“Kinda makes you want to slit your own wrists right now, doesn’t it, George?” Elliott said with his irritating little grin.
“You will shut your mouth right now, Elliott,” Balboa shouted angrily, pointing at the videoconference camera. “What the ROC government thinks of you right now doesn’t carry one ounce of water with me! You deliberately violated direct orders from me, the National Command Authority, and CINCPAC to hold fire and withdraw. You are more than just a menace, Elliott, you are a disgrace to any American who has ever worn a uniform.”
“General Elliott had nothing to do with what we did over there, Admiral Balboa,” McLanahan said. “I was the mission commander on that flight, I gave the orders to launch, and I’m responsible for the death of Emil Vikram.”
“Don’t forget the deaths of five hundred Taiwanese sailors, an estimated three hundred Taiwanese civilians on Quemoy, and dozens of deaths and injuries aboard the Chinese warships,” Balboa interjected. “You’re responsible for all of them! ” McLanahan’s shoulders sank, as if he had just been reminded of a painful event in his life. “You’re going to have to live with all that, Mr. McLanahan. Even though I can absolve myself by reminding myself that I never sanctioned this mission and never thought you should be involved, I too will have to live with the horror of all those lives lost.”
“Why don’t you just be a total asshole and completely wash your hands of the whole thing, George?” Elliott retorted. “Nobody’s stopping you.”
“What I would like even better is to shut you down, have those planes cut up into little pieces, and throw you in prison,” Balboa said. “There is a question of how the Taiwanese found out so much about this operation, and I have a feeling you were responsible for that. As for this operation, it looks as if the President wants to continue this foolhardy plan. If the loss of one of your airframes and Lieutenant Vikram poses a problem, Mr. McLanahan, I expect you to report promptly to Admiral Allen so we can make alternate arrangements.”
“A replacement crew and plane is being ferried from Blytheville as we speak,” McLanahan said. “It’ll arrive in about twenty hours. But we can maintain a normal schedule right now.”
“Then do it,” Balboa said. “But you are not authorized to speak with anyone else, especially foreign nationals, at any time. The only persons you are authorized to communicate with are units or command posts briefed to you prior to takeoff. Failure to comply with this order will subject you and your co-workers to the most severe penalties allowable. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” McLanahan said. Elliott shook his head and rolled his eyes at his partner acceding to Balboa’s lame threat so passively, but McLanahan ignored him. “Sir, I need permission to contact Lieutenant Vikram’s family. ”
“Denied,” Balboa said. “My staff will decide how to handle notification. You worry about your patrol missions and keeping out of trouble. Dismissed.” The videoconference link was abruptly terminated.
“What a butthead,” Elliott fumed. He got up and found himself a cup of coffee. “I’ll bet he wanted so badly to shit-can us that he probably considered ignoring the President’s orders. That asshole, blaming you for all those deaths. Ignore all that, Muck. The PLAN’s at fault for attacking the ROC and for killing Emitter, not you.”
McLanahan got up. His muscles were aching, a by-product of long hours in the Megafortress’s cockpit, nearly an hour of sheer terror while under attack by the People’s Republic of China’s People’s Liberation Army Navy, a dead crew member, two hours of nursing a crippled bomber back home to an emergency landing in marginal weather — and then, after all that, a tongue-lashing by the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. All in all, a pretty shitty twelve hours. He wasn’t ready to hear Round Two from Brad Elliott. “Let’s give it a rest now, Brad, all right?” McLanahan asked. “We’ve got a lot to do — get repairs going on our damaged bird, get the patrols back in the air.” He wanted to call Emil’s family, whom he had met several times, but decided against it.
“The first thing I’m going to do is make a few phone calls back to Washington,” Elliott said resolutely. “I’ve got plenty of markers to call in. Balboa doesn’t have the authority to cancel our contract. If we put a little pressure on him, he’ll be forced to back off. We should—”
“Do nothing,” McLanahan said angrily. “Nothing. No phone calls, no markers. Just back off, okay?”
“What in hell’s the matter with you?” Elliott asked. “You can’t let jerks like Balboa run our lives. He’s the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, not commander in chief or the damned emperor. ”
“Brad, he’s running this operation.”
“Balboa and Allen are pissed because we launched a couple Rainbows and Wolverines and protected that frigate,” Elliott went on. “They would’ve done the same if they were flying that mission, but because we did it, they’re mad. I’ll tell you the truth, son — if it was their plane, or if they had a ship of their own in position, theyd’ve blasted that carrier and destroyer and as many of the other ships back there to hell in the blink of an eye! You know it, and I know it.”
“I hear you, Brad, and I agree one hundred percent,” McLanahan said. “But they are calling the shots, not us. That’s the difference. We weren’t given the go-ahead to make our own attack decisions. It may be hurt pride, or embarrassment, or professional jealously, whatever — it doesn’t matter. They say ‘jump,’ we ask ‘how high?’ ”
“What about Sung? What about those Taiwanese sailors? They died right before our eyes, waiting for our help.”
“Brad, if that had been an American ship down there, I’d have stayed until all our weapons were exhausted, and then I would’ve helped the other Megafortresses roll in on target, and then I’d go back and reload and come back out again,” McLanahan said. “But it wasn’t one of ours.”
“So you don't care what happens to them?” Elliott asked incredulously. “Man, this doesn’t sound like you at all.”
“What I care about is how this weapon system integrates with our other military forces,” McLanahan said, “not how we can kick ass and sink ships all over the Pacific. We’re not mercenaries, and we’re not avenging angels.”
“What is this? I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” Elliott shouted, shaking his head. “Did you think you had a chance of ‘integrating’ the Megafortresses with any project coming out of the Pentagon? Did you really think Balboa was going to embrace you and the Megafortresses, whether or not you did as you were ordered to do?”
McLanahan was silent — he knew Brad Elliott was right. The Megafortresses got to fly over the Formosa Strait only because he and Terrill Samson had earned the Presdent’s attention and respect as a result of the secret Iran bombing missions. Patrick had deluded himself into believing that he could reintegrate the modified B-52s into the American aerial strike force — but that was not going to happen. The current Pentagon brain trust did not care for large land-based bombers. They weren’t going to pay any money to keep any around, no matter how high-tech they were. The Quemoy mission was dead right from the start. Emil Vikram may indeed have died for nothing.
“Screw it, Brad, just screw it,” McLanahan said irritably. “I’m tired of your military services bigotry, I’m tired of the political games, and I’m tired of risking my neck for nothing. Just shut up and—”