by Dale Brown
“He wasn’t contracted to kill people, Ken,” the president said. “No Americans have the responsibility to kill anyone in Iraq, let alone an ally. We’re supposed to be there to assist and train, not shoot lasers at people. McLanahan did what he always does: he uses whatever forces he commands to solve the problem, no matter what happens or who he kills or injures doing it. If you want to testify on his behalf, Ken, be my guest, but he will answer for what he did.” Phoenix had no response. “Miller, how soon can you get McLanahan stateside?”
“Depending on what the Turks do, I can send a plane up from Baghdad and get him tonight.”
“Do it.”
Turner nodded.
“Mr. President, Colonel Wilhelm here at Nahla is keeping all of his forces inside the base,” Vice President Phoenix said. “There is a company-size force of Turks outside the base here, but everyone is keeping a low profile. We’ve even given the Turks food and water.”
“That just shows me that the Turks don’t want a fight, unless you’re a card-carrying member of the PKK,” the president said. “What is the Iraqi army doing? Keeping a low profile too, I hope?”
“Very low, Mr. President—in fact, they evacuated the base and are nowhere to be found.”
“What?”
“They simply got up and walked off the base,” Phoenix said. “Everyone is gone, and they destroyed whatever they couldn’t carry.”
“Why? Why in the world would they do that?” the president thundered. “Why in hell are we over there helping them when they cut and run at the first sign of trouble?”
“Mr. President, I’d like to go to Baghdad and speak with the Iraqi president and prime minister,” Vice President Phoenix said. “I want to find out what’s going on.”
“Jesus, Ken, haven’t you had enough action for a while?”
“I guess not, Mr. President,” Phoenix said, smiling. “Besides, I like flying in that tilt-rotor contraption. The Marines don’t fly slow and leisurely unless they really have to.”
“If you’re serious about going, Ken, get together with the Army commander out there and your Secret Service detail and figure out the safest way to get you to Baghdad,” the president said. “I don’t like having you in the middle of an invasion, but having you right there in-country might help things along. I don’t trust the Turks as far as I can throw them, so we’ll rely on our own guys to get you safely to the capital. I just hope the Iraqis aren’t flaking out on us, too, or it could get ugly out there. Keep me posted, and be careful.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Stacy, I’d like to send you to Ankara or Istanbul as soon as possible, but we may have to wait until things cool down,” the president said. “How about meeting with the NATO alliance in Brussels—together we should be able to put enough pressure on Turkey to get them to pull out.”
“Good idea, Mr. President,” Barbeau said. “I’ll get it set up right away.”
“Good. Tell the Turkish prime minister that we’ll have a suspect on the shoot-down of their reconnaissance plane in custody within hours; that should make them a little more pleasant.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Barbeau said, and signed off.
“Miller, let me know when McLanahan’s on his way back to the States so I can inform Ankara,” the president said. “I’d like to offer them a few carrots before I have to start raising sticks, and McLanahan in custody should be a sizable carrot. Thanks, everyone.”
COMMAND AND CONTROL CENTER, ALLIED AIR BASE NAHLA, IRAQ
A SHORT TIME LATER
“I said, it’s too dangerous, Masters,” Jack Wilhelm said irritably. He was at his console in the Tank studying what little information was coming in to him. “The Turks have grounded all aerial reconnaissance and restricted troop movements in and around the base. Things are too tense right now. If we try to go outside to the crash site, they might get spooked. Besides, you still don’t look a hundred percent.”
“Colonel, there’s a quarter of a billion dollars’ worth of equipment sitting in a pile out there less than two miles outside the fence,” Jon Masters argued. “You can’t let the Turks and the locals just walk off with it. Some of that stuff is classified.”
