by Dale Brown
“CHUs?”
“Containerized Housing Units. They’re a little bit bigger than a commercial truck trailer. We can stack them if we need the room, but as the Army draws down we have more room, so they’re all on ground level now. That’s where we’ll bunk your guys. They’re nicer than they sound, believe me—linoleum floors, fully insulated, air conditioning, Wi-Fi, flat-screen TVs. Two CHUs share a ‘wet CHU’—the latrine. Much nicer than latrine tents.”
A few minutes later they came to a twelve-foot-tall fence composed of concrete Jersey walls and reinforced corrugated metal sheeting topped by coils of razor wire. A few feet behind this wall was another twelve-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire, with heavily armed civilian K-9 security officers roving between the fences. Behind the chain-link fence was a fifty-foot clear area. It was all surrounding a plain boxy-looking three-story building with a sloped roof, several satellite dishes and antennae atop it, and absolutely no windows. There were thirty-foot-high security towers near the corners of the building. “Is this the headquarters building…or the prison?” Jon asked.
“Command and Control Center, or the Triple-C,” Thompson said. “Some call it Fobbitville—home of the ‘fobbits,’ the guys who never leave the FOB, or the Forward Operating Base—but we do fewer and fewer missions outside the wire these days so most of us could be considered fobbits. Right about in the geographic center of the base—the bad guys would need a pretty big mortar to reach it from outside the base, although they’ll get lucky and lob a homemade pickup-launched rocket in here every couple weeks or so.”
“Every couple weeks?”
“’Fraid so, Doc,” Thompson said. He then gave Jon a mischievous smile and added, “But that’s what you’re here to resolve…right?”
Security was tight entering the Triple-C, but it was still far less than what McLanahan and Masters had to put up with at Dreamland for so many years. There were no military security officers at all; it was all run by Thompson’s civilian contractors. They were a bit more respectful of Patrick after checking his identification—most of them were former or retired military; and three-star generals, even retired ones, earned their respect—but still seemed to perform brisk, sometimes rough pat-down searches with enthusiasm bordering on sadism. “Jeez, I think I need to use the bathroom to see if those guys pulled off any important parts,” Jon said as they passed through the last inspection station.
“Everyone gets the same treatment, which is why a lot of guys just end up bunking in here rather than going back to their CHUs,” Thompson said. “I think they laid it on a bit thicker because the boss was here. Sorry about that.” They emerged into a wide entry-way, and Thompson pointed to the hallway to the left. “The west hallway is the way to the various departments that make up the Triple-C—operations, air traffic control, communications, data, transportation, security, intelligence, interservice and foreign liaisons, and so forth. Upstairs above them are the commanders’ offices and briefing rooms. The east hallway is the DFAC, break rooms, and admin offices; above them are crash pads, bunk rooms, bathrooms, showers, et cetera. The north hallways have the computers, communications stuff, backup power generators, and physical plant. In the middle of it all is the command center itself, which we call the ‘Tank.’ Follow me.” Their IDs were checked and they were searched one more time at the entrance to the Tank—by an Army sergeant this time, their first encounter with a military security officer—and they were admitted inside.
The Tank actually resembled the Battle Management Center at Elliott Air Force Base in Nevada. It was a large auditorium-like room with twelve large high-definition flat-panel screens surrounding an even larger screen in the back of the room, with a narrow stage for human briefers. On either side of the stage were rows of consoles for the various departments that fed data to the display screens and the commanders. Above them was an enclosed observation area for VIPs and specialists. In the middle of the room was a semicircular row of consoles for the department chiefs, and in the center of the semicircle were the seats and displays for the Iraqi brigade commander, which was empty, and his deputy, Colonel Jack Wilhelm.
Wilhelm was a large bearlike man resembling a much younger, dark-haired version of retired Army general Norman Schwarzkopf. He appeared to be chomping on a cigar, but it was actually the boom microphone from his headset set very close to his lips. Wilhelm was leaning forward on his console, snapping out orders and directions for what he wanted displayed on the screens.
