Shadow Command

CHAPTER FOUR

“Joining us live from Armstrong Space Station, orbiting two hundred some odd miles above Earth, is a man that needs no introduction: Air Force Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan,” the cable news morning show host began. “General, thanks for joining us today. The question everyone wants an answer to, of course, is: How are you, sir?”

There was a second or two delay because of the satellite relay, but Patrick was accustomed to waiting those few seconds to make sure he wasn’t talking over the host. “It’s nice to be with you, Megyn,” Patrick responded. He was Velcroed as usual to the station commander’s console, wearing his trademark black flight suit with black insignia. “Thanks for having me on the show again. I’m doing fine, thank you. I feel pretty good.”

“All of America is relieved to see you up and around, General. Have they determined what exactly happened?”

“According to Navy Captain George Summers at Walter Reed National Medical Center, who reviewed all my tests remotely from up here, it’s called long-QT syndrome, Megyn,” Patrick replied. “That’s an infrequent prolongation of the electrical activation and inactivation of the heart’s ventricles, caused by stress or shock. Apparently, other than eyesight, it’s one of the most common disqualifying conditions in the astronaut corps.”

“So you’ve been disqualified from flying ever again?”

“Well, I hope I won’t be,” Patrick said. “Officially I’m not really an astronaut in the conventional sense. I’m hoping that the docs will determine that incapacitation due to long-QT syndrome is most likely to occur just while traveling in space and won’t stop me from all other flying activities.”

“You do have a history of heart disease, is that correct?”

“My dad did die of heart problems, yes,” Patrick replied somberly. “Dad suffered from what they used to call ‘heart flutters’ and was treated for anxiety and stress. Long-QT is hereditary. Apparently in my dad’s case it was the police department and running a family business that triggered it; in my case, it was flying in space.”

“And he died around the same age as you are now?”

A cloud passed briefly over Patrick’s face that was clearly visible to millions of viewers around the world. “Yes, a couple years after retiring from the Sacramento Police Department and opening up McLanahan’s in Old Town Sacramento.”

“A shameless plug for your family tavern, eh, General?” the host asked, trying to liven up the conversation.

“I’m not ashamed of McLanahan’s in Old Town Sacramento at all, Megyn.”

“Another plug. Good. Okay, that’s enough, General, you did your job fantastically,” the host said, laughing. “Was this heart condition already noted on your records, and if so what were you doing flying repeatedly to Armstrong Space Station?”

“I did report the family history on my medical records,” Patrick replied, “and I get a Class One Air Force flight physical twice a year, plus pre- and post-space flight checkups, and no problems have ever been detected before. Even though long-QT syndrome is a common disqualifying condition in the astronaut corps, I wasn’t specifically tested for it because, as I said, technically I’m not an astronaut — I’m a unit commander and engineer who just happens to get to ride on his unit’s research vehicles whenever I feel it’s necessary.”

“So do you feel that your lack of astronaut training and screening contributed to onset of this medical condition?”

“One of the things we’re trying to prove with the Black Stallion spaceplane and Armstrong Space Station program, Megyn, is to make space more accessible to everyday folks.”

“And it appears that the answer might be, ‘No, they can’t,’ is that right?”

“I don’t know all there is to know about long-QT syndrome, Megyn, but if it’s commonly found only in combat aviators over the age of fifty who have to go into space frequently, perhaps we can test for it and exclude only those who show a proclivity for that disease,” Patrick said. “I don’t see why it has to disqualify everyone.”

“But it is disqualifying for you?”

“I’m not ready to throw in the towel yet,” Patrick said with a confident smile. “We have some incredible technology at our disposal, and new and better technologies being developed every day. If I can, I’ll keep on flying, believe me.”

“You haven’t seen enough combat and orbited the Earth enough times already, General?” the host said with an amused laugh. “As I understand it, you’ve been on the station several times just in the past few months. That’s more than a NASA astronaut goes into space in his entire career, isn’t that true? John Glenn only flew in space twice.”

“Pioneers like Senator John Glenn will always be the inspiration our future astronauts need to summon the courage and fortitude to undergo the rigorous preparation for space,” Patrick replied, “but as I said, one goal of our military space program is to gain greater access to space. I don’t consider episodes like mine a setback. It’s all part of the learning experience.”

“But you have to think of yourself and your family too, don’t you, General?”

“Of course — my son sees me on TV more than he does in person,” Patrick said gamely. “But no aviator likes to lose his wings, Megyn — we have an inbred aversion to doctors, hospitals, weight scales, eye charts, sphygmomanometers, and anything else that can keep us from flying…”

“Okay, General, you lost me there. Sphygmo…sphygmo…what is that, one of your high-tech laser ray guns?”

“A blood pressure tester.”

“Oh.”

“It’ll be up to the flight docs, but you can bet I’ll be fighting disqualification the whole way,” Patrick said. A beep in his communications earset got his attention, and he turned and briefly activated his command monitor and read the display. “Sorry, Megyn, I have to go. Thanks for having me on this morning.” The host was able to get out a confused and startled “But General, we’re live around the—!” before Patrick terminated the link. “What do you have, Master Sergeant?” he asked on the command module intercom.

“COMPSCAN alert in the target region, sir, and it says it’s a big one, although we might have nothing but a big glitch on our hands,” Master Sergeant Valerie “Seeker” Lukas replied. The COMPSCAN, or Comparison Scans, collected and compared radar and imaging infrared data during sensor sweeps and alerted the crew whenever there was a significant buildup of personnel or equipment in a particular target region — thanks to the power and resolution of Armstrong’s space-based radar and other satellites and unmanned aircraft, the target region could be as large as continent, and the change between comparison scans could be as small as four or five vehicles.

“What’s the target?”

“Soltanabad, a highway airfield about a hundred miles west of Mashhad. Imaged recently by the new Night Owl unmanned reconnaissance plane Captain Noble just launched.” Seeker studied the reconnaissance file on the area before continuing: “Attacked once by the Air Battle Force with a Vampire bomber with runway-cratering munitions last year because it was suspected of being used to fly in weapons and supplies to the Islamists operating out of Mashhad. The highway portion of the base was reopened by the Revolutionary Guards Corps, reportedly for relief and humanitarian supply shipments. We put the entire base on the ‘watch’ list and launched the Night Owl over the area to be sure they weren’t repairing the ramps and taxiways or flying military stuff in there.”

“Let’s see what they’re doing,” Patrick said. A few moments later an incredibly detailed overhead image of the spot came up on his monitor. It clearly showed the four-lane highway with aircraft distance marks, taxi lines, and touchdown zone designations — it looked like a typical military runway, only with cars and trucks running on it. On both the north and south sides of the highway/airstrip were wide paved areas with aircraft taxiways, large aircraft parking areas, and the remnants of bombed-out buildings. Many of the destroyed buildings had been razed and a number of tents of various sizes put in their place, some with the seal of the Red Crescent humanitarian relief organization on them. “Do those tents look like they have open sides to you, Master Sergeant?” Patrick asked.

