Battle Born

“It looks to me like you got hit, Major Seaver. Colonel Briggs?”

Hal Briggs grabbed John Long’s right hand and lifted it up so everyone could see. Long tried to snatch it away but found Briggs’s grip as strong as steel. There was a gash on his right middle knuckle. “Looks to me like Colonel Long hit him with his right fist, sir,” said Briggs.

“Did he hit you, Major?” Patrick asked.

“No, sir.”

“Don’t lie to me, Major!” Patrick shouted. “There are reasons for every argument, and even reasons for someone to take a swing at another officer. I can understand such actions. I can even excuse them if they’re provoked, or if there’s good cause and the man is genuinely sorry and willing to repent. But I will not tolerate lying for any reason. A liar is someone of imperfect and questionable character. A liar is not fit to fly in my planes. A liar is not fit to wear a uniform or command a fighting unit. A liar is not fit to walk upon the same ground that true American heroes have walked on. I will turn in my stars and wings before I allow a liar to remain one second longer on this base and tarnish the honor and memory of the great men and women who have stood here and given their lives for this country.”

Patrick stood face-to-face with Rinc Seaver. “Now, which are you, Major? Are you going to lie to my face? Are you going to show me you have no character? Or are you going to tell me the truth and let us deal with this incident like officers?”

“I will tell you the truth, sir,” Seaver responded.

“That’s all I ask, Major,” Patrick said, much more gently. “After all, it does look like you were the wronged one. The truth never hurts the innocent. Now, what happened? Is my chief of security’s observation wrong? Did Colonel Long strike you?”

“I cut myself shaving, sir,” Seaver said.

“What are you, Major, some kind of idiot?” Patrick asked angrily. “Where do you think you are, back in your high school gym locker room in Galena having an argument with your school pals about who’s going to ask Polly Sue to the prom? Remind him, Colonel Briggs.”

“This is Dreamland, Major,” Hal Briggs snapped. “Everything and everyone within one hundred miles of where you’re standing is wired for sound and video and recorded twenty-four hours a day every day of the year. You are wired for sound. These walls are wired for sound and video. You can’t jerk off under the covers of your rack without us knowing about it, Major!”

“All we have to do is pull the tapes of your little ‘hangar flying session’ and we’ll know the truth,” Patrick went on. “Now, I’m going to ask you once more, and you better tell the truth or I will destroy what’s left of your military and civilian aviation career: did Colonel Long strike you?”

“Sir…,” Rinc said. He swallowed hard. “I cut myself shaving, sir.”

Patrick McLanahan glared at Seaver, clenched his jaw as if he was going to continue the tirade — then nodded. “Very well, Major,” he said. “If that’s what you say, then you live with it.” He turned away to wipe off the smile that had started in spite of himself, then addressed Furness. “Anything to say, Colonel?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“Good.” He straightened up and faced the squadron members, still standing at attention. “Get your gear packed,” Patrick said. “You’re leaving.”

“Leaving?” Furness said in astonishment. “Why? What’s going on?”

“There’s no mission, no program,” Patrick told them. He forced himself to look the squadron members in the eye and found it very difficult. “Seems ACC disapproved of my methods to recruit fliers and airframes for my project. We’re shut down. Get your gear together and stand by to depart.”

There was a long, stunned silence. Patrick turned for the door, but Furness’s words stopped him. “What about… us, sir?”

He faced the members of Aces High and said, “You’ve been decertified by Air Combat Command as not mission-effective, based on the results of yesterday’s range activity. You are therefore unqualified to be federalized and ineligible to be tasked for any missions in support of the active-duty force. The state of Nevada is thereby ineligible to receive any federal funds to support further flying activity. Therefore, the squadron has been stood down as of today by order of the Nevada adjutant general and the governor.

“Since you were Nevada’s only Air National Guard organization, and the state has not been offered any other flying missions by the Air Force, there is no reason to keep you on the state payroll any longer. You have all therefore been placed in inactive mobilization augmentee status until you can be reassigned, transferred, or dismissed from state service. That is all.”

“That’s horseshit, sir!” Seaver cried. “They can’t do that to us! You can’t do this to us!”

“I’m not doing a thing, Major,” Patrick said, trying to keep his voice under control. “Air Combat Command looked at the radar data from your mission and busted you for range safety. It’s simple. You knew the ROE, and you broke them. Everything that happened afterward is a result of what you did on the range. You’re decertified. Pack your bags and prepare to depart the fix.”

“What happens to our planes, General?” Rebecca asked. “Or is that classified super-top-secret too? You always wanted our planes — now you’ve got them.”

“The planes don’t belong to me — they belong to the state of Nevada,” Patrick said. “As soon as they decide what to do with them, we’ll ferry them out. But I can almost guarantee they won’t be going back to Reno, and I can definitely guarantee that they won’t be flown by the 111th Bomb Squadron.”

“General McLanahan, we’re asking you to reconsider,” Rinc Seaver interjected.

“Not possible. Not being considered.”

“You know as well as I do that no one else in the world can fly the Bone like we can,” Rinc said. “Yes, we got busted for range safety violations, but we beat two F-15 Eagles and every SAM and triple-A site you threw at us and we hit every assigned target. The only way we could do that was to bust ACC’s ROE. Tell me, sir: Does Dreamland even have a ROE for their ranges? Is there any such thing as Level One, Level Two, or even a Level Three ROE? Or are you allowed to fly however possible in order to get the mission accomplished?”

Patrick said tersely, “All good points, Major. Except for one problem: no one gave you permission to invent your own ROE in Air Combat Command’s ranges during their evaluation. You knew the rules of engagement, and you broke them. If you showed me your skills and accuracy while following the ROE, we could’ve taken it one step further — we could’ve taken it into my ranges, where you could’ve rocked and rolled your asses off. But you didn’t do that. You busted. You’re out.”

“But, sir…”

“End of discussion!” Patrick snapped. “Be ready to depart in twenty minutes. That is all.” Patrick stormed out of the building, followed closely by Hal Briggs. The security guard outside the gate barely got it open in time to avert the general’s wrath.

“I’ll drive,” Patrick said to Hal as they reached his staff Humvee.

“Oh shit, you must be really pissed,” Briggs said. He got his seat belt on just as Patrick roared off. He pulled out his secure cell phone. “Those Guard guys, they got some nerve talkin’ to you that way,” he said.

“They can talk all they goddamned want,” Patrick snapped. “They’re out of here. They learned the hard way that there’s a time for the crazy shit and a time to follow the proper procedure. They’ve flaunted the rules for years. It cost them a bomber and three crew members, and they still fly like they’re insane. They deserve to get shit-canned.”

“Absolutely, sir,” Hal said. He started speed-dialing a number. “They sure are nutzo. Totally unpredictable. They fly like they’ve got nothing to lose. They’re not afraid to do whatever is necessary to get away from the bad guys and kill the target.” He stopped, listened, then said into the phone, “Yes, sir. General McLanahan calling secure from Elliott Air Force Base… Yes, sir, please stand by.” And he handed the phone to Patrick.

“Secretary Chastain?” Patrick asked him.

“No.”

“C’mon, Hal. You’re getting slow. I thought you could anticipate my every—”

“It’s the White House,” Hal interjected. “General Freeman, national security adviser. He wants to meet with you. In Washington. Right away.”

Patrick looked at Briggs’s broad, shit-eating grin. “That’ll do, Hal. That’ll do,” he said, and took the call.