Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “General McLanahan has stated the situation accurately, Mary,” Gardner replied. “We need a long-range quick-reaction nonnuclear strike force to fill the gap between tactical ship- and land-based air forces and nuclear missiles, able to respond to a severe crisis anywhere in the world in a very short period of time with sustained and devastating firepower. With the Russians still a threat and China growing stronger every year, that mission hasn’t changed.” He turned to Patrick and added, “But frankly we’re very disappointed in General McLanahan’s recommendations. With the kind of money we’re talking about, we can triple the size of the previous B-2 stealth bomber fleet, procure all of the latest state-of-the-art precision-guided weapons we’d need for the next ten years, and still have money left over for other needs.”

  “The ‘Barbeau Formula,’” Vice President Hershel interjected.

  “It’s a good plan, Miss Vice President,” Gardner said. “Two wings with twenty B-2 stealth bombers each, fitted with the latest technology and armed with the latest standoff precision-guided munitions. They are still unmatched for performance and striking capability over any heavily defended target complex on Earth. The Navy takes care of maritime, littoral, medium-range strike missions, nuclear strike, and space; the Air Force takes care of tankers, transports, long-range conventional strike, and air superiority.” Again, he turned sullenly to Patrick and added, “With General McLanahan’s background, the Pentagon assumed he’d agree with this strategy. I’m somewhat perplexed by his current stance.”

  “Sir, I don’t have a ‘stance’ here,” Patrick said. “My directive was to evaluate several different proposals to replace the strategic conventional strike forces destroyed by the Russians. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “But you came to this meeting riding in one of those ‘proposals,’ General,” Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman Glenbrook pointed out with a wry smile. “You didn’t come here on a B-2 stealth bomber. That sounds like an endorsement to me.”

  “It was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up, sir, that’s all,” Patrick said. “Besides, I’ve already got plenty of hours in the B-2.”

  Glenbrook’s conciliatory nod was almost a bow—he was very familiar with Patrick McLanahan’s record, including his combat record. McLanahan had not just helped design and test aerospace weapon systems, but he was often chosen—or volunteered—to take his ultra high-tech war machines into battle. Many conflicts around the world over the past eighteen years had been prevented from escalating into a major war because of McLanahan’s skill, bravery, and outright audacity. He had a very long list of awards and decorations, most of which he was not allowed to wear on his uniform or ever have revealed to anyone until after his death: some would never be revealed for a generation.

  “I think it was a dangerous and foolish stunt, General,” National Security Adviser Sparks said hotly. “You exposed yourself to unnecessary danger just for a thrill ride.”

  “Sir, men and women from the ‘Lake’ expose themselves to the same dangers every day,” Patrick said. “I wouldn’t characterize it as ‘unnecessary.’”

  “It is if a middle-aged White House staffer does it,” Sparks said.

  “May I suggest we get back to the subject at hand, gents?” Maureen Hershel interjected. She had to stifle a smile at Patrick’s expense at the “middle-aged White House staffer” comment. “Congress is bugging the White House for a recommendation the President will support for the new long-range strike force. If we don’t recommend something soon, we’ll risk losing part of the appropriation.”

  “I take it,” the President said, “that we have no consensus here on which direction we should proceed?” His comment was met by uncomfortable silence, so he rose, poured himself another cup of coffee, and sat down. “All right, let’s talk about the Black Stallion track once again.” After he had settled into his chair at the head of the informal meeting area, he asked, “So, Patrick, tell me what it was like to go into space.”

  “In a word, sir—incredible,” Patrick replied with a smile. “I still can’t believe what we did this morning: one orbit around the Earth and landing at an air base all the way across the country in about two hours.”

  “And we can fuel up the Stud and do it again, right now,” Boomer added excitedly. “Patuxent River or Andrews Air Force Base both has everything we need to blast off again.”

  “Could I fly in it?” the President asked. Boomer chuckled. “What’s so funny, Captain? Don’t think I can handle it?”

  “No…no, sir, it’s not that,” Boomer said, the smile disappearing from his face as he realized he might have unwittingly offended the President of the United States of America. “General McLanahan said you’d want to fly in it.”

  “He’s right—he knows me too well,” the President said. “The general and I go way back—I knew him when he was a young, cocky, know-it-all captain like yourself. So what sort of training would I need to fly your spaceplane, Captain?”

  “Training? No training, sir,” Boomer responded. “You look like you’re in good shape—I think you’d do fine. Let’s go. We’ll gas up the Stud, hop in, and in three hours we’ll be on the beach in Australia.”

  “Fly right now? No one can get ready to fly into space that fast!” Sparks said perturbedly. “NASA astronauts train for years to get to fly into space!”

  “That’s NASA’s way of doing things, sir,” Boomer said. “In the Stud, passengers are just passengers. We’re not interested in turning anyone into Buzz Aldrin or Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise—we just want to make sure you don’t flip the wrong switch at the wrong time. Let’s go.”