Seeker peered closer at the image, then magnified it until it started to lose resolution. “Yes, sir,” she replied, unsure of why the general had asked — it was fairly plain to her. Per agreement between the United Nations, Buzhazi’s Persian occupying force, and the Iranian government-in-exile, large tents set up in certain combat areas servicing refugees or others traveling through the Iranian deserts had to have open sides during reconnaissance flyover time periods so all sides could see inside, or they could be designated as hostile emplacements and attacked.

“Looks like a big shadow on that side, that’s all,” Patrick said. “This photo was taken during nighttime, correct?” Lukas nodded. “The sides look open, but the shadows on the ground from the nearby floodlights are making it look…I don’t know, they just don’t look right to me, that’s all.” He zoomed in again on the former aircraft parking ramps. Both paved areas were dotted with dozens of bomb craters, from several yards to over a hundred feet wide, with huge chunks of concrete heaved up around the edges. “Still looks busted up to me. How old is this image?”

“Just two hours, sir. No way they could have repaired all those craters and brought in aircraft in two hours.”

“Let’s see the scans compared by the computer.” The image split first into two, then four, then sixteen shots of the same spot taken over a period of several days. The pictures appeared identical.

“Looks like a glitch — false alarm,” Seeker said. “I’ll reset the images and take a look at the comparison parameters for—”

“Wait a minute,” Patrick said. “What is the computer saying has changed?” A moment later, the computer had drawn rectangles around several of the craters. The craters were precisely the same — the only difference was that the rectangles were not exactly oriented the same in all the images. “I still don’t get what COMPSCAN is flagging.”

“Me neither, sir,” Seeker admitted. “Could be just a looking-angle computation error.”

“But we’re sun-synchronous on this part of the world, right?”

“Yes, sir. We’re precisely over Tehran at the same time — approximately two A.M. local — every day.”

“So the looking angle should be the same except for minor station or sensor attitude changes, which the computer should be correcting for,” Patrick said.

“Obviously something’s screwed up in the adjustment routine, sir,” Seeker said apologetically, anchoring herself at her terminal to begin work. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it straightened out. Sorry about that, sir. These things need recalibrating — obviously a bit more often that I thought. I should probably look at the station attitude gyro compensation readouts and fuel consumption figures to see if there’s a major shift taking place — we might have to make a gross alignment change, or just throw out all the old attitude adjustment figures and come up with new ones. Sorry, sir.”

“No problem, Master Sergeant,” Patrick said. “We’ll know to look for things like that more often from now on.” But he continued staring at the images and the computer’s comparison boxes. The boxes disappeared as Lukas erased the old comparison data, leaving very clear images of the bomb craters on the ramps and taxiways. He shook his head. “The space-based radar’s pictures are stunning, Seeker — it’s like I can measure the thickness of those concrete blocks heaved up by the bombs. Amazing. I can even see the colors of the different layers of concrete, and where the steel reinforcing mesh was applied. Cool.”

“The SBR is incredible, sir — it’s hard to believe it’s almost twenty-year-old technology.”

“You can clearly see where the concrete ends and the road base begins. It’s—” Patrick looked closely at the images, then put on a pair of reading glasses and peered closer. “Can you enlarge that image for me, Seeker?” he asked, pointing at a large crater on the south side of the highway.

“Yes, sir. Stand by.”

A moment later the crater filled the monitor. “Fantastic detail, all right.” But now something was niggling at him. “My son loves those ‘I Spy’ and ‘Where’s Waldo?’ books — maybe he’ll be an imagery analyst someday.”

“Or he’ll design the computers that will do it for us.”

Patrick chuckled, but he still felt uneasy. “What is wrong with this picture? Why did the computer ring the bell?”

“I’m still checking, sir.”

“I spent a short but insightful period of time as a detachment commander in the U.S. Air Force’s Air Intelligence Agency,” Patrick said, “and the one thing I learned about interpreting multispectral overhead imagery was not to let the mind fill in too many blanks.”

“Analysis 101, sir: Don’t see what isn’t there,” Seeker said.

“But never ignore what is there but isn’t right,” Patrick said, “and there is something not right about the position of those craters. They’re different…but how?” He looked at them again. “They look to me like they’re turned, and the computer said they moved, but—”

“That’s not possible for a crater.”

“No…unless they’re not craters,” Patrick said. He zoomed in again. “I might be seeing something that’s not there, but those craters look too perfect, too uniform. I think they’re decoys.”

“Decoy craters? I’ve never heard of such a thing, sir.”

“I’ve heard of every other kind of decoy — planes, armored vehicles, troops, buildings, even runways — so why not?” Patrick remarked. “That might explain why COMPSCAN flags them — if they’re moved and not placed in exactly the same spot, COMPSCAN flags it as a new target.”

“So you think they’ve rebuilt that base and are secretly using it, right under our noses?” Lukas asked, still unconvinced. “If that’s true, sir, then the space-based radar and our other sensors should have picked up other signs of activity — vehicles, tire tracks, storage piles, security personnel patrolling the area…”

“If you know exactly when a satellite is going to pass overhead, it’s relatively easy to fool it — just cover the gear with radar-absorbent camouflage, erase the tracks, or disguise them with other targets,” Patrick said. “All those tents, trucks, and buses out there could be housing an entire battalion and hundreds of tons of supplies. As long as they offload the planes, get the men and vehicles out of the area, and sweep up the area within the two-to-three-hour span between our overflights, they’re safe.”

“So all our gear is practically useless.”

“Against whoever is doing this, yes — and I’ll bet it’s not the Islamist clerics or even the remnants of the Revolutionary Guards Corps,” Patrick said. “There’s only one way to find out: we need eyes on the ground. Let’s get a report ready for STRATCOM and I’ll append my recommendations for action…but first I want to get Rascal working on a plan.” While Lukas began downloading sensor data and adding her observations — and reservations — about the activity at Soltanabad, Patrick selected the command channel on his encrypted satellite communications system. “Odin to Rascal.”

A moment later the image of a large, blond-haired, blue-eyed, powerful-looking man appeared on Patrick’s monitor: “Rascal here, sir,” replied Air Force Major Wayne Macomber rather testily. Macomber was the new commander of the Battle Force ground forces based at Elliott Air Force Base in Nevada, replacing Hal Briggs, who had been killed while hunting down mobile medium-range ballistic missiles in Iran a year earlier. Macomber was only the second person ever to take charge of the Battle Force. He had big shoes to fill, and that, in Patrick’s mind, would never happen.

Macomber was not Patrick’s first choice to lead “Rascal” (which had been Hal’s call-sign and was now the new unclassified call-sign of the Battle Force). To put it mildly, Macomber had serious problems dealing with authority. But he had somehow managed to use that personality glitch to propel himself into more and more challenging situations in which he was ultimately able to adapt, overcome, and succeed.

