Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (74 page)

“It's already happening, Patrick,” Griffin said. “It won't be long before the number of LDHDs—low-density, high-demand aircraft like spy planes, radar planes, jammers, dedicated anti-air-defense attack weapons, and data-manipulation platforms—will exceed the number of strike aircraft in the inventory.

“But I think General Houser is shooting higher: If General Samson gets selected as the Air Force chief of staff, he'll see to it that Gary Houser gets his fourth star and becomes the first commander of the new U.S. Information Warfare Command, a major unified command on a par or maybe even surpassing the theater commands in importance, tasking, and funding. It will probably combine all the intelligence-gathering assets of Strategic Command, the Air Force, the Navy, and perhaps even the National Security Agency and Strategic Reconnaissance Office into one supercommand.

“That could change the entire face of warfare as we know it. General Houser says that it takes the Air Force twenty-four hours to blow up an intercontinental-ballistic-missile launch site or a bomber base in Russia—but soon his information warriors can put that same site out of commission in twenty-four
minutes
by jamming, spoofing, interfering, reprogramming it, giving it a computer virus, or shutting down its power by computer command.”

“I don't know
how
it's done,” Patrick said, “but if you guys have progressed to the point where you can hack into a computer that controls a power grid or networks air-defense sites together and shuts them down with the push of a button, it would be an incredibly powerful weapon. Maybe it will replace bombers someday—but I wouldn't recommend replacing the bomber fleet with computers or aircrews with hackers.”

“This is the new Eighth Air Force, Patrick,” Griffin said. “The bombers in Eighth Air Force are still dedicated to the nuclear mission, but I think they'll soon shift to Twelfth Air Force along with all the other nonnuclear attack units.

“Even Strategic Command is supporting planning and targeting for nonnuclear conflicts, using all their staff and computers that were originally dedicated to planning World War III against Russia and China to plan missions in every area in the world where any level of conflict could break out. Nuclear warfighting is all but dead. You have to speak in terms of ‘network-centric warfare' and ‘low-density conflict.' Your
Air Battle Force sounds like the kind of thing Houser wants to transform Eighth Air Force into, but he wants the shooters to support intel, not the other way around.”

“Then I'd better get up to speed as soon as possible,” Patrick said.

“That sounds pretty positive to me, General,” Griffin said. “I take it you'll stay on with us for a while?”

“Tagger, to be honest, there wasn't really that much chance I'd just get up and leave,” Patrick admitted. “I'm not the kind of guy who gets out because I don't like the working conditions. I'm an Air Force officer, and I go where I'm assigned. If they asked me to get out, I'd be out of here—but they didn't. Now they have to contend with me.”

“Contend with
us,
” Trevor Griffin said. He extended his hand, and Patrick shook it enthusiastically. “Welcome to the Nine-sixty-sixth, sir. I think we'll set this command on its ear—and have some fun doing it.” Patrick was about to say something, but Griffin interrupted him with an upraised hand. “And I truly believe they'll eventually give you your stars back.”

“I wouldn't count on it,” they heard a voice behind them say.

They turned and found two men standing in the doorway—the command's chief master sergeant, Harold Bayless, and the commander of the Air Intelligence Agency, Major General Gary Houser. Griffin glanced accusingly at Bayless, and the chief returned his look with a smug smile—they both knew that Griffin had asked the chief to notify him when the commander arrived in the headquarters, but instead Bayless had facilitated this little surprise arrival and eavesdropping opportunity.

“Room, ten-
hut,
” Patrick said, and both he and Griffin stood quickly and snapped to attention.

Gary Houser stepped over to Trevor and Patrick, keeping his head up to emphasize his height advantage over the two. Gary Houser was at least seven inches taller than Patrick, with a beefy frame, big hands, a square face, dark eyes, and closely cut hair to deemphasize his baldness. After he moved close to both officers in the room, he tried to look into their eyes to read their expressions, but of course he towered over both of them, especially Griffin. Both Griffin and McLanahan stayed at attention, eyes caged.

