Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09

by Warrior Class (v1. 1)

  “Let’s stop playing games, Thom," Martindale said angrily. “You called me in here for a reason. Spit it out.”

  “Very well, Mr. President—“

  “And stop with the ‘Mr. President’ shit,” Martindale interjected. “I'm not the president—you are. You have about as much respect for me as I have for you.”

  “All I have to say is this, Kevin: what you're planning to do is dangerous—maybe not to you, but to the men and women you’re recruiting to work with you,” Thom said. “Executive privilege won’t protect you, and the Geneva Conventions won’t protect them. No matter what you do, no matter whom or how it benefits, the United States won’t come to your rescue. As they said in the old TV shows, we’ll disavow any knowledge of your actions. You’ll be nothing more than high-tech vigilantes.”

  “Then do something yourself.” Martindale said, all traces of bravado gone for now. “Sponsor us. Underwrite us. We’ll take the risk, but we’ll do it under your direction. We’ll keep ourselves out of the spotlight, follow the spirit of the law, cooperate as much as possible with domestic and foreign governments. But this isolationist, laissez-faire policy of yours will drag this country down, and someone has to act to protect our vital interests.”

  “You want to follow the law, Kevin? Drop this crazy scheme,” the President said. “You’ve done enough damage as it is already.”

  “We haven’t even begun to fight, Tom,” Martindale said. “You are not going to be able to stop us. You might as well work with us.”

  “Who else is involved in this, Kevin?” Thom asked. “Who in my administration? Which active-duty officers? Which retired officers?”

  “You expect me just to give you a roster?”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Not as far as I can throw you,” Martindale replied. “Of course, if you’d agree to join us, or even not to interfere and to pass us some intelligence information every now and then, perhaps I’d be convinced that you could be trusted.”

  “I’m not going to spar with you, Kevin,” Thom said. “I’ll assume you have some sort of ultraminiature recording device on you. It doesn’t matter. I’ll say this plainly: I’ll oppose anyone who wants to conduct their own foreign or military policy. I don’t know if what you’re doing is illegal or not—that’s a question for the Justice Department. But if you give me the names of all your members, and if Justice deems your operation illegal, which I think they will—”

  “Of course they will. The Attorney General works for the President,” Martindale interjected. “I know how that works, Thom, remember? I played that game. The Justice Department doesn't stand for ‘justice’—it stands for whatever the White House stands for. Justice’s job is to make the laws fit the wishes of the White House.”

  “—then I'll give the participants you list one free pass. No judicial punishment. They'll be allowed to go free if they keep their noses clean.”

  “I’ll give you an offer in return,” Martindale said. “You continue to do whatever the hell it is you do in this place, whatever your pointed little head tells you is the will of the people. When Russia invades Turkey or Ukraine or Georgia, when China tries to invade Taiwan or take over the South China Sea again, if Iran tries to take over the Persian Gulf or Red Sea, and suddenly the bad guys mysteriously start losing ships and planes and bases, you just keep swearing that the United States isn’t doing anything. You promise to investigate the matter, then simply drop it.

  “Every now and then, your folks pick up the phone and toss us some information or a few old satellite photos or EM intercepts. Nothing direct—a file carelessly left on a desk, a fax or e-mail to a wrong address, an intel package or classified situation report mysteriously delayed a few minutes on its way from the Pentagon to the White House. You continue to deny everything, chastise the press for spreading accusations and being alarmist, and continue on your merry mission of burying your head in the sand. Someone else will take care of all the messes in the world.”

  “You think this is a big joke, eh, Martindale?” Thom responded. “I assure you, this is a very serious situation. I can pick up the phone and have you arrested right now. The FBI will eventually find the rest of the members of your little gun club. You'll be disgraced and vilified for the rest of your life. Your participants' lives and careers will be ruined.”

  “Thom, don't be an ass,” Martindale admonished him. “You know as well as I do that nothing will be proven. You will have arrested, harassed, and slandered a former president of the United Slates, and none of the accusations will be found to be true. Congress will completely abandon you—you'll have zero chance of getting one piece of legislation passed. You’ll be even more of a laughingstock than you are now.”

