Samson threw his gear into the back of the staff car, shot a salute and a “Sorry, guys” to his crew, and hopped into the front seat. Time to get back to the real world …
“Eighth Air Force, General Samson up.”
“Earthmover, Steve Shaw here,” came the reply. General Steve Shaw, Samson’s boss, was the commander of U.S. Air Force’s Air Combat Command, the man in charge of training and equipping all of the Air Force’s nine hundred bombers, fighters, attack, reconnaissance, and battlefield support aircraft and the ‘400,000 men and women who operated and maintained them. “Pack your bags, you’re going TDY.”
Samson, sitting at the commander’s desk of the Battle Staff Room at the Eighth Air Force command post, replied immediately, “Yes, sir. I’m ready right now. I’ve got a T-38 warmed up for me, in fact.”
“We’ve got a C-20 with some crews and equipment that’ll pick you up out there at Barksdale for a briefing at Whiteman.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll be ready,” Samson said excitedly. Whiteman Air Force Base, near Knob Noster, Missouri, was the home of the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber. Although they had been used in very minor roles in other conflicts, the B-2A bombers weren’t scheduled to go fully operational until later on in 1997. What in hell was going on? “Anything else you can tell me, sir?”
“The Iranians look like they’re going to try to close off the Persian Gulf,” Shaw said. “NSA wants a special task force to put together a quick-response team to hit targets in Iran if the balloon goes up—and the President wants bombers.”
“Yes, sir,” Samson said. “I’m ready to do it. Who’s heading this task force?”
“I don’t know,” was Shaw’s cryptic response. “Top secret, NSA stuff. You’ll get the initial briefing materials on the plane.”
“I understand. I’m ready to go, sir,” Samson said.
“Good luck, Earthmover,” Shaw said. “Whoever’s leading this task force, I know they’re getting the best in the business. When it’s over, come on out to Langley and let me know how it went.”
“You got it, sir,” Samson replied. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Eighth Air Force, out.”
There were a million things running through Terrill Samson’s mind the second he hung up that phone. He should call his wife, tell her he’d be out of town (shit, he thought, what a freakin’ understatement!); he should notify his vice commander, notify the wing commanders, notify his staff, notify “Captain Ellis!”
“Sir?” replied the senior controller on duty at the command post.
Samson was heading to the door as he spoke: “Tell General Andleman I’m on my way to Whiteman and that he’s minding the store. Tell base ops to notify me immediately when the C-20 calls Shreveport Approach inbound for landing. And tell my wife …” He paused, thinking about what he was about to do and what it might mean.
“Tell her I’ll talk to her tonight. I will talk to her tonight.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA 16 APRIL 1997, 2055 HOURS LOCAL
The new waitress quit after only one day—something about how life was too short to work for a “stressed-out bulldog hyped on speed,” or some such comment like that—so the owner of the little tavern on the Sacramento River near Old Sacramento had to fill in waiting tables himself.
It had been many years since he had had to take drink orders.
Still dressed in a long-sleeve white shirt, colorful “power tie,” Dockers slacks, and black Reeboks, he zipped from bar to tables to kitchen and back, memorizing drink and appetizer orders while wiping tables and setting up place settings, all the while remembering that he had to smile, say a pleasant word, and stay as cheerful as he could. The original owner had bought the bar after his retirement from the Sacramento Police Department more than fifteen years earlier, and he had never seemed cheerful or pleasant. Despite this—or possibly because of it—McLanahan’s Pub, only seven blocks from police headquarters, had been one of the most popular cop bars in town. Police, sheriff’s deputies, even federal agents working downtown in California’s capital had regularly shuttled between Gillooly’s, the Pine Cove, and McLanahan’s after duty hours. They’d always gotten good advice from a seasoned veteran sergeant, a lot of stories, and a little cajoling and friendly criticism—but never cheerfulness.
The new owner of McLanahan’s wasn’t a cop, and although his younger brother was slated to start the police academy soon and all of the police photos and memorabilia were still on the walls of the place, it wasn’t the same popular cop hangout it had been years ago. Because the clientele was more touristy and more sophisticated these days, McLanahan’s had changed as welclass="underline" they served selections of Napa Valley chardonnays and specialty espresso coffee drinks as well as cold beer and bourbon. Tourists who ordered cafe mochas and veggie appetizers expected cool, suave Tom Cruise-look-alike bartenders and cheerful, trim-and-tan California-cutie servers, not loud, adrenaline-pumped cops lining the bars being served by gruff, overworked owners.
The second-generation owner, Patrick McLanahan, indeed looked as if he might be more at home in a squad car or on motorcycle patrol than in a bar. Patrick was a bit less than average height, but his broad shoulders, thick forearms and neck, and deep chest made him look much shorter. If the blond-haired, blue-eyed man smiled, which was rare these days, one might almost call him disarming, like a big, cuddly teddy bear. But no one remembered the last time their forty-year-old boss had smiled for real, and now it was easy to see a lot of turmoil going on behind those shining blue eyes.
It was Monday night, and the crowd was small and quiet. A few regulars at the bar, a few cops still hanging around (although shift change was a couple of hours ago), a few strangers getting out of the off-and-on drizzle outside. Quite a contrast from table to table. Three guys and a woman, sitting at different tables, reading the paper or watching the news on TV, all drinking coffee; Patrick guessed they were U.S. Marshals or Secret Service, still on duty or on call. A few San Jose Sharks fans were still here, celebrating the hockey team’s latest victory at home over the Stanley Cup champions, the Buffalo Sabres, that they had watched on the big-screen TV here at the bar. One big black guy was by himself in a booth in the corner, still wearing his dark overcoat, watching TV as well—he looked a little rumpled and overburdened, maybe a mid-level manager for the state who had just had an argument with his wife, or a local businessman worrying about the state of Sacramento’s economy now that all of the area’s military bases had been closed down. He paid for his Samuel Adams with a fifty-dollar bill. His only interaction with Patrick was when he asked him to switch the TV over the bar to CNN, and since there was nothing on ESPN, he complied.
In between serving drinks and wiping tables, Patrick made lots of calls to other employees, asking for help, and after an hour and a half he finally got someone to come in from eleven to closing, so he had a bit more time to circulate and do owner things rather than serve tables. He finally escaped to his office and plopped down in a spare chair beside the woman seated at his desk, who was punching numbers into a computer with the speed and ease of someone very familiar with using a keyboard. “Damn, if I ever see another plate of potato skins or another glass of white wine, it’ll be too soon. My feet are killing me.”
Patrick’s wife, Wendy, turned and smiled at her husband, and Patrick automatically extended his hand to her and they held hands as they talked. Wendy was in her mid-thirties, with short strawberry blond hair and bright green eyes. Bandages still covered the left side of her neck and her right arm, and her breathing was noticeably labored, but her smile could still melt Patrick’s heart like nothing else. Wendy and Patrick were still newlyweds, having married late last year, but an entire lifetime’s worth of events had interrupted their new life together, and they spoke and treated each other as lifelong mates. “Think about that the next time you chop on a server because she’s not going fast enough for your taste, hon,” Wendy said. She stifled another cough, and Patrick winced inside as he heard the delicate but raspy noise.