He was kicked out of public middle school in Spokane, Washington, because of “behavioral incompatibilities” and was sent off to the New Mexico Military Institute in Roswell in hopes of having round-the-clock military discipline straighten him out. Sure enough — after a difficult first year — it worked. He graduated near the top of his class both academically and athletically and won a nomination to attend the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado.

Although he was a nationally ranked linebacker for the Falcons football team, where he earned his nickname “Whack,” he was kicked off the squad in his senior year for aggressive play and “personality conflicts” with several coaches and teammates. He used the extra time — and probationary period — to improve his grades and again graduated with honors with a bachelor of science degree in physics and a pilot training slot. Once again he dominated in his undergraduate pilot training class, graduating top of his class, and won one of only six F-15E Strike Eagle pilot slots awarded straight out of flight school — almost unheard of for a first lieutenant at the time.

But again, he couldn’t keep his drive and determination in check. An F-15 Eagle air superiority fighter is a completely different bird with an offensive systems operator, big radar, conformal long-range fuel tanks, and ten thousand pounds of ordnance on board, and for some reason Wayne Macomber couldn’t figure out that airframes bend in unnatural directions when an F-15E Strike Eagle pilot loaded up with bombs tries to dogfight with another fighter. It didn’t matter that he was almost always the winner — he was racking up victories at the expense of bending expensive airframes, and was eventually…ultimately…asked to leave.

But he was not orphaned for long. One organization in the Air Force welcomed and even encouraged aggressive action, out-of-the-box thinking, and virulent leadership: Air Force Special Operations. To his dismay, however, the unit that wanted rude and crude “Whack” the most was the Tenth Combat Weather Squadron at Hurlburt Field, Florida: because of his physics education, the Air Force quickly made him a combat weather parachutist. He got to wear the coveted green beret and parachutist wings of an Air Force commando, but it still grated on him to be known as a “weatherman.”

Although he and his squadron mates always took a lot of ribbing from other commando units for being “combat weather-guessers” or “groundhogs,” Macomber soon learned to like the specialty not only because he happened to like the science of meteorology but also because he got to parachute out of perfectly good planes and helicopters, carry lots of guns and explosives, learn how to set up airfields and observation posts behind enemy lines, and how to kill the enemy at close quarters. Whack performed more than a hundred and twenty combat jumps in the next eight years and rose quickly through the ranks, eventually taking command of the squadron.

When Brigadier General Hal Briggs was planning the assault and occupation of Yakutsk Air Base in Siberia in Patrick McLanahan’s retaliatory operation against Russia following the American Holocaust, he turned to the one nationally recognized expert in the field to assist in mission planning for operations behind enemy lines: Wayne Macomber. At first Whack didn’t like taking orders from a kid eight years younger than he, especially one who outranked him, but he quickly recognized Briggs’ skill, intelligence, and guts, and they made a good team. The operation was a complete success. Macomber won a Silver Star for saving dozens of personnel, Russians as well as Americans, by getting them into fallout shelters before Russian president Gryzlov’s bombers attacked Yakutsk with nuclear-tipped cruise missiles.

“I’m sending you the most recent shots of a highway airbase in northeastern Iran, Wayne,” Patrick said. “I think it’s being secretly repaired, and I’m going to ask permission for you to go in, recon it, and render it unusable again — permanently.”

“A ground op? About time,” Macomber responded gruffly. “Almost all I’ve been doing since you brought me here is sweating — either out doing PT or tryin’ to squeeze into one of those damned Tin Man union suits.”

“And complaining.”

“The sergeant major been yakkin’ about me again?” Marine Corps Sergeant Major Chris Wohl was the noncommissioned officer in charge of Rascal, the Air Battle Force ground team, and one of the most senior members of the unit. Although Macomber was commander of Rascal, everyone fully knew and understood that Chris Wohl was in charge — including Macomber, a fact which really rankled him. “I wish that sumbitch would retire like I thought he would do so I can pick my own first shirt. He’s ready to be put out to pasture.”

“I’m the commander of the Air Battle Force, Wayne, and even I wouldn’t dare say that to the sergeant major’s face,” Patrick said, only half jokingly.

“I told you, General, that as long as Wohl is around, it’ll be his unit and his baggage I’ll have to drag around,” Whack said. “All he does is mope around after Briggs.” Patrick couldn’t remotely picture Wohl moping for a second, but he didn’t say so. “Guys die in special ops, even in tin can suits like that robot thing he was in — he better get used to that. Retire his ass, or at least reassign him, so I can spin up this unit my way.”

“Wayne, you’re in charge, so be in charge,” Patrick said, not liking the way this conversation was going. “You and Chris can make a great team if you learn to work together, but you’re still the man in charge whether you use him or not. I expect you to get your team ready to fly and fight, soonest. If it’s not set up the way you want it in time for the next op, put Wohl in charge until—”

“I lead the unit, General, not the no-cock,” Macomber retorted, using his own personal term “no-cock” instead of the Air Force acronym NCOIC, or “noncommissioned officer in charge.”

“Then lead it, Wayne. Do whatever you need to do to accomplish the mission. Chris Wohl, the Cybernetic Infantry Devices, and the Tin Man armor can all be part of the problem or part of the solution — it’s up to you. The men are pros, but they need a leader. They know Chris and will follow him into hell — you have to prove you can lead them along with the NCOIC.”

“I’ll whip them into line, General, don’t worry about that,” Macomber said.

“And if you haven’t done it already, I’d suggest you not use that term ‘no-cock’ in front of Wohl, or you two might be standing before me bloody and broken. Fair warning.”

Macomber’s expression gave absolutely no indication that he understood or agreed with McLanahan’s warning. That was unfortunate: Chris Wohl didn’t tolerate most officers below flag rank and was not afraid to risk his career and freedom to straighten out an officer who didn’t show the proper respect to a veteran noncommissioned officer. If the situation wasn’t resolved properly, Patrick knew, those two were heading for a confrontation. “It would be a lot easier if I didn’t have to train in that Tin Man getup.”

“The ‘getup,’ as you call it, allows us to go into hot spots no other special ops team would ever consider,” Patrick said.

“Excuse me, General, but I can’t recall any hot spot I ever considered not going into,” Macomber said testily, “and I didn’t wear the long undies.”

“How many men would you need to go in and take out an airfield, Major?”

“We don’t ‘take out’ airfields, sir — we reconnoiter or disrupt enemy air ops, or we build our own airfields. We call in air strikes if we want it—”

“The Battle Force takes them out, Major,” Patrick interjected. “Remember Yakutsk?”

“We didn’t destroy that airfield, sir, we occupied it. And we brought in a hundred guys to help us do it.”

“The Battle Force was prepared to destroy that base, Major — if we couldn’t use it, the Russians weren’t going to, either.”

“Destroy an airfield?” The skepticism in Macomber’s voice was obvious, and Patrick could feel the heat rise up under the collar of his black flight suit. He didn’t want to waste time arguing with a subordinate, but Macomber had to be made aware of what was expected of him, not just busted because he was a junior officer. “How can a handful of lightly armed men destroy an airfield?”

