Fatal Terrain

EPILOGUE

Oddly enough, the jets that pulled off to an isolated part of Brunei International Airport and maneuvered beside each other nose-to-tail were both Gulfstream IV long-range business jets — but one was in the red and white livery of the Chinese Civil Aeronautical Administration, and the other was in the plain white with blue trim of the United States Air Force. Guards of the Sultan of Brunei’s Gurkha Reserve Unit, the elite paramilitary palace guard, ringed the parking ramp, while armored personnel carriers and heavily armed Humvees roamed the area beyond.

The inner guards seemed oblivious to the noise of the Chinese Gulf- stream as it pulled into its assigned parking spot. It did not shut down its engines. A set of stairs had been rolled out and placed near the exit door on the port side of the Chinese Gulfstream; the USAF Gulfstream had used an integral airstair that extended from the plane itself, and the exit door was already open and ready. Two lines of GRU commandos quickly formed between both sets of stairs, and one guard carrying an infantry rifle was stationed at the top of the stairs of each plane.

The door of the Chinese Gulfstream opened, and a lone man wearing a plain gray tunic appeared and stepped down the stairs. At the same time, a lone individual in a plain dark business suit walked down the USAF Gulfstream’s airstair. They walked across the ramp between the two lines of armed GRU commandos and met in the center of the tarmac. They regarded each other for a moment; then the American made a slight, polite bow. The Chinese man smiled, made an even slighter nod, then extended a hand. The American shook it hesitantly. No words were exchanged. Both men turned, walked a few paces away, turned sideways in front of the GRU commandos, then looked toward their respective aircraft.

At that, several individuals began emerging from both the USAF and CAA jets and stepped down the airstairs. Ten men wearing blue and white polyester jogging suits and white running shoes emerged from the USAF jet; two women and one man, wearing white baggy peasant’s outfits and sandals, stepped off the Chinese jet. In single file, the two columns of individuals walked across the tarmac between the GRU commandos. The men who came off the USAF jet walked more and more quickly until they were virtually running up the airstairs into the Chinese jet, but the American man and two women prisoners strode deliberately, proudly, toward the USAF plane.

All except the last man of each side. As if by some unspoken signal, the two men slowed, then paused as they passed each other. The Chinese man straightened his shoulders, then bowed to the other prisoner and said in English, “Good fortune to you, Colonel Patrick Shane McLanahan. Happy Reunification Day.”

“Same to you, Admiral Sun Ji Guoming,” Patrick McLanahan said. They bowed to each other again. McLanahan glared at Chinese Minister of Defense Chi Haotian, gave him a smile, then said in a loud voice, “Happy Reunification Day, Minister Chi.” Chi Haotian’s face was an expressionless, stony mask as he turned and headed quickly back to his waiting aircraft.

“Welcome home, Colonel McLanahan,” the American in the dark business suit, Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain, said. He clasped McLanahan on the shoulder and steered him toward the waiting Gulfstream.

“Whatever,” McLanahan said tonelessly as he boarded the Air Force C-20H Gulfstream for the long ride home. Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl, on guard at the top of the airstairs with an M-16 rifle with a M-206 grenade launcher attached, gave Patrick a “way to go” smile and nod as they passed one another. McLanahan did not return the sentiment.

Only when the wheels were up and they were heading east on their way back to the United States did Patrick McLanahan finally shed the tears of joy, and tears of sorrow, that had been welling up in him for the past ten years.

“Admiral Sun Ji Guoming flew a Sukhoi-27 fighter right onto Kadena Air Base and surrendered to the U.S. Air Force,” Secretary of Defense Chastain told him. “Fie then asked to make a public statement on the international news. He said who he was and said that he would reveal the government of China’s entire plan for the destruction and recapture of Taiwan unless China agreed to a cease-fire and a prisoner exchange was arranged. Jiang Zemin agreed immediately.”

They had done a brief stopover in Hawaii, where the three exprisoners were examined by doctors and found medically fit — there was no injury to Wendy and Patrick’s child. Now they were somewhere over the southwest United States, almost home.

“Everyone has pretty much backed off after your attack,” Chastain explained. “Of course, almost all of China’s strategic forces had been knocked out by you and General Samson’s bombers — all they had left were a few H-6 bombers and some mobile medium-range missiles, nothing that could threaten the United States and virtually nothing that could threaten its neighbors. Even North and South Korea seemed to have backed away from the DMZ, although things there and in the Middle East are still pretty tense.” He paused, then added for about the sixth time since leaving the prisoner swap in Brunei, “I’m sorry about General Elliott. He was a genuine American hero.”

