So you've been disqualified from flying ever again?”

“Well, I hope I won't be,” Patrick said. “Officially I'm not really an astronaut in the conventional sense. I'm hoping that the docs will determine that incapacitation due to long-QT syndrome is most likely to occur just while traveling in space and won't stop me from all other flying activities.”

“You do have a history of heart disease, is that correct?”

“My dad did die of heart problems, yes,” Patrick replied somberly. “Dad suffered from what they used to call ‘heart flutters' and was treated for anxiety and stress. Long-QT is hereditary. Apparently in my dad's case it was the police department and running a family business that triggered it; in my case, it was flying in space.”

“And he died around the same age as you are now?”

A cloud passed briefly over Patrick's face that was clearly visible to millions of viewers around the world. “Yes, a couple years after retiring from the Sacramento Police Department and opening up McLanahan's in Old Town Sacramento.”

“A shameless plug for your family tavern, eh, General?” the host asked, trying to liven up the conversation.

“I'm not ashamed of McLanahan's in Old Town Sacramento at all, Megyn.”

“Another plug. Good. Okay, that's enough, General, you did your job fantastically,” the host said, laughing. “Was this heart condition already noted on your records, and if so what were you doing flying repeatedly to Armstrong Space Station?”

“I did report the family history on my medical records,” Patrick
replied, “and I get a Class One Air Force flight physical twice a year, plus pre- and post-space flight checkups, and no problems have ever been detected before. Even though long-QT syndrome is a common disqualifying condition in the astronaut corps, I wasn't specifically tested for it because, as I said, technically I'm not an astronaut—I'm a unit commander and engineer who just happens to get to ride on his unit's research vehicles whenever I feel it's necessary.”

“So do you feel that your lack of astronaut training and screening contributed to onset of this medical condition?”

“One of the things we're trying to prove with the Black Stallion spaceplane and Armstrong Space Station program, Megyn, is to make space more accessible to everyday folks.”

“And it appears that the answer might be, ‘No, they can't,' is that right?”

“I don't know all there is to know about long-QT syndrome, Megyn, but if it's commonly found only in combat aviators over the age of fifty who have to go into space frequently, perhaps we can test for it and exclude only those who show a proclivity for that disease,” Patrick said. “I don't see why it has to disqualify everyone.”

“But it is disqualifying for you?”

“I'm not ready to throw in the towel yet,” Patrick said with a confident smile. “We have some incredible technology at our disposal, and new and better technologies being developed every day. If I can, I'll keep on flying, believe me.”

“You haven't seen enough combat and orbited the Earth enough times already, General?” the host said with an amused laugh. “As I understand it, you've been on the station several times just in the past few months. That's more than a NASA astronaut goes into space in his entire career, isn't that true? John Glenn only flew in space twice.”

“Pioneers like Senator John Glenn will always be the inspiration our future astronauts need to summon the courage and fortitude to undergo the rigorous preparation for space,” Patrick replied, “but as I said, one goal of our military space program is to gain greater access to space. I don't consider episodes like mine a setback. It's all part of the learning experience.”

“But you have to think of yourself and your family too, don't you, General?”

“Of course—my son sees me on TV more than he does in person,” Patrick said gamely. “But no aviator likes to lose his wings, Megyn—we have an inbred aversion to doctors, hospitals, weight scales, eye charts, sphygmomanometers, and anything else that can keep us from flying…”

“Okay, General, you lost me there. Sphygmo…sphygmo…what is that, one of your high-tech laser ray guns?”

“A blood pressure tester.”

“Oh.”

“It'll be up to the flight docs, but you can bet I'll be fighting disqualification the whole way,” Patrick said. A beep in his communications earset got his attention, and he turned and briefly activated his command monitor and read the display. “Sorry, Megyn, I have to go. Thanks for having me on this morning.” The host was able to get out a confused and startled “But General, we're
live
around the—!” before Patrick terminated the link. “What do you have, Master Sergeant?” he asked on the command module intercom.

“COMPSCAN alert in the target region, sir, and it says it's a big one, although we might have nothing but a big glitch on our hands,” Master Sergeant Valerie “Seeker” Lukas replied. The COMPSCAN, or Comparison Scans, collected and compared radar and imaging infrared data during sensor sweeps and alerted the crew whenever there was a significant buildup of personnel or equipment in a particular target region—thanks to the power and resolution of Armstrong's space-based radar and other satellites and unmanned aircraft, the target region could be as large as continent, and the change between comparison scans could be as small as four or five vehicles.

“What's the target?”

“Soltanabad, a highway airfield about a hundred miles west of Mashhad. Imaged recently by the new Night Owl unmanned reconnaissance plane Captain Noble just launched.” Seeker studied the reconnaissance file on the area before continuing: “Attacked once by the Air Battle Force with a Vampire bomber with runway-
cratering munitions last year because it was suspected of being used to fly in weapons and supplies to the Islamists operating out of Mashhad. The highway portion of the base was reopened by the Revolutionary Guards Corps, reportedly for relief and humanitarian supply shipments. We put the entire base on the ‘watch' list and launched the Night Owl over the area to be sure they weren't repairing the ramps and taxiways or flying military stuff in there.”

