Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02

by Day of the Cheetah (v1. 1)

  “Sounds like a plan, General. Now you have just one problem . . .”

  “I know. The President. It’s what he doesn't want to do. That’s where I need your help. You have access to the man. Can you talk to him? Try to convince him?”

  She sank back in her chair. “I’m not sure how much help I can be. The truth is, I’m not a member of the President’s inner sanctum. His brother-in-law Benson and Speaker Van Keller have his ear, not me. I’m a political appointee, damn near a figurehead. Except I also happen to be qualified. He lucked out. I was put here before the primaries to make the public think that Lloyd Taylor supports women in government. I was good for a jump in the polls, or so they say, but I’m not sure what else there is.”

  “You’ve got to try,” Elliott said. “Bring it up in staff meetings. Talk to the other Cabinet members. Schedule a meeting with Van Keller or Danahall. They have got to realize that we just can’t let the Russians get away with espionage and murder. We can yell and threaten all we want, but it doesn’t work. It didn’t eight years ago with Kavaznya, and it won’t work now, even with glasnost and perestroika and all the other peaceful coexistence stuff the Soviets have been feeding us. If the President doesn’t want to authorize it he can make it a blind operation—let me loose and I’ll do it and he can deny knowing or authorizing everything.”

  “You can’t do that with this President,” O’Day said. “That might have worked with Iran-Contra, but this Democrat has a very good memory for such screwups, especially by a Republican President. No . . .” O’Day stared at the ceiling. “Taylor is as hard-nosed as they come, and he rarely changes his mind ... This plan ... this operation to get DreamStar. Do you really think you can put it together?”

  “I can get my staff on it—”

  “No. I mean right now. Yes or no—can this J.C. Powell get in and get DreamStar?”

  Elliott hesitated only a moment. “If I get the support from the White House I can get Powell into DreamStar’s cockpit. And I believe he can get DreamStar out.”

  “Okay. I’m on the case. I’ve a plan to shake things up around here. After that I don’t know what will happen. It could blow up in our faces. But I’ll bet it’ll cause the White House at least to rethink its position on letting the Soviets get away with the XF-34.”

  “What are you—?”

  “No questions. Just be ready with a dog-and-pony show for the boss within twenty-four hours, and you better knock his socks off or it’ll be too late for your XF-34. I can’t promise anything except some noise, but like Yogi said, it ain’t over till it’s over. That might even be true for President Lloyd Emerson Tayor the Third.”

  Elliott straightened his right leg, locked it and eased himself to his feet. He extended his hand, O’Day came around her desk and took it. “I bet the woman and the plan are much alike.”

  “Don’t be so sure—about either one, General,” she said. “I’m expecting a few sparks around here. I’m just hoping they don’t hit any vital parts.”

  “Actually,” Elliott said as he turned for the door, “I’m hoping they come too close for comfort.”

  After he left, O’Day returned to her chair and felt a very rare grin on her face. Forget that, she told herself sternly. He may have this domineering presence that seems to fill the room when he enters, but does he really have all his facts together when it came to this DreamStar business? Sure he wants the XF-34 back—that’s understandable. But is he acting like a man with little to lose, who’ll risk a major international incident to get his own way?

  Having asked herself the tough questions, the answers came easy. Elliott wanted DreamStar back because a goddamn mole stole it, because his people got killed. He was willing to fight to get it back, even if his own government disowned him or worse.

  She dialed a number on a private phone that could not be picked up or used by her outer office. “Marty, this is your racquetball partner... yes, I know it’s been a while since we’ve played. It’s been busy ... give me a break. I was appointed by your President, remember? Listen, can we meet for a game? Today, if we can get a court. . . better make it early. You may have a late evening ... you heard me. Can you make it? Good. See you at seven, then . . . no, we can’t count this one. That’s right . . . you’ll find out why. See you.”

  Brooks Medical Facility, San Antonio

  “Edema in her right lung, possibly from inhaling fire or burning debris. We didn’t catch it right away . . .” the doctor was saying as McLanahan and Powell entered the intensive care unit.