Thompson maneuvered himself to get within Wilhelm’s field of vision, and when Wilhelm noticed the security contractor, he gave him a querying scowl and slid a headset ear cup away from his ear. “What?”
“The guys from Scion Aviation are here, Colonel,” Thompson said.
“Bunk ’em down in CHUville and tell them I’ll see them in the morning,” Wilhelm said, rolling his eyes and setting the earcup back in place.
“They want to start tonight, sir.”
Wilhelm moved the earcup again in exasperation. “What?”
“They want to start tonight, sir,” Thompson repeated.
“Start what?”
“Start doing surveillance. They say they’re ready to go right now and want to brief you on their proposed flight plan.”
“They do, do they?” Wilhelm spat. “Tell them we’re scheduled to brief at oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning, Thompson. Bunk ’em down and—”
“If you have a few minutes to spare, Colonel,” Patrick said, stepping up beside Thompson, “we’d like to brief you now and get under way.”
Wilhelm turned in his seat and scowled at the newcomers and their interruption…and then blanched slightly when he recognized Patrick McLanahan. He got to his feet slowly, his eyes locked on Patrick’s as if sizing him up for a fight. He turned slightly to the technician seated beside him, but his eyes never left Patrick’s. “Get Weatherly in here,” he said, “and have him supervise the log air departures and take the scout patrol briefing. I’ll be back in a few.” He slipped the headset off, then extended his hand. “General McLanahan, Jack Wilhelm. Pleasure to meet you.”
Patrick shook his hand. “Same, Colonel.”
“I didn’t know you’d be on board that flight, General, or I never would have allowed a VFR pattern.”
“It was important we did it, Colonel—it told us a lot. Can we brief you and your staff on our first mission?”
“I assumed you’d want the rest of the afternoon and evening to rest up and get organized,” Wilhelm said. “I wanted to show you around the base, show you the Triple-C and the ops center here, meet the staff, get a good meal—”
“We’ll have plenty of time for that while we’re here, Colonel,” Patrick said, “but we ran into some hostile fire on the way in, and I think the sooner we get started, the better.”
“Hostile fire?” Wilhelm looked at Thompson. “What’s he talking about, Thompson? I wasn’t briefed.”
“We’re ready to brief you on it right now, Colonel,” Patrick said. “And then I’d like to plan an orientation and calibration flight for tonight to get started on finding the origins of that ground fire.”
“Excuse me, General,” Wilhelm said, “but your operations have to be carefully studied by the staff and then deconflicted with every department here in the Triple-C. That’s going to take a lot longer than a few hours.”
“We sent you our ops plan and a copy of the contract from the Air Force Civil Augmentation Agency a week ago, Colonel. Your staff should have had plenty of time to study it.”
“I’m confident they have, General, but my briefing with the staff is scheduled for oh-five-thirty hours tomorrow morning,” Wilhelm said. “You and I were supposed to meet at oh-seven-hundred to discuss it. I thought that was the plan.”
“It was the plan, Colonel, but now I’d like to launch our first mission tonight, before our other planes arrive.”
“Other planes? I thought we were just getting the one.”
“As soon as we took hos
tile fire coming in here, I requested and received authorization from my company to bring in a second operations aircraft with a few more specialized payloads and equipment,” Patrick said. “It’ll be another Loser-size aircraft—”
“‘Loser’?”
“Sorry. Nickname for our plane. I’ll need a hangar for it and bunks for twenty-five additional personnel. They’ll be here in about twenty hours. When it arrives I’ll need—”
“Excuse me, sir,” Wilhelm interrupted. “May I have a word with you?” He motioned to a front corner of the Tank, indicating Patrick should follow him; a young Air Force lieutenant wisely evacuated his nearby console when he saw the colonel’s warning glare as they approached.
Just as they reached the console so they could have their private chat, Patrick held up a finger, then reached up to touch a tiny button on an all but invisible earset in his left ear canal. Wilhelm’s eyes bugged in surprise. “Is that a wireless earpiece for a cell phone?” he asked.
