Rogue Forces

“Sorry, Colonel, but I’m afraid we’ll be busy,” Patrick said. “But thanks for the invite.”

Wilhelm stopped and turned. “How very industrious you ‘consultants’ are, General,” he said flatly. “You will be missed, I’m sure.” Weatherly called the room to attention as Wilhelm strode out the door.

As if released from invisible chains, all of the staff members hurried over to Patrick to introduce or reintroduce themselves. “We can’t believe you’re here, of all godforsaken places, sir,” Weatherly said after shaking hands.

“We all assumed you’d died or had a stroke or something when you suddenly disappeared off Armstrong Space Station,” Cotter said. “Not me—I thought President Gardner secretly sent an FBI hit squad up on the Space Shuttle to off you,” Harrison said.

“Real nice, Mugs.”

“It’s Margaret, you dillweed,” Harrison snapped with a smile. To McLanahan again: “Is it true, sir—did you really disregard orders from the president of the United States to bomb that Russian base in Iran?”

“I can’t talk about it,” Patrick said.

“But you did capture that Russian base in Siberia after the American holocaust and use it to attack those Russian missile sites, right, sir?” Reese Flippin, an impossibly thin, impossibly young-looking private contractor with a heavy southern accent and protruding teeth asked. “And the Russians shot nuke missiles at that base, and you survived it? Hot damn…!” And as the others laughed, the accent completely disappeared, even the teeth seemed to recede to normal positions, and Flippin added, “I mean, outstanding, sir, quite outstanding.” The laughter grew even louder.

Patrick noticed a young woman in a desert gray flight suit and gray flying boots gathering up her laptop computer and notes, staying separate from the others but watching with amusement. She had short dark hair, dark magnetic brown eyes, and a mischievous dimple that appeared and disappeared. She looked somewhat familiar, as many Air Force officers and aviators did to Patrick. Wilhelm hadn’t introduced her. “I’m sorry,” he said, talking around the others crowded around him but suddenly not caring. “We haven’t met. I’m—”

“Everyone knows General Patrick McLanahan,” the woman said. Patrick noticed with surprise that she was a lieutenant colonel and wore command pilot’s wings, but there were no other patches or unit designations on her flight suit, just vacant squares of Velcro. She extended a hand. “Gia Cazzotto. And actually, we have met.”

“We have?” Jerk, he admonished himself, how could you forget her? “I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

“I was with the One-Eleventh Bomb Squadron.”

“Oh,” was all Patrick could say. The One-Eleventh Bomb Squadron was the Nevada Air National Guard B-1B Lancer heavy bomber unit that Patrick had deactivated, then reconstituted as the First Air Battle Wing at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base in Nevada—and since Patrick didn’t remember her, and he had handpicked each and every member of the Air Battle Force, it was quickly obvious to him that she hadn’t made the cut. “Where did you go after…after…”

“After you closed down the guard unit? It’s okay to say it, sir,” Cazzotto said. “I actually did okay—maybe closing the unit was a blessing in disguise. I went back to school, got my master’s degree in engineering, then got a position at Plant Forty-two, flying the Vampires headed for Battle Mountain.”

“Well, thank you for that,” Patrick said. “We couldn’t have done it without you.” Air Force Plant 42 was one of several federally owned but contractor-occupied manufacturing facilities. Located in Palmdale, California, Plant 42 was famous for building aircraft such as Lockheed’s B-1 bomber, Northrop’s B-2 Spirit stealth bomber, Lockheed’s SR-71 Blackbird and F-117 Nighthawk stealth fighter, and the Space Shuttle.

After the manufacturing lines shut down, the plants often did modification work to existing airframes as well as research and design work on new projects. The Air Battle Force’s B-1 bomber, renamed the EB-1C “Vampire,” was one of the most complex redesign projects ever done at Plant 42, adding mission-adaptive technology, more powerful engines, laser radar, advanced computers and targeting systems, and the capability of employing a wide array of weapons, including air-launched antiballistic missile and antisatellite missiles. It eventually became a pilotless aircraft with even better performance.

“And you’re still flying B-1s, Colonel?” Patrick asked.

“Yes, sir,” Gia replied. “After the American holocaust, they brought a dozen Bones out of AMARC, and we refurbished them.” AMARC, or the Aircraft Maintenance and Regeneration Center—known to all as the “Boneyard”—was the vast complex at DavisMonthan Air Force Base near Tucson, Arizona, where thousands of aircraft were taken to be stored and cannibalized for spare parts. “They’re not quite Vampires, but they can do a lot of the stuff you guys did.”

“Are you flying out of Nahla, Colonel?” Patrick asked. “I didn’t know they had B-1s here.”