Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05 (21 page)

 
          
“Colonel,
I listened to the entire proposal, and I’m for it,” Marcia Preston interjected.
“I’ve worked for the NSA in the past, and we’re not a private mercenary group
for the White House or the CIA. We’ve got an honorable mission, Patrick. Our
mission is to stop war.
Iran
is butchering our agents in—”

 
          
“In
where?” Wendy asked. “What’s happened?”

 
          
“It’s
classified,” Freeman said. “I didn’t want to bring it up....”
Preston
looked at Freeman for permission to
continue; he granted it with a slight nod. “Happened not long ago,”
Preston
said. “The ISA intelligence vessel
Valley Mistress
—you’re familiar with it,
of course. ...”

           
“Paul White’s group?” Patrick
exploded. “What happened?”

           
“They were flying a stealth
reconnaissance drone over the
Khomeini
battle
group, trying to keep an eye on it,”
Preston
replied. “Drone had a malfunction, and the Iranians tracked it back to the ship
... and sank it. Thirteen crew members missing, including Colonel White ...”
Freeman held up a hand, ordering her to stop. “My God...”

 
          
“We
do what we do to beat up on the bad guys, Patrick, not against innocent
persons,” Freeman said. “We do the job to fix the problem at hand—we worry
later about the long-term consequences. That’s the unfortunate aspect of our
work: we don’t have time to analyze or determine the effect of our actions. A
problem needs fixing, we fix it; a crisis develops that needs attention, we
attend to it. We know what we do is necessary and vital for the national
security and safety of Americans—we pray that what we do is for the long-term
benefit of all.”

 
          
Patrick
paused for a moment, and now even Wendy was looking at him with a thoughtful
glance. But still he said, “No. I... I’m sorry about Paul and his crew... but I
can’t. Sorry.”

 
          
“Then
we’ll be off,” General Freeman said, rising to his feet. “Thank you for your
time, both of you. I don’t need to remind you, I’m sure, that this entire
conversation, this entire interaction, is of the highest secrecy...”

 
          
“General,
tell him the rest,”
Preston
said.

 
          
“I
think not.”

 
          
“What
is this, some kind of game? A ‘good-cop-bad-cop’ routine?” Patrick said, rising
to his feet as well. “I said I’m not interested. That’s final.”

 
          
“Tell
him, General.”

 
          
“No.”

 
          
“It’s
about Madcap Magician,”
Preston
said quickly. Freeman whirled at the Marine, but she finished her sentence:
“One of the ISA agents attached to Madcap Magician—”

 
          
“Colonel,
that’s enough!”

 
          
“He
wasn’t killed, but he’s going back in to look for Colonel White and anyone else
who might have been captured.”

 
          
“
Preston
, what in hell is it?”

 
          
“Colonel
Preston, no!”

 
          
“One
of the Madcap Magician agents is Major Hal Briggs,”
Preston
said.

 
          
“Hal
Briggs is with ISA? With Madcap Magician?” Patrick exclaimed.

 
          
“At
the risk of breaking a major rule of survival with ISA—yes,” Philip Freeman
replied, after giving Marcia Preston one last warning glare. “Individual
technical units aren’t supposed to know any members of other units—one captured
agent can put hundreds of others at risk. But.. . yes, Hal Briggs was recruited
for service by my predecessor shortly after the James spy incident. In fact,
he’s going to be named its operations commander, if the unit survives and is
reconstituted.”

 
          
“Where
is he?”

 
          
“He’s
... in-country,” Freeman admitted. “Major Briggs ... er, has a valuable
contact, an intelligence officer from the
United Arab Emirates
who assisted him in the raid on
Abu
Musa
Island
. Major Briggs is awaiting clearance to go
back in to make contact.”

 
          
“That
agent’s gotta be a woman,” Wendy said with a smile.

 
          
“I
must warn you again, Colonel and Dr. McLanahan,” Freeman said, pointing a
finger at both of them, “that all this information is highly classified—I don’t
need to tell you what would happen to the persons involved if word as to their
identities or position was released.” Freeman nodded at the Secret Service
agents in the room, and they headed for the door. He extended a big, rough
hand. “It was a pleasure and an honor to meet you, Patrick McLanahan,” he said.
“The country—maybe the entire world—already owes you a tremendous debt of
gratitude. I’m sorry we couldn’t put your talents to work again. Dr. McLanahan,
it was an honor to meet you as well. Good day to you both.”

 
          
But
Patrick was looking into Wendy’s eyes—and she saw it, the sudden hot spark of
energy, the old cocksure hellfire-and- damnation blaze in his eyes that had
attracted her to him ten years earlier, back at that bar in Bossier City,
Louisiana. Briggs had tipped the scale, she knew—Briggs and White and the
memories of their old friends and comrades-in-arms. His gaze was also a
question— he knew there was no time to converse, no time to talk it over as
they always had before, but he was asking her opinion, asking her permission.
...

 
          
She
knew—and she responded: Do it, Patrick, her eyes told him. You want it, I want
it for you, and men out there need you. Do it, but don’t do it
their
way—do it
your
way!

 
          
And
Patrick understood, because when Freeman tried to release the handshake,
Patrick held firm.