“That’s what you’re here to learn, Wayne,” Patrick said. “I told you when we first talked about taking over the command that I needed you to think outside the box, and around there it means not just learning to use the gadgets that you have at your disposal but embracing and expanding the technology and developing new ways to use it. Now I need you up to speed quick, because I’ve got an airfield in Iran I might want destroyed…tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? How can that happen, General? I just learned about the target location just now—if we hustled, we might make it off the base by tomorrow, and that’s with no intel and no rehearsals on how to assault the target! You can’t run a successful infiltration on a military base with no intel and no practice runs! I’ll need at least a week just to—”

“You’re not hearing what I’m telling you, Major: you have to start thinking differently around here,” Patrick insisted. “We locate targets and attack them, period—little or no rehearsal, no strategic intel, first-cut organic intel received while en route, no joint support packages, and small but mobile and high-tech ground units with minimal but devastating air support. I told you all this when I first briefed you on Rascal, Wayne…”

“I assumed you got your intel and tasking from higher headquarters, sir,” Macomber argued. “You mean you launch on an operation without gathering strategic intel from—?”

“We don’t get any help from anyone, and we still launch and get the friggin’ job done, Whack,” Patrick interjected pointedly. “Are you finally getting the picture?” Patrick waited a heartbeat and got no response — considering Macomber’s mercurial, almost rabid personality, the silence was a real stunner. “Now I know you’re accustomed to Air Force special ops tactics and methodology, and I know you’re a good operator and leader, but you have to get with the program at the Lake. I know PT is important, but knowing the hardware and resources we have is more important. It’s a mind-set as well as a job. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Macomber said — probably the first real hint of acquiescence Patrick had sensed from this guy. “Looks to me like I’ll need Wohl’s help after all if I’m going out on a mission…tomorrow?”

“Now you’re getting the idea, Major.”

“When can I get the intel you have, sir?”

“I’m sending it now. I need a game plan drawn up and ready to brief to the powers that be in an hour.”

“An hour…?”

“Is there something wrong with this connection, Major?”

“No, sir. I heard you. One hour. One more question?”

“Hurry it up.”

“What about my request to change the unit call-sign, sir?”

“Not again, Major…”

“That was Briggs’ call-sign, sir, and I need to change that name. Not only do I hate it, but it reminds the guys of their dead former boss, and that detracts from their mission focus.”

“Bill Cosby once said if it was up to him he would never have picked a name for his kids — he would just send them out onto the street and let the neighborhood kids name him,” Patrick said.

“Bill who?”

“When it’s time to change the unit’s name, Major, the entire unit will come to me with the request.”

“It’s my unit, sir.”

“Then prove it,” Patrick said. “Get them ready to roll immediately, learn how to use the tools I’ve busted my butt to get you, and show me a plan — drawn up as a unit—that will get the job done and get approved right away. Get on it, Major. Genesis out.” He broke the connection with a stab at the button so hard that it almost detached him from his Velcro perch. For Pete’s sake, Patrick thought, he never realized how lucky he was to be working with the men and women under his command and not true prima donnas like Macomber. He might be one of America’s premier specials ops commandos, but his interpersonal skill set needed some serious re-evaluation.

After taking an exasperated sip of water from a squeeze tube, he reopened the satellite link: “Odin to Condor.”

“Condor here, secure,” the senior controller at the Joint Functional Component Command-Space (JFCC-Space) command post at Vandenberg Air Force Base, California, responded. “Saw you on the news a bit ago. You looked A-OK, sir. Good to see you’re feeling okay. That Megyn is a fox, isn’t she?”

“Thanks, Condor, but unfortunately I never saw the host, so I’ll have to take your word for it,” Patrick responded. “I have an urgent reconnaissance assessment alert and request for ground ops tasking message for the boss.”

“Roger that, sir,” the senior controller responded. “Ready to copy whenever you’re ready.”

“I’ve detected a possible covert re-establishment of an illegal Iranian air base in the Persian Republic, and I need eyes-only confirmation and tasking authority for a shutdown if it’s verified.” Patrick quickly ran down what he knew and what he surmised about the Soltanabad highway airbase.

“Got it, sir. Sending to JFCC-Space DO now.” The DO, or deputy commander of operations for Joint Functional Component Command-Space, would report to his commander after assessing the request, investigating availability of forces, gathering intelligence, and computing an approximate timeline and damage expectancy. It was time-consuming, but probably kept the commander from being inundated with requests for support. “We should get a message back soon if the DO wants to act. How do you feel, sir?”

“Just fine, Condor,” Patrick responded. “Sure wish I could upload my requests directly to STRATCOM or even SECDEF,” Patrick remarked.

“I hear you, sir,” the controller said. “I think they’re afraid you’ll bury them with data. Besides, no one wants to give up their kingdoms.” In a convoluted and rather frustrating mix of responsibilities, tasking and coordination for air missions involving Armstrong Space Station and HAWC’s unmanned B-1 and B-52 bombers flying over Iran had to be channeled through two different major commands, who both reported directly to the President through the national security staff: JFCC-Space in California, who upchanneled the information to U.S. Strategic Command (STRATCOM) in temporary headquarters in Colorado and Louisiana; and to U.S. Central Command (CENTCOM) at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, which handled all military operations in the Middle East and central Asia. CENTCOM and STRATCOM’s different intelligence, plans, and operations staffs would go over the data separately, make their own recommendations, and present them to the Secretary of Defense and the President’s National Security Adviser, who would then make recommendations to the President.

“I don’t understand why these reports should go to STRATCOM at all,” Patrick groused. “CENTCOM is the theater commander — they should get reports, draw up a plan of action, get approvals, and then task everyone else for support.”

“You don’t need to convince me, sir — if you ask me, your reports should go directly to SECDEF,” the senior controller said. There was a slight pause; then: “Stand by for Condor, Odin. Good to talk with you again, General.”

A moment later: “Condor-One up, secure,” came the voice of the Fourteenth Air Force’s commanding officer, Air Force Major General Harold Backman. The commander of the U.S. Air Force’s Fourteenth Air Force, Backman was “dual-hatted” as Joint Forces Component Command-Space, or JFCC-S, a unit of U.S. Strategic Command (which had been destroyed in the Russian air attacks against the United States and was being reconstituted in various locations around the country).

JFCC-S was responsible for planning, coordinating, equipping, and executing all military operations in space. Before McLanahan, his High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, and the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplanes, “military operations in space” generally meant the deployment of satellites and monitoring space activities of other nations. No longer. McLanahan had given JFCC-Space a global strike and ultra-rapid mobility capability, and frankly he didn’t feel they were yet up to the task.

“Odin here, secure and verified,” Patrick said. “How are you doing, Harold?”

“Up to my eyeballs as usual, sir, but better than you, I’m guessing. The duty officer said he saw you on TV but you cut off the interview suddenly without warning. You okay?”

“I got a COMPSCAN warning and got right on it.”

“If it scared the piss out of one of my controllers, it’s going to panic the brass, you know that, right?”