  Wendy Tork’s parents were on either side of her. Her hands were heavily bandaged. She had been on a respirator ever since she was found in the crash area, but now there was a different one in place, one to keep her lungs clear of fluid and help her keep breathing. Most of her facial bandages had been removed, exposing ugly burn marks and cuts. Intravenous tubes were feeding glucose and whole blood into her arms. One small vase of flowers rested on a nightstand—ICU would tolerate no more—but Wendy had not yet been conscious to see them or her parents.

  Betty and Joseph Tork glanced at Patrick and J.C. as they came into the room, quickly turned their eyes back to their daughter.

  “Doctor?” McLanahan couldn’t get out the obvious question.

  “She’s a strong woman, Colonel, but her injuries are massive ...” He paused, moved closer to Patrick and lowered his voice. “Did you know she was pregnant?” Wendy’s parents heard the words anyway. “Oh, my God,” Betty Tork said, turned away from Wendy’s bedside and gave in to the tears she’d been fighting back.

  McLanahan could only nod and clench his fists.

  “She suffered severe abdominal injuries . . .”

  Powell stepped firmly between McLanahan and the doctor. “I think that’s enough, doctor. I think we ought to leave,” and he took the doctor’s arm and led him out of the room.

  Patrick, Wendy’s parents and an ICU nurse stood in silence for a long time watching Wendy, listening to the beeps of the body function monitor and the hissing of the respirator. Several times Patrick could see muscles in Wendy’s face or shoulders twitch, and for a brief instant thought that she might be about to wake up.

  Betty Tork noticed her daughter’s movements too. “I wish they’d give her something .. . something to help her relax. It’s so awful seeing her suffer. My daughter is in pain, Colonel Can’t anybody around here do something for her? What kind of hospital is this, anyway?”

  Should he tell her it happened to be the best burn-and- trauma facility in the country? That as long as Wendy kept fighting for her life there was at least hope . . . ? He said nothing.

  “How did this happen, Patrick?” Joe Tork asked. “She was flying the B-52, I know, but how did the crash happen?”

  “I’m sorry, Joe, I can’t—”

  “Don’t give me that crap, McLanahan.” He stood up suddenly, filling the room with his size, but Patrick was immediately drawn to the lines of dried tears in the corners of his eyes. “For the past ten years, Colonel, that’s all I’ve been hearing from her, from you, from everyone at that damn place. When she moved to Vegas it was as if she’d moved to Mars. Now she’s lying in a hospital in Texas probably dying from these horrible injuries and you’re still playing hush-hush games with me? Goddamn, I want some answers—”

  “For God’s sake, Joe, that’s my wife lying there—”

  “She’s your wife? Where’s your ring? Where’s her ring? You got a marriage certificate? We weren’t invited to any wedding . . .”

  “Joe, please . . .”

  “The last we heard, you two weren’t hitting it off all that well. You know what I think? I think you didn’t marry my daughter. I think you’re saying you’re married just so we can’t sue the damned Air Force for the accident. The spouse of a military member can’t sue the government, right?”

  Betty Tork was staring at her husband.

  “This is a rip-off. I was in the Marine Corps for six years, I know about this crap.” Joe Tork moved closer a
nd wrapped his big hands around the lapel of McLanahan’s flight suit. “Answer me, you lying sack of mick shit. Answer me ...”

  Patrick held Joe’s wrists gently as he could. The big exMarine could have taken his frustrations out on Patrick, and for a moment it looked like he might actually swing on him. But at the very moment Patrick thought he might do it, Tork’s big shoulders began to shake. His narrow, angry eyes closed, and his grip began to loosen.

  “Damn it, goddamn it all to hell . . . Wendy . . . she’s been so all-fired independent ever since she was a kid. I’d get letters from Betty when I was in Vietnam telling me how smart and grown up she was. When I got back she wasn’t a kid any more. I never saw her that way . . . Now she’s lying there helpless as a baby and I still can’t do anything for her ...”

