“And?”
The head of the NSA pulled up an audio file on the laptop. “The key piece of intelligence proved to be this last-second radio call from the last Iron Wolf aircraft just before we fired on it.” He tapped a key, opening the file.
“Unknown aircraft, this is McLanahan!” a horrified voice yelled, through a rush of static. “Break off your attack! We’re friendlies! Repeat, friendlies!” The recording broke off abruptly.
Perplexed, Barbeau looked at the admiral. “I don’t get it,” she said. “How is that supposed to be important? We already knew McLanahan was aboard that plane when it went down. The real question is whether or not he survived the crash, isn’t it?”
Caldwell shook his head. “Your premise is incorrect, Madam President,” he said quietly.
“Don’t screw around with me, Admiral,” she warned.
“Comparing voiceprints of this radio intercept with previous recordings proves that retired lieutenant general McLanahan was not the pilot of that XF-111,” he explained. “It was his son, Bradley James McLanahan.”
“Oh shit,” Rauch muttered.
Barbeau felt the blood drain from her face. Patrick McLanahan was alive after all. “Oh, my God,” she stammered. “We killed his son. And now that psychotic bastard is coming for me. Just like he promised he would.” She swung toward her stunned national security adviser. “That’s what this is all about, Dr. Rauch! Revenge. Pure and simple. McLanahan wants me dead. And after his goons missed me at Barksdale, he’s going for the next best thing — wrecking my reelection campaign.”
She felt cold dread ripple down her spine. “Christ, once I’m out of office, I’ll be a sitting duck. No matter how many Secret Service agents I have protecting me, those goddamned CIDs of his will cut right through them to rip my heart out!”
“But General McLanahan’s son is not dead,” Caldwell interjected. “Intelligence reports from a number of sources confirm that he’s on active service with the Iron Wolf Squadron.”
Angrily, Barbeau waved the reminder aside. “It doesn’t matter. The McLanahan kid is a total nonentity,” she said forcefully. “His father’s the real threat. He’s always been able to round up rabid followers to execute his insane plans.” She shuddered. “Now we know what’s going on. Martindale and the Poles must have lost their control over him. He’s gone completely rogue.”
Rauch swallowed hard. “That is possible,” he admitted. “In fact, there is one more piece of data that may lend credibility to your hypothesis.”
“Go on,” she rapped out through gritted teeth.
“The two F-35 pilots who carried out your orders over Poland were present at Barksdale Air Force Base when it was attacked,” he said slowly.
“So?”
“They were both killed,” Rauch said.
She stared back at him, feeling suddenly nauseous. “Get out,” she snarled. She jerked her head toward the door, including Admiral Caldwell and his aide in the gesture. “All of you! Get out now!”
For a long, terrible moment after they left, Stacy Anne Barbeau sat in silence, staring into nothingness with a worn and haggard face.
With the monumental glass, steel, concrete, and fabric structure of Cowboys Stadium rising nearly three hundred feet in the air behind him, John Dalton Farrell strode confidently down the walk toward the spot where his campaign staff had set up microphones and a podium. Reporters jostled each other in front of the podium — angling for the best shot at gaining his recognition during what was described as a brief “press availability.”
Through the massive stadium’s open retractable roof, he could hear the muffled rattle of drums and the keening sound of bagpipes as the last honor guards and bands marched slowly away. Apart from the normal sounds of traffic, an almost unearthly hush had fallen across the area. It was almost as if every one of the hundred thousand people who had attended this public memorial service were holding their breath in a spontaneous moment of silence for the National Guard troops, law enforcement officers, and F-35 assembly-plant workers who’d been killed at Fort Worth.
Farrell stepped up to the microphones and nodded gravely to the assembled members of the media. “I won’t be making a prepared statement this afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he told them quietly. He nodded back toward the stadium. “The memory of the brave men and women we’ve honored here today deserves more than canned political double-talk.” The crow’s-feet around his eyes deepened as he shot them a quick, self-mocking smile. “Which means I’ll do my level best to just give you straight answers to your questions.”
That opened the floodgates.
Over the braying din of dozens of journalists all trying to talk over each other, he picked out one, Lyndy Vance. His staff had privately dubbed the blond-haired CNN reporter “the Inquisitor.” They called her that because she always seemed more interested in accusing Farrell of some heinous personal fault or failing than in seeking genuine insight into what he proposed to do as president.
“Go ahead, Lyndy,” he said into the mike, pointing at her.
Behind the crowd of reporters, Farrell saw Sara Patel and Mike Dowell cringe. He hid a grin. They could never understand why he so often gave this particular reporter the first crack at him. He’d tried explaining that it was precisely because her questions were so obviously biased that it worked in his favor — especially with undecided voters — but they couldn’t seem to wrap their heads around the concept. In his view, most people had enough common sense to pick up on someone playing “gotcha” games instead of asking fair questions.
True to form, Lyndy Vance didn’t disappoint him. “What was the real point of this big public show of yours, Governor?” she said, with cool cynicism dripping from every syllable. “Was it part of a deliberate political strategy to make President Barbeau look bad?”
“Not at all, Ms. Vance,” Farrell replied calmly. “Yes, the president was invited to be here today. But I think every decent American understands that she has more than enough on her plate in dealing with this crisis. She is our commander in chief. And given the security risks, it would have been foolish for her to further expose herself to a possible terrorist attack.”
While every word of what he said was literally true, he could almost hear his long-departed mother’s voice telling him, “You are so going to hell for that fib, John D.” No matter how you sliced it, and intentionally or not, his public appearances contrasted sharply with Stacy Anne Barbeau’s continuing refusal to leave the heavily guarded confines of Wright-Patterson. Her terse, tough-sounding televised speeches full of vague promises to “destroy those attacking our beloved country” were no substitute for a demonstrated willingness to share some of the risks run by others.
“You’re seriously claiming you won’t criticize President Barbeau for not showing up at this memorial service?” another journalist chimed in with open disbelief.
“That’s not a claim. That’s a cold hard fact,” Farrell shot back. “I will never criticize the president for acting sensibly.” He showed his teeth in a slashing half smile. “Especially since she does it so rarely.” Then he shrugged. “I will, however, gladly dispute some of those anonymous administration sources y’all are so fond of quoting.”
“About what?” a third reporter asked.
“Poland is not our enemy,” he said bluntly. “Nor are the brave men and women volunteers in the Iron Wolf Squadron who are risking their lives to help the Poles and their allies stay free and independent. And whoever is out there telling you anything different is full of bull crap.”