Soviet Union — and the beginning of this agency. Intelligence became the name of the game starting the day after you dropped that bomb on that laser. Everyone was shocked that we underestimated the laser’s capability, and everyone wanted to be the one to discover the next Kavaznya site.”
“With all due respect, General, I advise you to drop that topic,” Patrick said seriously. “You may think you know everything and that you have the right clearances, but you don’t.”
“Come off it, Pat,” Houser said with a chuckle. “You Dreamland guys — rather, you
It was Terrill Samson, the black man who rose through the ranks after enlisting in the Air Force to avoid being drafted into the infantry during the Vietnam War and who made it all the way to three-star general, who’d never had control. Samson wanted nothing more than to get promoted, to be the newest and greatest black man to be reach the highest echelons of power and leadership in the American military.
But in his quest to become a symbol, he found that the harder he tried to control the men and women at Dreamland, the more he lost control. Samson got his wish: He got himself promoted to lieutenant general and commander of Eighth Air Force, in line to become commander of Air Combat Command, maybe even chief of staff of the Air Force. He left Dreamland without giving it any purpose or direction. The world’s most high-tech laboratory- turned-combat-unit had become little more than a high-tech aircraft boneyard during his leadership, but it had served its purpose — it was the footstool Terrill Samson needed to step up to the next level.
“I’m just giving you my recommendation here, Gary,” Patrick said. “Don’t talk about Dreamland. Let’s change the subject.”
That was three times in a row McLanahan tried to tell a superior officer what to do, Houser steamed, and that was three times too many. “Pat, I know all about the activities there, why you got canned, why you were called back, what you did,” Houser said. “I know Dreamland’s budgets, its projects, personnel, and progress. Same with Battle Mountain, the Air Battle Force, and the One-eleventh Wing—”
“Those units are different, General,” Patrick said. “They’re part of the Air Reserve Forces Command, and their budgets and missions are mostly classified ‘confidential.’ HAWC is still classified ‘Top Secret — ESI’ Level Three, which means nothing gets discussed outside the facility, not even in passing. Let’s drop it before I’m forced to make a report.” He had
“Nav, don’t lecture me about security procedures, all right?” Houser retorted. “I’m commander of AIA. I live and breathe secrecy and security. You’re the one that needs to be reminded of his duties and responsibilities here, I think.”
Patrick’s mouth literally dropped open from astonishment.
“The way I see it, McLanahan, you’ve been marching roughshod through the Air Force, pulling shit that should have landed you in prison for a hundred years, and somehow you’ve not only gotten away with it but you’ve been rewarded and promoted for it. Only one man, Terrill Samson, had the guts to say, ‘Enough is enough,’ and he pulled the plug on you and your wild-ass excursions into personal aggrandizement. Your buddy President Martindale overruled him and gave you your stars back. I can’t figure out why. But what I do know is this: You screwed up again, your buddy Martindale couldn’t save you, Thorn and Goff
Houser took another deep drag on his cigar. “Maybe the Chief wanted to stick you with me to keep you out of sight, or force you to resign. I don’t know, and I don’t give a shit. But you’re here, and now you’re my problem.
“So here are the rules, and they’re simple: You do as you’re told, you keep your nose to the grindstone, and I’ll help you dig your way out of this shithole mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” Houser said. “You can finish out your twenty right here in San Antonio, maybe get your second star back — maybe — and when you retire, the private consulting firms and security agencies will be throwing plenty of six-and seven-figure offers your way. If the rumors of you going to Washington are true, you can do that, too. You probably won’t be national security adviser, but you can snag some high-ranking post in the White House National Security Council staff—”
“I’m not looking for a government or a private consulting job.”
“I don’t care what you are or are not looking for, General,” Houser said. “I’m just telling you that I don’t like my agency being used as a detention facility for out-of-control disciplinary hard-cases. You were a loner with a give-a-shit attitude when I first pulled a crew with you back at Ford, and you’re the exact same guy now. You may have been able to get away with being like that because of a combination of luck and skill as a bombardier, but that
“If you try to pull just one-tenth of the shit you pulled on General Samson, my friend, I guarantee I’ll make your life a living hell,” Houser went on, jabbing his cigar at Patrick. “You’re with the Nine-sixty-sixth now, which doesn’t deploy and gets pretty good face time with the brass and politicos in Washington, Offutt, and Barksdale. That’s a plum job for you. Keep your nose clean, and you can stay there, studying satellite photos and HUMINT contact narratives, then briefing the four-stars on enemy activity, and you might just improve your reputation after a couple years.
“Here it is in black and white, Pat: You were sent here to cool your heels, and I don’t like it,” Houser went on bitterly. “I don’t like you being dumped in my lap, and I don’t like golden boys who think they know it all and can tell their superior officers off. I want you out of my face and out of the limelight. I want you as quiet as I can make you without cutting out your fucking tongue myself with a pair of rusty scissors. Maybe we’ll both get lucky and Thorn will give you a job in his new administration, and then you’ll be out of here soonest. Otherwise you have two years and nine months before you can retire: I would advise you to keep your yap shut and put in your time in the Nine- sixty-sixth, and then you can go out on the lecture circuit at ten thousand a pop or be a talking head on Fox News Channel at five hundred dollars a day.
“The Nine-sixty-sixth commander is a two-star billet, so maybe you’ll get your second star back and regain a little bit of the decorum and pride you’ve squandered over the past few years,” Houser said. “If you play ball, I’ll help you ease on out of here so you can take care of your son, get your cushy government position, or maybe go back to Sky Masters Inc. and rip off the government with those hyperinflated defense contracts your friend Jon Masters is so fond of negotiating. I don’t give a shit what you do after you get out. But while you’re in my unit, under my command, you will shut your mouth and do what you’re told. Am I making myself perfectly clear, Pat?”
Patrick looked at Houser for a long moment, never breaking eye contact, long enough for Houser to feel the anger start to rise in his temples. But finally Patrick responded. “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.”
Houser couldn’t find any hint of rebellion or defiance in that simple answer, which made him all the more angry. “Good to see you again, Pat,” he snapped. He jabbed the cigar toward his office door. “Now get the hell out.”
Thirty minutes to go, sir,” Hal Briggs said gently. “Time to get moving.”
Trevor Griffin was instantly awake and alert, but he didn’t know where he was. The place was dark, smelled like old oil and even older body odor, and was as noisy as hell — he felt as if he were trapped in a garbage truck roaring down a freeway at ninety miles an hour. Then he remembered where he was, and what he was about to do.
And he thought that this wasn’t a bad place after all, compared to what he was about to step into. Not bad at all. Pretty darn nice, in fact.
Griffin unfastened his safety harness and swung out of the bunk he’d been napping in for the past few hours. He was on the upper deck of a QB-52 Megafortress bomber, a highly modified B-52H Stratofortress bomber. The QB-52 Megafortress was a “flying battleship,” capable of delivering up to sixty thousand pounds of the world’s most advanced weapons, from ultraprecise cruise missiles to antisatellite weapons. Except for a pod on each wing that carried radar-and heat-seeking air-to-air defensive missiles, however, the QB-52 carried no ordnance on this mission.
