crafty. He launched two sets of airborne military command posts before the attacks began, and there’s a lot of confusing and conflicting radio traffic, meant as diversions. But I think we’ve pinpointed his actual location: Ryazan’, at an underground military facility next to a deactivated military base, about a hundred forty miles southeast of Moscow. We noticed shortly after the base closed that a substantial amount of work was being done on Oksky Reserve, a game and forest preserve adjacent to the old military base; when we saw a lot of dirt being moved but didn’t see any structures being built aboveground, we suspected the Russians of building either an underground weapon-storage facility or a command center. Gryzlov also happens to be from Ryazan’ Oblast.”
“How certain are you that he’s there?”
“As certain as we can be, boss.”
“Which is…?”
Tagger shrugged. “Sixty percent sure,” he admitted.
Patrick nodded, thankful for Griffin’s honesty. “Thanks for the info, Tagger,” he said. “Let’s concentrate on nailing those ICBMs, and then maybe we’ll get a shot at the general himself. But I
McLanahan is on a secure link, sir,” General Richard Venti said to the secretary of defense, Robert Goff. Along with them were members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or their designees — all of the chiefs did not make it on board the NAOC before it departed Washington.
“Oh, brother!” Goff exclaimed. “Wonder what in hell he wants? Where is he?”
“Battle Mountain, sir.”
“I should have known,” Goff said. He wearily massaged his temples, but nodded. Venti pointed to the communications technician, and moments later Patrick McLanahan appeared on the video-teleconference monitor, wearing a flight suit. Goff recognized most of the officers seated with him: David Luger, the new commander of McLanahan’s old unit; Rebecca Furness, the commander of the high-tech bomber wing at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base; her ops officer, Daren Mace; and one of Furness’s squadron commanders, the one in charge of the modified B-52 bombers, Nancy Cheshire. “I see you are alive and well, General,” Goff said.
“That’s correct, sir,” Patrick replied.
“I also see you’re in flight gear. I hope it’s just for convenience’s sake, General. I believe you’re no longer on flight status, pending the outcome of your court-martial.”
Rebecca Furness looked at McLanahan in some surprise — obviously she hadn’t heard
“That would be a first,” Goff said dryly. “I don’t have much time, General. What’s on your mind?”
“Upon General Luger’s authority, our attack and support forces are holding in secure survival orbits off the West Coast until we can determine what the Russians intend to do,” Patrick replied. “We have a total of eight strike and six support aircraft airborne, plus five more strike aircraft and two support aircraft safe on the ground, operational and ready to go.”
“That’s good news, General,” Goff said, “because right now you represent about one-third of America’s surviving bomber force.”
Luger’s and Furness’s faces turned blank in surprise, but Patrick’s was as unflinching and stoic as ever. “We count two B-2As, two B-52Hs, and four B-1B bombers that survived the attacks on Whiteman, Minot, and Ellsworth,” he said.
“How do you know that so quickly, General? We don’t even have that information yet.”
“The Air Battle Force routinely monitors all military aircraft movement, sir, especially the heavy bombers and tankers,” Dave Luger said. “We keep up with where every aircraft is, even those that aren’t active — in fact, we keep track of where every aircraft component and part is, right down to the tires. We build a lot of equipment from off-the-shelf parts and non-mission-ready airframes.”
“Impressive,” Goff muttered. “So what’s the purpose of the call, General McLanahan?”
“Sir, I’m ready to take command of Eighth Air Force and begin a counteroffensive against the Russian Federation,” Patrick said.
“I’m not in the mood for jokes, McLanahan,” Goff said. “I’ve already picked officers to replace the men we lost in the attack. Besides, you’re not in line to take command of anything.”
“That’s…not exactly true, sir,” General Venti said.
“What are you talking about, General?”
“Sir, Patrick McLanahan was the senior wing commander of Air Intelligence Agency,” Venti explained. “Upon the death of General Houser, Patrick assumes command of Air Intelligence Agency—”
“—and he also becomes the deputy commander in charge of intelligence of several units and agencies, including Air Combat Command, Space Command, the Air Force, and U.S. Strategic Command, and even reports to the National Security Council, the Joint Chiefs, and the White House.”
“Not unless
“As commander of Air Intelligence Agency, General McLanahan is an ex officio deputy commander of Eighth Air Force, in charge of intelligence operations,” Venti went on. “And since there was no vice commander, the senior ranking deputy commander takes charge.”
“McLanahan.”
“Yes, sir. And as commander of Eighth Air Force, McLanahan also becomes a deputy commander in charge of bomber forces for U.S. Strategic Command.”
“Wait a minute — are you saying that McLanahan is going to advise the STRATCOM commander on the bomber force — or what’s left of it?” Admiral Andover asked. “With all due respect, sir, you can’t allow that to happen. No one in the Navy trusts McLanahan. Sir, McLanahan is the
Goff was thunderstruck — but not for long. He thought for a moment, then waved a hand at Andover. “I don’t trust him either, Admiral. But he saw the signs and called this conflict a long time ago, and he was frighteningly accurate.” He paused, then turned to General Venti. “Dick, you know I can make all this hocus-pocus chain-of- command shit go away like
“Technically, McLanahan should take command because of his rank, but General Zoltrane does have more command and headquarters experience than McLanahan, and I think he knows the force better,” Venti admitted. “Charlie Zoltrane would definitely be the better choice. We’re at war here, sir — we need someone with true command experience to take charge of the strategic nuclear air fleet.”
Goff thought for a moment, then nodded. “I agree. Dick, direct General Kuzner to order Zoltrane to take command of Eighth Air Force, and have him report to us via secure video teleconference as soon as possible,” Goff ordered. “He’ll have to reorganize his staff and line units on the fly. Then have Kuzner direct Colonel Griffin to take command of Air Intelligence Agency, and have him prepare to brief the leadership by video teleconference.”
“Sir, I have a way to downgrade or perhaps even effectively neutralize Russia’s strategic nuclear forces that might threaten North America,” McLanahan interjected. Robert Goff paused and swallowed, but he was going to repeat his order to upchannel his plan through the proper chain of command, when McLanahan added, “I can set it in motion in less than thirty-six hours — and I can do it without using nuclear weapons.”
“I’m going to be perfectly honest with you, General McLanahan: No one, including myself, trusts you,” Robert Goff said seriously, ignoring McLanahan’s words. “You have certainly set a record for how many times a line officer can be busted, driven out of office, demoted, and charged with insubordination, refusing to follow orders, and conduct unbecoming. I think you have even managed at your young age to eclipse Bradley James Elliott as the biggest uniformed pain in the ass in U.S. history.”
“Sir, I’m not asking for a leadership position — let Zoltrane and Griffin keep on doing what they know best,” Patrick said. “But put me back in the field where I belong — here, in charge of the Air Battle Force.”
“Why should I do that, General?” Goff asked.
“Sir, neither General Zoltrane nor the two surviving bomb-wing commanders have any experience with the Megafortresses based out here at Battle Mountain. Generals Furness, Luger, and myself, along with Colonels Mace