  “I’m giving you one last chance, Kevin,’’ Thom said. “Abandon this crazy scheme. Tell me who your main officers are, and they’ll be exempt from prosecution one time only, after we sit down with them and advise them of the trouble they’re in and the punishment awaiting them if they’re found guilty.”

  Martindale looked at Thom for what seemed like a long time, then shrugged his shoulders. “It was nice talking with you, Thom,” he said, as he extended his hand to the President. “Your naivete is exceeded only by your dedication to your convictions. Maybe you really are the reincarnation of Thomas Jefferson, like all the weirdos claim you are.”

  Thom looked disappointed, but he shook hands with Martindale nonetheless. “It was nice talking to you, too, sir,” he said. “I don’t envy the path you’ve chosen for yourself and your misguided followers. I predict it will be long and difficult.”

  “Sure,” Martindale said, as he headed for the door. “Burn some incense for me when you’re done communing with nature. Meanwhile, I’ve got work to do.”

  North. Las Vegas, Nevada

  That evening

  Duane Deverill popped open the bottle of Duckhom Merlot and poured, finishing with a flourish. “There you go,” he said proudly. “A pretty good ’95. Should go well with dinner tonight.”

  Annie Dewey had arrived a few minutes earlier, still in her flight suit. She plopped her briefcase down on the sofa table. “Sounds great,” she said distractedly, unzipping the flight suit to her waist “What are you fixing?”

  “Fixing? Me? Sorry, babe, but I called Pizza Hut. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Heck no,” she said. “Red wine and pizza are my favorites.” He came over to her with a glass of wine, touched rims, then gave her a kiss before they drank.

  “Here’s to you,” he said. After he took a sip, he added rakishly, “Hey, that was nice.”

  She smiled enticingly, but pushed him away. “Sorry. I need a shower first. I smell like I just got done with a week in the cockpit instead of just three hours."

  “Allow me." He sat her down on the couch, removed her flying boots and socks, then helped her slip out of the flight suit. She wore a white T-shirt atop an athletic bra. and cotton panties. Smiling mischievously, he then started at her toes, kissing and sucking them, then moved up her leg to her waist, then her belly, then back down to her waist.

  She gently but firmly lifted his head. “Shower first, okay?” He smiled back at her, but his eyes registered his concern. “Sure." He let her up off the couch, then watched as she collected her flying gear. “Everything okay?”

  She half turned tow ard him and nodded. “Everything's fine. I guess I'm just tired. Long day today.” She turned to face him and smiled wearily. “You're wonderful, you know that?”

  “That's what I've been saying!" Dev said happily. He took a sip of wine and watched Annie as she headed off toward his bathroom, shedding the rest of her underwear. “Well, wine can definitely wait.” He kicked off his sandals and pulled his T-shirt off with one hand. “I’ll join you."

  But at that exact moment, the doorbell rang. Dev made a big, demonstrative pantomime of disappointment, punching and kicking the air in mock animal frustration. “We’ll reheat it. Don’t worry. You go ahead and start, and I�
��ll be right there.” He collected cash from his wallet and went to the door, mentally calculating the amount and the tip and getting the cash ready in his hand to hurry things up as he opened the door . . . . and saw Colonel David Luger standing there. He shook off the confusion and embarrassment quickly. “Hello, sir.”

  “Dev.” Luger noticed that Deverill was definitely blocking not just his way but his view of his apartment, so he didn’t try to look around him. “Could you ask Annie to come out to the patio and have a few words with me?”

  “Maybe," Dev said.

  “Maybe?”

  Dev eyed Luger suspiciously. “We heard that you were decertified. sir.” he said. “The last we heard, you were being evaluated at Brooks for delayed stress syndrome.”

  “Something like that.”

  “You on medication?”

  “None of your business.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, sir,” Deverill said. “You’re at my house, we’re not in uniform, and Annie’s a friend and my aircraft commander. It is my business.” He looked carefully into Luger’s eyes. He couldn’t tell if Luger was on antidepressants or sedatives—he looked perfectly normal—but he knew he was no expert. “Were you discharged from Brooks? Are you coming back to the Lake?”

