Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (83 page)

“Not easy in a big mother like a Backfire.”

“But doable.”

“Sure.”

“So you agree that it's possible to put a Backfire force together in Siberia, fly them across Central Asia to bomb Bukhara, and fly them back without anyone seeing them?” Luger asked.

“Why not? No one would ever see them coming,” Mace surmised. “The Backfires were supposed to dash across Western Europe and destroy NATO airfields with cruise missiles and NATO ships in the Baltic with big-ass antiship cruise missiles. They were forward-deployed in Warsaw Pact countries close to the frontier because they didn't have the range of a Tupolev-95 Bear bomber; hence, they were never considered strategic weapons with the ability to threaten North America.”

“Are they a threat?” Luger asked.

“Top one off over Moscow and it can launch a cruise missile against every country in NATO—except the U.S. and Canada, of course,” Daren said. “Yes, I'd say it's a threat. If the Russians are turning tactical jets like Backfires out as long-range strategic weapons, that shifts the balance of power significantly in their favor, especially in Europe, the Middle East, and Central Asia. We've assumed that the Russians were mothballing them as they got older and they ran out of money to support them—we'd be in real trouble if it turned out they were not only rehabilitating them but giving them a much greater warfighting capability.”

Luger nodded, lost in thought for a moment. He then got up and headed to the battle-staff room to meet the others.

The BATMAN, or Battle Management area, was a large, theaterlike room with a stage flanked by sixteen large full-color computer monitors. The senior staff sat behind computer workstations in the “orchestra” section. Arrayed behind the senior staff were the support-staff members, and in two separate enclosures were the control stations for Battle Mountain's unmanned aircraft. Hal Briggs was already waiting
for Luger, and Rebecca Furness was just logging off her QF-4 drone training session. They all met at the commander's workstation in the front row, where Dave Luger quickly ran down the situation.

“Wonder why Air Intelligence Agency won't give Patrick satellite support?” Daren Mace asked.

“I can think of lots of reasons—none of them flattering to the general,” Rebecca Furness said. “His reputation has definitely preceded him.”

“I told Patrick that an unofficial request for support is not good enough for me—I needed the request to come from either ACC or the Pentagon,” Luger said.

“I'll bet he was thrilled to hear you say that, sir,” Briggs quipped.

“Nonetheless, that's how I see it,” Dave said. “I want to help, but I want the mission to be fully authorized and budgeted. I'm not going to spend money I don't have and use assets I haven't paid for.” Rebecca Furness made a show of clearing out her ears, as if she couldn't believe what she'd just heard. “Knock it off, Rebecca. But that doesn't mean I can't plan a mission right now.”

He turned to his console and called up the computer images he'd been working with in his office on the “Big Board” in front of the BATMAN. “Assume I'm getting two constellations of NIRTSats aloft in the next few days, and we find something in one of the Siberian or Sakha provinces—I want a plan of action to take a closer look by the Tin Men and, if necessary, destroy the bases.”

“A secret Russian base filled with intercontinental bombers?” Furness asked. “The Russians haven't relied on bombers to threaten North America for decades.”

“But just in the past year they've used heavy bombers three times, in Chechnya, Turkmenistan, and now against Uzbekistan,” Dave pointed out. “Plus, the new president of Russia is the former military chief of staff and a bomber aficionado. Patrick thinks there are too many coincidences, and I agree. Let's build a plan that I can show to Langley right now.”

It did not take long—working together and relying on their digital catalogs of preplanned space and aircraft missions along with the computer's real-time inventory of aircraft and weapons, the team had two preliminary plans drafted within an hour: one relying on the 111th's bombers and special-operations transports, which were currently
grounded but were ready to go on short notice; and one relying only on Sky Masters Inc.'s research-and-development aircraft and Air Force special-ops transports. Once the plans were signed off on by each element of the Air Battle Force and finally by Dave Luger himself, he spoke, “Duty Officer, get me the deputy commander of Air Combat Command, secure.”

“Please stand by, General Luger,”
the voice of the “Duty Officer,” the omnipresent computerized clerk and assistant for everyone at Battle Mountain, responded.

