Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02

by Day of the Cheetah (v1. 1)

  “I agree,” the President said. “Although the problem obviously began well before Maraklov entered your organization, Dreamland is the most sensitive research installation we have. You have security measures and procedures available to you that are not available to other commanders. But even with all these measures, you failed to prevent this. And that resulted in the deaths of eleven military and civilian personnel, the loss of two fighter aircraft and one B-52 bomber, millions of dollars of damage and the theft of a hugely valuable experimental fighter.”

  Taylor paused, made a note in his desk book. “But my predecessor here held you in very high regard, General. He made a point of recommending that I allow Dreamland to remain in operation and under your command, even after your injury following that . . . mission to Russia. I took his advice because I knew he meant it and not because he needed a favor. I kept Dreamland open despite your enormous budget. And I kept you in charge despite numerous calls for your mandatory retirement. You’ve been doing some remarkable work and up to now have a fine record, even though much of it can’t be publicized ... Well, Dreamland and the Advanced Weapons Center is to stop operations immediately until a full investigation can be conducted. General Elliott, you will see to it that your unit is properly closed and secured so that any evidence is kept intact. When the investigation is convened you will provide any and all assistance asked for. When the investigation is finished . . . I’m sorry to say I will accept your request for retirement.”

  Elliott said nothing.

  “The Mexican government was demanding I hand over your head on a platter for sending that F-15 into their airspace without permission. You can thank the Speaker here for defusing that one.”

  “Deborah O’Day did the legwork,” Speaker Van Keller said.

  Elliott turned to look at the fiftyish, very attractive National Security Adviser. Deborah O’Day . . . she’d had a career that Elliott had always found amazing for a woman, even in the eighties and nineties—a former professor at the Center for Strategic Studies in Washington, former Ambassador to the United Nations during the previous administration, and the first woman to hold the position as special assistant to the President on national security matters. It had been rumored that her appointment had been made only because of political expediency—Taylor was still a chauvinist of the fifties and figured he needed a woman on his White House staff for show—but O’Day had surprised him with her talent, insight and take-charge attitude. She nodded slightly to Elliott, who was surprised to see a friendly reaction in that place.

  “I thought the Mexican government was dragging their heels in allowing us permission to pursue the XF-34 into their airspace,” O’Day said. “I reminded the commander of Mexican air defense forces of the times their pilots have crossed into our airspace and even landed in our airports, supposedly by mistake.”

  Chief of Staff Cesare broke in: “But it made the President look bad, not only in their eyes but in the eyes of the world. One hotshot Reserve fighter pilot was bad enough, and he got himself killed. Then we send another plane, and he almost gets killed. The whole incident makes the Air Force look like Keystone Kops in flight suits, and it made the White House look like we weren’t in control.”

  “Not to mention that relations are bad enough between us and Mexico,” Secretary of Defense Stuart said, “without us shooting missiles all over their territory.”

  General Kane, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, turned to General Board. “I expect to see the discharge papers on those crewmen that violated Mexican airspace.”

  Board nodded unhappily.

  “That would be unwise, sir,” Elliott said to the President. What the hell, he might as well speak up ... “The first two F-15 pilots were following orders by going along with their formation leader. They’re trained not to leave their leader’s wing under any circumstances, and especially if they’re involved in a hostile situation. They turned back as soon as they lost their leader, as ordered. The crew of Cheetah were following my orders. After DreamStar downed the F-15S, I knew that the advanced-technology F-15 from Dreamland was the only fighter capable of going head-to-head with the XF-34, so I ordered Cheetah armed, to pursue DreamStar at best speed.”

  “General Elliott,” Secretary Stuart said, “do you think you have your own private air force out there? You don’t order an attack on an enemy airfield, the President of the United States does that. You don’t authorize military forces to cross a foreign border, the President does.”

  “There wasn’t time to get permission, Mr. Secretary. If we wanted DreamStar back, Cheetah was our best hope. There wasn’t time to debate the question—”

  “ ‘Wasn’t time’? That’s bullshit, General. You don’t ignore the military chain of command because you think you don’t have the time. What was next—bomb Mexico for letting that plane get away? Nuke Mexico City?”

