Air Battle Force

“One of their development partners, yes, sir.”

“McLanahan’s private little air force again, eh, General?” President Thorn asked.

They continued through a series of wide corridors cut out of the rock and stopped at a set of large steel doors on immense hinges, reminiscent of the huge, vaultlike doors at the entrance to the North American Aerospace Defense Command’s underground command center at Cheyenne Mountain. The doors looked tired and gray, definitely old — but inside, the large room looked modern and well lit, like a brand-new auditorium or theater.

Brigadier General David Luger, Colonel John Long, Lieutenant Colonel Nancy Cheshire, Lieutenant Colonel Hal Briggs, and Sergeant Major Chris Wohl were lined up in front of the stage inside the auditorium, surrounded by Secret Service agents. “Mr. President, Miss Secretary, Mr. Secretary, I’d like to introduce you to the rest of the command here.” Thorn, Hershel, and Goff stepped over to where the others were waiting. “I’d like to introduce you to my second in command, Brigadier General David Luger.”

The VIPs shook hands with Luger. “It’s an honor to meet you, General,” Robert Goff said. He looked at Luger solemnly, glanced at Patrick, then added, “The last two surviving members of the Old Dog crew. Two living legends. I’m glad to have you both around.”

David Luger, tall and lanky and towering over Goff, looked bowed as he realized that it was true: There were only two of the original six crew members of the first “Old Dog” mission left. “It’s good to be here, sir,” he said.

“This is Brigadier General Rebecca Furness, commander of the One-eleventh Attack Wing; Colonel John Long, the operations-group commander; Colonel Daren Mace, commander of the Fifty-first Attack Squadron with the EB- 1C Vampires; and Lieutenant Colonel Nancy Cheshire, commander of the Fifty-second Attack Squadron with the EB-52 Megafortresses and the AL-52 Dragons.”

“The first female combat pilot — another living legend. Nice to meet you, Rebecca,” Goff said, shaking Rebecca’s hand enthusiastically. He shook Long’s hand but did not address him — obviously an astute judge of character, Patrick thought. “Nice to see you again, Daren,” Goff said, shaking Daren’s hand warmly. “I was pleased with the work you did out at Beale.”

“Thank you, sir,” Daren replied.

“I hope you’ll find a home out here—” Goff said. He paused, glanced at McLanahan, then added, “If they haven’t scared you too much already.”

“That may be possible to do, sir, but not yet.”

“Colonel, I’m looking forward to seeing what your airborne-laser aircraft are capable of,” Goff said, shaking Nancy’s hand. Nancy Cheshire was tall, athletic bordering on muscular, with strawberry-blond hair, shining green eyes, and an ever-present smile. She was the senior test pilot in the experimental B-52 bombers at Dreamland, accepting her first operational command to get the chance to keep on flying her beloved super-B-52s and work with Patrick McLanahan.

“Finally,” Patrick went on, “Colonel Hal Briggs and Sergeant Major Chris Wohl, Air Battle Force ground operations.”

Maureen Hershel stared at Chris Wohl in wonderment. Hal was wearing his Air Force Class-A blue uniform, but Chris Wohl was wearing a strange black outfit that resembled high-tech scuba diver’s gear, with a thin backpack, thick boots and belt, and tubes running along the arms and legs. “What in the world is this?” she asked, touching the strange material.

“It’s called BERP — Ballistic Electro-Reactive Process, ma’am,” Hal Briggs replied. “Electronic armor. It responds to being sharply struck by instantly hardening into an almost impenetrable protective shield that can withstand attack by up to thirty-seven-millimeter cannon shells. The tubes you see outside the armor are part of the powered exoskeleton, which uses microhydraulic actuators to activate the armor and enhance the wearer’s strength. These electrodes on the shoulders emit directional bursts of electrical energy out as far as fifty feet, which can paralyze an attacker. The boots contain a gas thruster system that can help the wearer jump several hundred feet. The backpack contains a power-generating and rechargeable-battery system, plus worldwide communications and sensor equipment. This is what the well-dressed commando will be wearing this century.”