After Luger was routed through several clerks, aides, and chiefs of staff, he finally heard, “General Fortuna, secure.”

“General, how are you, ma'am? This is General Luger, Air Battle Force, Battle Mountain, secure.”

“Dave! Good to hear from you,” General Leah “Skyy” Fortuna, the deputy commander of Air Combat Command, responded happily, her thick New York accent still obvious despite the distortion from the secure telephone line. Leah Fortuna got her call sign “Skyy” both from her love of flying—she'd been a bomber pilot and flight instructor—and her love of blue American-made vodka. “How the heck is the smartest guy ever to graduate from the Air Force Academy?”

“I'm doing okay, thanks.”

“Congrats on getting the command out there,” Leah said, “although I'm sure you hoped it would be under happier circumstances. No one deserves it more than you, though.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“You're making me feel old with that ‘ma'am' crap, Dave—or is this a ‘ma'am' phone call?”

“Sort of, yes.”

“Okay. So what can I do you for?”

“I received an unofficial request for support from General McLanahan at Air Intelligence Agency,” Dave said.

“ ‘Unofficial request,' huh?”

“That's why I'm calling, ma'am. I have a request for overhead-imagery support that I'd like you to take to General Muskoka.” General Thomas “Turbo” Muskoka, a former F-15E Strike Eagle and F-117A stealth fighter pilot and deputy chief of staff of the Air Force, was the new commander of Air Combat Command, the Air Force's largest major command. “Patrick made the request directly to me. I was not comfortable taking that request outside the chain of command, so I denied
it. But I believe that Patrick does have a legitimate operational need for the data, and I firmly believe I have the sensors and equipment that can get him the information he needs.”

“Why not take it to Eighth Air Force?”

“Air Battle Force's taskings don't normally come from Eighth Air Force,” Dave said. He knew it sounded lame, but it was the best excuse he could think of at the moment. Although the EB-52 and EB-1C bombers in the Air Battle Force were not nuclear-weapon-capable, the unit came under the command of Eighth Air Force—although Terrill Samson definitely treated the unit from Battle Mountain, Nevada, as the long-lost ugly stepchild.

“I never really understood exactly
whom
Air Battle Force reports to,” Leah admitted. “I assumed it was directly to the Air Force chief of staff's office. But it's okay with me for now—I don't mind being your boss.”

“Thank you,” Dave said. “Besides, I think Patrick already made the request to his command and was denied. As I said, I think he has a legitimate need that we can fulfill.”

“So you decided to go right to Air Combat Command,” Fortuna said. “I don't appreciate McLanahan's using you to go over his bosses' heads. You were smart to upchannel his request, Dave. I hate to say this of Patrick McLanahan, but that man is snake-bit these days. No one wants anything to do with him, because they're afraid he'll do something on his own that'll bite
them
in the ass. I know he's a good friend of yours, but I think you should know the buzz about him. He's gone way beyond what even Brad Elliott supposedly did.”

“I hear what you're saying, Leah, and I agree,” Dave said, “but he's much more than just a good friend of mine.”

“I know. A word to the wise, that's all. What kind of satellite support is he requesting?”

“Two constellations of NIRTSats, launched from a Sky Masters carrier aircraft or from one of the One-eleventh Wing's Megafortresses, if I can get them recertified; a mix of visual and synthetic-aperture radar, short duration, low altitude, targeting southern Siberia and Sakha provinces. I also want to forward-position a Battle Force ground team to Shemya for possible ground ops in eastern Siberia.”

“Russia, huh? That's going to have to go right up to the Pentagon, probably right past the chief's office to SECDEF himself. And you said that Patrick McLanahan requested it?”

“Is that what I said?” Dave asked. “I believe what I said was
I
was
requesting it on behalf of the Air Battle Force, in support of the United Nations peacekeeping operation in Turkmenistan.”

“There you go, Dave,” Leah said. “I think you'll find that an easier sell, especially after that attack on the CIA base at Bukhara. A little piece of friendly advice, Dave? Don't tie your star too tightly to Patrick McLanahan. He can be your friend—just don't let him be your mentor.”

