Plan of Attack

What do you say?”

Patrick looked at Maureen, took a deep breath, and said, “I’ll do it, Mr. President.”

“I knew you would. Meeting tomorrow at ten-thirty in the Oval Office — you know the way. Be ready with your plan of action. I want to hit the press with the plan in time for tomorrow’s prime-time news. Thanks, my friend. Good to be working with you again.” And he hung up.

Patrick replaced the phone on its hook. Maureen looked at him closely — and her heart leaped again. He had that faraway gaze once more — but this time there was fire in those blue eyes. He was no longer looking back into the dead eyes of his friends or scenes of blackened devastation; he was staring into the future, and she could see the excitement lighting up his face.

Maybe someday, she thought, I’ll light up his face like that. It was too soon to know if she would ever get that chance, but at least perhaps he was going to be around long enough for her to try.

“Got some phone calls to make, General?” she asked.

“Yes,” Patrick replied. He reached over to her face, pulled her gently to him, and kissed her lips. “Just take a minute.” He then spoke, “McLanahan to Luger.”

Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base, Nevada

That same time

Go ahead, Muck,” David Luger responded. He was sitting in the superviser of flying’s radio truck, out at the approach end of Battle Mountain’s twelve-thousand-foot-long runway. His driver’s-side window was open slightly, enough for the interior not to fog up and so he could raise a pair of binoculars to his eyes occasionally.

The parking apron and taxiways on the isolated base in north-central Nevada were beehives of activity. Along with the few surviving EB-52 Megafortresses, EB-1C Vampires, and the one remaining AL-52 Dragon aircraft, the two surviving B-2A Spirit stealth bombers had been relocated to the 111th Bombardment Wing at Battle Mountain to undergo modification as QB-2 unmanned bombers. In addition, the first QA-45C “Hunter” unmanned combat air vehicles — slightly smaller versions of the B-2 stealth bomber, capable of carrying ten thousand pounds of ordnance or sensors and attacking targets with pinpoint precision — had been deployed to Battle Mountain for operational tests. The surviving E-4B National Airborne Operations Center command posts, RC-135 reconnaissance planes, KC- 135R tankers, C-21 transports, and EC-135 intelligence-gathering aircraft that had been based at Offutt Air Force Base had also been reassigned to Battle Mountain. The Battle Management Center had been redesignated the new U.S. Strategic Command battle-staff area.

“I need you in Washington tonight,” Patrick said. “I need the strategic-transformation report we’ve been working on updated with the latest intelligence and industrial-research data.” He paused, then added, “And pack for an extended stay.”

“I’ll be there,” Dave said. He raised the binoculars and focused them on an aircraft preparing to turn base leg in the visual pattern. “Break. Luger to Furness.”

“Go ahead.”

“You guys just about done playing around? I’ve got a flight to catch to Washington.”

* * *

Aboard the EB-1C Vampire bomber in the visual pattern, Major General Rebecca Furness shook her head. “I figured as much,” she said. “I’m glad we got our flying in early. You need me to watch the store for a few days?”

“Might be for a lot longer than that, Rebecca.”

“Roger that,” she said. She turned to her mission commander and remarked on intercom, “Sixth or seventh time the boss has been called away. I have a feeling he’s not coming back this time.”

“I agree,” her mission commander, Brigadier General Daren Mace, replied. He still bore some of the scars on his face and extremities from frostbite after spending almost three days in a life raft in the Bering Sea, but he was now back on full flying status after his rehabilitation.

“I think we’re ready to take charge of this place, don’t you, General? I’ll run the Air Battle Force, and you take over the One-eleventh Bomb Wing. How does that sound?”

“I hate to admit it, Rebecca,” Daren said, “but I think I’m ready for a desk job. I love flying, but I think these high-tech birds are getting smarter than me. And I can’t keep up with these young sticks. They’re trying to tell me I’m too old for this shit, I think.”

“They’re trying to tell you to stay here, with me. We’ll run this place the way we think it should be run, and we’ll show these hot-shot young techie nerds how the war is supposed to be fought,” Rebecca said. “Then, in a few years, when they put us out to pasture, let’s build a ranch out here so we can raise a few head of cattle and some horses, take long dips in the hot tub together, and keep an eye on this place — from a distance. How does that sound to you?”

“Perfect,” Daren said, patting Rebecca’s gloved hand on the center-console control stick of their Vampire bomber, his eyes dancing. “Just perfect.”

About the Author

Dale Brown is the author of fourteen New York Times bestsellers including Flight of the Old Dog and, most recently, Air Battle Force. A former U.S. Air Force bombardier, he is an instrument-rated private pilot and can often be found flying his own plane across the United States. He lives near Lake Tahoe, Nevada.