“I hear the Duck Walk by the glass is a good buy,” quipped McLanahan.
“We won’t be having wine, thank you,” said Bastian. Handing the card back. “Damn. I can’t believe Brad Elliott stood for this.”
“Well, first of all, General Elliott was a three-start general,” noted McLanahan. He seemed rather amused. “This sort of thing comes with the territory. And second of all, the lounge was used only for VIPs. Congressmen, the Secretary of Defense, important contractors the general had to impress. Otherwise, Brad ate mostly at his desk.”
“Humph.”
“Being a general means being a politician,” said McLanahan.
“Thank God I’m not a general,” said Dog.
“Listen, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t close the place until after lunch. I didn’t get a chance to have breakfast.”
Dog settled back in the chair. He’d known when he accepted the assignment that he was entering a different world he’d inhabited before – a world of privilege and power. What McLanahan said about the lounge’s use was undoubtedly true. Hell, from what he’d seen back East, this was austere. It was also likely that the facility – and its wine list – had been donated by defense contractors.
But that didn’t mean it was going to survive. Bastian was a lieutenant colonel and would live like one. And so would everyone else. As of tomorrow morning, he decided as he surveyed the room, all ‘cafeterias’ – strike that, all facilities, all mess halls, all lounges, hell, all dormitories and soda machines – would be ‘all-ranks.’ Everyone was equal, military and civilian, officer and enlisted man.
“Dog?”
“What exactly is it that you want, Patrick?”
McLanahan glanced up as the sergeant returned with menus. Dog took the card silently, scanning it quickly.
Roast leg of lamb in a raspberry mustard sauce. Pureed lentils in a sake-cream soup. Pheasant saltimbocca with squid-ink linguine.
Dog looked up at the sergeant. The man’s arms were straight down at his sides, his thumbs circling rapidly around his fingers. His cheeks were purple, but his forehead was white.
“Look,” Dog told him, trying to smile, “can you get me a medium-rare burger with fries?”
“Gladly, sir,” said the sergeant.
“Me too,” said McLanahan, handing the menu back to the sergeant. “Although I have to say that pheasant was tempting.”
“You didn’t set this up with Ax, did you?” Dog asked McLanahan.
McLanahan laughed and shook his head. “I wish I did. Just to see your face.”
“Are you here to lobby for Megafortress or Cheetah?”
“Neither actually,” said McLanahan, his tone instantly serious. “And not DreamStar or ANTARES either, if you want, I’ll tell you anything you want to know about any of the projects I was involved in. But they’re not why I’m here.”
“Megafortress isn’t going to make the cut, Patrick,” said Dog. “As much as I liked what the Old Dog did, and whatever I think of the flying-battleship idea, there’s no support.”
“I’m not here about that,” said McLanahan. “This is all your headache, not mine. I have new ones to deal with.”
“Such as?”
“ISA,” said McLanahan. ISA stood for Intelligence Support Agency, a high-level covert project funded by the CIA and DOD to support ‘special’ actions. Dog knew it well – he had helped developed the briefing papers and the draft intelligence finding that established the organizational framework. ISA operated outside of the normal military command structure, to put it mildly.
“What’s up?” Dog asked.
“ISA is putting together a special strike package. One of the pilots and two of the support personnel on Dreamland’s roster are going to be asked to join. It’s strictly voluntary, but, uh, there have been some back-channel discussions, as I’m sure you would expect.”
“They need my permission?”
“No, but some of the people back East thought you’d want to be in the loop,” said McLanahan carefully. “I was at Nellis and since we know each other, they asked me to give you a heads-up.”
“You’re running ISA?”
“No. I’m more like a consultant. A freelancer,” said McLanahan. “The pilot is Mack Smith.”
“You want the F-119 too?”
Dog hadn’t meant it as a joke, but McLanahan laughed. “Just Smith,” he said. “The 119 can stay in the shed forever as far as I’m concerned. The technical people are listed as specialists in avionics and engines respectively, but their records show they could build planes from scratch.”
While Smith was an arrogant SOB, Colonel Bastian didn’t particularly want to lose him; the fighter jock was the hottest stick on the patch. And he was the senior officer on the JSF.
“It’s about Somalia,” added McLanahan, obviously sensing his reluctance to part with the pilot.
“Oh,” said Dog. He hadn’t seen the intelligence briefings since a few days before leaving Washington, but McLanahan’s tone made it clear that things there had continued to worsen. The Iranian mullahs had been equipping one of the warlords in the eastern African country, apparently with the intention of helping him take over the government. That would allow them to control access to the Red Sea and Suez Canal, as well as the Gulf of Aden – and thereby manipulate the price and flow of oil. Which itself was supposed to be prelude of their “Greater Islamic League,” a coalition of Middle Eastern countries dedicated to the prospect of giving America a headache.
“ISA is involved with Somalia?” Dog asked.
“ISA is part of a contingency plan.” McLanahan took a sip of his water. “Iran’s warlord will be in charge inside two weeks.”
“Then what happens?”
“Well, maybe nothing. The analysts are all over the place.”
“I wouldn’t count on nothing,” said Dog. “If the mullahs are feeling strong enough, they’ll base the Silkworms they bought from China there. And after that, they’ll move in the new aircraft they’re buying from Russia. Two dozen Su-35’s and the same number of the Su-27’s equipped for surface attack could bottle up half the world’s oil fleet within three hours.”
“Oil prices will go to one hundred dollars a barrel,” said McLanahan. “I read your white paper on it. hard to believe you wrote it a year ago.”
“The Sukhois are good warplanes.”
“CIA says they haven’t been sold,” McLanahan frowned, but it was impossible to tell whether he believed that or not. “They have the Silkworms ready to go. And rumor has it that they’re working with the Chinese on an aircraft carrier, which should be ready within a few months, if not weeks. The NSC is recommending that this thing be cut off quickly. Which is why I – ISA, that is, wants Smith.”
The sergeant emerged from the kitchen pushing a large cart. On top of it were two deluxe burger plates, with oversized hamburgers on grilled potato-bread rolls. Large saucers of ketchup, mustard, and relish flanked a massive heap of steak fries at the side of the plates.
“Now this is what I call first class,” said Dog, thanking the sergeant.
“I would have thought you’d be used to fancy food, having come from Washington,” said McLanahan. “I hear they love you at the White House.”
“I met the President exactly once,” said Dog. “And that was in a room with fifty people.”
The burger was excellent, perfectly charred on the outside and pink on the inside. Maybe not the healthiest lunch, but tasty enough to justify the risk.
“Like I say, the analysts are all over the place on this. We’re not exactly knee-deep in intelligence on what Iran is up to,” McLanahan said, picking up the napkin from his lap and dabbing at the side of his mouth. “Good burger.”
“Very good,” said Dog. “The Iranians have studied the Oil Shock of the seventies. They know what the impact on the Western economics would be of doubling or quadrupling the price of oil. And don’t forget, they’ll benefit from
