Strike Force

“You’re not going to even ask me why, are you?” Maureen Hershel exploded. “You’re going to leave and go back to the Nevada desert without even looking back, despite all the years we’ve been together. That pretty much sums up the bottom line of our relationship.”

“I think I know why, Maureen,” Patrick said, still without looking back at her. “I think I knew it ever since you realized I didn’t want to give up my career because of my heart condition. You wanted me to be with you. You didn’t care if leaving military or government service would make me unhappy.”

“You’re wrong, McLanahan,” Maureen shot back. “It was way before your heart thing, way before you rigged up your own self-monitoring thing that everyone bought off on. It was the flying in the spaceplane, hanging out at Dreamland, being with your boys and girls out there instead of wanting to be with me. I wanted something more than a part-time relationship.”

“So you picked Gardner? Gardner is your full-time partner…when he’s not screwing Barbeau or his wife or the dozens of other women he’s got on the side.”

“But he was there for me,” Hershel said, almost pleading. “That’s something you never could do — even when you were with me, you were always somewhere else. At least Joe paid attention to me and treated me like I needed to be treated…”

“And we both know what that is, now, don’t we?”

“Hey, buster, don’t give me advice on how to live a good and proper life!” Hershel spat. “We both know how close you’ve come to being in prison for the rest of your life! Not even the President of the United States can keep you under control — but that’s not the President’s problem, it’s yours. Even your son can’t keep you from unnecessarily risking your life or breaking the rules for your own selfish, nihilistic reasons.” That remark seemed to hit Patrick like a physical blow, and he opened the office door.

“I’m not finished with you, mister!” Hershel snapped behind him. “You’re pathetic! You’re a disgrace! The only one besides yourself who could possibly be proud of what you do was Brad Elliott, and look where he is now!” He could still hear her yelling something as he walked out of her office suite and headed for the exit.

“Dad!” he heard moments later. He hadn’t even noticed his ten-year-old son Bradley sitting in the reception area. He came running over to him and gave him a tight embrace, then attempted to pick him up as he always did when they hugged — not too much longer, Patrick knew, he would be able to do it too. “Miss Parks said you were in a meeting with the President and the Vice President. Can we see them? I want to say hi.”

“Not now, Brad. They’re all busy.” He looked a little dejected, but nodded. They started walking downstairs for the exit. “It’s pretty late for you to be up, big guy. Did you have dinner yet?”

“Yes. But I didn’t have dessert. Can we go to Andrews for dessert? They have the best ice cream there.”

“I think it’s too late for ice cream, Brad. But we’ll go out to Andrews tomorrow morning for breakfast. How about that?”

“Good. Are we going flying?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Back to Las Vegas.” He looked for any hint of excitement or disappointment, but didn’t really see either.

“What about school?”

“You get some time off until I sign you up for school in Las Vegas.”

Again, little reaction. Maybe he was getting accustomed to being displaced, having little time to say good-bye to friends and having to face the challenge of finding new friends, just like millions of other kids of military parents had to deal with for most of their youth.

They exited the West Wing and headed toward the parking garage without saying anything else except “good night” to the uniformed Secret Service officers. Patrick had no reason to fear walking the streets of the District of Columbia late at night: since the American Holocaust, there was plenty of federal and District police, and even some National Guard still on the streets, day and night. Patrick felt Brad lagging behind a bit. “Carry me, Dad?” a sleepy voice asked.

He hadn’t asked that in years, or if he did Patrick had to say “no.” Bradley was not heavy but he was tall, past Patrick’s chin and almost to his mouth when standing together. At the very least, carrying him would have been unwieldy. But he stooped down, scooped him up, and cradled him in his arms. “Thanks, Dad,” Bradley said, and fell asleep immediately.

For the first time, perhaps in a long time, Patrick found it easy to keep his mind focused on this important task, rather than the dozens of equally important ones awaiting him.

EPILOGUE

ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION,

OVER EAST-CENTRAL TURKEY

THREE HOURS LATER

“Crossing the Iranian horizon…now,” Colonel Kai Raydon said. Almost the entire crew of Armstrong Space Station was floating near the radar technicians and displays as the station’s powerful sensors began sweeping Iran with its ultra-precise, high-powered, high-resolution beams.