“And you had better stay out of mine, Kazakov," Rokov said.
“Zamyechateel'niy,” Kazakov said. “Very good. I see we understand each other perfectly.”
Rokov maintained eye contact with Kazakov for a long moment, but eventually stepped away to supervise the mopping- up operation. Minutes later, more troops started to arrive; already, the first few American soldiers were being herded into the parking lot, hands on top of their heads like captured prisoners of war.
Yes, the operation was indeed going quite well. Kazakov could easily envision the pumping and transfer station right here. The terrain climbed rather steeply just west of here on its way into the Lake Ohrid area, and a pumping station was necessary' to get it up and over. Knock a few of these rotting flooded-out buildings down, use the rubble to raise and grade the elevation, and it would work out perfectly. What did these peasants need with a school here? Resen was only fifteen miles away—they had plenty of schools there they could attend.
With luck, he was back on schedule and marching forward nicely to completion. No use in letting a few Americans get in the way.
Coronado, California
The next evening
His son’s eyes lit up like on Christmas morning as Patrick pulled the suit from its hanging bag. The overhead lights made the stars on the shoulders and the wings on the left breast pocket sparkle. “Woo-oo,” Brad said. “You got a nice suit there. Daddy.”
“Thanks, big guy,” Patrick said.
He pointed at the command navigator wings, a pair of Air Force silver eagle’s wings with the rampart crest in the center shield and a wreathed star on top. “You going fly-ning?” Bradley asked.
“They’re going to fly me to Washington.”
“You going to meetings? You going to give a bree-fling?” Bradley didn't wait for the answer, having decided that when Daddy brought the blue suit instead of the green, that it was going to be meetings and briefings. He grabbed one of Patrick’s Corfram shoes and pretended it was an airplane, zooming it up and down the uniform and across the Rollaboard suitcase Patrick was packing. “Time to give a bree-tling again!”
“What are you going to do while I'm in Washington?” Patrick asked. “What arc your standing orders while I’m gone?”
‘Take care of Mommy, do as Mommy says, be a good boy, and ... and ..”
“One more. And think—”
“And think about Daddy!” Bradley said triumphantly.
“Very good, big guy,” Patrick said. “High five.” Patrick held up a hand, and Bradley slapped it.
The little boy dropped the shoe he had been playing with onto his father’s left foot and wrapped his arms around Patrick’s leg. “I love you, Daddy,” he said, except it sounded more like, “I wuv you. Daddy.”
Patrick picked up his son and hugged him tightly—he knew exactly what he had said. “And Daddy loves you, son,” he replied.
“You do good in Wash-ton,” Bradley said, punctuating his suggestion with an upraised index finger.
Patrick tried to sound upbeat. He smiled and said, “I’ll do good, big guy.”
Bradley wriggled out of his dad’s arms, picked up the shoe, then rubbed his eye with his free hand and gave the shoe to Patrick. “I’m really tired,” he said, leading the way to his bedroom. “Maybe it’s time for bed.”
“Good idea, tiger.” Patrick followed his son into his bedroom and watched as his son lowered his pull-up diapers so he could check to see if they were wet, climbed up on the stool next to the sink for a drink of water, then carried his stool over to the bed so he could climb in. Patrick tried to put him under the covers without his tattered old blanket, but his son automatically curled up atop the covers with his blanket underneath him and his butt in the air.
He pushed away from the bed long enough to give his father a kiss good-night, then plopped back down. “You do good tomorrow. Daddy,” Bradley said. “And turn out the light, please.”
“Good night, big guy.” Bradley peeked at his father over the safety rail to his bed, then smiled and giggled as his father turned back and gave his son a thumbs-up just before he shut off the lights.
Do good tomorrow, Daddy, he said. Yeah, right, Patrick thought.
