He stared both Wohl and Briggs in the eyes, his chin jutting out, his jaw clenched. “You left the Corps and fought for an outlaw organization,” he went on angrily. “Both of you renounced your oaths and went to work for what I believe was a criminal organization — a group that stole money, committed murder and mayhem, and absconded with government property. You nearly caused a world war with your antics. You didn’t deserve to come back into the country, let alone come back into the U.S. armed forces and get a promotion.”
“You gave my men and me full exoneration and full restoration of our rank and privileges, sir….” Patrick interjected.
“That’s right — I gave your ranks back to you,” Thorn said heatedly. “I gave them back because you acquitted yourselves with honor in Libya. But you haven’t won the right to think you’re some kind of bad-ass fighting men now.” Thorn turned and saw Wohl glaring at him. He turned and faced the big Marine nose-to-nose. “You have something to say to me, Sergeant Major?”
“Yes, sir,” Wohl said. His eyes remained caged, not looking directly at the president’s. “But I choose not to say it.”
“Go ahead, Sergeant Major,” Thorn pressed. “You have permission to speak freely. Tell us why you chose to leave your post without being properly relieved, and why you think you deserve to come back into my country’s armed forces — instead of spending the rest of your life in prison.”
Wohl’s eyes angrily snapped over to Thorn’s. That was the reaction Thorn was waiting for.
“Go ahead, Sergeant Major, say it,” Thorn goaded him. “Give me a reason to toss your ass in Leavenworth, where it belongs.”
Wohl wisely, thankfully remained silent.
“You assassinated Pavel Kazakov in Iceland, didn’t you, you murderous son of a bitch?” Thorn asked in a low, ominous voice.
“Excuse me, sir—” Hal Briggs interjected.
“Shut up, Colonel,” Thorn ordered. “I haven’t even started with you yet.” He turned again to Wohl. “You’re a wild dog, Wohl.” He jabbed at Wohl’s chest and was surprised when the material he thought was fabric felt as hard as titanium — he could have all his Secret Service agents nearby, he realized ruefully, and they wouldn’t be able to stop this guy. That made him a little nervous — no, it made him a lot scared—but he knew he couldn’t dare let that show, so he pressed on. “There’s an Interpol warrant for your arrest for Kazakov’s murder, did you know that? He was under United Nations protection. You cut his head off, didn’t you? Whose idea was it to kill Kazakov? Yours or Briggs’s?” Still no response. “Answer me!”
“My men prefer to do their talking on the battlefield, Mr. President,” Patrick McLanahan said forcefully, quickly interjecting his voice between them — he could practically feel the heat from Wohl’s temples as his anger mounted. No one, not even the president of the United States, would be allowed to get into Chris Wohl’s face unscathed for very long. “Sergeant Major Wohl isn’t a debater. He follows orders, leads men into battle, and kills with extraordinary efficiency.”
Thorn looked into Wohl’s eyes and instantly believed what Patrick was telling him.
“If you’d like a briefing on our prior activities and the reasons behind them, sir, I’d be happy to accommodate you at any time.”
“I’m not interested in dog and pony shows, and I’m sure as hell not interested in excuses,” Thorn said. “I’m letting you know that I’m still not convinced that you’re fighting for the United States of America. You have a long way to go before that happens.”
“Sir, we’re ready to demonstrate our capabilities — and our loyalty — anytime, anywhere.”
“That’s why we’re here, General,” Goff said. He waited to see if the president had anything more to say; when Thorn remained silent, Goff said to Patrick, “Okay, Patrick, show us around.”
“Yes, sir. We call this the BATMAN, or Battle Management Center,” Patrick said. They were in a huge room, like an auditorium, complete with tiered seating, a stage, and even three glassed-in balcony sections. Sixteen four-by-three-foot color plasma displays seamlessly hung together on the forward wall above the stage; a few of them were out of order, but the view was still spectacular. “Here in the center are consoles for the commanders and leadership. Behind the commanders are the support staffs, linked together by fiber-optic networks — intelligence, operations, communications, logistics, weather, and manpower. The rear of the tiered section is the virtual-cockpit command center, where teams will be able to control up to six long-range bombers plus a dozen unmanned combat air vehicles or monitor the automated progress of dozens of unmanned aircraft. Up above is the battle staff area; on either side of that are areas for joint forces or civil commanders; and on either side of BATMAN are observer areas, which can be closed off if necessary.”
“When is all this going to be finished, General?” Hershel asked.
“We’re mission-capable now, ma’am,” Patrick replied. “We already have worldwide communications capability here via high-frequency radio, the Internet, secure fiber-optic landline, and secure satellite. All the datalinks aren’t set up yet, but most of the hardware is in place, and it’s just a matter of programming in the links. At this point we’re about at the level where command posts were in the 1980s. In two months we’ll be up to date. In three to six months — with the right funding — we’ll be state-of-the-art, able to control entire squadrons of unmanned aircraft and collect and analyze real-time reconnaissance and intelligence data from all over the world.”
“I’ve seen better, General — I’m not impressed,” Thorn said impatiently. “If I recall correctly, you were tasked only with investigating how your experimental aircraft and weapons could interface with today’s tactical air squadrons. We gave you back all your toys with the idea that they would be merged into other existing combat units on an as-needed basis. It looks to me like you’re building your own military unit here, using General Furness’s planes.”
“That’s inaccurate, sir,” Patrick said. “I don’t control any of these aircraft. The B-1s and KC-135s belong to General Furness; the B-52s belong to the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center.
“As I understand them, sir, my orders were to discover ways to integrate the EB-52 Megafortress, EB-1C Vampire, AL-52 Dragon, and other weapons, aircraft, satellites, and sensors developed at HAWC with existing forces,” Patrick went on. He knew he was quoting his orders word for word. “I was also given the task of standing up this facility for use as an alternate national military and civil emergency command center and secure evacuation location for the national command authority. I’m ready to brief the National Command Authority at any time on how these weapon systems and this facility can be integrated into the total force structure. I assembled a team of experts on unmanned aircraft development, on my own authority and budget, and I—”
“What you consider ‘your authority’ is highly questionable to me, General,” Thorn interjected. “You must be taking money from other projects and programs to help fund your project — maybe even taking money from General Furness here. Is that what you’re doing, General McLanahan? You are doing flight tests with General Furness’s unmanned B-1 bombers? You want to create an entire wing of robot planes, all controlled from this place?”
Patrick looked over at John Long, who was looking directly at him with a grin on his face. He should’ve expected the rat bastard to drop a dime on him, Patrick thought. “Yes, sir,” Patrick said. “That’s what I’m doing here.”