Plan of Attack

pretty strong message, Patrick,” Griffin said, “because the Air Force doesn’t take away a general’s stars, like you’re some young captain that just got a DUI. If they did, guys like MacArthur and LeMay would’ve been buck sergeants in no time. General officers either get promoted or they retire, either voluntarily or involuntarily — they don’t get demoted.” He couldn’t help but stare, bug-eyed, at the ribbons on Patrick’s chest, especially the Air Force Cross — the highest award given to an Air Force officer besides the Medal of Honor — and the Silver Star. “But whoever’s testing you or pushing on you,” he went on, dragging his attention back to his new commanding officer, “it’s their loss and my gain. But we didn’t expect you for another month at least.”

“I decided to show up early and meet everyone,” Patrick said. “My son is with his aunt in Sacramento.”

“And your wife?”

“I’m a widower, Trevor.”

Griffin’s face fell. “Oh, shit…I’m sorry, sir,” he said sincerely. He averted his eyes apologetically, embarrassed that he hadn’t known this extremely important piece of information. “I received your personnel file, but I only glossed over it — as I said, I didn’t expect you for a few weeks.”

This uncomfortable pause gave Patrick a chance to look Trevor Griffin over. His compact frame only served to accentuate his powerful physique — he looked as if he had been power-lifting most of his life, and perhaps still did. Griffin’s short-sleeved casual uniform had few accoutrements — command jump wings under a senior weapons director’s badge — but Patrick saw his Class A uniform hanging on a coatrack behind the door, and it appeared as if Griffin had every ribbon and award an Air Force officer could have — and then some: Patrick noticed a Combat Infantry Badge and even a yellow-and-black RANGER tab.

“That’s okay, Trevor,” Patrick said. “I guess I’ve thrown a monkey wrench into your office by coming here early like this. I’m sorry.”

“We both have to stop saying ‘sorry’ to each other.”

Patrick smiled and nodded. Wishing to quickly change the subject, he nodded toward Griffin’s uniform blouse hanging behind the door. “I know of only one other Air Force officer that wears a Ranger tab.”

“I think there is only one other: Hal Briggs. I convinced him to go to Ranger school as a brand-new second lieutenant fresh out of Security Police school — he had so much energy I thought he’d drive us all crazy. I lost track of him over the years.”

“He’s a full bird colonel at my previous base in Battle Mountain, Nevada.”

“What’s he doing at Battle Mountain?”

“Hal commands a unit of high-tech, highly mobile ground forces that direct unmanned close-air-support and reconnaissance aircraft.”

“It must be under some very tight wraps for us here at AIA not to hear about it,” Griffin said. His eyes sparkled in excitement even more. “Sounds very cool, Patrick. I want to learn more about it.”

“Sure. You’d fit right in, I think — you look like you’re either an Olympic gymnast or you’re from the special- ops community.”

“I was in special ops before the Air Force really had them,” Griffin said. “I was an Army Ranger and fought in Grenada, then decided I wanted to join the Air Force and be an officer — I thought I was done crawling and bleeding in the mud. I was in Security Police for a while — that’s where I met Hal Briggs — but I couldn’t leave the special-ops career field and became a combat air controller.

“I directed a combat-controller wing in Desert Storm — my guys set up a half-dozen forward-resupply points and landing strips inside Iraq, including three that we set up in the western side of the country weeks before the air war started. I had one squad that actually put a laser beam on Saddam Hussein’s getaway vehicle — he was hightailing it to Jordan — but we couldn’t get a shooter in to launch on him fast enough.

“After Desert Storm I attended Air War College, was assigned to U.S. Special Operations Command headquarters at MacDill, then married a great woman that had two small kids; I adopted hers, and we had one of our own. It was then, after realizing I was almost forty with three young kids, that I decided to settle down. I joined the intelligence career track, and except for service schools and one year at the Pentagon, I’ve been either at Kelly Field or here at Lackland. I like to think I contribute the ground-pounder’s perspective to the high-tech Air Force.”

“The Air Battle Force is designed to have shooters deploy with ground forces at all times,” Patrick said. “We use unmanned long-range bombers to launch unmanned armed attack vehicles that can be directed via datalink by the ground forces.”

“We definitely need to talk and compare notes, sir,” Griffin said enthusiastically. “If you can forgive all my ignorance-based faux pas until I’m up to speed, I assure you again that I’m thrilled that you’re coming here and working with our wing.”

“Thanks.”

Griffin looked at McLanahan carefully for a moment, then said, “If you’d allow me to make an observation, sir?”

“Go for it.”

Griffin’s smile dimmed a bit. “I’d say you’re here early to check out this agency…to decide whether you want to stay in the Air Force or not.”

Patrick looked at Griffin sternly, as if he were ready to challenge him on his observation — but moments later he glanced away, then nodded. “I hoped it wouldn’t be that obvious,” he said.

“Like I said, very few general officers get demoted,” Griffin said. “Maybe they want to see what you’re made of, what your real goals are. The rumors are still hot and heavy that you’re being considered for the post of national security adviser if the president wins reelection — or maybe even to help Thorn win reelection. If you got kicked out of the Air Force, or were even forced to resign, it might look bad for the president to consider bringing you on. Maybe they want to see whether you’d stick it out or not, show some loyalty.”

“Trevor, I assure you, I’m not going to be national security adviser,” Patrick said.

“Hey, I didn’t make up the rumors — I’m just helping propagate them,” Griffin said, his energetic and engaging smile returning. “Do you have any intel background?”

“No,” Patrick replied. “Bombers, engineering, research and development. The units I flew with had their own organic intel capabilities — we rarely called on outside intel sources.”

Griffin grinned again, getting more and more intrigued by the minute. “The Air Battle Force operated with its own intel sources? Sounds cooler all the time, Patrick.” Griffin looked at Patrick carefully. “Hold on…that attack on the Russians in Turkmenistan a few weeks ago. The Russians claim an American B-1 bomber attacked an unarmed observer team being sent into Mary.”

“It wasn’t an ‘unarmed observer team’—it was a mobile SA-12 site, a full brigade, sitting twenty miles inside the cease-fire zone.”

“I knew it,” Griffin said. “We caught a glimpse of it here, requested some ground support — send some special-ops guys to go in and take a look — but that was vetoed by General Houser. Your own intel sources identified it as an SA-12?”

“We were lucky and caught one squeak from its search radar,” Patrick explained. “We couldn’t get it to turn the radar back on — until we made like we were going to attack it.”

“Well, we certainly didn’t think of using our air-intel assets as decoys to incite the Russians to attack us,” Griffin admitted, “but if it worked, I won’t knock it. The SA-12 attacked?”

“Shot down an unmanned B-1 bomber.”

“An unmanned B-1 bomber? We have them?” Patrick nodded. “Cool!” breathed Griffin. “Now I understand why you’d use your own plane as a decoy. I assume your unmanned bomber launched a few of those armed drones and made mincemeat of that SA-12 site just before it got shot down, huh?”

“Exactly.”

“Shit-hot!” Griffin exclaimed. “Everyone was starting to believe what the world press and the Russians were saying — that one of our guys attacked without provocation — and then when we heard that an Air Force general got canned for the attack, we thought maybe it was the truth. I knew the Russians were lying through their teeth. No surprise there, huh?” The pride was evident in Griffin’s face — he was beside himself with awe that Patrick McLanahan was sitting in front of him. “But I thought we were only supposed to be surveilling Turkmenistan, not patrolling with attack drones.”

“My rules of engagement were unclear on that point,” Patrick said uneasily, “so I erred on the side of caution and loaded my bombers up with SEAD weapons.”