Patrick joined Wendy in the living room of their high-rise condo overlooking the city of San Diego. Wendy Tork McLanahan had dimmed the lights so that the only illumination in the room was from the city lights filtering through a thin marine layer that had crept over San Diego Bay. She had poured two glasses of Silver Oak Cabernet Sauvignon and had loosened her wavy brunette hair and let it cascade over one of his Sacramento Kings basketball team jerseys—Patrick noticed with a grin that the jersey and a smile was all she wore. He went to her, handed her a glass, and sat beside her. Their glasses touched, and then their lips.
“Bradley blows me away with how much he seems to know and realize,” Patrick said. “I think he’s psychic sometimes.”
“He’s our son—what did you expect?” Wendy said with a warm smile. She had been a civilian electronic warfare engineer when she'd met Patrick McLanahan at Dreamland, and since that day their lives had been tightly intertwined—with each other, and with the top-secret research facility in the Nevada desert. If predicted that Bradley would someday be the next Edison or Bill Gates, most folks who knew Bradley’s parents would not disagree. '"The little monster actually sent an e-mail to your mother the other day.”
“He what?”
“He sent an e-mail,” Wendy said. “No kidding. I know he’s watched me send messages and repons to Jon on the computer a thousand times, but I thought he was only waiting until he could play ‘Freddie Fish' or ‘Pajama Sam’ or some other game. He absorbed all he needed to know and sent your mother a page of gibberish—with a ‘Classified’ cover page on it.” “That’s my boy,” Patrick said proudly. He took a sip of wine and tried to relax.
“Did you talk with Dr. Canfield today?” she asked.
“Yes—twice,” Patrick said. Colonel Bruce Canfield was the Director of Aviation Neuropsychology at Brooks Air Force Base near San Antonio, Texas, the center in charge of evaluating David Luger following his incident at Dreamland. “David is still undergoing tests, but he thinks it’s a case of something called delayed adjustment disorder. David’s memory of past incidents while in the Soviet Union—probably first activated by the Ukrainian crews we’ve been working with, then cued up again by Samson telling him he might be unbalanced and needing psychological help—activated a stress defense mechanism in his mind. He was able to shut off all external sensory inputs to free him from physical, emotional, and psychological damage.” /‘My God, it sounds horrible. Does he think he’ll be all right*?” “Too early to say,” Patrick said. “Adjustment disorder is usually treated by medication at first, which disqualifies Dave from flying and laboratory work. But he also said that adjustment disorders are one of the few conditions that don’t automatically keep a person from resuming his duties once the treatment has concluded, and that includes flying. It’s a relatively common condition, especially among the military, and Canfield says counseling and treatment are usually very successful. Patients have an excellent chance of recovery.”
“That's good news." Wendy kept silent for a few long moments, then leaned back against him and wrapped his arm around her body. “I did some checking—there’s room on that flight for me and Brad," Wendy said.
“I just put him to bed, sweetheart."
“Bradley would be oveijoyed to fly along with you no matter what time it was/’ Wendy reminded him. “The Sky Masters apartment in Crystal City is available, too. I’m ready to go. What do you say?"
“Sweetheart, this thing could either be over in a day, or it’ll have just begun, in which case I'll be right back home," Patrick said. “There’s no use dragging you away from work and Brad away from preschool to spend two entire days on a plane. Let me meet with the Area Defense Counsel, do the preliminaries, and find out where I stand."
“Jon called again and offere
d his entire legal staff to help you,” Wendy added. “I’m sure the chief Area Defense Counsel of the Air Force is good, but Jon can have a dozen of the best litigators and legal researchers at your side with one phone call. Why not at least talk to them?"
Patrick shook his head. “You know I’m not allowed to talk with contractors about Air Force matters outside of their contracts, or accept any gifts or favors,” he said. “Staying in the Sky Masters condo, even if you accompanied me there, would look pretty suspicious. Our relationship with Jon and Sky Masters is too cozy already, without him sending in his legal sharks to help me work over the Air Force.”
“That is not what would happen, and that’s not what Jon’s offering.”
“I know, I know. But still... I don’t know, Wendy. Something’s happening here. Things are changing.”
“What do you mean, Patrick?”