“It’s a crash site, Masters. It’s been destroyed—”
“Colonel, my planes are not flimsy aluminum—they’re composites. They’re a hundred times stronger than steel. The Loser was flying slow and was on approach to land. There’s a good chance some of the systems and avionics survived the impact. I’ve got to get out there to recover what I can before—”
“Masters, my orders are no one goes outside the base, and that includes you,” Wilhelm insisted. “The Turkish army is in control out there, and I’m not going to risk a confrontation with them. They let food, water, and supplies come in and out—that’s good enough for me right now. We’re trying to open negotiations with the Turks for access to the wreckage, but they’re pissed because you used it to shoot down one of their planes. So stop bugging me until they cool down and start talking to us, okay?”
“Every box they take out of that crash site costs me money, Colonel.”
“I’m sorry about your money, Doc, but I really don’t give a shit right now,” Wilhelm said. “I know you were helping me out by shooting down that recon plane, but we have no options right now.”
“Then I’ll go out there and take my chances with the Turks.”
“Doc, I’m sure the Turks would love to have a little chat with you right now,” Wilhelm said. “They’d have your lasers, all the supersecret black boxes, the guy who designed and built them all, and the one who used them to shoot down one of their planes and kill one of their soldiers. Unless you like the taste of truth serum or enjoy having your fingernails pulled out with pliers, I think you’re safer inside the wire.” That made Jon Masters gulp, turn whiter than he looked before, and fall silent. “I thought not. I think we’re damned lucky they’re not demanding we turn you over to them right now. I’m sorry about your stuff, Doc, but you stay put.” He watched Jon turn away and couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him.
“I think you scared him, Colonel,” Patrick McLanahan said. He was standing with security director Kris Thompson beside Wilhelm’s console. “Do you really think the Turks would torture him?”
“How the hell do I know, General?” Wilhelm growled. “I just wanted him to stop harping on me until I get things sorted out and until someone in Washington or Ankara calls a stop to all this. But shooting down that Phantom is not going to sit well with the Turks.” He studied one of the data screens with updated air traffic information. “You still bringing in one of your planes tonight? Haven’t you lost enough planes already?”
“It’s not an XC-57, just a regular 767 freighter,” Patrick said. “It’s already been cleared and manifested by the Turks.”
“Why bother? You know your contract is going to get canceled, don’t you? Shooting down that Phantom—with a laser no less—is going to land you in hot water. You’ll be lucky if the Turks don’t intercept it and force it to land in Turkey.”
“Then I’ll still need a freighter to start taking my stuff out of the country now that they shot down the Loser.”
“It’s your decision, General,” Wilhelm said, shaking his head. “I think the Turks okayed the flight just so they can intercept it, force it to land in Turkey, seize whatever stuff you’re bringing into Iraq, and hold the cargo and your plane hostage until you pay reparations for the Phantom and probably stand trial for murder. But it’s your call.” Mark Weatherly stepped over to Wilhelm and handed him a note. He read it, shook his head wearily, then handed it back. “Bad news, General. I’ve been ordered to detain you in your quarters until you can be flown back to the States. Your contract has been canceled by the Pentagon, effective immediately.”
“The Phantom incident?”
“Doesn’t say, but I’m sure that’s why,” Wilhelm said. “From what we’ve seen, the Turks are being ultracareful not to attack us or the
non-PKK Iraqis. That restraint may slip now that they’ve lost a jet and a pilot, and Washington needs to do something to show we don’t want to get into a shooting match with the Turks.”
“And I’m the guy.”
“High-profile retired bomber commander turned mercenary. Hate to say it, General, but you’re the poster child for retribution.”
“I’m sure President Gardner was all too happy to serve you up, too, Muck,” Jon Masters added.
“Sorry, General.” Wilhelm turned to Kris Thompson. “Thompson, mind taking the general to his CHU? I don’t even know if you’ve ever slept in it before—I’ve always found you out in the hangar or in your plane—but that’s where I’ve got to keep you for now.”
“Mind if I go with him, Colonel?” Jon asked.
Wilhelm waved a hand at him and turned back to his console, and the group left for the housing area.
