Curtis remained silent for a moment, running through his own list of options — and, every time, he came up with the very same answer:
“Sir, even if you decide to begin air operations over Lithuania immediately, it’ll take time for our European units to organize effectively for a heavy enough strike,” he said.
The President looked at him with wary, accusing eyes. The President knew what he was going to suggest.
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs thought, Well, might as well get it out…. “As I said, the Air Battle Force from Ellsworth will need at least twenty-four hours to deploy, and then would require substantial forward basing, in Norway or England for example. But, as it happens, we have one unit ready to deploy immediately and that has a plan of action developed for precisely this contingency—”
“Elliott,” National Security Advisor Russell said in disgust. Obviously, everyone had been dreading — or hoping? — the same thing. “Brad Elliott’s unit, right?”
“I spoke with General Elliott shortly before the reinforcement operation began,” Curtis explained, “after he was granted priority-B notification status. He was, you’ll recall, being unusually quiet for a man who had four of his top officers involved in this mission. Upon further inquiry, General Elliott briefed me on an operation he had devised as a backup to the REDTAIL HAWK mission. Should that one fail or get canceled, General Elliott’s group, along with an Intelligence Support Agency operations unit called MADCAP MAGICIAN, was going to go and attempt a rescue.”
“On whose authority?” the President thundered.
When Curtis did not answer promptly, the President’s eyes widened in understanding and aggravation. “I see. No one’s authority. Elliott was going to launch this mission by himself, right …?”
“I ordered him, upon penalty of immediate imprisonment, to stand down his operation and return his forces to base,” Curtis said. The President’s question was answered without explanation, which only made him angrier. Curtis continued. “His units have complied—”
Russell was shaking his head. “Is he crazy? Has he gone off the deep end? Who in the hell does Elliott think he is? He shouldn’t be imprisoned — he should be taken out and shot …!”
“Perhaps.” Curtis nodded. “Except for one thing, George — he’s the best we’ve got right now. What he’s done is assemble an incredible air, sea, and ground assault force that is completely covert, deniable, stealthy, and powerful. He’s got a hundred Marines, two tilt-rotor assault aircraft, and six modified B-52 bombers that don’t exist on the books. He’s briefed me on a plan to destroy half of Byelorussia’s invasion force in one night and to yank the remaining Marines out of Fisikous and into the embassy or out of Lithuania. My staff has studied his operation, and we’ve concluded that with a little luck and some help by the Lithuanian militia he can do it. Not only that, he can do it in about fourteen hours.”
“Fourteen hours!” the President said in disbelief. “But I thought you said it would take a minimum of twenty-four to seventy-two hours to get a full air operation into motion.”
“Sir, General Elliott has already mobilized his forces,” Curtis explained. “Within HAWC, he commands a group of highly skilled flyers, engineers, and scientists, along with an arsenal of high-tech experimental aircraft and weapons. Elliott has run that place for years — he’s the heart and soul of the people who work there. The Old Dog mission was their greatest triumph. When he told his people he wanted to save the hero of that mission from imprisonment in Lithuania, his people responded. On a wartime footing, his research center becomes just as powerful, perhaps even more so, than any other combat unit in the United States.
“By early tomorrow evening Lithuania time — by three P.M. tomorrow afternoon, Washington time — we can have a heavy strike force over Lithuania,” Curtis concluded. “I’d like to brief you and the staff on his proposed operation, and I recommend that we authorize his aircraft to launch from Nevada and deploy to its staging point over the Baltic Sea. If the situation improves, we can recall his unit or deploy them to a forward base — England, or his planned deployment base at Thule, Greenland.”
Curtis paused and assessed the mood of the President and the rest of his advisers. The President appeared dubious, angry, and ready to chew on steel and spit nails — but he was quiet, not railing against Elliott as Curtis expected. Everyone else had been quiet, waiting for a decision from the President on how to proceed — now, faced with this very real, very tangible option, they were both conflicted and hopeful, but still afraid to side with such a bold but potentially dangerous crackpot like Bradley James Elliott.
“Dammit, General,” the President cursed, shaking his head in total exasperation, “how does Elliott get away with this shit? And please don’t tell me we need guys like Elliott — he does nothing but give me nightmares.”
Curtis didn’t dare answer that one.
The President ran a hand across his face, trying to wipe away the tension he felt in his eyes and neck, then said with a sigh, “Get Elliott in here ASAP. And this better be good.”
Major Jurgensen looked at the AV-22 SEA HAMMER and shook his head in disgust. The starboard engine nacelle looked like a dead flower— its rotors folded, the nacelle turned horizontally, and access covers pulled off the nacelle, the doors hanging like bark stripped from a tree by a beaver. The once immaculately groomed lawn outside the embassy was stained and mushy from hydraulic fluid, oil, and boot prints. “All that damage from small-arms fire, Sergeant?”
The Marine plane captain in charge of the damaged aircraft cursed silently and said, “The golden BB theory is still running true to form, sir. It’s not the massive assault that’ll get you — it’s the one lucky shot. He couldn’t have placed that round any better if he tried. It’s as if he knew exactly which line would be the hardest to replace in the field, and hit it deliberately.”
“Did you try swapping parts with the Echo?” Jurgensen asked, nodding toward the damaged CH-53E Super Stallion. Its crew had abandoned it several minutes ago, watching with dismay as parts were pulled off to go into the MV-22. Jurgensen had made the decision to cannibalize the Super Stallion to fix the SEA HAMMER because it would be better suited for evacuating the recovered Air Force officer and the classified materials all the way out of Lithuania — the tilt-rotor aircraft could go farther than the Super Stallion with the small amount of fuel they had left in the embassy.
“We did that,” the plane captain replied. “There’s not many parts in common between the two, but fortunately hoses are pretty common. The Hammer will be as good as new when it’s finished, sir — this is no temporary fix.” The captain frowned at the engine, then added, “You know, sir, we should submit a suggestion to Patuxent River to consider putting some Kevlar on these engine shrouds near critical points.”
“Later, Sergeant. I want to know how long before we can pick up the assault team.”
“It should only be a few more minutes, sir, and we’ll start buttoning it up and doing a ground check. After that we need to reinstall the weapons — that should only take a few minutes. Say another ten to fifteen minutes.”
Jurgensen had already figured out that a more reasonable number might be twenty to thirty minutes, especially after seeing the numbers of panels and cowlings open on that engine nacelle. “Advise me when you’re ready to crank,” Jurgensen said. “We’ll forgo the weapons pods and launch the Sea Cobras for air support. Do it.” Jurgensen was then summoned back to the scrambled UHF radio station set up just inside the back entrance to the embassy. “What have you got?”