Patrick wasn’t thinking about where they were headed — he assumed to a federal prison somewhere — but he was shocked when the C-20H zoomed into a desert airfield. Although there were no signs and no visible landmarks on the hazy late-afternoon horizon, Patrick knew exactly where they were: the high desert of south-central Nevada, beside the dry lake turned camouflaged airstrip at Groom Lake, at the secret U.S. Air Force research base known as the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, nicknamed Dreamland.

Well, Patrick thought, he should have known. HAWC was not a military base anymore — it certainly made a good federal prison, especially for suspects who broke the law as badly as they did.

But when the C-20H pulled up to its parking.spot next to the old base operations building, he noticed that the buildings had a fresh coat of paint on them, there was a new mobile control tower deployed on the dry lake bed, and the guards waiting on the tarmac were not waiting to take him into custody — they were guarding Marine One and Marine Two, the military VIP transport helicopters belonging to the President of the United States.

President Kevin Martindale was waiting for Patrick, Wendy, and Nancy Cheshire as they stepped off the airstair onto the carpet covering the hot concrete parking ramp at Dreamland. “Welcome home, Patrick, welcome home,” the President said warmly. They were all there: National Security Advisor Philip Freeman, Air Force chief of staff General Victor Hayes, Air Combat Command commander Steve Shaw, and Eighth Air Force commander Terrill Samson. With them were Dave Luger, Jon Masters, Hal Briggs, Chris Wohl, and Paul White. They all went inside the new base operations building to escape the still-broiling heat of Nevada’s desert summer sun.

“Patrick, you’ve done a great service to me and to the nation, and I just wanted to greet you and tell you myself,” the President said. “You and your fellow crew members have almost single-handedly averted a world war by your heroic actions.”

“Sorry, but I don’t feel very heroic, sir,” Patrick said.

“Because of General Elliott. I’m sorry for your loss, Patrick,” the President said solemnly. “Brad Elliott was one helluva warrior. He was stubborn, determined, and headstrong — and he was one of the best I’ve ever met. He’d probably hate what I’m about to do — and I feel damn good thinking about him cursing my name for all eternity.” The President steered Patrick toward a large covered sign on the wall, and he pulled it off himself. The sign read: WELCOME TO ELLIOTT AIR FORCE BASE, GROOM LAKE, NEVADA, HOME OF THE HIGH TECHNOLOGY AEROSPACE WEAPONS CENTER (USAF OPERATIONAL TEST AND EVALUATION CENTER DET. 1).

“Elliott Air Force Base?” Patrick exclaimed. “But… how? I thought…”

“Yeah, my predecessor closed down HAWC–I just opened it back up again,” the President said. “Meet HAWC s first new commander— Lieutenant General Terrill Samson. We’re still closing down Eighth Air Force, but Terrill has the same fire in his belly that you and Brad Elliott have, so he’s the new boss here — and heaven help us. I have a feeling that the ghost of Brad Elliott will be walking this place for many years to come.”

The President withdrew something from a pocket. “I’ve got to get going — I’m going to spend a weekend of relaxation in Las Vegas before going back to Washington to continue the fight against Senator Finegold and her attack dogs. But I have one last request for you first before I go-”

The President of the United States shook Patrick’s hand, pressing something into his palm. “Let me know soonest, okay? Be good, and congratulations on your new baby. A boy, I believe, am I right?” He gave Wendy and Nancy Cheshire a kiss, turned, and departed, followed by his national security advisors. The roar of the engines on the Marine transport helicopters could be heard seconds later.

Patrick opened his hand and found a pair of silver stars nestled in his palm.

“I need a director of operations here at HAWC, Patrick,” Terrill Samson said proudly. “I could think of no one else suited for the job but you. You get brigadier-general’s stars and a command of your own, and you get to work with the hottest jets and the hottest weapons coming off the drawing boards. Dave Luger—Lieutenant Colonel Dave Luger, I should add — has agreed to sign on as a senior engineer and senior project officer here. What do you say?”

Wendy slipped her arm around Patrick’s waist and hugged him close. He looked into her shining, proud eyes, but could not find an answer to the question he was silently asking — only the continued promise of love and support for whatever he chose to do.

Patrick’s eyes then unconsciously searched out and found Jon Masters. The young scientist and businessman-of-sorts was drinking his everpresent squeeze bottle of Pepsi. He gave him a wink and a smile.

“Patrick?” General Samson urged him. “What do you say? Be my second in command. In three years, this will be your base, your command.”

Patrick McLanahan caught a glimpse of Hal Briggs. The young commando motioned outside, where his Humvee was waiting.

“I’ll let you know, sir,” Patrick said with a broad smile. “I’ll let you know.” He took Wendy by the hand, led her out into the warm Nevada evening into the waiting Humvee, and they drove toward the crimson sunset — out into the future.