Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (82 page)

 
          
“She
was,” Patrick said woodenly.

 
          
“I’m
off to
Israel
tomorrow, then
Egypt
, and probably to
Libya
,” Thom said. “Muhammad Sanusi is going to
be proclaimed the monarch of Libya, the true Idris the Second— that’s something
that hasn’t happened in over fifty years, so I’d like to be there, if we can
set up security in time. His first official act is going to be a call for
national elections— and he says his name won’t be on the ballot. He says he’s
happy just being a Libyan again.
Libya
will be a constitutional monarchy.”

           
“So I heard.”

 
          
“President
Salaam asked to speak with me,” Thom went on. “She wants to normalize relations
with the
United States
, both for herself and the Muslim
Brotherhood. She hinted that she’s going to step down as leader of the Muslim
Brotherhood—she’s nominated King Idris the Second to be its leader. She also
said she’s going to step down as president of
Egypt
.” Patrick looked at Thom in surprise.
“She’s going to name General Ahmad Baris as acting president until new elections
are held; I think he’ll be elected. What do you think?” Patrick made no
response. “I wonder what Susan Bailey Salaam is going to do?” Still, Patrick
said nothing.

 
          
“I
think most of official
Washington
wants to interview you,” Thom went on. “I think you’re going to get
grilled for a few days. At least you picked a nice hotel for Bradley to hang
out in . .. until you’re done.” He studied his hands for a moment. “But from
where I sit, there’s only one thing I have to know.”

 
          
“I’m
not going to join your administration,” Patrick said. “I can’t be your national
security adviser.”

 
          
“Why
do you say that?”

 
          
“Because
we both feel strongly that we’re right.”

 
          
Thom
nodded. “I agree.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Thomas Jefferson once
said that a Council of War is at the same time the most valuable thing and the
worst thing for a democracy. But he did have one—and the office was right next
to his, not because he consulted them frequently, but so he could keep an eye
on them. I think that’s what I need to do with you, General McLanahan—put you
somewhere so I can keep an eye on you.”

 
          
“I
can’t support you as part of your administration,” Patrick repeated. “I’d be a
serious liability.”

 
          
“But
you would be in a suit and tie, not in a flight suit— or in Tin Man battle
armor,” Thom said. “You’d be in
Washington
, where the bureaucrats can stifle a thought
or an action more swiftly and more surely than an entire Marine division. More
importantly, I can keep an eye on you. With all due respect, General, I like
that idea.”

           
Patrick looked warily at the
President. He was being trapped—he knew it. It was going to be a choice between
prison or some office position, locked away amid classified briefings,
mountains of paperwork, and nameless, faceless bureaucrats looking for a strong
back on which to step on their way up the ladder of power.

 
          
Thom
stepped over to Patrick. “Yes, sir. Keep you in line, keep you in check, pick
your brain when I need to but otherwise keep a tight hold on your leash. Hell,
any man who names his son after the White House’s perennial mad-dog warmonger
has
got
to be looking for trouble.
Besides, I figure the one thing that will punish you better than hard labor in
prison is a
desk job.
Yes, I like
that idea a lot... but I’m not going to do it.”

 
          
He
reached into a pocket... and pulled out silver major general’s stars.

 
          
“Take
them, General,” Thom ordered. “There’s a new base in northern
Nevada
called Battle Mountain Air Force Base
that’s almost ready to be activated. You’re going to command it.

 
          
“I’m
going to fill that base with all of the aircraft and weapons you’ve been taking
from Sky Masters Inc. for the past several years—every model of the
Megafortress you’ve designed, built, and flown over the past fifteen years, and
every new air weapon you’ve developed at Dreamland, including the new airborne
laser,” Thom went on. He turned to the others in the room.
“General
Luger will be your deputy commander.
Colonel
Briggs and
Sergeant
Major
Wohl will command a special-ops unit based at
Battle
Mountain
—equipped with the Tin Man battle armor
technology and trained to be the ground force that mops up after the
Megafortresses attack.

 
          
“The
Air Battle Force at
Battle
Mountain
will be the tip of the spear. Every
conflict around the world, every emergency, every potential war zone will have
one of your Megafortresses deployed there first. I think it’s about time you
stop freelancing and start fighting for your country again, don’t you—Major
General McLanahan?”

 
          
Patrick
looked into Thom’s face—then reached up and took the stars from his hand. Thom
smiled and nodded. “Very good. Nice to have you back on
America
’s
team— where you belong.” He and Patrick
shook hands to seal the deal.

 
          
“Next
problem,” President Thom said. “Where is Sergeant Major Wohl?”

 
         
Pavel
Kazakov’s terms of his protective custody agreement allowed him two hours a
week supervised release outside of his apartment, and he usually spent those
hours playing golf. Akranes, in west
Iceland
, had two excellent courses, Thorisstadir
and Leynir, and in two hours he was usually able to get in nine or more holes
and lunch before being returned to his apartment.

