Warrior Class

by Dale Brown

  "How in hell did they know the plane came from Dreamland?" Falke asked.

  "Because the President told them, sir," Patrick replied. "What? 11

  "He's right," General Hayes said. "The President told Russian president Sen'kov everything when he called them asking that our guys not get shot down." He looked at his staff officers, then at Patrick, and added, "But it was supposed to be kept secret. That was the deal-we don't tell what we knew about the Metyor- 179, and they don't tell about our Vampires overflying Russia."

  "That's what the CIC gets for making a deal like that with the Russians," Muskoka said bitterly. "So what do we recommend to the JCS and SecDef9"

  "First, we'll need a list of all the classified subsystems on

  that plane," Hayes said. "What else will the Russians find out about along with LADART'

  "I can brief you on all the subsystems of the Vampire-I've worked on it for several years," Patrick said. Hayes just glared at him. He knew he was the best choice to get the information for them quickly, but he also did not want to have to rely on a man they were possibly about to court-martial.

  "What about destroying the wreckage?" Falke suggested. "Have a special ops team go in and destroy the classified gear?"

  "It may not be necessary, sir," Patrick said. "The best the Russians or anyone else will be able to do is reverse-engineer the basic design. If the Russians tried to put a current through any component after a crash, the firmware is designed to dump fake computer code and viruses into the detection-and-analysis machines they use. If the computers they use are networkedand the systems are designed to wait until they encounter a networked computer-the viruses will spread through the entire network in milliseconds. We may want to consider sending in a team to make the Russians think we want to destroy the equipment-have the team get intercepted just before they go in and pull them out, make the Russians think they stopped us. But it may not be worth risking a team penetrating a Russian intelligence laboratory for real."

  Hayes looked at McLanahan closely, studying him. He appeared as if he was impressed and disappointed all at the same time. "Good point-and good planning on your part, General," he said.

  "The question remains, sir-what about the Russian stealth bomber?" McLanahan asked.

  "What about it?" Muskoka asked.

  "It's still out there, and it's a major threat," McLanahan maintained. "We've proven that it committed that attack on that factory in Albania, we've put it in the exact vicinity of the NATO AWACS plane that was shot down over Macedonia, and we have credible evidence that it was involved in the raid on Albanian and Macedonian border forces that started the war. If the President made a deal not to reveal the existence of the

  stealth bomber, the Russians broke that agreement. We should not only spill the beans about the Russian stealth bomber, but we should be going after it."

  " 'Go after it,' " Muskoka breathed. "That seems to be your answer for everything, McLanahan-just 'go after it.' Bomb the crap out of everything in sight."

  "How do you propose we 'go after it'?" Hayes asked. "We have to find a way to draw it into a fight."

  "How do we do that? Bomb a Russian air base hoping to hit it? Bomb Moscow until Sen'kov coughs it up to us?" "President Sen'kov may not know anything about the

  plane," Patrick said. "We know the plane was activated shortly after the death of Colonel Kazakov in Kosovo. We know that Kazakov's son Pavel owns the factory that makes the plane. The stealth fighter was in storage until Kazakov came to see Fursenko at Zhukovsky. After that, the plane was launched and hasn't been seen since-and at the same time, all these attacks in the Balkans have taken place."

  "I'm not following you, McLanahan," Hayes said. "What makes you think the Russian government doesn't know about the stealth fighter?"

  "They could know about it, but not be in control of it," Patrick said. "The stealth fighter at Metyor was never delivered to the Russian or Soviet air force. The only pilots ever to fly it worked for Metyor, not the air force."

  "Or this could be some elaborate fantasy of yours," Muskoka said. "I don't believe anyone-not the Russians, not Kazakov, no one-would be crazy enough to fly a stealth bomber all over eastern Europe and attack military and civilian targets without proper authorization from the highest levels in government. The political and military consequences would be enormous. He'd be playing with fire."

  Patrick looked directly at General Muskoka and said with a slight-Hayes would have said "evil"-grin: "I did it, sir." Muskoka looked angry enough to bite through the confer-

  ence table. "And look what's happening to you, McLanahanyou're about to be shit-canned."