  “The crewmembers spend considerably more time training, sir,” Patrick quickly pointed out, “but Captain Noble is perfectly correct: we don’t require anything from passengers except to be in good health—if you suffered some sort of injury or difficulty you’d have to hang on without any possibility of assistance for an hour or two, possibly longer, since the front-seat crewmember can’t get to you.” It was obvious that President Martindale’s head was churning—he wore a mischievous grin, as if running through his datebook and trying to figure out if he could spare the time. Patrick was sure he was going to agree. “Sir?” he asked. “Would you like to go for it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, General,” Sparks said. “The President is certainly not going to…”

  “Carl, call Bethesda,” the President said to his chief of staff. “Ask the doc to come see me.”

  “Mr. President!” Vice President Hershel exclaimed. “Are you really going to do it?”

  “Why the hell not?” Martindale asked. “I was given a clean bill of health from the doc just a couple months ago, and that was the straight story, not just a blurb for the media. I’ve piloted a B-1 Lancer and a B-2 stealth bomber, landed a Hornet onto an aircraft carrier, drove a tank, and been in a submarine down to twelve hundred feet—all while I’ve been president or vice president. And no offense, McLanahan, but if you can do it, I can do it.”

  “No doubt, sir. No offense taken.”

  “We have meetings all day, Mr. President, and then we have the reception for the Turkish prime minister tonight, and that is a function we can’t postpone,” the President’s chief of staff Carl Minden said. “If you’re really thinking about doing this, let me discuss it confidentially with the White House counsel, the Cabinet, and the Leadership. They all have a stake in what happens if you didn’t come back.”

  “He’ll come back—faster than you can imagine,” Boomer interjected.

  “Riding in the spaceplane would be seen as an endorsement of the program,” Sparks said, “and I don’t think that’s what you want just yet.”

  “All right, all right, I get the message,” the President said. “Carl, I still want to meet with the doc as soon as the schedule permits. And go ahead and put out the feelers to the usual players about this. And I want serious comments, not horrified reactions.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” Minden shook his head,
already dreading the calls he had to make. “You realize, sir, that the press and the opposition will have a field day with this—they’ll call it an election-year stunt, an abuse of privilege…”

  “An old Navy destroyer captain once told me that every month he went down to the turrets and fired the big guns, took a patrol shift in his helicopters, took the helm of his ship, and even spent a couple hours in the ship’s laundry and galleys,” the President said. “Being the commander-in-chief means more to me than flying in Air Force One—it means getting out in the field and experiencing the life your soldiers live every day in uniform. I will do it, and I don’t care what the opposition says.”

  “If they had the office and the guts, they’d do it too,” Boomer chimed in.

  Both Sparks and Minden gave Boomer warning glares, silently ordering him not to speak unless spoken to, but the President nodded. “Well said, Captain,” he said. “Someone’s got to be the first sitting president to fly in space or orbit the earth—I’m determined that I’m going to be the one. But Mr. Minden is right: business before pleasure, I guess.” He turned to Patrick. “Let’s hear it, Patrick. I nominated you four years ago to draw the new long-range strike blueprint to replace the aircraft and missiles destroyed by Gryzlov. What do you recommend I do about the bomber force?”

  “Sir, I feel the decision isn’t just about the long-range bomber force but the entire future of the air force—even the future of the U.S. military,” Patrick said. “I strongly believe we’re on the threshold of changing the entire force in preparation for the future, and we shouldn’t shy away from it.”

  “And what future might that be, General?” Sparks asked skeptically.

  “Space,” Patrick replied simply. “The technologies demonstrated in weapon systems like the XR-9A Black Stallion spaceplane are clear indicators that the future of the U.S. Air Force and possibly the entire U.S. military rests in space. The Black Stallion today demonstrated the ability to carry out and improve upon two core centers of gravity of the Air Force and indeed of the entire U.S. military: rapid airlift and rapid long-range strike.”

  “You were late to the meeting today, Patrick,” Maureen pointed out with a smile.

  “It took longer for our helicopter to fly the sixty miles from Patuxent River to Andrews than it did to fly the Black Stallion from Nevada to Maryland, Miss Vice President,” Patrick replied with a smile of his own. “Instead of boosting up to three hundred thousand feet to launch the Meteor payload, we could have flown a straight-line trajectory and shaved sixty minutes off the flight time.”

  “Or instead of a Meteor orbital payload,” Noble interjected, “we’ve developed a pressurized cabin module with seats and luggage space. We can fly eight passengers from Washington to Tokyo in less than an hour and a half, and they don’t need to wear space suits.”

  “Damn,” the President muttered. “Now I know I want to ride in that thing.”

  “Mr. President, I believe orbital and suborbital travel will soon become as commonplace as transcontinental commercial airline travel is now,” Patrick said. “In less than five years I believe we can stand up a wing of twenty spaceplanes and dedicated refueling tankers, plus the necessary hardware to allow us to deliver a wide variety of ordnance, satellites, and even people anywhere around the globe within hours. The array of payloads we can lift right now is small, but within those five years I believe the range of payloads will jump exponentially as manufacturers start building more microsatellites compatible with the Black Stallion.”

  “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.”