“They should learn to relax. Did you get my data?”

“I’m looking at it right now, Muck. Give me a sec.” A few moments later: “I’ve got my intel chief looking it over now, but it just looks like a bombed-out highway airbase to me. I take it you don’t think so?”

“I think those craters are decoys, Harold, and I’d like some of my guys to go out there and take a look.”

Another slight pause. “Khorasan province, just a hundred miles from Mashhad — that area is controlled by Mohtaz and his Revolutionary Guards Corps,” Backman said. “Well within armed-response distance from Sabzevar, which certainly has a lot of Pasdaran hiding out there. If Soltanabad is really vacant, you’ll still be in the teeth of the storm if the bad guys spot you — and if it’s active like you said, it’ll be a meat grinder. I assume you want to go in with just a couple of your robots, right?”

“Affirmative.”

“Thought so. Your gizmos up there can’t give you any more detailed imagery?”

“Our only other option is a direct flyover by a satellite or unmanned aircraft, and that’ll alert the bad guys for sure. I’d like to get a peek first before I plan on blowing the place, and a small force would be the fastest and easiest.”

“How fast?”

“I haven’t looked at the orbital geometry, but I’m hoping we can launch them within four, have them on the ground in seven, airborne again in eight, and home within twelve.”

“Days?”

“Hours.”

“Shit,” Backman cursed. “Pretty friggin’ unbelievable, sir.”

“If I had my guys based up here, Harold, like I briefed you and STRATCOM I’d like to do, I could possibly be out of there and back home in four hours.”

“A-friggin’-mazing. I’m all for that, Muck, but I think that idea is just boggling too many minds down here on plain old planet Earth. You know that we’ve been directed by the National Command Authority to restrict all spaceplane missions to resupply and emergency only, right?”

“I consider this an emergency, Harold.”

“I know you do…but is it really an emergency?”

Patrick swallowed down a flare of anger at being questioned about his judgment, but he was accustomed to everyone second- and third-guessing him, even those who knew and liked him. “I won’t know for sure until I get some of my guys out there.”

“I don’t think it’ll be authorized, sir. You still want me to ask the question?”

Patrick didn’t hesitate: “Yes.”

“O-kay. Stand by.” The wait was not very long at all: “Okay, Muck, the DO of STRATCOM says you can get your guys moving in that direction, but no one puts boots — or whatever the hell your robots wear on their feet — on the ground, and no aircraft crosses any lines on any maps, without a go-ahead from CENTCOM.”

“Can I load up a few Black Stallion spaceplanes and put them in orbit?”

“How many, and loaded up with what?”

“One or two with operators, staggered and in different orbits until I can get a firm A-hour; one or two cover aircraft, loaded with precision-guided weapons; perhaps one or two decoys that will double as in-orbit retrieval backups; and one or two Vampire bombers airborne from Iraq ready to destroy the base if we find it to be operational.”

“That many spacecraft might be a hard sell — and the armed spacecraft might be a deal-breaker.”

“The more I can forward-deploy, and the more support stuff I get into orbit, the quicker this will be over, Harold.”

“I get it,” Backman said. The pause was longer this time: “Okay, approved. No one crosses any political boundaries in the atmosphere without a go-ahead, and keep the re-entry weapons tight until given the green light.” He chuckled, then added, “Jeez, I sound like friggin’ Battlestar Galactica Commander Adama or something. Never thought I’d be okaying an attack from outer space in my lifetime.”

“It’s the way things need to be from now on, my friend,” Patrick responded. “I’ll have the complete package plan out to you within the hour, and the air tasking order for movement of spacecraft will be out to you sooner. Thanks, Harold. Odin out.”

Patrick’s next videoconference call was to his battle management area at Elliott Air Force Base: “Macomber notified us that you had given him a ground op in Iran and that he was in a time crunch to do some planning, so we’ve already jumped in,” his deputy commander, Brigadier General David Luger, said. The two navigators had been together for over two decades, first as fellow B-52G Stratofortress crewmembers and then assigned to the High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center as aircraft and weapon flight test engineers. Tall, lean, quiet, and deliberate in personality as well as appearance, Luger’s best attribute was acting as Patrick McLanahan’s conscience whenever his irascible, determined, single-minded side threatened to obliterate all common sense. “We should have something for you in no time. The guy’s fast and pretty well organized.”

“I knew you’d be on it, buddy,” Patrick said. “Surprised to hear from Whack?”

“Surprised? How about thunderstruck?” Luger deadpanned. “Everyone in the Air Battle Force goes out of their way to avoid the guy. But when he gets down to business, he does okay.”

“Any thoughts on Soltanabad?”

“Yeah — I think we should skip the prelims and just put a couple spreads of SkySTREAKs or Meteors with high explosives down there, instead of wasting time inserting a Battle Force team,” Luger replied. “If the Iranians are hiding something there, our guys will be landing right on top of them.”

“As much as I like blowing things up, Texas,” Patrick responded, “I think we should get a look first. If those craters are really decoys, they’re the best I’ve ever seen, which means—”

“They’re probably not Iranian,” Luger said. “You thinking maybe the Russians?”

“I think Moscow would like nothing better than to help Mohtaz destroy Buzhazi’s army and station a few brigades there as his reward,” Patrick said.

“You think that’s what Zevitin wants to do?”

“An American-friendly state in Iran would be completely unacceptable,” Patrick said. “Mohtaz is a nutcase, but if Zevitin can convince him to allow Russian troops into Iran to help defeat Buzhazi’s army — or for any other reason such as defending against American aggression — Zevitin will be able to send in troops to counterbalance American domination in the region. At the very least, he can put pressure on President Gardner to back away from supporting former Soviet bloc countries that are drifting into the American sphere of influence.”

“All that geopolitical stuff makes my head hurt, Muck,” Dave said with mock weariness. Patrick could see Dave’s attention diverted away from the videoconference camera. “I have the first draft of the plan ready — I’ll upload it to you,” he said, entering instructions into his computer.

“Okay, Muck, here’s the preliminary status reports,” Luger went on moments later. “We have two Black Stallion spaceplanes available within four hours along with their dedicated tankers and enough fuel and supplies for orbital missions, and three available in seven hours if we cancel some training sorties. Macomber says he can get loaded up in time to launch. How do you want to build the air tasking order?”

Patrick made fast mental calculations, working the timing backward from when he wanted the Black Stallion off the ground and out of Persian airspace. “I’d sure like to have decoys, backups, more intel, and more rehearsals for Whack and the ground forces, but my primary concern is getting a good look at that base soon without the Revolutionary Guards being alerted,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get approval for two Studs to go in right away. If we launch in four hours, we’ll be over the objective by midnight to one A.M. local time — let’s call it two A.M. to be safe. We recon for one hour max, blast off before civil sunrise, refuel somewhere over western Afghanistan, and head home.”

