“I believe he can do it,” Patrick said. “He’s got my attention. Jon?”
“Already called home plate, and the legal beagles are on their way— plus they’re filing injunctions in D.C. and in Arkansas federal court, trying to prevent Balboa from canceling the contract \Hthout a performance review,” Jon Masters said. “But Balboa moved even quicker — he’s already got Navy SPs from Agana Naval Base guarding the planes. They’ve got the ramp shut down — nothing’s moving.
“The lawyers say we can probably keep ourselves out of court, maybe even get the contract money, but they think Balboa can throw us in jail just by uttering the magic words ‘national security,’ and they’re positive he can have those planes chopped up into little pieces anytime he wants. He’s got my attention too.”
“Let me call in my markers, Muck,” Elliott said earnestly. He had found a seat and was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands holding his head. “Balboa’s got plenty of skeletons in his closet, and I know the boys who can take ’em out and put ’em on display. He’ll back off pronto, I guarantee it. If it doesn’t work, we’ll go right to the White House — heck, Muck, you and me, we got dirt on Martindale that I know will make him squirm.”
“Brad, I told you already, I’m not interested in fighting the Pentagon over this,” McLanahan said. He studied Elliott for a moment, and decided that he felt much worse than Elliott looked right now. “We’ve lost. We’ve invested millions in the project, but it just won’t get on track with brass like Balboa fighting us from the top. We just can’t do it. It’s not fair to ourselves, it’s not fair to our loved ones, and it sure as hell isn’t fair to the shareholders.”
“Why in hell are you so concerned about shareholders, Patrick?” Elliott said angrily. “Jeez, have you completely lost your entire spine?”
“My damned priorities are different, Brad,” McLanahan said. “I work for Jon now, not the U.S. government. I’ve sold everything I own to invest in Sky Masters, Inc., and help this company, and I don’t want to see Balboa and the federal courts drain our capital and our life savings fighting lawsuits. If we cooperate and let the government hide us, we can walk away with our company intact, ready to develop more technology and compete for more contracts. But if we fight them, they’ll sic federal marshals and lawyers and judges on us for the next ten years — and we can still lose. I don’t want my child to have a father in a federal penitentiary. ”
“Listen to yourself!” Elliott shouted, jumping to his feet. “We did good out there, Patrick. You’re letting bozos like Balboa make you think that you screwed up. Nobody screwed up here — not you, not Denton, not me. We did what we knew was right. Balboa is trying to make us believe we did the wrong thing and that we deserve to be punished — next, he’ll be telling us that we’re not going to jail because he interceded on our behalf. It’s bullshit, Patrick! Don’t fall for it! If you give up, if you let assholes like Balboa chop up nearly ten years of hard work, we lose— just as surely as if we lost a one-hundred-million-dollar lawsuit.”
“Forget it, Brad,” McLanahan insisted. “It’s not worth the fight, not worth the aggravation. We did some good jobs in the Megafortresses, but the Pentagon doesn’t want them. We can’t fight them all.”
“At least we’ll give it a fighting chance,” Elliott said. McLanahan shook his head and headed for the door to the battle staff room. “Dammit, McLanahan, I already lost one organization because I let the pencil-pushers and brown-nosers tell me that I couldn’t cut it. Now it’s happening again — except you re letting it happen.”
“Brad, I’m tired. I’ve been shot at and yelled at and kicked around all day,” McLanahan said. “I’m getting out of here.”
Elliott blocked his path. He was almost a head taller than McLanahan, but in size and physical strength, he was no match for his young protege — but that didn’t stop Elliott from getting into his longtime colleague’s face. “What’s the matter, Muck? You ready to hang up your spurs and turn your back on your friends just because you’re too scared or too tired to stand up to someone? You want to just sit back on your ass at your desk and push papers and collect your salary and pension, while jerkoffs like Balboa screw Jon and everyone else in this project?” “Brad, give it a rest.”
“I want to know exactly what you plan on doing about this, Mr. Mission Commander, Mr. Corporate Executive,” Elliott shouted, sweat popping out on his forehead in large glistening drops. “Answer me!”
“Brad, c’mon,” Wendy tried.
“No, wait just a sec, Doc,” Elliott said. “Let the corporate big shot here tell us what he intends to do. How are you gonna sell us out? You gonna hide behind Masters’s lawyers?”
McLanahan was glaring at his old mentor and friend, his jaw tight, his blue eyes blazing. Wendy saw the building rage in his eyes and tried to hurry him to the door. “Brad…”
“You forgetting about Cheshire, and Atkins, Denton and Bruno, the ones who volunteered for the project?” Elliott said. He was almost nose to nose with McLanahan now, his breath ragged and excited, his eyes blinking from the tension, veins pulsing in his neck from the anger. “Are your lawyers going to help them out? Or are they going to be chewed up and spit out by Balboa and his JAGs?”
“Brad, let’s table this discussion for later,” Wendy said resolutely, taking Patrick’s hand and leading him to the door.
“Talk some sense into your old man, Doc — hey, don’t you walk away from me! You show me some respect, mister!” Elliott shouted — and then he made the mistake of trying to pull McLanahan around to face him. Instead, he shoved Wendy in the back, and she lost her balance and crashed facefirst into the door that Patrick had just half opened.
Patrick McLanahan caught Wendy before she sagged to the floor, stood her back up on her feet, made sure she was going to stand on her own, saw that she wasn’t hurt — and then turned on Elliott. With never- before seen quickness, Patrick had Brad Elliott’s neck in his hands and slammed him back to the wall. “You old son of a bitch!” he snarled in a low, menacing voice. “You ever touch Wendy again, I’ll break your neck!”
“I’m all right, Patrick!” Wendy said. “Let him go!”
Patrick felt hands on his arms right away — Cheshire and Atkins, ready to pull him away from Elliott — and the anger dissipated immediately when he heard Wendy’s voice. He loosened his grip on Elliott’s neck — but Brad still seemed to be choking. When he released him, he immediately collapsed. Patrick was able to lower him gently to the floor and noticed his shortness of breath, the panicked look in his eyes, and the contortions and spasms in his left arm.
“Christ, I think he’s having a heart attack! ” he shouted. “Get an ambulance—now!” Nancy Cheshire was already on the phone, dialing the paramedics at the base hospital. McLanahan unzipped Elliott’s flight suit, exposing his chest, preparing to give CPR if necessary. “Hang in there, Brad, goddamn it,” Patrick McLanahan said. He felt crushed inside, thinking that the last words his best friend might have heard from his lips were words of anger and hate. “C’mon, Brad, you old warhorse, hang in there…”