The housing area—CHUville—seemed almost deserted. No one said anything as they walked down the rows of steel containers until they located the one reserved for Patrick. “I’ll have your stuff brought out here, sir,” Kris said. He opened the door, turned on a light, and inspected the room. There was an inner room to keep out blowing sand and dust. Inside was a small galley, desk and chair, guest chairs, closet, storage shelves, and a sofa bed. “We have plenty of room, so you have both CHUs and the wet-CHU in the middle to yourself. We set up the second CHU as a conference room for you and your guys; this side is your private space. You have full Internet access, telephone, TV, the works. If there’s anything else you need, or if you want a different CHU closer to the flight line, just call.”
“Thanks, Kris. This’ll be okay.”
“Again, Patrick, I’m sorry this is going down like this,” Kris said. “You were trying to get our comms and datalinks back, not kill the guy.”
“It’s the politics kicking in, Kris,” Patrick said. “The Turks feel totally justified in what they’re doing, and they don’t know or care why we’d fire on their plane. The White House doesn’t want this thing to blow out of control—”
“Not to mention the president would love to stick it to you, Muck,” Jon Masters added.
“Nothing we can do about it here,” Patrick said. “I’ll do my fighting once I get stateside. Don’t worry about me.”
Thompson nodded. “No one has said thank you for what you did, but I will. Thank you, sir,” he said, then departed.
“Great, just great,” Jon Masters said after Thompson had left the CHU. “The Turks are going to rummage through the Loser’s wreckage, and you’re stuck in here under house arrest with the president of the United States ready to serve you up to the Turks as a berserker warmonger. Swell. What do we do now?”
“I have no idea,” Patrick said. “I’ll get in touch with the boss and let him know what’s happening—if he doesn’t already know.”
“I’ll bet Pres—” Patrick suddenly raised his hand, which startled Jon. “What?” Jon asked. “Why did you…?” Patrick put a finger to his lips and pointed around the room. Jon knotted his eyebrows in confusion. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Patrick found a pencil and paper in the desk and wrote, I think the CHUs are bugged.
“What?” Jon exclaimed.
Patrick rolled his eyes again, then wrote, No mention of the pres. Casual talk only.
“Okay,” Jon said, not really sure if he believed it but willing to play along. He wrote, Off the bug?
Only video if they have it, Patrick replied in writing. Jon nodded. Patrick wrote, Tell Whack and Charlie on the freighter and the rest of the team in Las Vegas what happened to the Loser…and to me.
Jon nodded, gave Patrick a sorrowful expression, then said, “Okay, Muck, I’ll head back to the hangar, send the messages, check on the first Loser, and then turn in. This has been a really suck day. Buzz me if you need anything.”
“Thanks. See you later.”
Jack Wilhelm punched the button on his console and slid off his headset after listening to the recording several minutes after Kris Thompson returned from CHUville. “I didn’t hear much of anything, Thompson,” he said.
“They started being very cautious about what they were saying, Colonel,” Kris Thompson replied. “I think they suspect they’re being bugged.”
“The guy’s smart, that’s for sure,” Wilhelm said. “Can we confiscate the paper they’re writing messages on before they destroy them?”
“Sure—if we want them to find out they’re being bugged.”
“Wish you had set up a video bug in there instead of just audio. All this high-tech gear around here and you couldn’t set up one simple baby-crib camera?” Thompson said nothing—he could’ve easily set up a video bug, but he was uncomfortable enough installing an audio bug in the general’s CHU; a video bug was too much. “He mentioned the ‘boss,’ and then Masters sounded like he was going to say ‘the president,’” Wilhelm commented. “President of what?”
“The company, I assume,” Thompson said. He paused, then added uncomfortably, “I don’t feel right bugging the general’s CHU, Colonel.”
“I got the order straight from the Army chief of staff, who got it through the attorney general and the secretary of defense—gather information on McLanahan’s activities, including eavesdropping and wiretaps, until the FBI and State Department take over,” Wilhelm said. “They’re gunning for this guy, that’s for sure. The president wants his head on a platter. They ordered his freighter searched and every piece of equipment on board cross-checked with the official manifest. If he’s bringing in any unauthorized stuff, they want to know about it. I don’t think the Turks will allow it to land here, but if it does, Washington wants it searched for unauthorized weapons.”