“So,” Houser asked in a low voice, “which one of you clowns do I have to contend with?” Neither one replied. Houser gave Griffin a warning glare, put his hands behind his back, and went closer to Patrick. “Patrick McLanahan. Long time no see. My long-lost crew navigator
who supposedly goes TDY to Fairchild but who mysteriously disappears off the face of the earth and ends up getting involved with cockamamie ideas such as the Border Security Force and…what was that other group? The Night Riders? Night Invaders?”

“Night Stalkers, sir,” Patrick replied.

“Right…the Night Stalkers. Big, bad, vigilante assassination squad. Are you a big, bad assassin now, Patrick?”

“No, sir,” Patrick replied, still standing at attention.

“You a close and personal friend of that big shot Kevin Martindale?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you going to be national security adviser, secretary of defense, or maybe even the fucking president now?”

“No, sir.”

“So you just screwed the pooch too many times at this new super-duper bomber attack base up in Nevada, and you got your ass kicked all the way down to me by SECDEF, is that it?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why are you here, Patrick McLanahan?”

“Reporting as ordered, sir.”

“Why did you lose a star, ex–Major General Patrick McLanahan? Why am I getting a disgraced and demoted general officer who has no intelligence experience, no prospects for promotion, and no future in the United States Air Force?”

Looking straight ahead, standing stiffly at attention, Patrick replied, “Because you're one lucky son of a bitch, sir.”

Houser's faced puffed, his eyes bugged out, and for a moment it appeared as if he'd explode with rage. Then he laughed out loud, guffawing directly—and purposely—into Patrick's face. “Good one, nav!” he barked. “Sounds like you finally got yourself a sense of humor. About fucking time.” He glanced at Griffin and shook his head. “Look at you two, standing at attention like academy plebes! Stand at ease, stand at ease. I don't want you jokers to pass out on me from the strain.” Griffin relaxed enough to go to parade rest.

Houser stuck out his hand, and Patrick shook it. “How the hell are you, Patrick? Good to see you.” To Griffin he said, “This guy was on my BUFF crew for three damned years. He went from a know-nothing, pud-pounding kid to the best bombardier in SAC, and that's no shit. We won the Fairchild and LeMay trophies two years in a row and won a shitload of other awards, too. During a competition run, he dropped a
shack
bomb with a completely failed bomb-nav system and helped the crew shoot down an F-15 fighter. No lie.” He slapped Patrick on the shoulder and added, “All under my outstanding leadership and tutelage, of course.” Both Griffin and McLanahan were careful not to forget to smile and nod in agreement. “You done with him, Tagger?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Follow me, Patrick.” Griffin called the room to attention as Houser strode out.

Patrick turned and extended his hand. “Good to meet you, Tagger. We'll talk after I meet my troops.”

“Good to meet you, too, Patrick,” Griffin replied as he shook McLanahan's hand. He gave Patrick a warning glance, and Patrick nodded that he received it.

Patrick had to take giant steps to keep up with the Air Intelligence Agency commander as he made his way downstairs to his office on the first floor. Houser neither acknowledged nor greeted anyone, and most everyone they passed in the corridors, Patrick noticed, chose not to make eye contact with the general. They reached a set of oak double doors flanked by an Air Intelligence Agency flag and a two-star general's flag, guarded by a lone Security Force armed guard in blue Class A's with white web belt, pistol holster, shoulder braids, ascot, and spats. The guard snapped to attention and pressed a button to unlock the door.

Houser quickly walked through the outer office, without bothering to order those in the room as they were, and stepped through another set of double doors into his aide's office. “Coffee, Major,” he said to the officer at the desk.

“On the way, sir,” the aide responded immediately.

Inside his office Houser jabbed a finger at the sofa, and he took the large leather wing chair at the head of the coffee table. He withdrew a cigar from a humidor on the table. “You don't smoke, as I recall,” he said by way of explaining why he wasn't going to offer one to Patrick. Patrick didn't bother to correct him. “So how the hell have you been, Pat?” he asked as he stoked the cigar to life.

“Not bad, sir.”

“Can the ‘sir' shit, okay, nav?”