  "Sir, do you think a gangster like Pavel Kazakov is worried about being 'shit-canned'?"

  "I think you'd better worry about yourself McLanahan," Muskoka said.

  "That's enough," General Hayes said, after seeing that neither Muskoka nor

  McLanahan were going to back down from this argument. He stood and stepped away from the conference table toward the door to his office, motioning for Patrick to follow him. He then stepped toward him and in a low voice said, "You and your teams have done some good work, McLanahan, good stuff."

  "Sir, someone has got to do something about that stealth fighter," Patrick maintained. "I know it's the key to everything that's happening in the Balkans right now."

  "We'll deal with that when the time comes, Patrick," Hayes said. "We're dealing with you now." Patrick looked deflated, disappointed that his efforts were all in vain. "I'm told you didn't agree to put in your papers and punch out. Why?"

  "Because I've still got a lot of work to do, sir," Patrick said. "I've got a unit to train and a center to run, and there's a Russian warplane out there trying to set Europe on fire while we twiddle our thumbs and toes and pretend it doesn't matter to us anymore. I'm ready to get back to work."

  "That's not going to happen, McLanahan," Hayes said seriously. "SecDef and the JCS left the question about what to do with you up to the Air Force, and SecAF left it up to me. I've thought about it long and hard. You've done a lot of extraordinary things for the United States and the Air Force, McLanahan. You deserve a whole lot better.

  "But Terrill Samson is one of our finest officers as well. If I thought there was one milligram of malice in these charges, I'd dismiss them in the blink of an eye. I've spoken with Terrill a half-dozen times in the past two days, and so has most of my staff, and we all agree: the charges are real, and so are the crimes. I'm sorry, McLanahan.

  "I'm going to repeat what you've heard today a dozen times at least: request early retirement and you'll get it, with full rank and time in service, an honorable discharge, and all traces of these charges completely expunged. Fight it, talk to the press, or file a countersuit, and you'll end up in Leavenworth for seven years, a Big Chicken Dinner, reduction in grade, and

  fines." The "Big Chicken Dinner," as Patrick knew too well now, meant a Bad Conduct Discharge-the kiss of death for any ex-military officer seeking a civilian job much above short-order cook. Jester could see the hesitation in McLanahan's face. "You don't think you did anything wrong, do you, McLanahan?"

  "No, I don't, sir," Patrick replied.

  "Then I'm sure you've been in Dreamland too long," the chief of staff said. "Because if any other crewdog did this to his wing commander, he'd be court-martialed within twenty-four hours, and you know it. If one of your officers did it to you, you'd see to it that they were grounded permanently. Am I wrong?"

  "Yes, sir," Patrick said. Hayes's eyes were wide with surprise, then narrowed in anger and suspicion. "Sir, in my world, we reward airmen that show creativity, initiative, and courage. In the flight test world, we build a game plan, and we go out and fly the plan-but we leave it up to the crew to decide whether or not it's time to push the envelope a little. All of our crews are tough, smart, and highly skilled operators. If we tell them to try a launch at Mach one point two and they get there and they think the plane and the weapon can handle one point five, they'll ta
ke it to one point five. We don't punish them for breaking with the program."

  "But you weren't flying a test mission, McLanahan. . . "Sir, every mission for us is the same--our job is to get the mission done, no matter what it takes. We at Dreamland are not just program managers or engineers. Our job is to test the new generation of aircraft and weapons in every conceivable way. If we do our job, some crewdog in a line unit may not get his ass shot down because he thought he had to slow down or climb to employ his weapons or get out of a hostile situation."

  "I say again, McLanahan-you weren't in a flight test situation," Hayes emphasized. "You were on a support mission that depended on stealth and strict adherence to the rules at all times."

  "Sir, if you wanted strict rule-following, you shouldn't have asked us to do the job," Patrick said.