Patrick nodded. “Are cell phones prohibited in here, Colonel? I can take it outside—”
“They’re…they’re supposed to be jammed so no one can receive or make calls on them—defense against remotely detonated IEDs. And the nearest cell tower is six miles away.”
“It’s a special unit—encrypted, secure, jam-resistant, pretty powerful for its size,” Patrick said. “We’ll look at upgrading your jammers, or replace them with directional finders that will pinpoint the location of both sides of a conversation.” Wilhelm blinked in confusion. “So it’s okay if I take this?” Wilhelm was too stunned to respond, so Patrick nodded in thanks and touched the “call” button. “Hi, Dave,” he said. “Yeah…yeah, have him make the call. You were right. Thanks.” He touched the earset again to terminate the call. “Sorry for the interruption, Colonel. Do you have a question for me?”
Wilhelm quickly cleared the confusion out of his head, then put his fists on his hips and leaned toward Patrick. “Yes, sir, I do: Who in hell do you think you are?” Wilhelm said in a low, muted, growling voice. He towered over McLanahan, jutting out his chin as if daring anyone to try to hit it and impaling him with a severe direct glare. “This is my command center. No one gives me orders in here, not even the hajji who supposedly commands this fucking base. And nothing comes within a hundred miles of here unless they get my approval and clearance first, even a retired three-star. Now that you’re here you can stay, but I guarantee the next sonofabitch who doesn’t get my permission to enter will get kicked off this base so fast and so hard he’ll be looking for his ass in the Persian Gulf. Do you read me, General?”
“Yes, Colonel, I do,” Patrick said. He did not look away, and the two men locked eyes. “Are you finished, Colonel?”
“Don’t give me any attitude, McLanahan,” Wilhelm said. “I’ve read your contract, and I’ve dealt with thousands of you civilian augmentees or contractors or whatever the hell you call yourselves now. You may be high-tech, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re still just one of the cooks and bottle washers around here.
“With all due respect, General, this is a warning: while you’re in my sector, you report to me; you get out of line, you get hell from me; you violate my orders, and I will personally stuff your balls down your throat.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “You have something you want to say to me now, sir?”
“Yes, Colonel.” Patrick gave Wilhelm a smile that nearly sent the Army colonel into a flying rage, then went on: “You have a phone call from division headquarters waiting for you. I suggest you take it.” Wilhelm turned and saw the communications shift duty officer trotting toward him.
He looked at McLanahan’s smile, gave him a glare, then went over to the nearby console, put on a headset, and logged himself in. “Wilhelm. What?”
“Stand by for division, sir,” the communications technician said. Wilhelm looked at McLanahan in surprise. A moment later: “Jack? Connolly here.” Charles Connolly was the two-star Army general based at Fort Lewis, Washington, who commanded the division assigned to northern Iraq.
“Yes, sir?”
“Sorry, Jack, but I just heard about it myself a few minutes ago and thought I’d better call you myself,” Connolly said. “That contractor assigned to run aerial surveillance missions on the Iraq-Turkish border in your sector? There’s a VIP on board: Patrick McLanahan.”
“I’m speaking to him right now, sir,” Wilhelm said.
“He’s there already? Shit. Sorry about that, Jack, but that guy has a reputation for just showing up and doing whatever the hell he pleases.”
“That’s not going to happen around here, sir.”
“Listen, Jack, treat this guy with kid gloves until we figure out exactly what kind of horsepower he’s got behind him,” Connolly said. “He’s a civilian and a contractor, yes, but Corps tells me he works for some heavy hitters that could very quickly make some career-altering phone calls if you get my drift.”
“He just informed me that he’s bringing another plane out here. Twenty-five more personnel! I’m trying to draw down this base, sir, not pack more civvies in here.”
“Yeah, I was told that, too,” Connolly said, his morose tone making it obvious that he wasn’t in the loop any more than the regimental executive officer was. “Listen, Jack, if he seriously violates one of your directives, I’ll back you one hundred percent if you want him off your base and out of your hair. But he is Patrick fucking McLanahan, and he is a retired three-banger. Corps says give him enough rope and he’ll eventually hang himself—he’s done it before, which is why he’s not in uniform anymore.”