“Okay…Gary,” Patrick said. Houser took a deep pull on the cigar, and the silent message conveyed by his rattlesnake-like warning gaze through the cloud of smoke, despite the amused smile, was unmistakable: It's “General” to you, mister, now and forever.

After the aide brought coffee in for both general officers, Houser sat back in his big chair, took a sip, and puffed away on his cigar. “So, nav, you've had one train wreck of a career since you left Ford Air Force Base—when you got shanghaied by Brad Elliott,” Houser began. “Man, you had it made in the shade before you took up with that nut-case. Despite your less-than-firewalled effectiveness reports, me and the wing king had been discussing when to send you to Air Command and Staff College in residence and what your next assignment was going to be—the Pentagon or SAC Headquarters. You were on the fast track to a senior staff job or even a command of your own.

“But then you got recruited by Brad Elliott to join him at Dreamland,” Houser went on. “You bombed the hell out of the Kavaznya laser site in eastern Siberia, taking out a half-dozen Soviet fighters and a dozen SAM sites plus their big-ass antisatellite laser. Then you—”

“That's classified, General,” Patrick said sternly, “and I
know
you aren't cleared for that information.”

“Shit, Patrick, I and ten other guys here at AIA know everything you've done over the past fifteen years—I found out about it a month after I first arrived here,” Houser said. “That mission was the beginning of the end of the Soviet Union—and the beginning of this agency. Intelligence became the name of the game starting the day after you dropped that bomb on that laser. Everyone was shocked that we underestimated the laser's capability, and everyone wanted to be the one to discover the next Kavaznya site.”

“With all due respect, General, I advise you to drop that topic,” Patrick said seriously. “You may think you know everything and that you have the right clearances, but you don't.”

“Come off it, Pat,” Houser said with a chuckle. “You Dreamland guys—rather, you
ex
–Dreamland guys—think you're so special. Remember who I work for: Terrill Samson used to run Dreamland. The place was blown wide open after the Kenneth Francis James spy incident. ‘Dog' Bastian barely had it under control: General Samson had to clean house to make the place right.” Patrick laughed inwardly: He knew that Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian had been firmly in control of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center—in fact, he created the kind of unit that the Air Battle Force had been patterned upon.

It was Terrill Samson, the black man who rose through the ranks after enlisting in the Air Force to avoid being drafted into the infantry during the Vietnam War and who made it all the way to three-star general,
who'd never had control. Samson wanted nothing more than to get promoted, to be the newest and greatest black man to be reach the highest echelons of power and leadership in the American military.

But in his quest to become a symbol, he found that the harder he tried to control the men and women at Dreamland, the more he lost control. Samson got his wish: He got himself promoted to lieutenant general and commander of Eighth Air Force, in line to become commander of Air Combat Command, maybe even chief of staff of the Air Force. He left Dreamland without giving it any purpose or direction. The world's most high-tech laboratory-turned-combat-unit had become little more than a high-tech aircraft boneyard during his leadership, but it had served its purpose—it was the footstool Terrill Samson needed to step up to the next level.

“I'm just giving you my recommendation here, Gary,” Patrick said. “Don't talk about Dreamland. Let's change the subject.”

That was three times in a row McLanahan tried to tell a superior officer what to do, Houser steamed, and that was three times too many. “Pat, I know all about the activities there, why you got canned, why you were called back, what you did,” Houser said. “I know Dreamland's budgets, its projects, personnel, and progress. Same with Battle Mountain, the Air Battle Force, and the One-eleventh Wing—”

“Those units are different, General,” Patrick said. “They're part of the Air Reserve Forces Command, and their budgets and missions are mostly classified ‘confidential.' HAWC is still classified ‘Top Secret—ESI' Level Three, which means nothing gets discussed outside the facility, not even in passing. Let's drop it before I'm forced to make a report.” He had
already
decided to make a report—he was just trying to limit the length and detail at this point.

“Nav, don't lecture me about security procedures, all right?” Houser retorted. “I'm commander of AIA. I live and breathe secrecy and security. You're the one that needs to be reminded of his duties and responsibilities here, I think.”