“Governor Farrell, my name is Edward Rauch and I’m President Barbeau’s national security adviser,” he said simply. “The reason I’m calling is that we’ve learned certain things that I believe you need to know about—”
Thirty-Six
Brad McLanahan stepped out from under the camouflage netting hiding their aircraft, joining Nadia Rozek and Whack Macomber on the shallow grassy slope. Ian Schofield and his four recon troopers were nowhere in sight — which undoubtedly meant they were lurking somewhere close by in cover, ready to respond to any attack.
Nadia and Macomber stood looking up into the starlit sky, listening to the faint clatter of a helicopter growing louder as it drew closer. Both had their personal weapons out and ready. “You can all stand easy,” he said, raising his voice to be sure Schofield heard him, too. “That’s one of ours. Or one of Martindale’s, anyway. The recognition code they radioed checks out.”
With a shrug, Nadia slid her 9mm Walther P99 pistol back into her shoulder holster. Whack did the same with his M1911A1 .45 Colt. “Any word on what this is about?” he asked.
“No idea,” Brad said shortly. “We’re not due for a resupply mission.”
“Additional supplies would arrive by road anyway,” Nadia pointed out. Her lips thinned. “Sending in a helicopter like this is very conspicuous. It risks giving away our position.”
Shrugging, Brad pointed out, “Campers that hear the noise will probably write it off as a Forest Service aircraft up looking for poachers. Or flying on fire watch.” Privately, he crossed his fingers. With half the U.S. Air Force probably tasked with hunting for them, they couldn’t count on staying concealed here for much longer. But it would be nice to fly out because they had somewhere else to go… and not because their cover was blown.
The sound of the helicopter’s twin engines ramped up suddenly as a black shape without any visible navigation lights swept low overhead. It slowed down and spun through a half circle, flaring in to land not far away. Its rotor wash sent dead grass and dust flying.
Through eyes narrowed against the rotor-blown debris, Brad identified the helicopter’s type. It was a Bell 429 Global Ranger. Blessed with a fairly long range and able to carry up to six passengers plus a pilot, the helicopter was a favorite with police forces and emergency medical evacuation services. This one, painted entirely in black, belonged to Scion.
His eyes opened wider as he recognized the two men who climbed down out of the helicopter’s passenger compartment. One, with longish gray hair and neatly trimmed gray beard, was Kevin Martindale. The other, moving a touch awkwardly in his cumbersome exoskeleton and life-support backpack, was his father, retired lieutenant general Patrick McLanahan.
Brad and the others moved to meet them.
Smiling broadly through his helmet’s clear visor, his father gave him a quick hug, did the same for Nadia, and then vigorously shook Macomber’s hand. In contrast, Martindale greeted them with a rueful nod.
“Jesus, Dad,” Brad said, “I’m really glad to see you. But how the heck did you get here?”
The older McLanahan shrugged. “By one of Mr. Martindale’s private jets to a little, out-of-the-way airport in Saskatchewan first. That helicopter brought us the rest of the way.” His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “Breaking quite a few FAA and Customs regulations in the process, of course.”
“No shit,” Macomber interjected. He looked the two new arrivals up and down with a critical eye. “Which makes me wonder why on God’s green earth you two decided to risk this little jaunt? Hell, Mr. Martindale, you have a huge bull’s-eye painted on your back by that bitch Stacy Anne Barbeau. I haven’t checked the FBI list lately, but my guess is that you’re Public Enemy Number One.”
“Not quite,” Martindale said with a forced grin. “Since the president now knows that the general here is most definitely alive and not dead, I’ve apparently been demoted to Public Enemy Number Two.”
Brad stared at them.
His father nodded. “It seems I’ve been resurrected, son.”
“Does Gryzlov know this?” Nadia demanded. She looked deeply worried. And with reason, since the Russian president hated the older McLanahan for killing his own father in a retaliatory bombing raid years ago — a hatred that sometimes carried him far beyond the point of sanity. In the not-so-distant past, Gennadiy Gryzlov had even been willing to threaten all-out nuclear war with both the United States and Poland to avenge himself on the general.
“Not yet,” Martindale assured her. “From what we know, the news is still closely confined to Barbeau’s innermost circle.”
The implications of that flashed through Brad’s mind. If Martindale had learned something only a few people close to the president knew, that must mean he now had a source on the inside — a very highly placed source.
His father saw the look of realization on his face and nodded slightly. “Loose lips, son,” he cautioned.
Sink ships, Brad remembered. He closed his mouth.
“Which makes this stunt even dumber,” Macomber argued. “If you’ve got something to discuss with us, why not stick to secure video links?”
“Ordinarily, I’d agree with you,” Martindale said with a wry glance at Patrick McLanahan. “But the general here thinks otherwise. And, as you undoubtedly know, he can be a very persuasive man.”
Macomber looked interested. “Really?” He turned to Brad’s father. “So, what did you do? Pull a gun on him?”
“No guns were involved,” Martindale said primly. “He simply pointed out — correctly, I fear — that the situation is now so critical that the two of us can no longer afford to stay safely removed from the action.”
Brad felt cold. “What’s changed?” he asked. “By wiping out that air base, we reduced Gryzlov’s striking power and drastically narrowed his options, right? How is that a bad thing?”
“It’s not,” his father said quickly. “What has changed is our appreciation of how far out in left field President Barbeau’s preconceptions and prejudices have led her.” Quickly, he outlined her belief that everything happening was part of a covert war between himself and Martindale… a war supposedly aimed on his part at either killing her or driving her from office. And her consequent determination to sit back and do nothing while they fought it out.
“Christ, she’s just as nuts as Gryzlov,” Brad said in disgust.
“Barbeau may be strategically blind, cowardly, and wholly self-absorbed, but she is not clinically insane,” Martindale disagreed. Then he shrugged. “Though in this particular case, I suppose that may well be a difference without much real-world significance.”
Nadia frowned. “But when your FBI learns that the Russians now own Regan Air Freight, won’t that open her eyes to the truth?”
“Unfortunately, that’s not likely to happen anytime soon. And certainly not in time for it to matter,” Patrick McLanahan said.
“Why not?”
Martindale smiled wryly. “Because Gennadiy Gryzlov turns out not to be a complete fool, Major Rozek. At least not in this case. You see, we’ve managed to identify his go-between, a Swiss investment banker named Willem Daeniker. By now, I’ve no doubt the FBI has the same information.”
“So?” Nadia asked. “How is this a problem?”
“It’s a problem because this man Daeniker very conspicuously flew to Warsaw yesterday evening,” Martindale explained. “And now he’s vanished without a trace. None of my operatives or those of your country’s internal security agency have been able to pick up his trail.”