“Here’s how, sir: One engagement could destroy a single multiple-warhead ballistic missile, saving as many as twelve cities or military bases from annihilation,” Patrick explained. “A single laser shot could destroy a fifty-million-dollar bomber or a hundred-million-dollar spy satellite. I don’t like focusing on the numbers, sir, because they usually tell only part of the story, but in this case, the numbers show that the Dragon is a superb force-multiplying combat system.”
“Most of Congress can’t get past the purchase price, let alone the cost per sortie,” Secretary of Defense Goff said. “And when they realize they’re paying a billion dollars for a plane that was probably built before most of them were born — let me just say it’s a very tough sell.”
“I’d be happy to help try to make the sale, sir,” Patrick said. “We can dazzle them.”
“Well, dazzle us first before you go volunteering to take on Congress,” Goff said.
“Yes, sir,” Patrick said enthusiastically.
There was an odd assortment of other aircraft in the underground parking ramp: C-130 Hercules transports with weird, winglike spy antennae attached to various parts of the fuselage, wings, and stabilizers; huge helicopters with an assortment of radomes and sensor turrets on the nose; and two transport planes that had engines attached to their short, stubby wingtips. “Okay, stop,” Robert Goff said. “I recognize the Commando Solo C-130 psyops plane and the MH-53 Pave Low special-ops helicopter, but what in the heck are those?”
“We call it the MV-32 Pave Dasher — our modification of the CV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft,” Patrick explained. “The standard V-22 has turboprops. This one uses fanjet engines that swivel on the wingtips to provide vertical flight as well as high-speed forward flight. The fanjets give it much more lifting power as well as twice the forward speed of the Osprey. The MV-32 Pave Dasher can insert six Battle Force teams — twenty-four heavily armed combat troops — about two thousand miles, or farther with aerial refueling.”
“I don’t recall those planes being authorized or funded,” Goff pointed out. He noticed Patrick’s expression. “I see — another of your freelance, no-cost acquisitions. From Sky Masters Inc., I suppose?”
“One of their development partners, yes, sir.”
“McLanahan’s private little air force again, eh, General?” President Thorn asked.
They continued through a series of wide corridors cut out of the rock and stopped at a set of large steel doors on immense hinges, reminiscent of the huge, vaultlike doors at the entrance to the North American Aerospace Defense Command’s underground command center at Cheyenne Mountain. The doors looked tired and gray, definitely old — but inside, the large room looked modern and well lit, like a brand-new auditorium or theater.
Brigadier General David Luger, Colonel John Long, Lieutenant Colonel Nancy Cheshire, Lieutenant Colonel Hal Briggs, and Sergeant Major Chris Wohl were lined up in front of the stage inside the auditorium, surrounded by Secret Service agents. “Mr. President, Miss Secretary, Mr. Secretary, I’d like to introduce you to the rest of the command here.” Thorn, Hershel, and Goff stepped over to where the others were waiting. “I’d like to introduce you to my second in command, Brigadier General David Luger.”
The VIPs shook hands with Luger. “It’s an honor to meet you, General,” Robert Goff said. He looked at Luger solemnly, glanced at Patrick, then added, “The last two surviving members of the Old Dog crew. Two living legends. I’m glad to have you both around.”
David Luger, tall and lanky and towering over Goff, looked bowed as he realized that it was true: There were only two of the original six crew members of the first “Old Dog” mission left. “It’s good to be here, sir,” he said.
“This is Brigadier General Rebecca Furness, commander of the One-eleventh Attack Wing; Colonel John Long, the operations-group commander; Colonel Daren Mace, commander of the Fifty-first Attack Squadron with the EB-1C Vampires; and Lieutenant Colonel Nancy Cheshire, commander of the Fifty-second Attack Squadron with the EB-52 Megafortresses and the AL-52 Dragons.”
“The first female combat pilot — another living legend. Nice to meet you, Rebecca,” Goff said, shaking Rebecca’s hand enthusiastically. He shook Long’s hand but did not address him — obviously an astute judge of character, Patrick thought. “Nice to see you again, Daren,” Goff said, shaking Daren’s hand warmly. “I was pleased with the work you did out at Beale.”
“Thank you, sir,” Daren replied.
“I hope you’ll find a home out here—” Goff said. He paused, glanced at McLanahan, then added, “If they haven’t scared you too much already.”
“That may be possible to do, sir, but not yet.”
“Colonel, I’m looking forward to seeing what your airborne-laser aircraft are capable of,” Goff said, shaking Nancy’s hand. Nancy Cheshire was tall, athletic bordering on muscular, with strawberry-blond hair, shining green eyes, and an ever-present smile. She was the senior test pilot in the experimental B-52 bombers at Dreamland, accepting her first operational command to get the chance to keep on flying her beloved super-B-52s and work with Patrick McLanahan.
“Finally,” Patrick went on, “Colonel Hal Briggs and Sergeant Major Chris Wohl, Air Battle Force ground operations.”
Maureen Hershel stared at Chris Wohl in wonderment. Hal was wearing his Air Force Class-A blue uniform, but Chris Wohl was wearing a strange black outfit that resembled high-tech scuba diver’s gear, with a thin backpack, thick boots and belt, and tubes running along the arms and legs. “What in the world is this?” she asked, touching the strange material.
“It’s called BERP — Ballistic Electro-Reactive Process, ma’am,” Hal Briggs replied. “Electronic armor. It responds to being sharply struck by instantly hardening into an almost impenetrable protective shield that can withstand attack by up to thirty-seven-millimeter cannon shells. The tubes you see outside the armor are part of the powered exoskeleton, which uses microhydraulic actuators to activate the armor and enhance the wearer’s strength. These electrodes on the shoulders emit directional bursts of electrical energy out as far as fifty feet, which can paralyze an attacker. The boots contain a gas thruster system that can help the wearer jump several hundred feet. The backpack contains a power-generating and rechargeable-battery system, plus worldwide communications and sensor equipment. This is what the well-dressed commando will be wearing this century.”
“They call themselves the Tin Men, Maureen,” Goff said, shaking hands with Briggs and Wohl. His voice was filled with tension and seriousness, but his handshake and eyes were friendly. “They’ve proven themselves extraordinarily effective in many different scenarios, but they’ve also given us a lot of headaches since we’ve taken office. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”
“That’s one of our specialties, sir,” Hal Briggs said. “We aim to please.”
“I for one don’t think it’s funny, Colonel,” President Thorn said. “You successfully dragged the United States into a shooting war with Russia and nearly got us into a shooting war with Libya — all for a few lousy dollars. If it weren’t for General McLanahan’s interceding on your behalf, you’d all be in prison right now.” Briggs and Wohl said nothing but remained at parade rest, eyes caged forward. “Well? What do you have to say for yourselves?”
“I’m happy to have the opportunity to create some havoc for you now, sir,” Briggs said.
“Same here, sir,” Wohl chimed in.
Thorn looked Wohl up and down. “I was a commando, too, Sergeant Major,” he said. “I spent a month crawling on my belly in Iraq before and during Desert Storm with nothing but a laser designator and a bad attitude. But not once in all the battles and all the shit we took did I ever consider turning my back on my country or the Army.”