  "That's bullshit, McLanahan," Hayes retorted. "I expect

  discipline and professionalism in all of my combat-coded units, or they are history! You play by the rules, or you're out."

  "HAWC doesn't play by the rules, sir," Patrick argued. "We never have. The brass hated General Elliott-they cringed whenever his name was brought up.

  But I also realized that his name kept on coming up for one good reason-he was effective. He did the job he was asked to do, no matter how impossible it was. He wasn't perfect, he wasn't a team player-but he was the best. Men like Terrill Samson play by the rules."

  "I'm sorry you feel that way, Patrick," Hayes said, the disappointment and frustration evident in his face and voice. "I like you. You speak your mind, you stick to your beliefs, and you get the job done. You have a lot of potential. But your loyalty to Brad Elliott and his twisted brand of warfighting is turning you into a loose cannon. Terrill Samson was right: you are dangerous, and you don't fit in.

  "I've taken the matter out of your hands and out of the UCMJ, Patrick." The UCMJ, or Uniform Code of Military Justice, was the separate set of federal laws governing conduct and responsibilities of military men and women. "I've recommended that you be involuntarily retired if you didn't agree to request early retirement, the Secretary of Defense agreed, and it was done. SecDef doesn't want a court-martial, and personally I don't want to see you hauled up in front of one. You were retired as of oh eight hundred hours this morning. Your service is at an end." He extended his hand. "Sorry to see you go, General."

  Patrick was about to shake his hand when a very distinctive phone rang in the outer office. "Batphone," someone called out, but it was picked up before the second ring. At the same instant, Hayes's pager went off-he acknowledged it, but didn't need to read the message. Moments later, an aide came to the door: "Meeting in the Gold Room in fifteen minutes, sir." The Gold Room was the Joint Chiefs of Staff conference room. This was an unscheduled meeting-Patrick knew something was happening.

  Hayes knew it, too. "Thank you." He turned to General Falke: "Wombat, I need an intel dump right now."

  Falke had already been on the phone as soon as he heard the

  "Batphone," the direct line between the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff's office and the chief of staff of the Air Force. "It's on its way, sir," he said. "I'll have an aide drop it off for you ASAP." A few moments later, an aide stepped into Hayes's office with a folder marked "Top Secret"---the "intel dump," the latest intelligence summaries for the entire world updated minute-by-minute, and the "force dump," the latest force status reports from the eight Air Force major commands. A moment later, another aide came rushing in with the latest force status reports for the Single Integrated Operations Plan (SIOP) and non-SIOP nuclear forces. Although, technically, the American nuclear forces were under the combat command of the U.S. Strategic Command, a unified military command, in day-today operations the nuclear-capable bombers, land-launched intercontinental ballistic missiles, and their warheads were under Air Force control until gained by Strategic Command.

  Hayes was putting on his Class A blouse and getting ready to hurry off to the "Tank," what most everyone in the Pentagon called the Gold Room. He nodded to Patrick as he hurried to the door. "I'll be seeing you, McLanahan. Good luck." An aide rushed into the Chief's office to hand him another folder, and then he hurried off, followed by his deputy and his chief of operations.

  "I have a message for you, sir," the aide said to Patrick. "Your civilian attorney is waiting for you at the Mall Entrance fight now."

  "My civilian attorney?" Patrick asked. "I don't have a civilian attorney." The aide shrugged his shoulders and departed, leaving him alone in the big office.

  It was a long, lonely walk to the Mall Entrance, and an even longer walk outdoors into the hazy sunshine. Patrick felt as if he should take off his hat, remove his jacket with his stars and ribbons on it. He felt strange, having junior officers salute him, like he was some sort of spy in a military costurne trying to infiltrate the place. He had been kicked out of the Air Force almost the entire time he'd been in that building, and he hadn't even known it. T"he Pentagon now seemed alien to him. A few

  hours earlier, he'd walked into this place apprehensively, but feeling very much a part of what this place was all about. Now all that had been taken away from him.

  Patrick didn't see anyone at the entrance who looked like he was looking for him. But he didn't need to talk with an attorney anyway: there was going

  to be no court-martial, no appearance in court, no opportunity to fight the charges brought against him. He was out, just like that.