 
          
His
guards/caddies today were two hulking blond Icelanders assigned to him from the
World
Court
. Golf carts were usually not allowed in
Iceland
, but a cart driver kept one nearby while
the three men walked the course—the cart had the heavy firepower in it, enough
weapons to hold off a helicopter assault, while the guards themselves wore
bulletproof vests and carried submachine guns. Two platoons of commandos were
stationed around the course, also heavily armed.

 
          
Kazakov
played quickly, getting in as many holes as he could before his release was up.
He already had the next three shots lined up before he approached the ball; he
never spent any time enjoying the spectacular rugged scenery of the small
fishing village. He strode quickly to the ball every time—he already had the
club selected—and he addressed the ball and swung. He never had to worry about
other players on the course—the guards cleared the course twenty minutes before
and after he played anyway. Kazakov stopped only long enough to take a sip of
tea from a Thermos bottle to ward off the cold.

 
          
The
rest room and snack bar at the turn was a simple but sturdy log cabin building,
set in what looked at first to be an empty frozen tundra. There was always a
roaring fire in the stone fireplace, hot tea and coffee, and a section of cakes,
confections, and even smoked fish on hand. The guards checked the building out
first—the staff at the snack bar had been escorted off the course, along with
all the other players—and then Kazakov was allowed inside.

 
          
Kazakov
sampled some of the smoked fish as he stood by the fire to warm up. “Other than
playing golf itself,” he told his Icelandic guard in Russian, “this little
cabin is perhaps the best part of playing golf in this country.” The guard said
nothing—Kazakov didn’t know, or care, if the guards spoke Russian—but kept on
checking doorways and windows. “Why, you ask?” Kazakov went on. “Because, my
Norse friend,
Iceland
has to be the shittiest nation on Earth. Yes, your women are very
beautiful. But if this isn’t the end of the Earth, one could certainly see it
from
Iceland
. Everything about this place is stark, bland, rugged, and cold. You
people all look alike—you have bred every bit of color and interesting features
out of your race. You live in one of the harshest climates on Earth and you
smile all the time—I don’t mean you, but you Icelanders in general. You must be
crazy from the cold and isolation.”

 
          
The
guard nodded, smiled slightly as if Kazakov had just given him a compliment,
and continued to scan for intruders. Kazakov snorted his contempt and went to
use the lavatory. Big dumb Norseman, he thought. Why did
Iceland
even bother to have a military? Who would
ever attack
Iceland
? And why would they not assign him a guard
that spoke Russian, if for no other reason than to collect any possible
intelligence? The guard checked the men’s room first, then allowed Kazakov to
enter.

 
          
Kazakov
had just turned on the tap to wash his hands when the guard came back in to
check on him. “I will be out in a moment, you big dumb Viking,” he said in
Russian. “Can’t I even—?”

 
          
A
hand grabbed his throat and spun him around. Kazakov was suddenly face-to-face
with the biggest, meanest, most chiseled man he had ever seen. His nose looked
as if it had been smashed several times, and he looked much older, but his
steel-blue eyes burning with pure hatred could have belonged to a youngster.
Kazakov tried to pry the man’s hand off his throat, but he couldn’t budge the
fingers one millimeter.

           
“Good morning, Comrade Kazakov,” the
man said in English. “Having a nice game?” The fingers around his neck
squeezed, not allowing any sound to escape. “My name is Master Sergeant
Christopher Wohl, United States Marine Corps, Retired. I have a message for you
from General Patrick McLanahan.” Kazakov’s eyes bugged when he heard that name
...

 
          
...
but they bulged even more when the commando held up a four-inch-long double
serrated-edge T-bar push knife.

 
          
The
knife easily pierced Kazakov’s jacket, then his flesh, and then his diaphragm,
twice, with two fast, powerful thrusts, filling the Russian drug dealer’s lungs
with blood. “Those are for my two men your friend Jadallah Zuwayy tortured to
death.” He raised the blood-soaked knife, showing the glistening wet blade to
Kazakov. “And this is for Dr. Wendy McLanahan.” And he plunged the knife into
Kazakov’s neck and slashed sideways, nearly slicing the neck in two.

 
          
The
Icelandic guard stepped into the men’s room just as Wohl let the blood-covered
body drop to the floor. Wohl calmly took off his bloody jacket and dropped it
too.

 
          
The
two commandos looked at each other for a long moment; then Wohl said in
Russian, “
Ya abasralsa na van- naya.
Prasteetye.
I really fucked up your bathroom. Sorry.”

 
          
“Suhadrochka. Nye za shta. Fseevo samava
looch- sheva,”
the Icelandic commando replied in perfect, fluent Russian.
He handed Wohl his own clean overcoat—it fit him very well. “No problem. Don’t
mention it. Have a nice day.”