Patrick looked warily at the President. He was being trapped-he knew it. It was going to be a choice between prison or some office position, locked away amid classified briefings, mountains of paperwork, and nameless, faceless bureaucrats looking for a strong back on which to step on their way up the ladder of power.
Thorn stepped over to Patrick. "Yes, sir. Keep you in line, keep you in check, pick your brain when I need to but otherwise keep a tight hold on your leash. Hell, any man who names his son after the White House's perennial maddog warmonger has got to be looking for trouble. Besides, I figure the one thing that will punish you better than hard labor in prison is a desk job. Yes, I like that idea a lot… but I'm not going to do it."
He reached into a pocket… and pulled out silver major general's stars.
"Take them, General," Thorn ordered. "There's a new base in northern Nevada called Battle Mountain Air Force Base that's almost ready to be activated. You're going to command it.
"I'm going to fill that base with all of the aircraft and weapons you've been taking from Sky Masters Inc. for the past several years-every model of the Megafortress you've designed, built, and flown over the past fifteen years, and every new air weapon you've developed at Dreamland, including the new airborne laser," Thorn went on. He turned to the others in the room. "General Luger will be your deputy commander. Colonel Briggs and Sergeant Major Wohl will command a special-ops unit based at Battle Mountain-equipped with the Tin Man battle armor technology and trained to be the ground force that mops up after the Megafortresses attack.
"The Air Battle Force at Battle Mountain will be the tip of the spear. Every conflict around the world, every emergency, every potential war zone will have one of your Megafortresses deployed there first. I think it's about time you stop freelancing and start fighting for your country again, don't you-Major General McLanahan?" "
Patrick looked into Thorn's face-then reached up and took the stars from his hand. Thorn smiled and nodded. "Very good. Nice to have you back on America's teamwhere you belong." He and Patrick shook hands to seal the deal.
"Next problem," President Thorn said. "Where is Sergeant Major Wohl?"
Pavel Kazakov's terms of his protective custody agreement allowed him two hours a week supervised release outside of his apartment, and he usually spent those hours playing golf. Akranes, in west Iceland, had two excellent courses, Thorisstadir and Leynir, and in two hours he was usually able to get in nine or more holes and lunch before being returned to his apartment.
His I today were two hulking blond Icelanders assigned to him from the World Court. Golf carts were usually not allowed in Iceland, but a cart driver kept one nearby while the three men walked the course-the cart had the heavy firepower in it, enough weapons to hold off a helicopter assault, while the guards themselves wore bulletproof vests and carried submachine guns. Two platoons of commandos were stationed around the course, also heavily armed.
Kazakov played quickly, getting in as many holes as he could before his release was up. He already had the next three shots lined up before he approached the ball; he never spent any time enjoying the spectacular rugged scenery of the small fishing village. He strode quickly to the ball every time-he already had the club selected-and he addressed the ball and swung. He never had to worry about other players on the course-the guards cleared the course twenty minutes before and after he played anyway. Kazakov stopped only long enough to take a sip of tea from a Thermos bottle to ward off the cold.
The rest room and snack bar at the turn was a simple but sturdy log cabin building, set in what looked at first to be an empty frozen tundra. There was always a roaring fire in the stone fireplace, hot tea and coffee, and a section of cakes, confections, and even smoked fish on hand. The guards checked the building out first-the staff at the snack bar had been escorted off the course, along with all the other players-and then Kazakov was allowed inside.
Kazakov sampled some of the smoked fish as he stood by the fire to warm up. "Other than playing golf itself," he told his Icelandic guard in Russian, "this little cabin is perhaps the best part of playing golf in this country." The guard said nothing-Kazakov didn't know, or care, if the guards spoke Russian-but kept on checking doorways and windows. "Why, you ask?" Kazakov went on. "Because, my Norse friend, Iceland has to be the shittiest nation on Earth. Yes, your women are very beautiful. But if this isn't the end of the Earth, one could certainly see it from Iceland. Everything about this place is stark, bland, rugged, and cold. You people all look alike-you have bred every bit of color and interesting features out of your race. You live in one of the harshest climates on Earth and you smile all the time-I don't mean you, but you Icelanders in general. You must be crazy from the cold and isolation."
The guard nodded, smiled slightly as if Kazakov had just given him a compliment, and continued to scan for intruders. Kazakov snorted his contempt and went to use the lavatory. Big dumb Norseman, he thought. Why did Iceland even bother to have a military? Who would ever attack Iceland"? And why would they not assign him a guard that spoke Russian, if for no other reason than to collect any possible intelligence? The guard checked the men's room first, then allowed Kazakov to enter.
Kazakov had just turned on the tap to wash his hands when the guard came back in to check on him. "I will be out in a moment, you big dumb Viking," he said in Russian. "Can't I even-?"
A hand grabbed his throat and spun him around. Kazakov was suddenly face-to-face with the biggest, meanest, most chiseled man he had ever seen. His nose looked as if it had been smashed several times, and he looked much older, but his steel-blue eyes burning with pure hatred could have belonged to a youngster. Kazakov tried to pry the man's hand off his throat, but he couldn't budge the fingers one millimeter.
"Good morning, Comrade Kazakov," the man said in English. "Having a nice game?" The fingers around his neck squeezed, not allowing any sound to escape. "My name is Master Sergeant Christopher Wohl, United States Marine Corps, Retired. I have a message for you from General Patrick McLanahan." Kazakov's eyes bugged when he heard that name…
… but they bulged even more when the commando held up a four-inch-long double serrated-edge T-bar push knife.
The knife easily pierced Kazakov's jacket, then his flesh, and then his diaphragm, twice, with two fast, powerful thrusts, filling the Russian drug dealer's lungs with blood. "Those are for my two men your friend Jadallah Zuwayy tortured to death." He raised the blood-soaked knife, showing the glistening wet blade to Kazakov. "And this is for Dr. Wendy McLanahan." And he plunged the knife into Kazakov's neck and slashed sideways, nearly slicing the neck in two.
The Icelandic guard stepped into the men's room just as Wohl let the blood-covered body drop to the floor. Wohl calmly took off his bloody jacket and dropped it too.
The two commandos looked at each other for a long moment; then Wohl said in Russian, "Fa abasralsa na vannaya. Prasteetye. I really fucked up your bathroom. Sorry."
"Suhadrochka. Nye za shta. Fseevo samava loochsheva," the Icelandic commando replied in perfect, fluent Russian. He handed Wohl his own clean overcoat-it fit him very well. "No problem. Don't mention it. Have a nice day."