“Samson put them on alert,” Patrick said.
“Well, no shit,” Elliott said. “But why in hell hasn’t he deployed them here?”
“They’re on SIOP ground alert, Brad,” Patrick replied. “Samson’s not at Barksdale — the President ordered STRATCOM to stand up the Combined Task Forces. Samson’s at Offutt.”
“SIOP alert? What beanbrain activated the SIOP?” Elliott thundered. “The Chinese know we’re not going to use nuclear weapons on anyone, especially not a third world country like the People’s Republic of China! We should have launched non-nuclear strikes against the Chinese sub and missile bases by now, knocked out their nuclear warfighting capability. The bombers should have been over their targets hours ago. We don’t need nukes to send the Chinese to the bargaining table. What in hell is Earthmover doing at Offutt, anyway? We could have this thing over with by now. ”
“Brad, relax,” Patrick said. “Things are quiet right now. Everybody’s backed off to neutral corners.”
“Oh, sure — after they nuke Taiwan into another dimension! ” Elliott retorted. “How long do you think that’ll last? Not long — probably just long enough for everybody to load up their artillery shells and gravity bombs with nuclear or chemical warheads.
“I’ll call Samson at Offutt and get him to stop with the nukes, put conventional cruise missiles on the bombers, and start laying down the law to the Chinese before someone starts another nuclear exchange.
With the Megafortresses already here, we can take care of the radar sites and long-range strategic defenses, if Balboa or Allen haven’t already sent the EA-6 Prowlers in. ” The EA-6 Prowlers were the combined Navy and Air Force medium-range and carrier-based anti-radar planes, able to jam and attack enemy radar and air defense sites. “Maybe I can get some charts and draw up a flight plan so you can have it in the computers ready to go in case we get the word to—”
“We’re grounded, if you remember, Brad,” Patrick said. “We’ve been doing nothing but getting the damaged bird ready to go and packing up all our equipment before the Navy or the federal marshals seize it. We’ll be ready to depart in a couple days.”
“No one is going to seize anything, Muck,” Elliott said. “Balboa was just blowing gas.”
“They’ve got marshals surrounding the hangars and our headquarters, backed up by Navy SPs,” Wendy McLanahan said, as she entered the room just then. She gave Elliott a welcoming kiss. “Nice to see you up and around… but the nurse says—”
“Who said you two could talk to my blabbermouth nurse, anyway?”
“Never mind that — you need the rest, not more work,” Wendy admonished him.
“What about the Megafortresses?”
“Balboa’s for real, Brad,” Patrick said. “We’d probably have been flown back to Washington to appear in federal court already, except for the Independence disaster — air traffic has been shut down completely over the Pacific.”
Elliott sighed wearily, looking as if all the moisture had been sucked out of his body. Stuck in bed, grounded, facing legal action, and having his prized Megafortresses shut down and one step out of the Boneyard was almost too much for him to handle. He had been calling everyone he knew back in the States, gathering information, asking for favors, trying to find some avenue he could pursue to get the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff off his back and get the Megafortresses flying again, but no one returned his calls. With this new disaster in the Pacific, George Balboa had all the power and influence now. “Dammit, I need to talk with Samson soonest.”
“I brought bad news, then,” Wendy McLanahan said. “Terrill Samson called from Offutt. He’s been relieved of duty as commander of Combined Task Force Three.”
“Oh, shit,” Patrick exclaimed. “How did that happen?”
“One word — CINCSTRATCOM. Henry Danforth,” Elliott said. “He’s a younger but stupider clone of George Balboa. He doesn’t know how to handle the heavy bomber fleet and doesn’t trust Samson or anyone else to run the fleet for him, because he’s afraid the Air Force would kick ass and overshadow the carriers and Navy air.”
“He got into an argument with CINCSTRATCOM over releasing some of the B-ls and B-2s for conventional missions,” Wendy said. “I guess the argument got too personal.”