He searched his feelings for several long moments, then took another sip of wine and shrugged. “Wendy, I did what I always do—I’m faced with a problem, a crisis, and I did something about it the best way I knew how with the resources I had. Ten years ago, that was okay. Today, I’m being court-martialed for it. Things have changed. I have a feeling that either I need to change with it, or I’ll... cease to exist.” He put on his far-away look, his ‘thousand-yard stare," as if silently querying the faces of his dead friends for help in finding answers. “I’m not sure if I want to fight the court-martial and retire, or fight it and win, or fight it and go to prison."
Wendy looked truly surprised. “Why in hell not?"
“Because it feels to me like there’s an alternative life out there, a path opening up for me, and I’ll miss it if I do what everyone expects and fight it. If I allow whatever happens to happen. I think I’ll be happier."
“This doesn’t sound like the Patrick McLanahan I know."
“It doesn’t sound like him to me either," Patrick said honestly. “I know I have friends, and I think I have friends I don’t know, enough to take on even the Pentagon. But if I can’t see the path I'm meant to take, I don’t think starting a brush fire will help me find it." He held Wendy tighter "l know I'm supposed to be talking to you about what I’ll say once I get to Washington, that we should discuss and decide this as a family. I also know that I’m supposed to have a plan, an idea of what I want out of my own career and my own life. But truthfully, I have no idea what I’ll do. All I’m sure about is that I don’t want to march into the Pentagon with a bunch of civilian lawyers and try to engage the brass in combat. I'm not afraid of losing—I’m afraid of creating so much smoke and confusion that I won’t see the path I want." Wendy’s body appeared tense, and the fingers stroking his thighs seemed stiff and aimless. “What is it, sweetie?"
“I have a feeling you’re... tired, that’s all,” Wendy said. “You’re tired of the bureaucracy, tired of the fighting, tired of jeopardizing your life over and over again in secret. I wish you could rest, but I know you’re not ready to rest. All I see is the good you’ve done and the contribution to national security you could make, a contribution that doesn’t include having your friends turn on you." She turned to face him. ‘Terrill offered you a chance to retire, an honorable discharge with your current rank and time in service, and have your record expunged I know he gave you a deadline, but I think with your record of achievements and service to the country, that the offer will stand a while longer. I think you should take it."
“And come to work for you, Jon, and Helen?"
“You’d be a vice president of a major high-tech firm again, getting paid twice what you earn as a one-star general, with better benefits, and with stock options that would double in value every two years," Wendy said. "Jon tells me six times a day he wants you back—he’s got an office, a car, a plane, your e-mail mailbox, and a locker in the gym ready for you. He’s even given you a staff and projects to get started on, in anticipation. Yes, I’d say he wants you back in the worst way.” Wendy lowered her eyes, as if considering her words carefully, then looked at her husband again. “I know you’re not a prideful man, Patrick, but I can’t help feeling that part of this has to do w ith you feeling you were right to turn around and fly back to Russia to protect Annie and Dev, that you shouldn’t be getting punished for doing what you did. I think you’re fighting this to protect your principles.”
"Do you think I was wrong?”
"Don’t you see, Patrick?” Wendy asked, almost pleading. "It doesn’t matter. You did it and saved your friends. That’s all that matters. You tell me a dozen times a year that Congress or the Air Force could close down Dreamland at any time and give all of you involuntary retirements. You tell me one slip-up, one crash, one more security breach, and you’d all be gone. Half of our salary goes into mutual funds and money market accounts every month because you anticipate everything ending suddenly. When Thomas Thom got into the White House, you thought your dismissal was imminent.”
"So?”
"So all that time, you were emotionally and mentally prepared for a sudden, perhaps unhappy end. Now, all of a sudden, you’re not ready. You’re fighting it. Why? It’s not your family— you’ve prepared us well for the day you'd leave the service, or the day you would never come home from a mission. Now, you’re not ready. What changed?” Patrick took another sip of wine, then angrily drained the glass and got to his feet. Wendy saw the stem look in his face, and knew she had hit on the source of his anger. "Terrill Samson, right? You feel betrayed by him. He was a student of Brad Elliott, just like you, and he’s in charge of HAWC. and you thought you’d be more ideologically in sync. That’s it, isn’t it?”
