“How do you propose we ‘go after it’?” Hayes asked.
“We have to find a way to draw it into a fight.”
“How do we do that? Bomb a Russian air base hoping to hit it? Bomb Moscow until Sen’kov coughs it up to us?”
“President Sen’kov may not know anything about the plane,” Patrick said. “We know the plane was activated shortly after the death of Colonel Kazakov in Kosovo. We know that Kazakov’s son Pavel owns the factory that makes the plane. The stealth fighter was in storage until Kazakov came to see Fursenko at Zhukovsky. After that, the plane was launched and hasn’t been seen since — and at the same time, all these attacks in the Balkans have taken place.”
“I’m not following you, McLanahan,” Hayes said. “What makes you think the Russian government doesn’t know about the stealth fighter?”
“They could know about it, but not be in control of it,” Patrick said. “The stealth fighter at Metyor was never delivered to the Russian or Soviet air force. The only pilots ever to fly it worked for Metyor, not the air force.”
“Or this could be some elaborate fantasy of yours,” Muskoka said. “I don’t believe anyone — not the Russians, not Kazakov, no one — would be crazy enough to fly a stealth bomber all over eastern Europe and attack military and civilian targets without proper authorization from the highest levels in government. The political and military consequences would be enormous. He’d be playing with fire.”
Patrick looked directly at General Muskoka and said with a slight — Hayes would have said “evil”—grin: “I did it, sir.”
Muskoka looked angry enough to bite through the conference table. “And look what’s happening to you, McLanahan — you’re about to be shit-canned.”
“Sir, do you think a gangster like Pavel Kazakov is worried about being ‘shit-canned’?”
“I think you’d better worry about yourself McLanahan,” Muskoka said.
“That’s enough,” General Hayes said, after seeing that neither Muskoka nor McLanahan were going to back down from this argument. He stood and stepped away from the conference table toward the door to his office, motioning for Patrick to follow him. He then stepped toward him and in a low voice said, “You and your teams have done some good work, McLanahan, good stuff.”
“Sir, someone has got to do something about that stealth fighter,” Patrick maintained. “I know it’s the key to everything that’s happening in the Balkans right now.”
“We’ll deal with that when the time comes, Patrick,” Hayes said. “We’re dealing with you now.” Patrick looked deflated, disappointed that his efforts were all in vain. “I’m told you didn’t agree to put in your papers and punch out. Why?”
“Because I’ve still got a lot of work to do, sir,” Patrick said. “I’ve got a unit to train and a center to run, and there’s a Russian warplane out there trying to set Europe on fire while we twiddle our thumbs and toes and pretend it doesn’t matter to us anymore. I’m ready to get back to work.”
“That’s not going to happen, McLanahan,” Hayes said seriously. “SecDef and the JCS left the question about what to do with you up to the Air Force, and SecAF left it up to me. I’ve thought about it long and hard. You’ve done a lot of extraordinary things for the United States and the Air Force, McLanahan. You deserve a whole lot better.
“But Terrill Samson is one of our finest officers as well. If I thought there was one milligram of malice in these charges, I’d dismiss them in the blink of an eye. I’ve spoken with Terrill a half-dozen times in the past two days, and so has most of my staff, and we all agree: the charges are real, and so are the crimes. I’m sorry, McLanahan.
“I’m going to repeat what you’ve heard today a dozen times at least: request early retirement and you’ll get it, with full rank and time in service, an honorable discharge, and all traces of these charges completely expunged. Fight it, talk to the press, or file a countersuit, and you’ll end up in Leavenworth for seven years, a Big Chicken Dinner, reduction in grade, and fines.” The “Big Chicken Dinner,” as Patrick knew too well now, meant a Bad Conduct Discharge — the kiss of death for any ex-military officer seeking a civilian job much above short-order cook. Jester could see the hesitation in McLanahan’s face. “You don’t think you did anything wrong, do you, McLanahan?”
“No, I don’t, sir,” Patrick replied.
“Then I’m sure you’ve been in Dreamland too long,” the chief of staff said. “Because if any other crewdog did this to his wing commander, he’d be court-martialed within twenty-four hours, and you know it. If one of your officers did it to you, you’d see to it that they were grounded permanently. Am I wrong?”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick said. Hayes’s eyes were wide with surprise, then narrowed in anger and suspicion. “Sir, in my world, we reward airmen that show creativity, initiative, and courage. In the flight test world, we build a game plan, and we go out and fly the plan — but we leave it up to the crew to decide whether or not it’s time to push the envelope a little. All of our crews are tough, smart, and highly skilled operators. If we tell them to try a launch at Mach one point two and they get there and they think the plane and the weapon can handle one point five, they’ll take it to one point five. We don’t punish them for breaking with the program.”
“But you weren’t flying a test mission, McLanahan…”
“Sir, every mission for us is the same — our job is to get the mission done, no matter what it takes. We at Dreamland are not just program managers or engineers. Our job is to test the new generation of aircraft and weapons in every conceivable way. If we do our job, some crewdog in a line unit may not get his ass shot down because he thought he had to slow down or climb to employ his weapons or get out of a hostile situation.”
“I say again, McLanahan — you weren’t in a flight test situation,” Hayes emphasized. “You were on a support mission that depended on stealth and strict adherence to the rules at all times.”
“Sir, if you wanted strict rule-following, you shouldn’t have asked us to do the job,” Patrick said.
“That’s bullshit, McLanahan,” Hayes retorted. “I expect discipline and professionalism in all of my combat-coded units, or they are history! You play by the rules, or you’re out.”
“HAWC doesn’t play by the rules, sir,” Patrick argued. “We never have. The brass hated General Elliott — they cringed whenever his name was brought up. But I also realized that his name kept on coming up for one good reason — he was effective. He did the job he was asked to do, no matter how impossible it was. He wasn’t perfect, he wasn’t a team player — but he was the best. Men like Terrill Samson play by the rules.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Patrick,” Hayes said, the disappointment and frustration evident in his face and voice. “I like you. You speak your mind, you stick to your beliefs, and you get the job done. You have a lot of potential. But your loyalty to Brad Elliott and his twisted brand of warfighting is turning you into a loose cannon. Terrill Samson was right: you are dangerous, and you don’t fit in.
“I’ve taken the matter out of your hands and out of the UCMJ, Patrick.” The UCMJ, or Uniform Code of Military Justice, was the separate set of federal laws governing conduct and responsibilities of military men and women. “I’ve recommended that you be involuntarily retired if you didn’t agree to request early retirement, the Secretary of Defense agreed, and it was done. SecDef doesn’t want a court-martial, and personally I don’t want to see you hauled up in front of one. You were retired as of oh eight hundred hours this morning. Your service is at an end.” He extended his hand. “Sorry to see you go, General.”