  There was a big stretch limousine parked fight in front of the Mall Entrance in a "No Parking" zone, with a Secret Service4ooking agent, a female, in a long dark coat and sunglasses standing beside it, and he thought that had to be for the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or the Secretary of Defense so they could be whisked off to the White House.

  This was indeed a very exciting place to be, Patrick thought. He certainly had had a very exciting, very unusual career. He thought back about all the missions and all the situations he had found himself involved in over the past twelve years: thought about how many times he had made that "Batphone" fing, how many times the chief of staff of the Air Force had stood before the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs or the Secretary of Defense or even the President and had been unable to explain what was going on because Brad Elliott hadn't informed him or anyone else what he was going to do before he did it. How many frantic lirno fides had he been responsible for? How many sleepless nights, tirades, memos, confused phone calls, and lost careers had he and HAWC caused because of their own brand of warfighting?

  No matter-it was all over now.

  But as Patrick approached the limousine on his way to the taxi stand that would take him to his hotel, the Secret Service-looking agent approached him. "Excuse me. General McLanahan?"

  "Yes?" She removed her dark glasses and smiled at him. "I'm not wearing a disguise this time, Patrick."

  He stared at her harder, his mind finally returning to the here and now. "Marcia? Marcia Preston?" He shook her hand warmly, then gave her a hug. "You have this thing for always

  popping up unexpectedly, Marcia." Marcia Preston had been one of the first U.S. Marine Corps combat fighter pilots, but she'd seen only limited duty in that capacity. Her knowledge and expertise in military affairs, foreign military capabilities, tactics, and both land and aerial combat had led her to be chosen as an advisor and aide to two successive National Security Advisors to the President. Patrick glanced into the limo's windows, but of course could not see anything. "Who are you working for now, Colonel? Last I knew, you were working for General Freeman in the National Security Advisor's office."

  "It's not Colonel anymore, Patrick,"' Marcia said. "And my new boss wants to speak with you. He's waiting for you." "He's waiting for me? In there?"

  "Hey, General!" Patrick turned toward the familiar voice and was surprised to see none other than Hal Briggs emerging from the limousine.

  "Hal? What are you doing here?"

  Hal Briggs waved him over to the car so they could talk discreetly. "I got a dea
l I couldn't refuse, sir." -

  "I'm not a 'sir' anymore, Hal. Just Patrick."

  "That's okay, because I'm just 'Hal' now, too," he said with a smile. "Early retirement, same as you."

  "How did you know that?" Patrick asked. "And why in hell did you accept early retirement? You haven't done anything wrong-in fact, after that rescue in Russia, you're a genuine hero. I'm the one who screwed the pooch. You didn't punch out because of me, did you?"

  "With all due respect, old buddy," Hal said, with a broad smile, "I don't do shit for no one unless they give me some serious money or some serious humma-humma, if you catch my drift. But if I was going to trash my career for anyone, it would be for you. How's that?"

  "Sounds like bullshit to me. What is going on, Hal? How did you know where I was? How did you know what happened to me? I just found out ten minutes ago."

  "My new employer knows everything, Patrick," Hal said. "He wants to talk with you, too."

  Patrick's warning antennae were tingling like crazy. Having trusted friends like Marcia and Hal together helped, but this

  strong feeling of caution couldn't be ignored. "You know this guy, Hal?" he asked. "Did you check him out first?"

  "No.,' "No? You stepped into a car with a guy you don't know and you didn't check him out first?"

  "I said I didn't check him out, and I've never met him-I know of him. But you definitely know him."

  Patrick looked at Hal suspiciously, but with a gleam of interest in his eyes now. Hal noticed it, stepped aside, and let him peek inside. He saw Chris Wohl inside, also in civilian clothes, looking moody and inconvenienced as always, and he wondered if the Marine Corps veteran had retired also. Then he looked in the very front of the passenger compartment-and his chin dropped open in sheer surprise.