“I still don’t like it, sir.”
“Well, handle it any way you want, Jack,” the division commander said, “but my advice is: put up with the guy for now, be nice to him, and don’t piss him off. If you don’t, and it turns out the guy has major juice behind him, we’ll both be out on our ears.
“Just keep focused on the job, Jack,” Connolly went on. “Our job is to transition that theater from a military to a civilian peacekeeping operation. Contractors like McLanahan will be the ones hanging their asses on the line. Your job is to bring your troops home safely and honorably—and to make me look good in the process, of course.”
Judging by the tone of his voice, Wilhelm thought, he wasn’t totally joking. “Roger that, sir.”
“Anything else for me?”
“Negative, sir.”
“Very good. Press on. Division out.”
Wilhelm broke the connection, then looked at McLanahan talking on his cellular earset again. If he had the technology to defeat all of their cellular jammers—the ones set up to defeat remote-controlled Improvised Explosive Device detonators—he had to have some first-class engineers and money behind him.
On the console, Wilhelm spoke: “Duty Officer, get the operations staff together right now in the main briefing room to discuss the Scion surveillance plan.”
“Yes, sir.”
McLanahan ended his conversation when Wilhelm took off his headset and approached him. “How did you know I was going to get a call from division, McLanahan?”
“Lucky guess.”
Wilhelm scowled at that response. “Sure,” he said, shaking his head dismissively. “Whatever. The staff will brief us right away. Follow me.” Wilhelm led Patrick and Jon out of the Tank and upstairs to the main briefing room, a glassed-in soundproof meeting room that overlooked the consoles and center computer screens in the Tank. One by one, staff officers filed in with briefing notes and thumb drives containing their PowerPoint presentations. They did not waste time greeting the two officers already in the room.
Wilhelm took a bottle of water from a small refrigerator in the corner, then sat down in a chair in front of the windows overlooking the Tank. “So, General, tell me about this Scion Aviation International outfit you work for,” he said as they waited for the others to arrive and get ready.
“Not much to tell,” Patrick said. He got a bottle of water for Jon and himself but did not sit
down. “Formed a little over a year ago by—”
“About the same time you retired because of the bum ticker?” Wilhelm asked. Patrick did not respond. “How are you doing with that?”
“Fine.”
“There was some scuttlebutt about President Gardner wanting to prosecute you for some of the things that happened in Iran.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Right. You knew I was going to get a secure satellite call from my headquarters ten thousand miles away, but you don’t know if you’re the target of a White House and Justice Department investigation.” Patrick said nothing. “And you wouldn’t know anything about the rumors that you were involved in the death of Leonid Zevitin, that it wasn’t a skiing accident?”
“I’m not here to respond to crazy rumors.”
“Of course not,” Wilhelm said wryly. “So. The money must be pretty good to keep you in the game traveling all over the world with a friggin’ heart condition. Most guys would be sitting by the pool in Florida collecting their pension money and hitting on divorcées.”
“The heart is fine as long as I’m not traveling in space.”
“Right. So, how is the money in this business of yours? I understand the mercenary business is booming.” Wilhelm put on a feigned panicked expression as if he was afraid he had insulted the retired three-star general. “Oh my, I’m sorry, General. Do you prefer to call it ‘private military company’ or ‘security consultant’ or what?”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you want to call it, Colonel,” Patrick said. A few of the field-grade officers getting ready for their briefing glanced over at their boss—some with humor in their expressions, others with fear.
Wilhelm gave a slight smile, pleased that he’d gotten a rise out of his VIP visitor. “Or is it just another name for the ‘Night Stalkers’? That’s the name of the outfit you’re rumored to have been part of a few years back, right? I remember something about those Libyan raids, am I right? The first time you got tossed out of the Air Force?” Patrick didn’t respond, which elicited another smile from Wilhelm. “Well, I think ‘Scion’ sounds a lot better than ‘Night Stalkers’ myself. More like a real security consultant outfit rather than a goofy, kids’ TV cartoon superhero show.” No response. “So how is the money, General?”