Marines? SAS? Green Berets? The CIA?”
“What in hell difference does it make, McLanahan?” Freeman retorted, silently very impressed with this civilian’s accurate analysis. “The GCC attacked hostile offensive weapon systems-“
“You didn’t answer my question, General. Who was it?”
“You don’t have a need to know,” Freeman shot back. “Why am I arguing about this with you, McLanahan? You of all people, you and your mentor Brad Elliott, Misters Damn-the-Torpedoes, Praise God and Pass-the-Ammunition. The GCC destroyed what they believed was a hostile force on disputed territory.”
“Instead of negotiating!” McLanahan said. “General, they performed a terrorist action! They weren’t defending themselves, they attacked a foreign base without warning or without a declaration of war. That’s an act of terrorism.”
“That ‘foreign base’ was getting ready to attack GCC ships and American-flagged tankers transiting the Gulf.”
“Really, General? When?” McLanahan interjected. “Iran has had those missiles on that island for years and hasn’t fired one missile except for live-fire exercises. But the GCC struck first, and I think the U.S. helped them.”
“You’re guessing.”
“It’s not a big stretch of the imagination, sir,” McLanahan said. “It’s a logical assumption. The GCC might have started this whole conflict because they got exasperated or impatient about the negotiations over Abu Musa and the Tumbs.”
“And now the President has ordered the Abraham Lincoln carrier group to stay out of the Persian Gulf for the time being,” Freeman pointed out, “which is making many of our Middle East allies nervous—which means Iran is already winning the war that always occurs before the shooting starts, the psychological war.”
McLanahan paused at that—he knew Freeman was right.
“I’m sending in ISA and the team you worked with, Patrick, Madcap Magician, to keep an eye on iran’s carrier battle group and other Iranian military assets,” Freeman went on. “Every suspected Iranian nuclear, chemical, or biological warfare base or storage dump will have an ISA agent nearby; every Iranian bomber, fighter, rocket, or missile base capable of striking the Lincoln battle group or reaching targets in Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Kuwait, or Israel will have an agent watching it. If the Iranians try to make a move, and one of those special bases is involved, I want to know about it, and I’ll recommend that the President order that base put out of commission.
“Now, both of you know the chances of a Navy A-6 or a large flight of Tomahawk cruise missiles reaching an isolated Iranian military base are pretty slim—and you know the B-2A is the only platform that can make it. Loaded with the right mix of anti-air defense and Disruptor-type weapons, we can accomplish the mission with a very low probability of collateral damage or risk to the American crews involved.”
Freeman paused as he noticed Patrick’s surprised expression, then smiled at the former bombardier. “Ah, I see the name “Disruptor’ got your attention. C’mon, Colonel, you didn’t think all of Brad Elliott’s little experiments could be kept secret forever, did you? Especially not the Disruptor series.”
Wendy looked confused, which pleased Freeman—so Patrick McLanahan could keep a secret, even from his wife, who had once held as high a security clearance as he. To Wendy, Freeman added, “General Elliott was very involved in research and development of non-lethal weapons, which he called Disruptors. Elliott and HAWC became proficient enough in killing from very long range with very high precision—toward the end, he began to experiment in ways to Simply disrupt, damage, or discombobulate something from long range and with high precision. The Disruptors are nonlethal air weapons, designed to confuse, frighten, interrupt, or intimidate the enemy without killing or destroying anything. We used some of these type weapons in the Persian Gulf War, but some of the new gadgets Elliott concocted put those to shame, “When Dreamland was closed, we turned some of Elliott’s work over to the Air Force Air Weapons folks at Eglin, but most we turned over to Sky Masters. They have some prototypes ready for testing.” Freeman turned again to Patrick, the same mischievous smile on his face. “All we need is a seasoned B-2A crew member or two to test and train and get ready to fly. Interested, Patrick?”
“I can’t fly a B-2A by myself,” Patrick said. “You’ll need several crews.”
“One for now,” Freeman said. “We may recruit more later.”
Patrick hesitated, looked at Wendy, then shook his head. “Sorry, Sir, I’m still not interested,” he said resolutely.
“if you agree to begin, you’ll be fully compensated by the National Security Agency,” Freeman said. “You’ll receive pay and benefits equivalent to a GS-19, the equivalent to an O-6 in the military, whether or not you fly a mission. You’ll be relocated completely without charge, given dependent and survivor privileges, plus extra personal-support services granted to senior NSA members.” He paused for a moment, looking at the floor, then said, “I know you’ve been thinking about selling the tavern. We could assist with that, or assist in helping you keep it.”
“How in hell did you find out about …?” But Patrick already knew the answer—it was easy for anyone, not to mention the National Security Agency, to find out those things.
“In fact, one such opportunity has already presented itself,” Freeman said. “One cover we were considering using was Sky Masters, Inc. They’re a well-known defense contractor, downsized like all contractors but still viable. They’re relocating some of their offices and R-and-D facilities to San Diego, and they have a new rocket test facility on unused government land near Tonopah.
We even know that the Top Gun bar on the waterfront in San Diego is for sale—if you wanted to stay in the tavern business, that would be your opportunity. I know Dr. Masters has already given you several job offers. It may be time to accept one. You can of course accept his generous pay and benefits package as well as NSA’S. The climate change might be of some benefit to you as well, Wendy.”
“Is that your medical opinion, General?” Patrick snapped. “If I wanted to work for Masters, I’d have accepted his offers. I didn’t because I’m not interested in working for a company that does business with the same government that uses its best people, then discards them like so much dirty tissue paper. That goes for your offer, too. The money and the climate don’t concern me as much as the way you treat—or should I say, mistreat—those who believe in what they do.”
“I’ve told you what your mission is, Patrick,” Freeman said.
“Your mission is to protect your fellow ISA agents. If the job calls for a military response, we’ll send in the military, but we’re going to send in ISA and other NSA assets before the military, just as we did before you went in as a HAWC bombardier, so we can gather as much intelligence information as possible.
I’m just looking for a way to protect those men and women who will risk their lives to avert war.”
“You haven’t convinced me that we won’t be called on as the President’s private little gang of thugs and assassins,” Patrick said warily.