“They call themselves the Tin Men, Maureen,” Goff said, shaking hands with Briggs and Wohl. His voice was filled with tension and seriousness, but his handshake and eyes were friendly. “They’ve proven themselves extraordinarily effective in many different scenarios, but they’ve also given us a lot of headaches since we’ve taken office. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”

“That’s one of our specialties, sir,” Hal Briggs said. “We aim to please.”

“I for one don’t think it’s funny, Colonel,” President Thorn said. “You successfully dragged the United States into a shooting war with Russia and nearly got us into a shooting war with Libya — all for a few lousy dollars. If it weren’t for General McLanahan’s interceding on your behalf, you’d all be in prison right now.” Briggs and Wohl said nothing but remained at parade rest, eyes caged forward. “Well? What do you have to say for yourselves?”

“I’m happy to have the opportunity to create some havoc for you now, sir,” Briggs said.

“Same here, sir,” Wohl chimed in.

Thorn looked Wohl up and down. “I was a commando, too, Sergeant Major,” he said. “I spent a month crawling on my belly in Iraq before and during Desert Storm with nothing but a laser designator and a bad attitude. But not once in all the battles and all the shit we took did I ever consider turning my back on my country or the Army.”

He stared both Wohl and Briggs in the eyes, his chin jutting out, his jaw clenched. “You left the Corps and fought for an outlaw organization,” he went on angrily. “Both of you renounced your oaths and went to work for what I believe was a criminal organization — a group that stole money, committed murder and mayhem, and absconded with government property. You nearly caused a world war with your antics. You didn’t deserve to come back into the country, let alone come back into the U.S. armed forces and get a promotion.”

“You gave my men and me full exoneration and full restoration of our rank and privileges, sir….” Patrick interjected.

“That’s right — I gave your ranks back to you,” Thorn said heatedly. “I gave them back because you acquitted yourselves with honor in Libya. But you haven’t won the right to think you’re some kind of bad-ass fighting men now.” Thorn turned and saw Wohl glaring at him. He turned and faced the big Marine nose-to-nose. “You have something to say to me, Sergeant Major?”

“Yes, sir,” Wohl said. His eyes remained caged, not looking directly at the president’s. “But I choose not to say it.”

“Go ahead, Sergeant Major,” Thorn pressed. “You have permission to speak freely. Tell us why you chose to leave your post without being properly relieved, and why you think you deserve to come back into my country’s armed forces — instead of spending the rest of your life in prison.”

Wohl’s eyes angrily snapped over to Thorn’s. That was the reaction Thorn was waiting for.

“Go ahead, Sergeant Major, say it,” Thorn goaded him. “Give me a reason to toss your ass in Leavenworth, where it belongs.”

Wohl wisely, thankfully remained silent.

“You assassinated Pavel Kazakov in Iceland, didn’t you, you murderous son of a bitch?” Thorn asked in a low, ominous voice.

“Excuse me, sir—” Hal Briggs interjected.

“Shut up, Colonel,” Thorn ordered. “I haven’t even started with you yet.” He turned again to Wohl. “You’re a wild dog, Wohl.” He jabbed at Wohl’s chest and was surprised when the material he thought was fabric felt as hard as titanium — he could have all his Secret Service agents nearby, he realized ruefully, and they wouldn’t be able to stop this guy. That made him a little nervous — no, it made him a lot scared—but he knew he couldn’t dare let that show, so he pressed on. “There’s an Interpol warrant for your arrest for Kazakov’s murder, did you know that? He was under United Nations protection. You cut his head off, didn’t you? Whose idea was it to kill Kazakov? Yours or Briggs’s?” Still no response. “Answer me!”

“My men prefer to do their talking on the battlefield, Mr. President,” Patrick McLanahan said forcefully, quickly interjecting his voice between them — he could practically feel the heat from Wohl’s temples as his anger mounted. No one, not even the president of the United States, would be allowed to get into Chris Wohl’s face unscathed for