You tell me what’s going on, and then I’ll think about helping you.”
McLanahan noticed General Samson’s satisfied smile, as if he were saying, “I told you he wouldn’t take kindly to threats, boy.”
“General Samson said that approach wouldn’t fly,” McLanahan said, “which is why I decided not to take the tough-guy approach with you.”
“You’re smarter than you look, McLanahan …
“So I’ll just say this, Jamieson.” McLanahan stepped closer to Tiger Jamieson and regarded him with an amused stare. “You will agree to accompany me on this mission and cooperate, or … I’ll get someone else.”
“You’ll what?” Jamieson was as surprised as if he’d just kissed him on the lips. “You can’t do that …” Jamieson instantly decided it was a bluff. “Yeah, right, don’t make me puke, McLanahan,” Jamieson said acidly. He noticed the shit-eating grin on McLanahan’s face, then turned to Samson—the big three-star was not smiling. “You’re crazy, McLanahan,” Jamieson sputtered nervously. “Who else are you going to get?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll find someone.”
“Hey, buster, I trained each and every B-2A crewdog on the entire planet,” Jamieson said, jabbing a thumb into his own chest to drive the point home, then jabbing a finger at McLanahan, “except maybe you, and I’m not totally convinced you’re fully qualified.
I’ve forgotten more about the Beak than everyone else put together knows. You can’t get no one better because there aren’t nobody better.”
“I’ll get Ed Carlisle,” McLanahan said calmly. “He’s the 715th Bomb Squadron commander, young, lots of hours, bright guy, and the 715th hasn’t stood up yet.”
“Carlisle? ‘Boondock’ Carlisle, the only guy ever to get, lost while flying a B-2A bomber?” Jamieson exclaimed. “The guy’s got fifty million dollars’ worth of navigation gear sitting in front of him, and he still managed to fly out of the RED FLAG range during an exercise—he was nearly in Los Angeles before he figured out where he was. The guy’s a former Navy pilot, for God’s sake!”
“He’s also written the book on B-2A combat tactics,” McLanahan repeated, standing up and packing up his briefcase. “He’s a forward thinker, an innovator, a planner—you’re just a throttle jockey. The bottom line, Jamieson, is this: you’re either in with me, or you’re out. We’re going to take aerial strike warfare into the next century, today, and if you’re not with me, you’ll be left behind. So what’s it going to be?”
“Don’t fuck with me, McLanahan,” Jamieson said angrily. He realized that McLanahan was serious—he was not going to select him if he didn’t cooperate! “You’re obviously not thinking about the success or failure of your project—you’re only out to throw your weight around. This is some kind of damned power trip for you …
“I don’t play games, Colonel,” McLanahan warned. “I’ve been given a job to do, and I’m doing it. I’m wasting my time talking to you.”
“I think you’re both two prima donnas who’re only out to see who can pee the farthest, and I’m sick of it. Button it, both of you,” General Samson said angrily, aiming a huge finger at both McLanahan and Jamieson. “McLanahan, I agreed to backstop this project because of one thing: you got “the best players working for you, dedicated guys who won’t let America down no matter how bad the bureaucrats, politicians, and spooks want to screw things up. Now Carlisle is damned good, but he’s more valuable to me as a staff officer ‘and squadron commander-“
“Wait a minute, General,” Jamieson interjected, “where does that leave me?”
“I said button it, Jamieson!” Samson shouted. “Tiger, you’re a damned fine officer and a great pilot—but you are not the last word in strategic aerial strike warfare. This is not a beauty contest, Jamieson, this is serious business, and I want it done right or not at all.
“Now, McLanahan has proven to me that he can fly the Beak without breaking it, so I’m authorizing the refit of Air Vehicle 011 and the transfer to McLanahan and his Intelligence Support Agency group. In my mind, there’s only one B-2A crew member who I trust to do this mission, and it’s Tony Jamieson. There’s no alternative, no option—it’s you two, or nobody. And the choice is still voluntary—Colonel Jamieson can accept or reject the offer, with no official consequences.” He turned to Jamieson.
“Talk to me, Tiger. Now’s your chance to talk—do it.”
“This is total bullshit, sir,” Jamieson said angrily. “Since when do we turn tricks for a bunch of spies? If they want a target taken out, why don’t they just crank out a warning order and an air tasking order? We’ll blow up anything they want. We don’t need McLanahan. I’ve got the best aviators in the world waiting right now to go to war, especially with Iran. Just say the word, and we’re locked and loaded.”
“Colonel, they’ve got a ship that carries precision-guided weapons, anti-radar missiles, and reconnaissance gear that even I’ve never heard of,” Samson said. “How long would it take you to train a crew to use the equipment?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Jamieson replied testily. “Maybe a week, maybe a month—maybe it’s so automated that it doesn’t require any special training, just turn it on and watch it work. Make McLanahan our tech rep or our civilian instructor—but don’t make him part of the flight crew.”
“Colonel, you know the answer as well as I do, and that aren’t it,” Samson said, turning toward Jamieson and impaling him with the most evil, deadliest stare he had ever seen. “Face it—this wing is not operational. Your crews and your planes are at least a year, probably two, from going into combat. McLanahan and this Future Flight is the best we’ve got, and I want you part of it.”
Jamieson still didn’t like it, still resented the break from his long-established and trusted chain of command. But it was the opportunity of a lifetime. “Who would I report to?” m
“Me,” McLanahan replied. “The plane, the weapons, the personnel—I own them all, as of right now.”
“But you’re a civilian,” Jamieson protested, though with less vehemence than before. “I don’t report to a damned civilian.”
“My boss is General Griffith; he reports directly to Philip Freeman, in regards to this mission,” McLanahan added. “And Freeman reports to the President.”
Jamieson still had not finally agreed, but McLanahan knew he had his man. He turned away and nodded at General Samson. “Thank you for your help, sir. I’ll report to you and General Wright on the progress of the work on AV-011 at our noon briefing. Colonel Jamieson, you’ve got sixty minutes to clear your desk; then we meet back here at eleven hundred hours for an overview on the mods to tail number AV-01 1. Bring your tech orders and checklists; we’ll be updating them with lots of new stuff.” To Samson, he asked, “Anything more for me, sir?”
“Just one more thing, Patrick,” Samson said. “I’ve been fighting for exactly this kind of role for our strategic bomber force for years. I never expected a group like the Intelligence Support Agency to be the one sponsoring my program, but it’s being done, and that’s the important thing. But I’ve built a career out of seeing that this kind of mission succeeds, and I’ll still be fighting even though it’s out of my hands once you sign for the plane. This will not turn into another Iran-Contra debacle, or—and I don’t mean this personally—another Brad Elliott operation.”
“I do take that personally, General,” McLanahan said, his fiery blue eyes narrowing in clear, immediate anger. “Brad Elliott is a good friend of mine.”