  Deborah O’Day spoke up. “I’m familiar with General Elliott’s record and I think he acted at least understandably. If his crewmen could have stopped DreamStar they and he would have been called heroes. He took a risk, it almost paid off . . . The question is, what do we do about DreamStar now?”

  “Do we even know precisely where this DreamStar is right now?” the President asked.

  “We tracked it almost its entire flight,” General Board said, “via the Reserve 707 AWACS at first, then by an advanced 767 AWACS launched from Oklahoma and patrolling off-shore over the Gulf. The XF-34 successfully evaded attack by Mexican and Honduran fighter patrols, with a little help from Nicaraguan interceptors, and it landed in Nicaragua.”

  Board nodded to an assistant who put a mounted chart of central America up on an easel in the center of the Oval Office. “The fighter was last seen on radar somewhere north of Managua. We believe it’s being kept at a small, isolated valley airbase fifty miles north of Managua called Sebaco. The base is run by the Soviet military—more specifically, by the KGB.”

  He turned to the President. “Sir, I’ve ordered satellite reconnaissance of the area. Photo observation by aircraft would be a good idea too, perhaps by the old SR-71 Blackbird still operated by the CIA, but Managua is heavily defended by anti-aircraft artillery and missiles and is a riskier operation. A soft probe is also recommended.”

  “A ‘soft probe.’ You mean agents?”

  “CIA has assets in Managua that can possibly get close enough to verify that the XF-34 is at Sebaco,” Board said.

  “And if they do? Let’s say they have it at Sebaco, or in Managua. We’re sure as hell not going to go in with the Eighty- second Airborne or the Atlantic Second Fleet and start a war to retrieve a jet fighter ...”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Elliott said, “but it’s not just another jet fighter.”

  “Hold it. Hold on one minute, General,” the President said. “I was waiting for you to say that. Let me tell you right now, General, and all of you in this room—that XF-34 is just another jet fighter in the large scheme of things. It’s not some magical war machine, no matter how advanced it is. It’s very important, damn right, but the United States won’t start a shooting war with the Soviets or anybody else over this aircraft. Sure, the sonofabitches infiltrated our base, stole the plane, killed our people. We’ll lodge protests, we’ll demand the plane back, we’ll coerce and threaten as much as possible. I’m betting they’ll deny having it. They can stall forever by denying everything we say. Even if we have pictures, they can say the photos were faked. And if we do produce irrefutable evidence, they’ll have a propaganda field day . . . ‘Soviet agent infiltrates top- secret American military base, steals top-secret experimental aircraft.’ The condemnation of them will be more than drowned out by the laughing aimed at us. ”

  Elliott hoped he never needed to look at that much of the so-called big picture. God ... “We can’t let them get away with it,” he persisted.

  “They have gotten away with it, General Elliott,” the President said. “For all we know they could be taking it apart right now and shipping it off to Moscow
. What would you have us do? Intercept every ship, every aircraft, every submarine that leaves Nicaragua, board it and search for a component to a fighter plane? Face it, Elliott—you lost it. We lost it.”

  The President glared at Elliott’s taut face, shook his head. “I’ll ask Dennis Danahall at State to lodge a stiff protest with the Soviets. We do have that tape of that agent—what’s his name? Maraklov . . . ? admitting he was a KGB agent.”

  “The KGB will say he was just a nut-case American soldier,” General Kane said, “claiming to be a Russian spy. We’ve had our share ...”

  “I’m still going to order Dennis to protest this incident in the strongest language. I’ll ask for the return of the aircraft and compensation to the families of the crew on that B-52 and the fighters that were shot down during the chase. I want some options we can use in case, when they give us the runaround. We can threaten to cancel our participation in that joint trip to Mars in 1998 ... I was never in favor of that cockeyed idea anyway. And we can—”

  “We’ve already made a substantial commitment to the Mars project, Lloyd,” Richard Benson said.