  Patrick, feeling the same sense of anger and helplessness, could say nothing. It was Betty who broke the silence. “Patrick, when were you married?”

  “What? Oh, the day before yesterday.” He looked up. “Did they bring in Wendy’s things?”

  “In the closet.”

  He went to the closet and retrieved a cardboard box, took something from the box and returned to Wendy’s bedside. “We’re not allowed to wear rings on the flight line,” he said. “Too dangerous, they say. So we started keeping each other’s ring until we saw each other again.” He opened his hand and revealed a tiny purple velvet bag, loosened a thin gold drawstring, dropped a hammered gold band into his palm, then slipped the ring on his left ring-finger. He then got an identical bag from a flight-suit pocket and took out another hammered-gold band, this one with a gold engagement ring fused to it. He slipped it on Wendy’s finger.

  The three were silent for a while. The ICU nurse came by, checked and recorded the monitor readings and left. “Finally Joe said, “Patrick, I have to know what happened out there? Can’t you tell us anything?”

  “Joe, you know I can’t.”

  “But I’m a vet. I wouldn’t tell anyone . . .”

  “I know, but I still can’t.”

  Tork ran his hands through what little hair was left on his head. “All right. But tell me this, just this one thing, because I’m Wendy’s father. Just promise me you’re going to nail who- ever’s responsible for doing this to my daughter.”

  Patrick’s eyes were fixed on Wendy’s scars and burns, he saw her muscles convulse, heard the sucking sounds as machines drew fluid from her lungs to keep her from drowning.

  “Yes, Joe,” he said in a low voice. “That I can promise you . . .”

  The Kremlin, Moscow, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

  Thursday, 18 June 1996, 2109 EET (1309 EDT)

  Vladimir Kalinin walked briskly into the General Secretary’s office to find several members of the Kollegiya already assembled there, all nervously pacing the floor or circling the conference table. They began to take seats immediately—obviously they had all been waiting for KGB chief Kalinin’s arrival. Boris Mischelevka, the Foreign Minister, sat at the head of the conference table and presided over the meeting.

  “The General Secretary is enroute from West Germany,” Mischelevka began. “He has directed me to begin this meeting and assemble the entire Kollegiya at ten A.M. tomorrow morning when he arrives. He will expect a briefing on our meeting first thing in the morning.

  “This deals, of course, with the incident that took place yesterday morning in the United States. A fighter aircraft was stolen from a top-secret research center and flown through Central America to Nicaragua after a stop in Mexico. Apart from that information we have no details.” Mischelevka turned immediately to Kalinin and asked if he could explain what had happened.

  “I believe this should wait for the General Secretary,” Kalinin said. “I see no reason for three separate meetings.”

  “The reason is simply that the General Secretary wants it,” Mischelevka told him. “Obviously he intends that we be able to explain to the various governments involved what is going on.”

  Kalinin said nothing at first. The Americans called it “dam-

  age control”—everyone get their story straight and coordinated before going outside the government. With foreign journalists flooding Moscow and a press center set up in the Kremlin itself, “damage control” was more and more important nowadays . . . “All I can tell you is that the incident involved a Soviet helicopter and a Soviet airbase in Nicaragua. That is all I can discuss here until I brief the General Secretary.”

  “We need more than that, Kalinin,” Mischelevka said. “I have received a dozen demands for explanations from several countries, including, naturally, the United States. It is important that we respond—”

  “You will respond when the General Secretary decides you will respond. I will not release any information until the classification of that information is determined—”

  “But we must brief—”

  “Brief no one. Is that clear enough?”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Mischelevka asked. “What’s going on? Is this a special KGB operation in Central America? What . . .?”

  “You will please not discuss your opinions of the incident either,” Kalinin snapped. “Say nothing. Glasnost does not apply here.” With that, Kalinin got up and walked out.