“Let's see what they're doing,” Patrick said. A few moments later an incredibly detailed overhead image of the spot came up on his monitor. It clearly showed the four-lane highway with aircraft distance marks, taxi lines, and touchdown zone designations—it looked like a typical military runway, only with cars and trucks running on it. On both the north and south sides of the highway/airstrip were wide paved areas with aircraft taxiways, large aircraft parking areas, and the remnants of bombed-out buildings. Many of the destroyed buildings had been razed and a number of tents of various sizes put in their place, some with the seal of the Red Crescent humanitarian relief organization on them. “Do those tents look like they have open sides to you, Master Sergeant?” Patrick asked.

Seeker peered closer at the image, then magnified it until it started to lose resolution. “Yes, sir,” she replied, unsure of why the general had asked—it was fairly plain to her. Per agreement between the United Nations, Buzhazi's Persian occupying force, and the Iranian government-in-exile, large tents set up in certain combat areas servicing refugees or others traveling through the Iranian deserts had to have open sides during reconnaissance flyover time periods so all sides could see inside, or they could be designated as hostile emplacements and attacked.

“Looks like a big shadow on that side, that's all,” Patrick said. “This photo was taken during nighttime, correct?” Lukas nodded. “The sides look open, but the shadows on the ground from the nearby floodlights are making it look…I don't know, they just don't look right to me, that's all.” He zoomed in again on the former aircraft parking ramps. Both paved areas were dotted with dozens of bomb craters, from several yards to over a hundred feet wide, with
huge chunks of concrete heaved up around the edges. “Still looks busted up to me. How old is this image?”

“Just two hours, sir. No way they could have repaired all those craters and brought in aircraft in two hours.”

“Let's see the scans compared by the computer.” The image split first into two, then four, then sixteen shots of the same spot taken over a period of several days. The pictures appeared identical.

“Looks like a glitch—false alarm,” Seeker said. “I'll reset the images and take a look at the comparison parameters for—”

“Wait a minute,” Patrick said. “What is the computer saying has changed?” A moment later, the computer had drawn rectangles around several of the craters. The craters were precisely the same—the only difference was that the rectangles were not exactly oriented the same in all the images. “I still don't get what COMPSCAN is flagging.”

“Me neither, sir,” Seeker admitted. “Could be just a looking-angle computation error.”

“But we're sun-synchronous on this part of the world, right?”

“Yes, sir. We're precisely over Tehran at the same time—approximately two
A.M.
local—every day.”

“So the looking angle should be the same except for minor station or sensor attitude changes, which the computer should be correcting for,” Patrick said.

“Obviously something's screwed up in the adjustment routine, sir,” Seeker said apologetically, anchoring herself at her terminal to begin work. “Don't worry, I'll get it straightened out. Sorry about that, sir. These things need recalibrating—obviously a bit more often that I thought. I should probably look at the station attitude gyro compensation readouts and fuel consumption figures to see if there's a major shift taking place—we might have to make a gross alignment change, or just throw out all the old attitude adjustment figures and come up with new ones. Sorry, sir.”

“No problem, Master Sergeant,” Patrick said. “We'll know to look for things like that more often from now on.” But he continued staring at the images and the computer's comparison boxes. The boxes
disappeared as Lukas erased the old comparison data, leaving very clear images of the bomb craters on the ramps and taxiways. He shook his head. “The space-based radar's pictures are stunning, Seeker—it's like I can measure the thickness of those concrete blocks heaved up by the bombs. Amazing. I can even see the colors of the different layers of concrete, and where the steel reinforcing mesh was applied. Cool.”

“The SBR is incredible, sir—it's hard to believe it's almost twenty-year-old technology.”

“You can clearly see where the concrete ends and the road base begins. It's—” Patrick looked closely at the images, then put on a pair of reading glasses and peered closer. “Can you enlarge that image for me, Seeker?” he asked, pointing at a large crater on the south side of the highway.

“Yes, sir. Stand by.”

A moment later the crater filled the monitor. “Fantastic detail, all right.” But now something was niggling at him. “My son loves those ‘I Spy' and ‘Where's Waldo?' books—maybe he'll be an imagery analyst someday.”

“Or he'll design the computers that will do it for us.”

Patrick chuckled, but he still felt uneasy. “What is wrong with this picture? Why did the computer ring the bell?”

“I'm still checking, sir.”

“I spent a short but insightful period of time as a detachment commander in the U.S. Air Force's Air Intelligence Agency,” Patrick said, “and the one thing I learned about interpreting multispectral overhead imagery was not to let the mind fill in too many blanks.”

“Analysis 101, sir: Don't see what isn't there,” Seeker said.

“But never ignore what
is
there but isn't right,” Patrick said, “and there is something not right about the position of those craters. They're different…but how?” He looked at them again. “They look to me like they're turned, and the computer said they moved, but—”

“That's not possible for a crater.”

“No…unless they're
not
craters,” Patrick said. He zoomed in again. “I might be seeing something that's not there, but those craters look
too
perfect, too uniform. I think they're decoys.”

“Decoy
craters
? I've never heard of such a thing, sir.”