“Can I share the data I get with him?”

General Fortuna chuckled lightly into the secure connection. “Loyal to the end, eh, Dave? Okay, it's your funeral. And it's your data—you do with it whatever you want. Air Intelligence Agency gets a copy of all overhead imagery for its databases anyway. Send me your ops plan ASAP, and I'll give the boss a heads-up and a recommendation for approval to pass to the Pentagon. Don't send those ground forces farther west than Shemya, or the boss will have your ass for breakfast—after he gets done kicking
mine.
”

“Understood.”

“Your request will probably need to go to the White House, too—just so you know,” Fortuna continued as she made notes on her tablet PC computer. “Your name and McLanahan's will be seen by all the suits as well as the brass. Get ready to take the heat. How soon can you have the plan over here?”

Luger tapped a button on his computer. “Transmitting it now.”

“Good. I'll look it over, but if it's coming from you, I don't see a problem.”

“Thanks, Leah.”

“Hey, I still owe you big-time for all the help you gave me in computer-science and math classes at the Zoo,” Fortuna said. “I never would've passed without your help.”

“Bull.”

“Maybe, but I still owe you,” she said. “You were so damned smart—and you are so damned cute. Good thing you're way the hell out there in Nevada.”

“Your husband might agree.”

“Jeez, Dave, has it been that long since we've spoken? I ditched what's-his-name two years ago,” Leah said. “Best thing that ever happened to my career. Men might need loyal, sacrificing wives to get promoted, but women need a good long game on the golf course, and to be able to stay up late, smoke expensive cigars, and bullshit with the politicians
and contractors. Once I figured that out, I got my second and third stars with no problem.”

“In that case I think I'd like to come out for a visit and play a few rounds,” Luger suggested.

“I have a feeling you're going to be busy here real soon,” Leah said, “but I'll keep the light on for you, Texas. Stop by anytime, big boy. I'm clear.”

When the connection was terminated, David Luger sat quietly, thinking.

Rebecca Furness broke the silence a few moments later. “Sounds like you two were an item, David. So you were the nerdy bookworm at the Zoo who helped all the hard-charging type-A upperclassmen pass the hard-science classes so they wouldn't get kicked out?”

Luger ignored the comment and turned to Hal Briggs. “Hal, I want to position a few of your guys out in eastern Russia as quickly as possible—Shemya, perhaps?”

“Somewhere close to those Russian bomber bases in Siberia?”

“Exactly.”

“No problem,” Briggs said. “Weather's improving up there. I'll start working on getting plenty of special-ops tanker and combat search-and-rescue support—five minutes after takeoff, we're in no-man's-land. How many troops are we talking about?”

“Everyone you have available,” Luger said. “If we find that base, I want to be able to take it down right away.”

Furness looked at Luger with an exasperated expression as Briggs stepped over to his console in the BATMAN. “Didn't you hear what your girlfriend said, David?” she asked. “I know you like and respect Patrick, but he's way overstepped his authority, and he's asking you to do the same. Be smart. Don't do it.”

“Rebecca, I want a couple Megafortresses available to link up with Hal's ground forces,” Luger said. “Get together with him and plan a cover operation with whatever forces he manages to link up with over there.”

Furness shook her head. “It's your career, General. You Dreamland guys will just never learn, will you?”

Days Later

G
eneral Nikolai Stepashin strode quickly into Anatoliy Gryzlov's office and waited as discreetly as possible just inside the large double doors. Gryzlov was in a meeting with his team of economic advisers; obviously it was not a pleasant meeting at all. When Stepashin finally caught the president's eye, the chief of staff of the Russian Federation's armed forces and chief of military intelligence raised a red-covered folder; Gryzlov adjourned the meeting moments later.

“Practically all of the Central Asian republics of the Commonwealth are threatening to withhold wheat and rice shipments in protest against the attack on Bukhara,” Gryzlov shouted, lighting a cigarette and plopping down disgustedly into his chair. “Ukraine and Belarus might follow suit.”