  They’re like sheep, Kalinin thought as he quickly exited the dark halls of the Kremlin. They have been lulled into complacency by the garbage that has been fed to them over the years, that openness was good, that secret information is free to all for the asking. They were going to be this government’s downfall . . .

  . . . And when it had fallen, with a little help from patriots like himself, he was going to be the leader of a return to the old, traditional ways, to the future world eminence of the Soviet Union.

  Arlington, Virginia

  Thursday, 18 June 1996, 1905 EDT

  The Barrel Factory Racquet Club used to be just that—an old factory and warehouse that, in pre-Prohibition days, made casks and barrels for beer and wine. It was one of the worst eyesores in the Washington, D.C., area for decades until Arlington’s renaissance in the late 1980s and early nineties, when it was remodeled into a first-class tennis, racquetball and health club. But the area kept its old slum reputation, so the Barrel Factory was having a tough time attracting members.

  But for National Security Adviser Deborah O’Day, the place was perfect for many reasons. The dues were modest, it was easy to get a racquetball court—especially during the week after seven P.M.—and the usual D.C. crowd avoided the place. She could take off the White House senior-staff facade and act like a normal human being, and as such was rarely recognized—all of which made the place ideal for an occasional surreptitious meeting.

  She tossed a couple of the soft blue rubber balls out into the court and chased them, jogging up and down the court to loosen her ankles. She was pleased with how flexible and fit her body was, even at fifty-one. Exercise was never important to her until just before learning that she was being considered for the NSC position. No one much cared what you looked like as U.N. ambassador, but as part of the White House staff her image had to merge much better with that of the President, and that image was relatively young, lean and mean.

  She crash-dieted during her last few weeks in New York, begging off all the bon voyage parties that she could. During the confirmation hearings, she had no time for any meals anyway, so dieting was very easy then. The same was true for her first few months in Washington. Now that the dust had settled a bit, she found that her once-a-week trips to the gym were invaluable and at times virtual life-savers. She enjoyed the challenges, relished the appreciative glances of the men in the club (some less than half her age), and felt good when she looked around the room during the White House staff meetings and knew that she could probably whip half the men in that room on the tennis or squash courts.

  These late-night trips also had other valuable uses—such as tonight.

  She had finished stretching out and had begun hitting the ball around when she heard a tap
behind her. A tall, darkhaired, pear-shaped man in an old gray sweatsuit, elbow and knee pads, brand-new Reebok tennis shoes, wearing eye protectors and carrying an old aluminum-framed racquet, was tapping on the back Plexiglas wall of her court.

  Just as he began tapping again, from seemingly out of nowhere Marine Corps Major Marcia Preston moved behind him. She was dressed in a red jogging suit, a towel wrapped around her neck and carrying an open gym bag—which, Deborah O’Day knew, contained a Browning PM-40B automatic machine pistol with a twenty-round clip and laser sight. The pear-shaped fellow seemed to sense someone behind him and turned to face Marcia. If he made the wrong move, Marcia could disable him in a few seconds or kill him in less time. They exchanged glances, and Marcia Preston never got closer than a few feet from him, but there was no doubt that the man knew he had been efficiently intercepted.

  But at a slight hand motion from O’Day, Marcia moved on past as if she hadn’t noticed he was there. O’Day could see the man nervously swallow, then open the half-size door to the court and step inside. Major Preston went over to the drinking fountain nearby, wandered around looking in the other courts, then disappeared back into her previous unobtrusive hiding place.

  “Marcia is her usual charming self, I see,” the man dead- panned, watching the major’s retreating figure. He was already sweating, and they hadn’t played one point yet. He turned and checked out Deborah O’Day in the same way he had just appraised Marcia Preston. “You’re looking pretty foxy yourself, kid.”

  “Cool it, Marty, let’s play. You warmed up?”

  “For this ridiculous sport, no,” Marty Donatelli said. “For some information, yes.”

  “We can chat while we play. At least pretend to be trying,” she said, gently hitting a ball off the front wall toward Donatelli. “Besides, it’ll do you some good. You could stand to lose a few inches off that middle.”