“You mean, send Vampires into Russia to cover a CIA rescue operation?” Samson asked incredulously. “C’mon, Patrick, you’ve got to be joking! We aren’t in a position to provide any sort of air cover!”
“I disagree, sir,” Patrick said. He punched up the operational status readout for the 111th Bomb Squadron and displayed it on the screen. “Out of six operational EB-1C Vampire bombers,” he summarized, as the readout popped up on the large electronic briefing board, “two are available right now, one is airborne and can be ready to go a few hours after the first two are loaded, one is in post-maintenance and can be ready if necessary in about eight hours, and one is undergoing major modifications and is unavailable.”
Samson checked the data block for this set of information — and saw that Patrick had had this data pulled a few hours earlier. So this wasn’t exactly the no-notice action meeting it looked like: McLanahan, most likely Luger, and maybe even Briggs had already gotten word about this operation and hadn’t told him about it.
“But the One-Eleventh isn’t operational yet,” Samson argued, deciding to hold off confronting McLanahan with his thoughts for now. “We’re still deep into the demonstration — evaluation stage. They won’t be operational for at least another year.”
Patrick called up the roster of all the flight crews qualified to fly the Vampire strategic flying battleship. “We’ve got the crews available, sir,” Patrick went on hurriedly. “I’ll take the lead plane. Major Cheshire can fly as my aircraft commander.” Major Nancy Cheshire was HAWC’s chief flight test pilot. If Terrill Samson knew her better, he would be far more afraid of her transforming into an ideological clone of Brad Elliott than Patrick McLanahan or anyone else at HAWC. “Colonel Furness and Colonel Luger can fly as the backup crew, followed by Dewey and Deverill. They’re the most advanced of the One-Eleventh’s initial cadre. Then—”
“Pardon me, sir,” Rebecca interjected, her eyes narrowing in exasperation, “but you aren’t in our squadron.”
“This will be an important mission for all of us. Major Cheshire and I have the most experience—”
“Excuse me, sir,” Rebecca said, more insistently this time, “but with all due respect — you got us into this, and you have to let us finish it.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Rebecca?”
“Sir, you created this unit specifically for missions like this,” Rebecca said. “You gave us the tools, you trained us, and you prepared us. Now you’ve got to let us do our job.”
“This unit has been together for less than a year,” McLanahan said. “It’s not an operational unit, not by a long shot. Those planes still belong to us. If there’s a mission to do—”
“Everyone, stop!” Samson cut in hotly. “Listen to me, Patrick. We will never be approved for a mission like this. We barely got approval to form the One-Eleventh, and that was just a few months ago. We may have two birds ready to fly, but that’s ready to fly test and evaluation missions on the ranges, not fly into combat — and sure as hell not over Russia!”
“Actually, sir — I went ahead and got approval,” Patrick said.
“Say again?” Samson boomed, his eyes blazing in fury.
“That was my call, sir,” Briggs said. “Patrick ran the idea down to me, I called the DCI, Director Morgan; he happened to be meeting with Secretary of Defense Goff in the White House, he pitched the idea to him, spoke with Patrick for a while—”
“You spoke with the Secretary of Defense?” Samson asked. Left unsaid was “Without notifying me first?”
But Patrick knew what Samson was angry about. “I called you as soon as I was put through to the Secretary, sir,” Patrick said. “He gave a provisional ‘go-ahead’ a few moments later, pending clearance from the President. He should be talking to the President right about now. It happened pretty fast.” Patrick handed him a printout with a signed authorization from the SecDef. Samson stared in disbelief at his deputy commander, his lips taut, but said nothing else. “I’ve already built the generation schedule, put the crews on crew rest — except myself, of course — and I’ll have my first status briefing in—”
“Excuse me, sir,” Long interjected again, “but that’s my job. I’d appreciate it if you’d step aside and let me do it.”
“Major, I appreciate your enthusiasm, and this is not a criticism of you or your unit’s skill or readiness,” Patrick said, typing more instructions into the computer as he spoke, “but I’m in charge of this mission, and I’ll take care of the planning this time around. I’d appreciate it if you’d stand by and help me get the maintenance and combat support staffs briefed and organized, and then we’ll—”
“Hold it right there, Patrick,” General Samson interjected. “I’ve heard enough. Patrick, this time you’re wrong, and the major is correct, on all counts. You’ve done a good job training the One-Eleventh. They’ve done well, better than anyone’s expected, given their recent history and reputation. Colonel Furness is also correct in pointing out that you are not a member of that squadron. And another thing: technically, the Vampires belong to the taxpayers, not to me, not to you. They are not your personal property.”
“I’m well aware of that, sir,” McLanahan said. “I wasn’t implying—”
“Frankly, General, I expected a little more support for one of the teams you yourself created,” Samson said. “I know you want to get in on the action, but try not to slain one of your own to do it. I only need one word from you, Patrick: is the One-Eleventh ready to fight?”
Patrick looked at Furness and Long, who glared back at him, and then at the other representatives of the 111th Bombardment Wing “‘Aces High.” Patrick found it was one of the hardest questions he’d ever had to answer: if he said “no,” he’d be a liar, and if he said “yes,” he’d be effectively cutting himself out of the unit and the mission he’d worked so hard to build. But there really wasn’t any conflict over the question at all — and he knew it:
“The answer is, yes, sir, they are,” Patrick replied resolutely. “They’ve flown every training sortie and every research mission we’ve asked them to fly; they’ve prepared well. The initial cadre is some of the best flyers I’ve ever worked with — they’re aggressive, knowledgeable, and dedicated. They’re ready to go kick some butt.” He turned to Rebecca. “My apologies. I was out of line. Of course, it’s your squadron.” His eyes were no longer ordering or demanding, but not quite pleading, either — not yet. “But I do know more about the Vampires than anyone else on this base, and I’ve worked with ISA before many times. Put me on the inflight backup bird, along with Nancy Cheshire. She’s the most experienced aircraft commander.”
“We can use your expertise in the virtual cockpit, sir,” Long said. It was too obvious that Long enjoyed watching McLanahan get a good hand-slapping by Samson and was only too anxious to give him one last jab in the ribs.
“No, I think having him in the backup bird is a good idea,” Samson interjected. “But I’m going to exercise a little commander’s prerogative and order Colonel Furness to fly as Patrick’s AC. Nancy Cheshire and Dave Luger will command the virtual cockpit for the mission.” To Long, he said, “Major, you’re taking over planning for this operation. I’d like a mass briefing in twenty-four hours. According to the warning order, your planes are supposed to be over the patrol area in about forty hours.”