“What kind of weapons?”
“How the hell should I know, Thompson? You have the manifest—if it’s not on there, it’s contraband. Confiscate it.”
“Isn’t anyone around here going to support McLanahan at all? The guy’s just trying to do his job. He saved our bacon during the attack and probably saved the vice president’s, too.”
“McLanahan will be okay, Thompson, don’t worry about him,” Wilhelm said. “Besides, we have our orders, and they come from the very top. I’m not going to let guys like McLanahan ruin my career. Send the recordings to division as soon as possible.”
“Hiya, big guy.”
“Dad?” There was nothing like hearing your son’s voice saying “Dad,” Patrick thought; it always gave him a thrill. “Where are you?”
“Still in Iraq.”
“Oh.” Bradley James McLanahan, who had just turned thirteen, was still a kid of few words—like his old man, Patrick surmised. “When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I think it’ll be soon. Listen, I know you’re getting ready for school, but I wanted to…”
“Can I try out for football this year?”
“Football?” That was a new one, Patrick thought. Bradley played soccer and tennis and could water-ski, but he never showed any interest in contact sports before. “Sure, if you want to, as long as your grades are good.”
“Then you got to tell Aunt Mary. She says I’ll get hurt and turn my brain to mush.”
“Not if you listen to the coach.”
“Will you tell her? Here.” Before Patrick could say anything, his youngest sister, Mary, was on the line. “Patrick?”
“Hi, Mare. How are—”
“You are not going to allow him to play football, are you?”
“Why not, if he wants to and his grades—”
“His grades are okay, but they could be better if only he would stop daydreaming, journaling, and doodling about spaceships and fighter jets,” his sister said. Mary was a pharmacist, with grades good enough for medical school if she had the time between raising Bradley and two of her own. “Have you ever seen a middle school football game?”
“No.”
“Those players get bigger and bigger every year, their hormones are raging, and they
have more physical strength than the skills to control themselves. Bradley’s more of a bookworm than a jock. Besides, he just wants to do it because his friends are going to try out and some girls in his class are going to try out for cheerleading.”
“That always motivated me. Listen, I need to speak with—”
“Oh, I got an e-mail this morning saying that the automatic deposit from your company from last week was reversed. No explanation. I’m overdrawn, Patrick. It’ll cost me fifty dollars plus any other penalties from whoever I wrote checks to. Can you get that straightened out so I don’t get buried in bounced check fees?”
“It’s a new company, Mary, and the payroll might be screwed up.” His entire paycheck from Scion went to his sister to help with expenses; his entire Air Force retirement went into a trust for Bradley. His sister didn’t like that, because paychecks from Scion were irregular depending on if the company had a contract and had any money to pay upper management, but Patrick had insisted. That made Bradley more of an outsider than he wanted, but it was the best arrangement he could make right now. “Give it a week or so, okay? I’ll get all the charges reversed.”
“Are you coming home soon? Steve wants to go to a rodeo in Casper next month.”
And the trailer they brought on such trips didn’t have room for a third kid, Patrick thought. “Yes, I think I’ll be home by then, and you guys can take off. Let me speak with…”
“He’s running to catch the bus. He’s always drawing or doodling or writing in his notebook and I have to tell him a dozen times to get moving or he’ll miss the bus. Everything okay?”
“Yes, I’m okay, but there was a little incident lately, and I wanted to tell Bradley and you about it before—”
“Good. There’s so much stuff on the news about Iraq and Turkey lately, and we think of you every night when we watch the news.”
“I think of you guys all the time. But early this morning—”
“That’s nice. I gotta run, Patrick. I’m interviewing some pharmacy techs this morning. Steve and the kids send their love. Bye bye.” And the connection was broken.