“The ‘Duty Officer’ is spitting out the preliminary guesstimate for the air tasking order,” Luger said. The “Duty Officer” was the central computer system based at the High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center that tied in all of the various departments and laboratories around the world and could be securely accessed by any member of HAWC anywhere in the world — or, in the case of Armstrong Space Station, around it. “The biggest question mark we have right now is the KC-77 tanker support for the exfiltration aerial refueling. Our closest XR-A9-dedicated tanker is at Al Dhafra Air Base in the United Arab Emirates, which is two hours’ flight time to the closest possible refueling point over Afghanistan. If everything worked absolutely perfectly — they loaded the tanker without mishap, got all the diplomatic and air traffic clearances in a timely manner, et cetera — they’d make a possible rendezvous spot over western Afghanistan just as the Black Stallion goes bingo fuel.”

“And when was the last time we ever had a mission go completely flawless?”

“I don’t recall that ever happening,” Luger reassured him. “There are several emergency landing sites in that area we can use, but they are very close to the Iranian border, and we would need a lot of ground support to secure the base until fuel arrived. We can move recovery teams into Afghanistan to assist in case the Stud has to make an emergency landing, or we can push the mission back a couple days…”

“Let’s push ahead with this plan,” Patrick said. “We’ll present it as is and bring in as many contingency assets as we can — hopefully we won’t need any of them.”

“You got it, Muck,” Dave said. “I need to…stand by, Patrick…I have a call from your flight surgeon at Walter Reed. He wants to talk with you.”

“Plug me in, and stay on the line.”

“Roger that. Stand by…” A moment later the video image split in two, with Dave on the left side and the image of a rather young-looking man in Navy Work Uniform camouflage blue digital fatigues, typical of all military personnel in the United States since the American Holocaust. “Go ahead, Captain, the general is on the line, secure.”

“General McLanahan?”

“How are you, Captain Summers?” Patrick asked. U.S. Navy Captain Alfred Summers was the chief of cardiovascular surgery at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center and the man in charge of Patrick’s case.

“I saw your interview this morning,” the surgeon said testily, “and with all due respect, General, I was wondering where you got your medical degree from?”

“You have some problems with what I told the interviewer, I take it?”

“You made it sound like long-QT syndrome can be cured by taking a couple aspirin, sir,” Summers complained. “It’s not as easy as that, and I don’t want my staff blamed in case your request to remain on flight status is denied.”

“Blamed by whom, Captain?”

“Frankly, sir, by the great majority of Americans who think you are a national treasure that should not be sidelined for any reason whatsoever,” the physician responded. “I’m sure you know what I mean. In short, sir, long-QT syndrome is an automatic denial of flight privileges — there’s no appeal process.”

“My staff has been researching the condition, Captain, as well as the medical histories of several astronauts who have been disqualified from space duties but still retained flight status, and they tell me that the condition is not life-threatening and might not be serious enough to warrant a denial of—”

“As your doctor and the leading expert on this condition in the United States, General, let me set it straight for you if I may,” Summers interjected. “The syndrome was most likely caused by what we call myocardial stretch, where severe G-forces deform the heart muscles and nerves and create electrical abnormalities. The syndrome has obviously lain dormant for your entire life until you flew into space, and then it hit full force. It’s interesting to me that you obviously experienced some symptoms during some or perhaps all of your space flights, but then it lay dormant again until you had a mere videoconference confrontation — I’d guess it was equally as stressing as flying in space, or maybe just stressful enough to provide the trigger for another full-blown episode.”

“The White House and Pentagon can do that, Doctor,” Patrick said.

“No doubt, sir,” Summers agreed. “But do you not see the danger in this condition, General? The stress of that simple videoconference episode, combined with your repeated trips into orbit, sparked electrical interruptions that eventually created an arrhythmia. It was so severe that it created cardiac fibrillation, or irregular heartbeat, a true heat ‘flutter,’ which like a cavitating pump means that not enough blood gets circulated to the brain even though the heart hasn’t stopped. It goes without saying, sir, that any stressor now can bring on another episode, and without constant monitoring we have absolutely no way of knowing when or how severe it would be. Allowing you to stay on flight status would jeopardize every mission and every piece of hardware under your control.”

“I assume you were going to add, ‘not to mention your life,’ eh, Captain?” Patrick added.

“I assume we’re all thinking of your welfare first, sir — I could be mistaken about that,” Summers said dryly. “Your life is at risk every minute you spend up there. I cannot stress that too strongly.”

“I get it, I get it, Doctor,” Patrick said. “Let’s move on past the dire warnings now. What’s the treatment for this condition?”

“‘Treatment?’ You mean, other than avoiding stress at all costs?” Summers asked with obvious exasperation. He sighed audibly. “Well, we can try beta blockers and careful monitoring to see if any electrical abnormalities crop up again, but this course of treatment is recommended only for non-syncopic patients — someone who has never passed out before from the condition. In your case, sir, I would strongly recommend an ICD — implantable cardioverter-defibrillator.”

“You mean, a pacemaker?”

“ICDs are much more than just a pacemaker, sir,” Summers said. “In your case, an ICD would perform three functions: carefully monitor your cardiac condition, shock your heart in case of fibrillation, and supply corrective signals to restore normal rhythm in case of any tachycardia, hypocardia, or arrhythmia. Units nowadays are smaller, less obtrusive, more reliable, and can monitor and report on a wide variety of bodily functions. They are extremely effective in correcting and preventing cardiac electrical abnormalities.”

“Then it doesn’t affect my flight status, right?”

Summers rolled his eyes in exasperation, completely frustrated that this three-star general wouldn’t let go of the idea of getting back on flying status. “Sir, as I’m sure you understand, installing an ICD is a disqualifier for all flight duties except under FAA Part 91, and even then you’d be restricted to solo day VFR flights,” he said, taken aback simply by the fact that anyone who had an episode like this man did would even think about flying. “It is, after, all an electrical generator and transmitter that can momentarily cause severe cardiac trauma. I can’t think of any flight crewmember, military or civilian, who’s been allowed to maintain flight status after getting an ICD.”

“But if they’re so good, what’s the problem?” Patrick asked. “If they clear up the abnormalities, I should be good to go.”

“They’re good, much better than in years past, but they’re not foolproof, sir,” Summers said. “About one in ten patients suffer pre-syncopic or syncopic episodes — dizziness, drowsiness, or unconsciousness — when the ICD activates. Three in ten experience enough discomfort to make them stop what they’re doing — truck drivers, for example, will feel startled or uncomfortable enough that they will pull off to the side of the road, or executives in meetings will get up and leave the room. You can’t pull off to the side of the road in a plane, especially a spaceplane. I know how important flying is to you, but it’s not worth—”

“Not worth risking my life?” Patrick interrupted. “Again, Doctor, with all due respect, you’re wrong. Flying is essential to my job as well as an important skill and a source of personal pleasure. I’d be ineffective in my current position.”

“Would you rather be dead, sir?”

Patrick looked away for a moment, but then shook his head determinedly. “What are my other alternatives, Doctor?”