  “Well, State has got to think of something to back up our protest. Kick out some of their embassy staff, raid one of their consulates ...”

  “Sir, those are all positive steps ...” Elliott began, steaming. “But—”

  “Glad you think so, General.” The President motioned to his chief of staff, Cesare, who quickly rose and moved across to open the inner door to the Oval Office; to the generals in the room, opening a door was a cue to stop talking, part of their fear of being overheard outside. To the others it was word that the meeting was over. Both messages were lost on Elliott.

  “Mr. President, none of those actions will help us get DreamStar back. We could use some very low-level activities that can send a clear message that we mean business. I have some suggestions—”

  “You have your orders, General. Good morning.” Cesare, a large ex-football player, stepped casually in front of Elliott, physically shutting off the conversation.

  Elliott turned and left the Oval Office. He was heading for the main hallway to the rear portico when he spotted Deborah O’Day ahead and called out to her.

  She turned and waited as he walked up to her. She was a bit younger than Elliott, with long dark hair flecked with gray, bright blue eyes, and an athletic figure. Interesting about her eyes, Elliott thought—there were men and women he had worked with for years but still had no idea what color their eyes were. Now he met this woman for the first time and noticed her eyes right away.

  “Mrs. O’Day . . .”

  “Miss O’Day, General,’’ she said, taking his hand and returning a firm grip. “But that’s the Oval Office name. In the halls it’s Debbie.’’

  Elliott smiled. He hadn’t done this kind of byplay maneuvering in years. “And I’m Brad.’’

  They walked along the corridor until they came to an open doorway with a female Marine Corps officer behind a computer terminal and a male secretary leafing through some files inside the office. The secretaries’ desks flanked a pair of closed oaken doors.

  The Marine moved quickly to her feet when O’Day entered the office, but her eyes were on Elliott. “Good morning,” she said. “Intelligence digest is on your terminal, ma’am. Coffee’s fresh. Good morning, General Elliott.”

  “Thank you, Major. General Bradley Elliott, Major Marcia Preston, my operations officer. General Elliott is the director of—”

  “The High-Technology Advanced Weapons Center. I’ve heard a lot about you, sir.”

  “Nice to meet you, Major.”

  The male secretary stood, ignored Elliot and handed O’Day a folder full of papers. “For your signature. I need them ASAP.”

  “General Elliott, Matt Conkle, my secretary.” Preston hit the remote door unlock switch, and Elliott followed O’Day into her office and immediately heard the door lock behind him.

  “Your secretary isn’t exactly a friendly type,” Elliott said.

  “He hates the idea of being a secretary to a woman, even if she’s the National Security Adviser. He’s fine in his job, though. Marcia Preston is a rising star. Was the Marine Corps’ first female F/A-18 fighter pilot. She was good. Very good. But she got so much heat from being a female pilot that she was bounced out for allegedly trying to seduce her squadron commander. Some things never change. I discovered her filing memos in San Diego, still wearing her flight suit, and brought her to Washington. She’d rather be in the cockpit—she flies my helicopter and jet—and deserves whatever she wants. She just might be giving you a call some time.”

  “I’m probably not going to be around—and maybe Dreamland won’t be there.”

  “Don’t be so pessimistic,” O’Day said, pouring a cup of coffee for herself and Elliott and seating herself behind her desk. Elliott eased himself into a leather-covered armchair and rebent his right leg under the chair.

  O’Day noticed. “That’s from your mysterious mission into the Soviet Union eight years ago?” Elliott nodded. “You know, I can’t find any real information on that mission in our records. It’s like it never happened.”

  “It’s better that way. It also took the lives of some fine men.”

  “That was the B-52 that the Russian spy shot down, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. We called it the Old Dog. We had rebuilt and upgraded it after the mission over Russia. It was the prototype of a new escort aircraft for strategic bombers. It was on its first operational flight . . . Did you know that two crewmen from my Old Dog mission died in that crash yesterday?”

  “My God.” She sat silent for a long moment.