 
          
Freeman
looked at McLanahan with a puzzled expression. “Colonel McLanahan, does this
mean .. . ?” Freeman started—but McLanahan’s grip suddenly tightened. Freeman
couldn’t let go. “Yes, very well, Patr—”

 
          
“We
use Disruptors,” McLanahan interrupted, still clutching Freeman’s hand tightly.
“Non-lethal weapons only, unless there’s a declaration of war—then we go in
with everything we’ve got, and I mean
everything.
”

 
          
“Ah...”
McLanahan’s grip tightened suddenly; it surprised Freeman. “Agreed,” Freeman
replied. “That was the plan all along, of course.”

 
          
“We
operate overseas only, not over
U.S.
or allied territory unless there’s a
declaration of war or an invasion.”

 
          
“Agreed,”
Freeman said again, hiding the pain. “Now if we could, I’d like to have Colonel
Preston give you—”

 
          
“We
support ISA operations
only
—no CIA,
no other agencies or operations. No DEA, no ATF, no FBI,” McLanahan continued.
“Full disclosure, full verification, open access.”

 
          
“Colonel,
there’s time to run down all the options ...”

           
The grip suddenly doubled in
strength—Freeman didn’t think it was possible. He was starting to sweat. “Agree
to it, General!” McLanahan said loudly. The Secret Service agents warily took a
step toward McLanahan. McLanahan’s grip was crushing, making Freeman see stars.
“Swear it! Or is all of this some kind of bullshit agency snow job right from
the top?”

 
          
“What
in hell do you think you’re doing, dammit?”

 
          
The
Secret Service agents started to rush over to Freeman’s side. “If those sons of
bitches touch me or Wendy, the whole deal’s off!” McLanahan shouted. Freeman
held up his left hand, halting the agents. “Tell me the truth, Freeman, damn
you, if you have the
balls!”
Something
was going to break—his hand, or the Secret Service agents’ patience. . ..

           
“All right!” Freeman cried out
through gritted teeth, “I agree!”

           
“Agree to what?”

 
          
“No
other agencies ... ISA only ... full disclosure, full access,” Freeman said.
McLanahan released his grip, and Freeman jerked away, as if he had just been
electrocuted. He gingerly rubbed the circulation back into his hand. McLanahan
hadn’t even broken a sweat. “That was a childish and immature thing to do,
McLanahan,” Freeman said. “What were you trying to prove—how tough you think
you are?”

 
          
“I
wanted to give you a little reminder, in case you’ve been in the Pentagon or
the White House too long,” McLanahan said, “that good men, my friends and I,
are going to be counting on you keeping your promises. If you don’t, the pain
you just felt will be nothing compared to
theirs.
”

 
          
Freeman
knew he should be furious, but somehow he couldn’t fault McLanahan, not after
all the man had seen and been through. He let the anger drain away with the
pain in his right hand, then nodded. “I’ll keep my part of the bargain,”
Freeman said, “not because of your little macho stunt, but because I goddamn
do
care about the men and women under my
command. I don’t play games, Colonel McLanahan.”

 
          
McLanahan
snatched up the wig and shook it in front of Freeman. “You all play games,
General,” he said angrily. “We all play games—but not with the lives of fellow
crewdogs. I learned a lot from Brad Elliott in almost ten years, sir, and I’ve
got lots of ideas of my own. You play straight with me, and we’ll kick some ass
and come home alive. If you don’t, I’ll make you wish you hired Brad Elliott
and had never even
heard
of me.”

 
          
Freeman
did not like being spoken to in this way, but he knew McLanahan was a truly
dedicated man. Everything he had heard and read about this guy was true. “If
you’re finished breaking my fingers and my ass, you’re on the government clock
now, McLanahan. Your plane leaves Travis Air Force Base in seven hours. Good
luck.” By impulse, he held out a hand to him, then quickly retracted it. He
smiled, nodded, and said, “Kiss your lovely wife good-bye, McLanahan. You’re in
the ISA now.”

Whiteman AFB,
Missouri
17 APRIL 1997
,
0649 CT

           
“Who the hell is it, Tom?” Colonel
Anthony Jamieson irritably asked the one-star general standing beside him. The
two officers were standing in the cool, damp morning air outside the base
operations building at Whiteman Air Force Base, Knob Noster,
Missouri
, waiting as ordered for the jet carrying
the VIPs to arrive. “A Congressman? A Senator’s aide?”

 
          
“The
boss says you don’t need to know the answer to that, Tony—yet.” Brigadier
General Thomas Wright, the commander of the 509th Bomb Wing, Whiteman Air Force
Base, and Jamieson’s boss, obviously disliked giving that kind of response to a
senior officer, fellow pilot, and friend—but it was the only one allowable.

 
          
Jamieson
could see his boss’s indecision and decided to keep on pressing: “Do
you
know who he is?” he asked.

 
          
“Not
exactly,” Wright admitted, “and apparently I don’t need to know, either.
Listen, Tiger, stop asking all these damned questions. You just have to fly him
in the simulator. This is just one of Samson’s gee-whiz dog-and-pony-show
tours. Have fun, water his eyes—you know the drill. I’ll wax your ass in golf
afterward.”