“You don’t have any, General,” Summers said sternly. “We can put you on beta blockers and constant monitoring, but that’s not as effective as an ICD, and you’d still be restricted in flight duties. It’s almost guaranteed that within the next six months you’ll have another long-QT episode, and the odds are greater that you’ll suffer some level of incapacitation, similar or probably more severe than what you experienced before. If you’re in space or at the controls of an aircraft, you’d become an instant hazard to yourself, your fellow crewmembers, innocent persons in your flight path, and your mission.

“General McLanahan, in my expert opinion, your current job or just about any military position I can think of is too stressful for a man in your condition, even if we install an ICD. More than any treatment or device, what you need now is rest. If there is no history of drug abuse or injury, long-QT syndrome is almost always triggered by physical, psychological, and emotional stress. The damage done to your heart by your position, duties, and space flights will last the rest of your life, and as we saw, the stress of just one simple videoconference meeting was enough to trigger a syncoptic episode. Take my advice: Get the ICD installed, retire, and enjoy your son and family.”

“There have to be other options, other treatments,” Patrick said. “I’m not ready to retire. I’ve got important work to do, and maintaining flying status is a big part of it — no, it’s a big part of who I am.”

Summers looked at him for a long moment with a stern and exasperated expression. “Bertrand Russell once wrote, ‘One symptom of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important,’” he said, “except in your case, you won’t suffer a nervous breakdown — you’ll be dead.”

“Let’s not get too dramatic here, Captain…”

“Listen to me carefully, General McLanahan: I’m not being dramatic — I’m being as honest and open with you as I can,” Summers said. “It is my opinion that you have suffered unknown but serious damage to your cardiac muscles and myocardium as a result of your space flight that is triggering long-QT episodes that are causing arrhythmia and tachycardia resulting in pre-syncoptic and syncoptic occurrences. Is that undramatic enough for you, sir?”

“Captain—”

“I’m not finished, sir,” Summers interjected. “The likelihood is that even with rest and medication you will suffer another syncoptic event within the next six months, more severe than the last, and without monitoring and immediate medical attention, your chances of survival are twenty percent, at best. With an ICD, your chances of surviving the next six months go up to seventy percent, and after six months you have a ninety percent chance of survival.”

He paused, waiting for an argument, and after a few moments of silence he went on: “Now if you were any other officer, one who didn’t use to date the Vice President of the United States with the Secret Service in tow, I would simply advise you that I will recommend to your commanding officer that you be confined to the hospital for the next six months. I will—”

“Six months!”

“I will still advise your commanding officer so,” Summers went on. “Whether you decide to get an ICD installed is your decision. But if you insist on not getting the ICD installed and you are not on 24/7 monitoring, you have virtually no chance of surviving the next six months. None. Do I make myself clear to you, sir?” Patrick momentarily looked like a rapidly deflating balloon, but Dave Luger could see his dejection quickly being replaced with anger — anger at what, he wasn’t quite certain yet. “It appears to me that the final decision is up to you. Good day, General.” And Summers logged out of the videoconference with a rueful shake of his head, certain that the three-star general had no intention of complying with his orders.

Once Summers left the conference, Patrick sat back in his chair, took a deep breath, then stared at the conference room table. “Well, shit,” he breathed after several long moments in silence.

“You okay, Muck?” Dave Luger asked.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Patrick replied, shaking his head in mock puzzlement. “I always thought it was Will Rogers who made that quote about mental breakdowns, not Bertrand Russell.”

Dave laughed — this was the guy he was familiar with, making jokes at a time when most sane men would be on the verge of tears. “I guess Mark Twain was right when he said, ‘It’s not what you know, it’s what you know that ain’t so.’”

“It wasn’t Mark Twain, it was Josh Billings.”

“Who?”

“Never mind,” Patrick said, turning serious again. “Dave, I need to learn everything about long-QT syndrome and treatment for heart arrhythmias before I can make a decision about what I can handle and what I can’t. There are probably a dozen companies doing research on modern ICDs, or whatever the next generation of those things becomes — I should know about the latest advances before I decide to get any old technology installed. Jon Masters probably has an entire lab devoted to treating heart disorders.”

“Excuse me for saying so, buddy, but you just had probably the best heart doc in the country on the line, ready to answer any questions you have, and you pretty much blew him off.”

“He wasn’t ready to help me — he was standing by ready to punch my ticket to a medical retirement,” Patrick said. “I need to handle this in my own way.”

“I’m worried about how much time you have to make this decision, Patrick,” Dave said. “You heard the doc: most patients who have this condition either start continual monitoring and drugs or get an ICD installed, right away. The others die. I don’t see what other research you need to do on this.”

“I don’t know either, Dave, but it’s the way I always do things: I check them out for myself, using my own sources and methods,” Patrick said. “Summers may be the best heart doc in the military, maybe even the country, but if that’s so, then my own research will tell me that too. But riddle me this, bro: What do guys like Summers do with active-duty cardiac victims who are still alive?”

“They retire them, of course.”

“They retire them,” Patrick echoed, “and then they’re cared for by the Veterans Administration or private doctors paid for in part by the government. Summers is doing what he always does: discharging sick guys and pushing them off to the VA. Most of his patients are so thankful to be alive that they never give retirement a second thought.”

“Aren’t you glad to still be alive, Muck?”

“Of course I am, Dave,” Patrick said, giving his longtime friend a scowl, “but if I’m going to punch out, I’m doing it on my terms, not Summers’. In the meantime, maybe I’ll learn something more about the condition and possible treatments that these docs don’t know, something that will let me keep my flying status. Maybe I’ll—”

“Patrick, I understand flying is important to you,” Luger said sincerely, “but it’s not worth risking your life to—”

“Dave, I risk my life just about every time I go up in a warplane,” Patrick interrupted. “I’m not afraid of losing my life to—”

“The enemy…the outside enemy,” Dave said. “Hey, Patrick, I’m just playing devil’s advocate here — I’m not arguing with you. You do what you want. And I agree: it’s worth risking your life using your skills, training, and instincts to battle an adversary who’s out to destroy the United States of America. But the enemy we’re talking about here is you. You can’t outfly, outguess, or outsmart yourself. You’re not equipped or trained to handle your own body trying to kill you. You should approach this battle like any battle you’ve ever prepared for…”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do, Dave,” Patrick said flatly. “I’m going to study it, analyze it, consult with experts, gather information, and devise a strategy.”

“Fine. But take yourself off flight status and check into the hospital for round-the-clock monitoring while you do it. Don’t be stupid.”

That last comment took Patrick aback, and he blinked in surprise. “You think I’m being stupid?”

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, man,” Luger said. He knew Patrick wasn’t stupid, and he was sorry he said it, but the one thing that his longtime friend had taught him was to speak his mind. Patrick was scared, and this was his response to fear, just as it had been in the cockpit of a strategic bomber all these many years: Fight the fear, focus on the objective, and never stop fighting no matter how awful the situation appears.

