“Yes, sir. We’ll be ready.”
“Colonel Briggs, I imagine you’ll be on your way too,” Samson said with a smile. “Stopping off for some wonder toys, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir,” Briggs said happily. “I can think of one or two things we might need for a mission like this.”
“I’m sure you can,” Samson said. He extended his big hand, and Briggs shook it warmly. “Good luck, good hunting. Tell me all about it when you get back.”
“You got it, General.”
General Samson dismissed his staff and the One-Eleventh squadron officers, but not before giving Patrick a warning glare. For the first time since they had been working together, Patrick McLanahan had come very, very close to stepping over the line. He had a much better reputation than that. Hopefully, it did not portend a sign of bad things to come. He made a mental note to sit down with Patrick after this was over with and have a talk — not a “heart-to-heart,” but a real “get the shit out of your ears” talk.
Most of the senior officers and NCOs headed right for the combat support staff mission planning room, which held a series of computers that would assist them in mission planning. As usual, Patrick headed for the seat behind the master terminal — but he realized he had virtually pushed John Long out of the way. Patrick waited a few heartbeats to see if Long would let “rank have its privileges,” but no chance of that. This was Long’s chance to show what he and the One-Eleventh Strategic Squadron could do, and he was anxious to go. “Sorry about that, John,” Patrick said. He yielded the seat to the One-Eleventh’s operations officer.
“No problem, sir,” Long said, not bothering to disguise a smirk. Following McLanahan’s lead, the HAWC staff officers gave up their seats to the One-Eleventh’s staff members. Long handed him a printout. “Here are the things I’ll need you to work up for us, sir. We’ll have a ‘how d’ya do’ brief in two hours. Let me know if you need any help with that.”
“I can work better at the master console, Major,” Patrick said. But Long had already turned back and logged into the master terminal, ready to start building his flight plan, scheduling refueling and forward basing support, and downloading intelligence data. His flight commanders and support staff logged on as well, and in moments they were all busy entering data and running mission planning checklists.
If the little prick asks me to get coffee for him, Patrick thought as he left to head back to his office, I’m going to have to deck him.
The White House President’s Study
The one good thing about this president, Secretary of Defense Robert Goff remarked to himself, is that he was totally accessible — because he never went anywhere. He was always working in the office, usually in the study adjacent to the Oval Office, except if conducting a small meeting with his staff or greeting visitors. Because he had a very small political machine behind him, he rarely did public appearances or Party fund-raisers. If he had any free moments, they were spent with his wife and children upstairs in the residence. Robert knew enough not to disturb the President when he was meditating, usually at ten A.M. and three P.M., but otherwise President Thorn was working the phones or on his computer, being the chief executive.
Goff sometimes worried about his old friend. He didn’t play golf, didn’t jog, didn’t sail, rarely visited Camp David, didn’t do many of the things other chief executives were noted for doing to relax. His only relief from life in Washington was the occasional weekend visit to his parents’ home in Vermont or his wife’s mother’s home in New Hampshire to see the grandkids. Other presidents were criticized for being “trapped” in the White House by their duties and responsibilities, but Thorn seemed to get his drive and energy from the deluge of meetings, reports, briefings, and decisions he had to deal with every day.
Goff knew he was intruding on the President’s meditation time, but he entered the study anyway and quietly took a seat on his favorite chair in a corner of the room, watching his friend, the most powerful man on planet Earth, in silence. The President sat quietly, hands folded serenely in his lap, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow and even. Goff had gone through the meditation lessons years ago, given by Thomas’s wife, and he had tried to do it twice a day, but that practice had stopped long ago. If he tried very hard, he could remember his mantra. He told Thomas he still kept up with his meditation, and Thomas just smiled and nodded.
Well, Goff thought, maybe Thomas didn’t need to take up golf or jogging or sailing. The President was in extraordinary physical condition, even though as far as Goff knew, he didn’t exercise regularly. Seated there in a white shirt, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up above his wrists, he looked fit and trim. Bob had once asked Thorn about his lack of exercise, and he had responded by dropping down on the floor in his business suit and doing a handstand, holding his legs out completely horizontal with the floor for fifteen full seconds — first with two hands, then one hand, then three fingers. It was a most impressive display of strength and balance. Thorn claimed that it was part of the Vedic sciences, a harmony of spirit, mind, and body that allowed his body to do anything his mind commanded. He said the possibilities were endless — that was only a small sample of what he could do.
Of course, as a former Special Forces commando, Thorn had already done enough exercise to last twenty men a lifetime — to him, supporting his body with one finger might be child’s play. Goff had a hard time believing any of that New Age yogi crap.
“You ever regret we did this, Bob?” he heard Thorn ask. He hadn’t heard or even noticed the President conclude his meditation.
“Every day,” Goff responded. The President smiled. “You?”
“No,” the President replied gently, and Goff knew that was the truth. The relaxed smile dimmed, replaced by a grim, no-nonsense visage. “Something’s happened? My first sensitive international intelligence crisis?”
Goff had no idea how the President could have guessed this — he had just gotten wind of it himself. “Yes, sir,” Goff said. “Doug Morgan and the Vice President are on their way. It has to do with Project Siren.” Goff knew he never had to back-brief the President on anything they had talked about within the past six to nine months — Thorn had a remarkable ability to recall the details of any discussion or briefing, no matter how informal or routine. He had been briefed on roughly three dozen ongoing intelligence operations inside Russia alone, but he could recall major details about each and every one of them. “She was flushed out of hiding, and the network set up to retrieve her broke down. CIA wants to pull her out immediately. They believe she might have information relating to the recent attack in Albania.”
“Deep inside Russia, near Moscow — Zhukovsky, I believe?” Goff nodded. “Has to be by air, then. They have someone in mind? Delta Force? Air Force Special Ops?”
“Intelligence Support Agency.”
“Which cell?” He then held up a hand. “Madcap Magician, launching out of Turkey.”
“The very one, sir.”
“They need air support?”
Goff was flabbergasted — it was as if the President had already planned this operation in his head, considered all the possible hazards, and had come up with a full set of contingency plans. “They’re requesting specialized stealth air cover.”
“That deep into the heart of Russia, they want counterair, SEAD, antitank, antipersonnel, the works — they want someone from HAWC, right?”