  “Ask her to come out here, please,” Luger said.

  “When were you released from Brooks, Colonel?” Dev asked. “Or ... were you released from Brooks?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “Hostile, Colonel, very hostile,” Deverill said. “Could it be possible you broke out of the hospital? Maybe I should call the sky cops and ask them.”

  “Do what you want. Just ask Annie to come out here.”

  “I don't think so,” Deverill said. “If you’re okay and you’ve been released from Brooks, you can see Annie at the Lake tomorrow. But if not... you might be dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? What the hell do you mean? What do you think you’re doing?” He saw Luger’s face and neck muscles tense up.

  He went on full alert, eyes narrowed, measuring Luger up. They were of equal height; Luger was younger, but Dev had at least forty pounds on him. “I don't think I like your tone of voice, sir. I’m asking you to leave.”

  “I asked you to ask Annie to come out and talk with me,” David said evenly, controlling his temper. Dev stood his ground. He knew he had absolutely nothing to stand on—if Dev said no, that was it, unless Annie herself knew he was here. He raised his voice and peered over Dev’s left shoulder, “Annie, it’s David. Would you come talk to me?”

  Dev put his hands on Luger’s chest and tried to push him away from the door. “I asked you to leave, Luger. Now I’m telling you—get out.”

  Luger swept Deverill’s hands away from his chest with a speed that surprised him. “Don’t push me, Deverill.”

  “Don't raise your voice at me in my own house, Luger," Deverill snapped.

  “David?" Annie was standing behind Dev in the doorway, wearing one of Dev’s tank tops, which barely covered her bikini bathing suit bottoms. “What are you doing here?”

  “Annie, I want to—“

  “I told you to leave, sir,” Deverill said, quickly restoring his polite but firm, protective voice. It was too late to try to keep them apart. He turned to Annie. “The colonel is being loud and rude, and he’s not being very straightforward about his mental condition.”

  “His mental condition?" Annie charged to the front door and tried to push Dev away. “Dev, move aside ...”

  “This is not a good idea, Heels,” Dev said. He had one more chance to break the bond that still existed between these two, and he decided in that instant to go for it. “I think he broke out of whatever medical mental exam program he was going through. I think he’s AWOL. Look at his eyes—I think he’s on drugs. He came up here looking for you and itching for a fight.”

  “Screw you. Deverill.”

  “Tell her. Colonel,” Deverill goaded him. “Tell her. Are you supposed to be here? Or are you AWOL?”

  “Fuck you, Deverill!”

  Deverill couldn't believe it—maybe he had happened on the real reason for how Luger was here. Could it be that Luger really had escaped from Brooks? Had they had him in the loony bin, or almost there, and he’d escaped? “Which is it, sir? Are you on drugs? Did you break out of custody somewhere?”

  “Dev, stop it!” Annie shouted. “What are you doing?”

  “You want to take me out now, don’t you. Colonel?” Dev shouted. “You gonna take a shot at me?”

  He did. It came out of nowhere, with a snap that surprised Deverill again, even though he was on full alert and he had already seen Luger move once tonight. The blow landed on the left side of Dev’s face, staggering him.

  “David!” Annie cried. She helped Dev into the living room, holding his face. There was a drop of blood coming out of the corner of his left eye. “David, are you crazy?” David Luger's face went blank, and his mouth dropped open in surprise. Her face registered surprise when she realized what she'd said. “I... I didn't mean that...” she stammered. “David ...”

  “I'm leaving, Annie,” he said in a low, solemn voice. The sight of her in his shirt, fresh out of the shower, from his shower, holding his face, was almost too much for him to bear, “I won’t be back.”

  “D-David? Where are you going?”

  “Away.”

  “Where? I don't understand.”

  “There’s nothing to understand, Annie,” Luger said. “I just came here to say good-bye.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I can’t tell you. Annie.” he replied, the hurt obvious in his eyes. “But I’ll be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “David, you're scaring me. Tell me what’s going on. Please.”