"Maybe a little,” Patrick said. "I knew from the beginning Terrill didn’t have the fire in his gut that Brad did—hell, who does?”
“You do.”
‘But they didn’t make me commander of HAWC—they made him commander,” Patrick said bitterly. “But that’s not who betrayed me.”
“Who is it, then ?”
“Thom—Thomas Nathaniel Thom, the damned President of the United States,” Patrick replied angrily. “TNT, the Young Turk, the New Age president, the assassin from Desert Storm turned peacenik isolationist. He doesn't bother to show himself to the American people. Doesn’t show up for his inauguration, doesn’t show for the State of the Union speech. All this crap about doing away w ith the Army, with not having any troops stationed overseas, with not guaranteeing the security of any foreign nation—it's driving me crazy. I feel like my country’s going down the toilet and 1 can’t do a thing about it. Thom is the one who encourages commanders like Terrill Samson to turn their backs on their friends and get rid of their warriors, just like he’s turning his back on our allies and kicking our soldiers out onto the street.”
“So you think you’re going to Washington to fight the President of the United States?” Wendy asked incredulously. “Patrick, you have got to think a little clearer right now. You can't go to Washington with a chip on your shoulder. There are too many folks there, wearing too many stars, ready—some eager—to knock that chip off for you, long before you ever reach Sixteen Hundred Pennsylvania Avenue. Even Brad Elliott never had the nerve to take on the White House.”
She stood with him, took his hands, and looked deeply into his eyes. “I'm being selfish now, Patrick, but I think I’ve earned the right to say this: think about your family before you say one word there tomorrow. Whatever the reasons you feel right now. I’m telling you, forget your feelings and your anger and think about your son and me. If you lose, you’ll go to prison. Your son will visit you in Leavenworth, along with all the other wrecked military lives, and he’ll see you like he’ll see them. How will you explain that what you were fighting for was right? How long will it take even our intelligent son to understand? You may be justified and you may even truly be right, but you’ll be in prison as surely as if you were wrong. Julius Caesar is a fine heroic play, but it’s still a tragedy, because the hero is destroyed at the end,”
Patrick could not look at her.
but he didn’t have to. She embraced him tightly, warmly, then kissed his lips. “‘You’d better get going,” she said simply, and turned and left for the bedroom.
Nellis AFB, near Las Vegas, Nevada
That same time
“Shto bi khaoteeteye? What in hell do you want?” David Luger exclaimed over the phone. “I can’t believe you called me here. Are you trying to make me jump in front of a train or something?”
“Calm yourself. Colonel,” Colonel-General Roman Smoliy, chief of the Ukrainian Air Force, said from his Distinguished Visitors suite at Nellis Air Force Base. “This is important and has nothing to do with you.” He was calling on a secure line set up in his room—if it was tapped by the Americans, it was tapped, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“So what is it?” Luger asked. He plopped down on his bed, almost unable to move but not daring to miss a word either. Luger was in a visiting officers’ room at Brooks Air Force Base near San Antonio, Texas, undergoing a three-day series of tests by the Aeromedical Consultation Services, as a prelude to a full workup by the Aviation Neuropsychiatry Department of the Air Force Hospital, to discover exactly what had caused his sudden paralysis episode. “Shto eta znachyeet?”
“Stop talking Russian to me, damn you. Colonel,” Smoliy snapped. “You are no longer a Soviet prisoner, and I am no longer working for a Soviet research laboratory. I am Ukrainian, and you are American.”
Luger took a deep breath, silently chastising himself for his strange and unexplainable confusion in time and space. “What do you want?”
“I need information,” Smoliy said. “The Turks are hurrying out of here as fast as they can pack up, but I cannot find out a thing. General McLanahan is gone, home I think, and General Samson is not saying a word. This whole place is going upside-down. You are the only high-ranking person I could find.”
“I’m not exactly in the loop right now either. General,” Luger admitted.
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