“Congratulations, Patrick,” he said in a low voice. “Thank God Wendy is doing all right.”
“Yeah, well, I have to be going.” Joe put a big hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, McLanahan, I’m trying to apologize.”
“Colonel, it’s not so bad for an ex-Marine. Okay?”
“Okay. All even.”
There was one spot in the thousand-square-mile Dreamland complex not classified top-secret or restricted access, although it was one of the most difficult places to get in to visit. Surrounded by a simple picket fence and a grove of trees, a green oasis in the middle of miles of desert and rocks, was a cemetery dedicated to the most extraordinary aircrewmen and support personnel in the world.
The cemetery, belonging to the men and women who died in the service of the top-secret weapons and aircraft laboratory in the high desert of southern Nevada, had seen a lot of use in the past few days. The services for the dead security guards and the crew of the Old Dog had already taken place here; their grave sites, only a few yards away, still bore fresh flowers. Granite walls had been erected near the plots, telling who these men and women were and how they died; the walls were concealed by black plastic covers because the incident was still classified and under investigation. Now three more burial places and another granite wall, covered with secretive black as well, had been prepared for Alan Carmichael, Raymond Butler and Roland Powell.
No matter how much he prepared, the sound of the shots from the seven rifles over the graves of his friends stung McLanahan right to the heart. The echoes of the twenty-one shots reverberated off the surrounding Groom Mountains, seemingly rolling off the hills and echoing on forever.
As taps were played by a lone bugler, McLanahan heard the roar of jet engines passing overhead. At first he had no desire to watch the planes — the realization that he would never see these three men again had hit him with full force. They were such an important part of his life that their loss made him feel weak, completely drained. Then he looked across to the grave site, and the further realization of the deaths of Ormack, Pereira and the other members of the Old Dog’s crew made it especially hard. There seemed to be no future beyond this place … his future seemed to be lying at his feet …
He felt a hand on his shoulder, turned and saw Brad Elliott. Standing on one side of Elliott was Deborah O’Day, and on his other side was Hal Briggs. Elliott motioned skyward with his eyes, and McLanahan looked up and saw the astonishing formation passing overhead.
The sky seemed to be filled with planes. The lead formation was composed of some of the most high-tech machines in the world, led by a B-52 Megafortress. The formation also had “flying-wing” B-2 stealth bombers, a B-1 Excalibur bomber, one of the new stretched FB-111 bombers and a large aircraft that looked a lot like a smaller version of the B-1, with its wings pulled back to its fully swept high-speed setting. The second formation was composed of five F-15F fighter-bombers, and it was from this formation where one aircraft, J.C.’s Cheetah — he recognized it immediately, its right vertical stabilizer was still missing — peeled off from the rest to form the “missing man” formation.
Among the onlookers was a man who had had more than a little to do with this ceremony. Ken James … Maraldov. He had been allowed, over protests of some members of HAWC, to attend the service, handcuffed and surrounded by two security guards. Eventually he was taken away by the security agents.
Elliott and McLanahan turned back toward the three grave sites as the ceremony ended and the crowd dispersed. “I feel like everything’s come to an end here, General.”
“Not quite.” Elliott motioned skyward again, and McLanahan followed his lead. The unusual B-1 lookalike had moved its wings up from its full aft-sweep position to a forward-swept position like the XF-29 fighter’s high-maneuverability wings. The amazing hybrid plane then pulled up out of the formation, lit its twin afterburners with a rolling boom and did a spectacular climbing roll, accelerating quickly out of sight.
“The new XFB-5 Tracer,” Elliott said in a low voice. “First generation, designed for strategic escort-duties like the Megafortress. We combined the technology of the F-29 and the B-1 and came up with a plane that’s twice as good as the sum of its parts. It’s as fast and agile as a fighter, but with almost the same payload and power as a supersonic bomber.”
The officer in charge of the ceremony handed the folded American flags to Secretary of the Air Force Wilbur Curtis, who in turn handed them to the widows and families. Elliott said, “Meet me in my office tomorrow afternoon, three o’clock,” and walked off with Deborah O’Day and Briggs to join Curtis and pay his respects to the families.
The next day McLanahan walked into Elliott’s office in the heart of the HAWC complex. Elliott, O’Day, Preston and Briggs all had snifters of brandy, and Hal offered one to McLanahan.
“To our friends,” Elliott said, raising the glass. He took a sip, then set the snifter down on his desk. “I never realized how young Powell was. His parents still look like college graduates.”
“Powell was the one who made it happen,” McLanahan said. “He gave me the key to beating DreamStar … no matter how advanced a system is, human unpredictability and flexibility can overcome it. Funny, the very thing that made DreamStar supposedly unbeatable actually led to its defeat — its single-minded command to attack meant it didn’t know what retreat or caution were. J.C. had the intelligence and insight to discover that.”
“Well, he gave you the key just in time,” Elliott said. He turned to O’Day. “It was very … generous of you also to recommend that James be allowed to attend the ceremony.”
“Very,” Briggs said.
McLanahan said nothing. His sentiments were obvious. This was his buddy.
“My lieutenant says Maraklov wants to make a deal — asylum for information,” Briggs said. “I’m going to talk with him. Frankly, I’d just as soon turn his butt over to the Russian government. I’m sure they’d show him a good time.”
“I have some bad news, people,” Elliott said. “As you know, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the CIA, and the Pentagon are all conducting investigations at HAWC. I don’t know what the future of the Center will be. But we do know some of the first casualties. As expected, Hal and I have been relieved of our assignments, effective at the end of the year.”
“That’s lousy,” McLanahan said. “Neither of you deserve it—”
“There will be another casualty.”. He looked at McLanahan. “Sorry, Patrick. I think the housecleaning will be total.” McLanahan looked neither shocked nor even surprised. “If anyone didn’t deserve this, it’s you. Your actions during this whole business have been above and beyond.”
“So were J.C.’s. So were General Ormack’s. Maybe I deserve what I got — they sure as hell didn’t.”
“It’s not the end, though,” Elliott said. He turned to Deborah O’Day, who took another sip of brandy and got to her feet.
“No, it is not the end. The fact is, in this room right now is the heart of an entirely new outfit. We have groups that can specialize in many different types of operations, all working directly for the President, and all supervised to various degrees by Congress. This group, including Marcia Preston, will carry on with the type of work you’ve been doing for the past few years, except now you’ll be doing it directly and accountably for the White House.”
She picked up her brandy snifter. “Of course, all of this might come to a crashing halt if Lloyd Taylor doesn’t get reelected. But that’s not up to us.” She held up her glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, all those here present interested in working more long hours for low pay and probably lower recognition, but having the absolute time of their lives, signify by saying ‘aye.’ “