  “The nav on that flight was one of the Great Experiment female combat flyers, in the same group as Marcia Preston— the first female B-52 navigator. There was one other female on that B-52,” Elliott continued. “A civilian. She was also on my Old Dog crew back in 1988. She’s in critical condition at Brooks Medical Center in San Antonio. Her husband was on my Old Dog crew too. He was one of the F-15 crew that went into Mexican airspace and tried to get the XF-34—as a matter of fact he’s the DreamStar project director, Lieutenant Colonel McLanahan.”

  “Jesus. Was McLanahan one of the men killed in the dogfights with DreamStar?”

  “No. He was chased away by the Mexican Air Force, missed his chance to try to even the score ... I wanted to thank you for sticking up for me in there, and for your help with the Mexican government. I think you see how important this is to me. Maybe this sounds too dramatic, but those men and women are my life. I have to watch out for them—now more than ever.”

  “Well, now that I know that McLanahan was one of the men in those F-15S, I’m glad I stuck up for him and you. I don’t think General Kane will push for any official action against McLanahan or anyone else involved.”

  “I appreciate it just the same ... Look, I’m not trying to start a palace revolt here, but I just can’t stand the idea of sitting by while DreamStar is chopped up into pieces and shipped off to Moscow. The President wasn’t interested in my idea, but maybe you would be . . .”

  “I’m interested,” O’Day said. Elliott couldn’t be sure she meant it or was just defusing him, but he had little choice right now, he realized. “It’s true, Brad, the President isn’t interested . . . But what’s your idea?”

  Elliott spread his hands. “Simple. Make the Nicaraguans, and the Russians, think we’re going to strike at Managua . . . Look, Vm not suggesting that we send the Second Fleet over to shell Managua, but we could send it out into the Gulf, on one of the Pentagon’s famous ‘previously scheduled’ exercises. We could land the Eighty-second Airborne next door in Honduras. That could shake them up enough at least to start dealing with us—”

  “And what if? The bad old ‘what if ... it doesn’t work?”

  “Then we have no choice. Mount a surgical strike. Photo intelligence would be invaluable. If we can pinpoint where DreamStar is being kept we can plan a discreet attack—”

&nbs
p; “To destroy it?”

  Elliott nodded. “Afraid so. We sure as hell couldn’t fly it out of Nicaragua—”

  “Why not?”

  Elliott stopped, looked at her. He had no ready answer to that one. “Well, first of all, it would be nearly impossible to get near it anywhere on that KGB base. Second, we’ve no one qualified to fly it. James—Maraklov—was the only pilot . . .”

  “The only one?”

  Elliott’s mind was racing now—Deborah O’Day seemed to be opening up possibilities he hadn’t imagined. “We’ve had several men fly DreamStar’s simulator, but only one man has actually flown DreamStar before. And no one has been able to control it as well as James.”

  “Well, you could use him then, couldn’t you? If all he’d have to do is take off and land . . . ?”

  “True, if we could provide him enough air cover during his escape ... steal DreamStar back ... There are a lot of ‘ifs’ here. If DreamStar is still flyable, if we can pinpoint DreamStar’s location, if we can get J.C. Powell on that base . . .”

  “J.C. Powell?”

  “My chief test pilot. He checked out in DreamStar in the early phase but was replaced by James. He just might do it. He can’t dogfight in DreamStar like James, but he could get DreamStar off the ground and land it again.”

  “So if we knew exactly where DreamStar was, and if it wasn’t already taken apart,” O’Day said, “we’d need a plan to get this Powell on Sebaco and into DreamStar’s cockpit. Then we’d have to arrange air cover for him after takeofiF since he wouldn’t be able to defend himself ...”

  “Right . . . put Powell in under some sort of diversionary cover,” Elliott said. “Hit Sebaco with a small air strike or guerrilla force and insert Powell. Get him into DreamStar’s cockpit. Use the guerrillas to blow a path for him out to the airstrip. With a carrier from the Second Fleet sitting in the Gulf of Mexico we could provide enough air cover to fight off the Nicaraguan air force. A short flight to Texas and we’d be home free.”