Air Battle Force

striking that target was like striking at my own children.” There was a slight pause, then, “May I speak with Major General Patrick McLanahan, please?”

The president turned toward Patrick, switched on the speakerphone, then said, “Go ahead, General. General McLanahan can hear you.”

All eyes were on Patrick. “What is it, General?” Patrick asked.

“I know it was you who planned that strike on Engels Air Base, McLanahan,” Gryzlov said. “You spoke with General Kasimov and told him precisely which Russian targets in Turkmenistan were going to be struck and when — you could know all that only if you were in direct command of those attacks as well. This is the same McLanahan who participated in the air attacks against Russian forces in the Balkans and near Zhukovsky Flight Test Center recently. This is also the same McLanahan who participated in attacks against Russian military forces in Lithuania and, I presume, even participated in the attack against the Kavaznya laser ballistic-missile defense site in Siberia some years ago. I am sure that, with a little analysis, we can probably trace your involvement in many other significant covert military actions by the United States over the years — China, Taiwan, Iran.”

The surprised expressions turned into shocked expressions. Most of those in the room knew a little about a few of Patrick McLanahan’s military adventures — but no one, not even former president Kevin Martindale, knew that Patrick had participated in almost every major wide-scale conflict throughout the world over the past fifteen years.

“We could go on and on about your past, General,” Gryzlov said. “In Russia you would be a national hero, perhaps even president. Why in your own country you are nothing more than an insignificant Air Force officer with no real responsibilities or authority is a mystery to me, but it matters not.

“I am here to tell you here and now, General Patrick McLanahan, that we are enemies, you and I,” Gryzlov went on with an amused but ominous sneer in his voice. “You have used your bomber forces masterfully over the years, and you may have a technological edge. But you are weak because of weak commanders like Thomas Thorn. As long as you are led by men such as him, you will be powerless to stop me when I move against you. I will see to it that you are destroyed, General. Your friends, your bases, your crews, your aircraft — even your precious son, Bradley — will all be destroyed before finally you, too, will be destroyed. You will be destroyed because you mindlessly follow weaker men, thinking it is your duty to obey their orders. It will destroy you and all those around you that you love.”

“Listen, you son of a bitch, if your own officers and people don’t get you first, we sure as hell will!” Vice President Busick shouted. “You’re nothing but a two-bit generalissimo.”

“It will be my bombers against your bombers, General McLanahan,” Gryzlov went on, ignoring Busick. “The battle will be on my terms, on my home court. You cannot choose where and when the battle will take place, because you are too weak to do so, and you are weak because you follow weak leaders. So gather your planes and drones and missiles together like a child in his playpen, General, and get ready for the showdown.”

“Bring it on, General Gryzlov,” Patrick said, but the line had already gone dead.

For several long moments everyone in the Oval Office was stunned into silence. They had never heard someone openly and so brazenly threatened like that before during an official government phone call. Finally Vice President Busick said, “Mr. President, I’d like to discuss this idea of paying reparations to the Russians—”

“The attack on Engels Air Base was not approved,” the president said. “General McLanahan may have misinterpreted directives from Secretary Goff, but I don’t think so. I believe that the attack on Engels was deliberate and calculated. Whatever the final outcome, the mission was not sanctioned. We have a moral obligation to repay the Russians for the damage.”

“Like hell, Mr. President!” Busick shouted. “We don’t owe them squat! They started this whole thing — we just helped finish it. The general may have jumped the gun a little, but he did exactly what he thought was needed to be done to protect our guys out there.”

“General, is that the way you see it?” Thorn asked.

Patrick looked at Thorn, then at Martindale, and finally back to Thomas Thorn. “No, sir — there was no misunderstanding,” he replied. Both Martindale and Busick closed their eyes in frustration, and even Robert Goff shook his head sadly. “I was ordered by Secretary of Defense Goff directly to get my forces out of Turkmenistan after Deputy Secretary of State Hershel’s flight was safe. My ground forces were only fifteen miles from the Uzbek border — they could have been picked up easily, before or after the attack on Charjew. Instead I kept my ground forces in place and planned an air attack on Engels.”

“Because you knew that Gryzlov was going to launch more attacks on you.”

“Yes, sir, but mostly because I wanted to hurt Gryzlov,” Patrick admitted. “I wanted to defeat his bombers on the ground. I wanted to strike into the heart of Gryzlov’s bomber force. I had the weapons and the opportunity, so I took it.”

Thorn looked at each of his advisers in turn, then said angrily, “That’s why we’re paying reparations to the Russians, folks. America might be accused of being a bully every now and then, but when we screw up like that, we should at least have the guts to admit to it and pay for our mistake.” He and everyone in the room fell silent. “That will be all, everyone.”

Kevin Martindale stepped up to Thomas Thorn, looked him in the eye, shook his head, and said derisively, “You’re going to be a pushover next fall, Mr. President.” He turned to Patrick and said, so everyone including Thorn could hear him, “Don’t let him get to you, Patrick. Gryzlov is right — but it doesn’t mean it has to stay that way. Keep on fighting the way you know how to fight.”

Finally it was just Thorn and McLanahan left in the Oval Office. Thorn looked at the two-star general. “You’re dismissed, too, General,” he said. Patrick looked as if he was about to say something, but Thorn held up a hand. “Don’t say anything, General — I know you won’t mean it anyway. Just get out. Go home and give your son a hug. Take him to the beach. I’ll decide what to do with you later.”

Patrick left the White House and made his way to the West Wing gate. As he waited to be let out, he heard a car horn beep behind him. Maureen Hershel rolled down her window in the backseat of her limousine. “Give you a lift somewhere, General?” she asked.

Patrick looked at her, then stood and looked back toward the Oval Office — and was surprised to see Thorn looking back at him through the window, the phone to his ear but still watching him intently. Patrick took a deep breath, confused and, yes, a little uncertain.

“C’mon, General,” Maureen said. “I could use a drink right about now — and you look like you could use one too.”

Patrick McLanahan stood at attention and saluted the Oval Office. The president saluted back, then returned his attention to his phone call. Patrick dropped his salute with a snap, smiled, and nodded. “I’d love to, Maureen,” he said. “I’d love to. Let’s go.”

E-BOOK EXTRA “Death of the Dogfight”: An Interview with Dale Brown

Interviewer: You began your first novel, Flight of the Old Dog, while you were still serving in the U.S. Air Force. What did your colleagues think of this?

Dale Brown: I never really told anybody what I was doing. Most of them thought I was just playing computer games. The others thought I was wasting my time. I enjoyed proving them wrong!

Interviewer: To what degree do you plan your novels before starting to write?

Dale Brown: Probably not as much as I should. When I get an idea, I research it, and if I get some exciting info or background, I’ll write a short outline for my editor, tweak it a little, then get busy.

Interviewer: Is there such a thing as a typical writing day for you? If so, what form does it take?

Dale Brown: Most days start at nine a.m. and go to four p.m., then restart at nine p.m. and go to eleven p.m. I usually rewrite in the morning and write new scenes in the afternoon and evenings. But every day is different. Some days the scenes flow like water — the next day it’s as dry as a desert. But the important thing is to be in the seat with the computer on, ready to go.