“He probably asked for Major-General Collier to replace him, Samson’s vice at Barksdale,” Elliott guessed. “Collier’s a good guy, but he hasn’t run a wing in almost ten years. Samson’s the bomber guy. I think we’re aced out completely.”
“At least Earthmover was in there trying to get STRATCOM steered in the right direction,” Patrick McLanahan said. “The bombers don’t belong in the nuclear mission now — probably not ever. If the shit really hits the fan and we have to go nuclear, the subs and ICBMs are the best weapons then — we should be using the bombers for non-nuclear strikes deep into China. But with the B-52s retired and the B-ls and B-2s stuck on nuclear alert, there’s no long-range aircraft to be used for non-nuclear strikes.”
“So we’re out of it,” Elliott summarized with an exasperated sigh. “We busted our nuts and risked our necks out here for nothing. Man, what else could go wrong today? ”
Just then, a gentleman with a dark suit and tie — definitely the last outfit one would expect to see on the tropical island of Guam in late June — walked into Elliott’s room. “Mr. and Mrs. McLanahan? General Elliott?”
“Wrong room,” Elliott said immediately. “Get out.”
“I’m McLanahan,” Patrick said.
The man immediately placed an envelope into his hands, then walked over and did the same to Wendy and Brad Elliott. “Order to appear,” the man said.
“What in hell is this?”
“Federal court in Washington, five days from now,” the guy said. “Have a nice evening.” He walked out.
“Balboa’s for real, all right,” Patrick McLanahan said as he opened the summons. “The list of charges against us is two friggin’ pages long.”
“I’ll get these over to the Sky Masters attorneys and get the paperwork started on this,” Wendy said, taking the summons and giving Elliott a kiss on the cheek and her husband a kiss on the lips. “Don’t you boys worry about this. Brad, get some sleep, please.”
“I will, babe,” Elliott said, giving her a reassuring smile. She left McLanahan and Elliott alone. The ex-three-star general nodded toward the door. “Shit. I always thought I’d buy the farm in the cockpit of a B- 52 after just saving the world from thermonuclear meltdown. Instead, I’ll go down in a fucking federal courtroom with a bunch of lawyers sucking my guts out through my ass with a straw. ”
“I know how you feel, Brad,” McLanahan said. He took a chair beside his friend’s bed, folded his hands on his knees, and stared at the floor, looking as if he were at confession or praying. “I’m sorry about what I said the other day, Brad…”
“Forget it, Mack.”
“I’m serious. I’m really sorry.” He paused, then went on in a quiet voice. “You know, all I wanted to do was fly. All I ever wanted to be was a flyer. Jon Masters is great, and he’s fun and exciting to work with, and the money is great, and it’s good to be working with Wendy in a low-stress environment, but the truth is, I don’t want to be a corporate executive weenie. Wendy likes that stuff, but I’m strangling to death. Jon fixates on the bottom line, the profits and the publicity and the prestige he gets when he goes for another big defense contract. I don’t look at it that way.”
“I know you don’t,” Elliott said with a satisfied smile. “I know you, Patrick. Ever since the day I first met you, I was inside your head. I had you pegged.” He chuckled as he remembered the day, so long ago and so far away. “You with your flight suit unzipped, no scarf, your boots looking like you polished them with a Brillo pad. You’d just won your second Fairchild Trophy. You were hell on wheels, the hottest hand in the Air Force, Top Bomb. Any other crewdog would have traded the name and the trophies for a choice assignment. You could have worked for a dozen CINCs all over the world. You could have had a staff of twenty at the Pentagon. Two- and three-star generals were fighting each other to get to endorse your officer effectiveness reports. But you, standing in the hallway with your beer and your give-a-shit attitude — all you wanted was to climb aboard the B-52 and drop some more shack bombs. You told me so, and you’ve proved it a dozen times since. Why would I think you’d ever change?”