“If it fails, I take full responsibility, and then I expect advice and assistance in formulating a new plan, with no lip and no attitude from anyone. Interservice rivalry is a reality, and I know I’ve got to deal with it, but I don’t want it to interfere with my wishes, is that clear?” Those last two sentences were aimed squarely at Balboa, who nodded slightly. “The Taiwan support operation will be executed as planned; the Navy will assume operational command. Anything else for me?”
But Jerrod Hale didn’t give anyone the opportunity to respond. He gave Freeman a silent urging not to ask anything else, then blasted Admiral Balboa with a warning glare that threatened to cause a sunburn. He hustled the President expertly out of reach and covered all sides from anyone else trying to get his attention as they made their way toward the stairs to the President’s private quarters.
National Security Advisor Philip Freeman led Balboa, Samson, Masters, and McLanahan down the hall past the Roosevelt Room, past the Vice President’s office, and into his office in the northwest corner of the West Wing; Brad Elliott was waiting for them inside, chatting with a Secret Service agent assigned to accompany him.
Admiral Balboa ignored everyone in the office that he outranked, which meant he planted himself right in front of Freeman’s desk. “Things are getting a little out of control here, Philip,” he said in a low voice. “The President looks like he’s under considerable pressure these days. How’s he doing? How’s he holding up?”
“The President is doing just fine, George,” Freeman said. “Let me give you a piece of friendly advice, my friend: stop leading with your mouth. You could find yourself out on the street if you keep on equating the President’s decisions with acts of terrorism. I think you had a chance to dissuade him from approving the bomber operation, but you blew it by copping this do-what-I-want-or-kiss-my-ass attitude. And I also suggest you don’t get on the bad side of Jerrod Hale. You talk with the President maybe an hour a day — but Jerrod Hale talks to him sixteen hours a day, maybe more. And as you know, no one is closer to the boss than Hale, not even his actress-du-jour Monica Scheherazade. So back off.”
Balboa waved that suggestion away like an irritating fly. “If the President wanted a yes-man as his Joint Chiefs chairman, he should’ve hired someone else.”
“You called the President a terrorist, George?” Brad Elliott remarked. “Shit, someone better check your medication.”
“Button it, Elliott,” Balboa retorted, turning and pointing a warning finger at the retired Air Force three-star general. He studied Elliott for a moment, his eyes turning from white-hot angry to disapproving and pitying. “You’re looking kinda thin, Brad. Maybe we need to schedule you for another flight physical, maybe check that fancy peg-leg of yours. I frankly don’t think you’d pass. Wonder what would happen to your project if you were grounded?”
“I’ll compare my blood pressure and prostate size with yours any day, you old fart. ”
“That will be the last of that shit I will ever hear from either one of you in my presence, or else the next sound you will hear is the door to your cell in Leavenworth slamming behind you,” Freeman angrily interjected. “No judge, no jury, no court-martial. Is that clear? If you don’t think I have the juice to do it, try me.” Balboa and Elliott simply glared at each other — Balboa with a dark scowl, Elliott with his sly, maddening grin. “Our mission is to keep an eye on the Chinese navy and back each other up if a shooting war starts. Anything that interferes with that mission is nothing but background noise, and I will squelch background noise immediately and permanently.
“George, you’re responsible for notifying Admiral Allen that the Megafortresses are en route and will be in his theater. He will have full operational command of the bombers…” Admiral Balboa smiled at that, unticlass="underline" “… through General Samson.”
“What?” Balboa asked. “What does Samson have to do with this mission? This is Pacific Command’s theater. COMNAVAIRPAC has the staff and experience to—”
“The boss wants Samson in the loop,” Freeman said. “No one knows bombers better than he does. General Samson is hereby temporarily assigned the billet as CINCPAC’s deputy, effective today. Make it happen, George.”
“And what about Elliott?” Balboa asked. “What are you going to make him — chief of naval operations?”
“Elliott is an employee of Sky Masters, Inc., a military retiree and a private citizen,” Philip Freeman said, ignoring Balboa’s sarcasm. “He has no rights or responsibilities except those given to him by Dr. Jon Masters and his company as defense contractors.”
“But if I know Elliott, he’ll be piloting one of these Megafortresses you’re sending to Pacific Command,” Balboa said. “He’ll have his finger on the trigger. Who gives him the order to cease fire? I ask that because Mr. Elliott here usually decides for himself when to open fire — it doesn’t matter to him what his superior officers or his commander in chief thinks.”
“Admiral, fair warning — button it,” Freeman said. “You get Admiral Allen up to speed on the mission, and let me worry about the civilians. Anything else for me?”
“I’d like to make an appointment with the President to talk about this so-called plan,” Balboa said sternly. “The sooner the better. There might still be time to convince him of what a stupid idea this is.”
“Of course, Admiral,” Freeman replied. “Just go over to Jerrod Hale’s office. I’m sure he’ll be glad to help you any way he can. Out the door, turn right, end of the hall, straight ahead.” He picked up his desk phone and added, “Shall I phone the chief of staff’s office and tell him to expect you?” Balboa scowled again, spun on a heel, and left the National Security Advisor’s office without another word, slamming the door behind him with just enough force to rattle a few pictures but not enough to inflame Freeman’s anger any more.
“Well, Brad, I expected the President to hit the roof when he heard you were involved in this project — it wasn’t so bad coming from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs,” Freeman said wryly. “We might still get an earful from the boss.” Despite all this, however, Freeman had to smile at seeing Brad Elliott again, looking pretty damned good regardless of his recent travails. He was a big pain in the butt, but, Katy bar the doors, he made things happenl To Patrick McLanahan, he asked, “So when can you get your flying circus in-theater, Patrick?”
“We can be on-station in twenty-four hours,” McLanahan replied. “Give us your choice of weapon load, and we’ll have it uploaded by the time we arrive back at Blytheville. Crew rest, briefing, preflight, and fourteen hours’ flight time.”
“Good,” Freeman said. “We won’t need you to go right on-station, so you’ll recover at Andersen. You can change your weapon load at Andersen if necessary?”
“We can refuel and rearm hot if you need it,” Jon Masters said. “Hot” reloading meant reloading weapons and fuel with engines running, trying to get the plane in the air and into the fight as quickly as possible. “We’ve got enough weapons available for two weeks of combat operations. First-line stuff.”
“Shouldn’t be necessary — but we’ll keep that capability in mind,” Freeman said. He nodded and smiled at McLanahan. “A whole wing of Megafortresses, huh? Pretty good idea. There’s no money in the budget for another wing of paper airplanes, let alone high-tech B-52s, but it’s a cute idea. Any idea who we might pick as commander of the first wing of EB-52 Megafortresses, Colonel McLanahan?” The young navigator- bombardier had no reply, just a smile. Freeman stood and shook hands with each of them. “Yeah, right. Get out of here, flyboys. Good luck and good hunting.”