“Look at it from the doc’s point of view, Muck,” Luger went on. “I heard the doctors tell you that this thing is like a ticking time bomb with a hair trigger. It might not go off at all, but the odds are it could go off in the next ten seconds as we’re standing here arguing. Hell, I’m afraid you could vapor-lock on me as I’m arguing with you right now, and there’s not a damned thing I could do from down here but watch you die.”

“My chances of dying up here in Earth orbit are just a little bit greater than average with this heart thing — we can be blasted wide open and sucked out into space by a hypersonic piece of debris the size of a pea at any friggin’ time, and we’d never know it,” Patrick said.

“If you’re not sure about an ICD, then go ahead and research it; talk to Jon Masters or the dozen or so brainiacs on our list, and think it over,” Dave said. “But do it from the safety of a private hospital room where the docs can keep an eye on you.” Patrick’s eyes and features remained determined, stoic, impassive. “C’mon, Muck. Think about Bradley. If you continue to fly without the ICD, you might die. If you don’t stress yourself out, you’ll probably live on. What’s the question?”

“I’m not going to give in, Dave, and that’s it. I’m up here to do an important job, and I’m—”

“A job? Muck, do you want to risk hurting yourself over a job? It’s important, sure, but dozens of younger, stronger guys can do it. Give the job to Boomer, or Raydon, or even Lukas — anyone else. You haven’t figured it out yet, Patrick?”

“Figure what out?”

“We’re expendable, General McLanahan. We’re all disposable. We’re nothing but ‘politics by other means.’ When it comes right down to it, we’re just hard-core hard-assed type-A gung-ho military prima donnas in ill-fitting monkey suits, and nobody in Washington cares if we live or die. If you blow a gasket tomorrow there’ll be twenty other hard-asses waiting to take your place — or, more likely, Gardner could just as easily order us shut down the day after you croaked and spend the money on more aircraft carriers. But there are those of us who do care, your son being at the top of the list, but you’re not paying attention to us because you’re focusing on the job—the job that doesn’t care one whit about you.”

Luger took a deep breath. “I know you, man. You always say that you do it because you don’t want to order another flyer to do something you haven’t done yourself, even if the flyers are trained test crewmembers, the best of the best. I’ve always known that’s bullshit. You do it because you love it, because you want to be the one to pull the trigger to take down the bad guys. I understand that. But I don’t think you should be doing it anymore, Muck. You’re unnecessarily risking your life — not by flying a mostly untested machine, but by exposing yourself to stresses that can kill you long before you reach the target area.”

Patrick was silent for a long time; then he looked at his old friend. “I guess you do know what it’s like to face your own mortality, don’t you, Dave?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Luger said. As a young navigator-bombardier flying a secret mission to destroy the old Soviet Union’s Kavaznya ground-based laser site, Dave Luger had been captured by the Russians, interrogated, tortured, and imprisoned for several years, then brainwashed into believing he was a Russian aerospace engineer. The effects of that treatment affected him emotionally and psychologically — stress would cause him to unexpectedly enter a detached fugue state that left him nearly incapacitated with fear for minutes, sometimes hours — and he voluntarily took himself off active flight status years ago. “It was a hell of a ride…but there are other rides out there.”

“Don’t you miss flying?” Patrick asked.

“Hell no,” Dave said. “When I want to fly, I pilot one of the unmanned combat air vehicles or my radio-controlled model planes. But I have enough things going on where I don’t have the desire anymore.”

“I’m just not sure how it would affect me,” Patrick said honestly. “I think I’d be okay — no, I’m sure I would — but would I always be demanding one more flight, one more mission?”

“Muck, you and me both know that manned aircraft are going the way of the dinosaur,” Dave said. “Are you all of a sudden getting some kind of romantic notion about aviation, some kind of weird ‘slip the surly bonds’ idea that somehow makes you forget everything else? Since when did flying ever become anything more than ‘plan the flight, then fly the plan’ for you? Man, if I didn’t know you, I’d swear you cared more about flying than you did about Bradley. That’s not the Patrick Shane McLanahan I know.”

“Let’s drop it, okay?” Patrick asked irritably. He hated it when Luger (or his former girlfriend, Vice President Maureen Hershel) brought up his twelve-year-old son Bradley, believing it was a too-oft-used argument to try to get Patrick to change his mind about something. “Everyone’s all worried about my heart, but no one stops arguing with me.” He made sure to give Luger a smile when he added, “Maybe you’re all trying to make me crash. Change the damned subject, Texas. What’s going on at the Lake?”

“The rumor mill is churning, Muck,” Dave said. “Guess who might be back at HAWC?”

“Martin Tehama,” Patrick responded. Dave blinked in surprise — this was a guy who was rarely surprised. “I saw a strange e-mail address on a CC from SECDEF and checked to see who was in that office. I think he’s going to be reinstated as HAWC commander.”

“With his buddy in the White House? No doubt.” Air Force Colonel Martin Tehama was designated the commander of the High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center after Major General Terrill “Earthmover” Samson’s departure, bypassing Patrick McLanahan. A well-respected test pilot and engineer, Tehama wanted to rein in the “extracurricular” activities HAWC often got involved with — such as using experimental aircraft and weapons in “operational test flights” around the world — and get back to the serious business of flight test. When Patrick left his White House adviser position he was awarded command of HAWC, bumping Tehama out. He retaliated by delivering reams of information on HAWC’s classified missions to members of Congress. “After Summers files a full report on your condition, he’ll reappear and take charge as soon as you announce your retirement — or the President announces that you’re being medically retired.”

“The President and Senator Barbeau will use my heart thing to cancel the Black Stallion program, citing health concerns, and their errand boy Tehama will promptly shut it down within months.”

“Not even that long, Muck,” David said. “The word from the Senate is that they’re going to push the White House to move quicker to shut us down.”

“Barbeau wants her bombers, that’s for sure.”

“It’s not just her, but she’s the loudest voice,” Dave said. “There are lobbyists for every weapon system imaginable — carriers, ballistic missile subs, special ops, you name it. President Gardner wants another four aircraft carrier battle groups at least, maybe six, and he’s likely to get them if the space program is canceled. Everyone’s got their own agenda. The spaceplane lobby is practically nonexistent, and your injury just casts a shadow on the program, which delights the other lobbyists no end.”

“I hate this political shit.”

“Me too. I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did working in the White House. You definitely weren’t made for wearing a suit, listening to meaningless speeches while wasting weeks testifying before another congressional committee, and being jerked around by lobbyists and so-called experts.”

“Copy that,” Patrick said. “Anyway, the heat’s been turned up, and Tehama will turn it up even more — right in our faces. All the more reason to accomplish this Soltanabad mission, bring the crew back safely, and get some good intel all before tomorrow morning. The Russians are up to something in Iran — they can’t be content to just sit in Moscow or Turkmenistan and watch Iran become democratic, or disintegrate.”

“I’m on it,” Dave said. “The air tasking order will be ready by the time you get the green light. I’ll send you the orbital game plan and the complete force timing schedule right away. Genesis out.”