  “Good-bye, Annie,” he said. Annie wanted to get up and follow him, but Dev grasped her wrist, and it froze her. Luger didn’t seem like he was on any kind of drugs, not agitated or wild at all—in fact, he seemed very calm. Too calm. What in hell was going on?

  “Will I ever see you again, David?” she asked. But he said nothing, only turned and walked down the stairs and out to the parking lot until he was out of sight.

  Sky Masters Inc. Corporate Headquarters, Arkansas International Jetport,

  Blytheville, Arkansas

  Several days later

  Little Bradley J. McLanahan couldn’t take his eyes off the big Sky Masters Inc. DC-10, brightly illuminated by banks of ballpark lights, as the last forklifts moved away and the big port- side cargo doors motored closed. He pulled on his mother’s blue jeans. “Are we going flying, Mommy?”

  “Not tonight, honey,” Wendy replied. “Daddy’s going flying tonight.”

  “I need to go flying,” he protested. The big cargo plane/tanker/command aircraft started up its fuselage engine. He turned to Patrick, realized he had not made his request politely, and pleaded, “Please, can I go flying with you, Daddy?”

  “Not tonight, big guy,” Patrick replied, “When I get home, we’ll go fly the 210, okay?” But his son’s attention was fully riveted on the DC-10, saving Patrick’s heartstrings from his son’s earnest pleading.

  “Stealing away in the middle of the night,” Wendy said to Patrick. “This can’t be right if we have to sneak away like this.”

  “President Martindale said go, so we’re going,” Patrick said. “I just wish you were coming along.”

  “Jon’s still got a business to run,” Wendy said. “Helen and I are it.”

  “Just until things cool down.”

  “Then I think you’ll be gone an awful long time.” Wendy said, “because I think things have barely begun to warm up.” She sighed, then asked. “Any idea where you’ll be?”

  ‘Turkey or Ukraine,” Patrick replied. “We won’t make the final decision until we depart our refueling stop, either in Spain or Belgium.”

  “I feel like we’re being pursued harder than the guy we’re trying to stop.”

  “We ar
e—for now,” Patrick said. “Something will happen soon. My guess is that we’ll get a sanction from the White House. Kevin will eventually make President Thorn realize we’re not a threat to him or his administration.” They heard the port engine on the DC-10 spool up. which was a signal to board. “I’d better go.” He kissed his son on the cheek, then gave Wendy a hug and a kiss.

  “I wish I was coming along,” Wendy said. “No, actually, I wish we weren't doing this. For some reason, it seems wrong.”

  “I don’t know if it’s wrong or not,” Patrick said as he hugged her tightly. “I wish I knew,”

  “Just be safe, then.”

  “I will.” He kissed her one last time, then pulled away and headed for the airstairs. He took a seat near David Luger, Jon Masters, Hal Briggs, Chris Wohl, and Marcia Preston. Moments later, the starboard engine fired up. and they began taxiing for takeoff.

  Patrick was just settling into his palletized passenger seat when he heard via his subcutaneous transceiver: “Patrick, this is Wendy. I see three helicopters in formation coming in low over the airport. No marking that we can see.”

  At that same moment, Patrick heard on the cabin intercom: “General McLanahan, you’d better get up here.”

  Patrick raced for the cockpit. Through the windscreen he saw the helicopters as they raced in at treetop level from the southwest. They broke formation, so Patrick could see only one of them.

  “Who are they?” the DC-l0’s copilot asked—then blanched as he heard an announcement on the emergency UHF frequency. “Oh. shit...”

  The flight engineer handed Patrick a headset. “You'd better listen to this, sir,” he said.

  “Attention Sky Masters DC-10 taxiing for takeoff, this is the FBI,” Patrick heard. “You are hereby ordered to stop immediately and shut down your engines. Repeat, stop and shut down immediately.”

  “What do we do, sir?” the pilot asked.

  “Keep going,” Patrick replied. “Take the next taxiway onto the runway, get airborne as soon as you can.”

  “We’re pretty close to gross weight, sir,” the engineer said. “An intersection takeoff won’t give us enough accelerate-stop distance.”