“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Elliott said, so angry, so flustered, that he could barely respond. “You weren’t there …”
“I reread the Defense Intelligence Agency’s analysis of the mission, Brad,” Curtis went on. “I reread the testimony from the other crew members. Everyone on that crew, everyone, thought the mission should have been aborted because of the damage to the aircraft and because of your worsening condition. You had no charts, no helmets, no classified documents, no safety equipment. The mission should have been aborted. But you said ‘go’ …”
“We made that decision together, as a crew.”
“What did you expect your crew to say, Brad? Did you really expect them to quit? McLanahan, the best bombardier in the whole damned world? Luger, probably the best navigator in the world? Ormack, a deskbound frustrated war hero? No way, Brad. None of them would quit.
“It was up to you to abort the mission. As aircraft commander and mission commander, it was your responsibility. But there’s no glory in quitting, is there? You don’t get any respect by turning back.”
“You’re dreaming, Curtis. That’s not how it was.”
“What would you get if you turned back? Nothing. Dreamland was blown wide open after the terrorist attack. They would have closed it forever. You’d be out of a job and probably forced to retire. If you went ahead and got killed during the mission, you’d be a hero-a dead hero, but still a hero. But if you succeeded, you’d be set for life. You’d be the one who fought off the Soviets and won. Beginning of the end of the Cold War. Champion of democracy over communism. Defender of the faith. Unfortunately you didn’t think about your crew. What if they got killed? You didn’t care what happened to them — you only thought about yourself”
“Bullshit…” Elliott said in almost a whisper. His eyes no longer bored into Curtis’s, but were vacant, far away.
“You killed Dave Luger, Brad,” Curtis said. “You put the crew into a situation where one man had to sacrifice his life to save yours. Your fault. No one else’s. Did you ever wonder why you never got a decoration after the Old Dog mission, why McLanahan, an O-3 senior navigator, got the Air Force Cross, while you, an O-9 command pilot, got a Distinguished Service Medal?” The sudden pain in Elliott’s face told Curtis that he had just hit a very big, very painful nerve with him. Good… “It’s because your role as commander of the Old Dog mission didn’t stand up to scrutiny. There were too many questions about your judgment, your leadership.
“And look at what you’re doing now. Six EB-52s ready to launch. MADCAP MAGICIAN, which I ordered you to stand down, is missing somewhere in the Baltic Sea. You’re in your flight suit, trying to prove to me and to the White House that you mean business. You’re not medically cleared for aviation duties, so there’s no reason for you to be in a flight suit. Furthermore, you know as well as I that utility uniforms are not allowed to be worn in the Pentagon. But here you are, wearing a flight suit. It’s nothing but a clown’s costume you’re wearing, Brad. It’s pitiful. It’s the mark of a tired old man afraid to die alone and unrecognized.
“You don’t care about the consequences — war in Europe, a nuclear exchange between us, Byelorussia, and the Commonwealth. You don’t care whose lives you waste as long as you get your chance to save the man that saved your ass. You probably have Wendy Tork and Angelina Pereira in one of those EB-52s, don’t you?”
“I… they said they wanted to serve, wanted to go …”
“You sonofabitch,” Curtis exploded. “How dare you risk their lives again like that? What would you do if they died on this mission? Or didn’t that matter to you? As long as you got Dave, as long as you tried to get Dave, your conscience would be clear. You’d go to the funerals, say a few words, toss in the first handfuls of dirt into the grave, then congratulate yourself on staying alive.”
“Is that what you think I do?” Elliott retorted, his eyes suddenly shiny in the light of the Support Section. “Do you think I lie awake all these years since that mission, congratulating myself because I made it out alive? Those faces haunt me, Wilbur.”
“So you think taking your flight suit and your crews and your Megafortresses and going off to war, with or without permission from the government, is going to help you sleep at night, Brad? Think about it, dammit. Think about what’s gnawing at you. Success or failure isn’t the issue. You have always been a success. But you’ve always been alone, also. You’re a loner afraid of being alone. You’re a warrior afraid of dying.
“Look at what’s happening here, Brad. General Voshchanka of the Byelorussian Army Home Brigade is ready to occupy Lithuania, on his own authority. No permission from his government — he just fucking decided he was going to do it. Svetlov had no choice but to agree to the operation. Svetlov now has to be spoon-fed by Voshchanka on what to say and how to act, or Voshchanka has, I’m sure, threatened to take over the capital.
“Now, just about the same time we decry that action and think about countering Voshchanka’s aggression, here we’ve got you doing the very same damned thing,” Curtis went on. “What’s the President supposed to do? How’s he supposed to react? When I tell the President that I have control and you will calm down and do as you’re ordered, what sort of guarantees does he have that you’ll behave? None, that’s what!”
“My job is not to behave, General,” Elliott said. “My job is to plan, prepare, and execute—”
“Your job is to follow orders and obey the law!”
“All right, Wilbur, all right. If you think it’s necessary, I’ll admit that I assembled an assault team without consulting the Pentagon and I was going to execute a military operation without permission. Let the legal weasels decide if it was legal or not. But let’s not waste time arguing that. Let’s do something to get Ormack, Briggs, McLanahan, Luger, and those Marines out of Lithuania — right now.”
“What you will do, General Elliott,” Curtis said angrily, “is tell me the precise location of each and every element of your assault team — especially MADCAP MAGICIAN. Since I gave you an order to recover that vessel to port, it hasn’t been seen or heard from.”
“I ordered that ship to withdraw, and it did.”
“You stretched the meaning of my orders to you,” Curtis said, “and I’ll bet you told Colonel White to lay low someplace in the Baltic, within striking range of Vilnius. Just another example of your blatant disregard for my orders.
“You will sit down on the MILSTAR channel with representatives of European Command in Germany and with the Twenty-sixth MEU aboard the USS Wasp and describe your mission, reveal where the SS Valley Mistress is located, and explain in detail exactly what you intended to do with MADCAP MAGICIAN. And you’d better be truthful and up front with me and with everyone in my chain of command. I think it’s about time you stopped playing lone wolf and started acting like a true United States military officer, General, or by God I’ll put you in hack myself.”
“Don’t Dave Luger and the others mean anything to you, Wilbur?” Elliott asked. His eyes were softer, his voice pleading. “I have the ability to help. I have the capability to hold off a Byelorussian invasion. I have a deniable, powerful, stealthy assault team ready to roll, and I have my neck on the chopping block stretched to the maximum. Doesn’t any of that matter to you?”