Night of the Hawk, page 17
part #4 of Patrick McLanahan Series
The first place Russell had looked on each jacket was the sign-out space where the folders had been requested lately, and the list on each of the four jackets was impressive indeed—half the Pentagon had already seen these jackets, as had some of Russell’s subordinates, including the Central Intelligence Agency, the Defense Intelligence Agency, and other intelligence and service support agencies. Each of the persons represented by these folders had passed some of the most rigorous scrutiny the government could undertake. Well, the career military people had screened them—now it was time for the politicians to do it.
Russell flipped through the folders, stopping briefly at the 8-by-10 black-and-white photo in each. There were four Air Force officers. The highest-ranking one was Air Force Lieutenant General Bradley Elliott, known throughout the National Command Authority as a brilliant but sometimes rambunctious and certainly unorthodox troubleshooter.
Elliott’s file was impressive. Trained as an aircraft mechanic but rose quickly through the ranks to command positions and was offered a commission through Operation BOOTSTRAP in 1960. Elliott attended pilot training at Williams AFB, Arizona, and continued through B-52 training. He did two tours of Vietnam, where he was awarded two Distinguished Flying Crosses, three Air Medals, and two Purple Hearts. He then returned to the States and attended Air War College, had several command positions at SAC, went to the National War College, and now headed up the very classified High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center.
“What is General Elliott up to these days?” Russell asked the general officer in the office with him. “Still practicing for the big one?”
“Still commanding HAWC,” Joint Chiefs Chairman Wilbur Curtis replied. “The White House seems to prefer Brad Elliott to—how should I say this—”
“—to stay out of sight and out of mind,” Russell said. “And no wonder. Elliott’s a loose cannon. We’re not trying to start World War Three, just trying to get into one facility and get out. Quietly. We can do without him, Wilbur.”
“That might be the inclination, but Elliott’s facility in Nevada is a lot like Fisikous in Lithuania,” Curtis reminded the National Security Advisor. “If you were going to plan on breaking into such a facility, better to bring along someone who has built one. He’s also got an array of aircraft and weapons we might use. After all, Elliott was the one who validated the designs of the weapon systems now used in the MADCAP MAGICIAN program, among others.”
Russell shook his head. “If the President sees Elliott’s name on the tasking order, he’ll have a coronary.”
“We can sell the President on Elliott and his people,” Curtis said. “You want someone who knows the target, who has the weapons, and who is completely covert and completely deniable—Brad Elliott and his troops are the ones for the job. Look what they did on Old Dog.”
Russell was unimpressed, but he decided to delay his final decision for the moment.
Russell didn’t recognize the other three faces in the folders. One was a brigadier general with command pilot’s wings, named Ormack, the second one a Lieutenant Colonel McLanahan with command navigator’s wings, and the last a captain Hal Briggs, wearing senior Army Airborne wings, an Air Force security police badge with command star, and, of all things, a U.S. Army Ranger tab. Only one out of a hundred men in the armed forces was selected for the Army Ranger school, Russell knew, and only six out of every ten of those men completed the course and wore the coveted Ranger tab—it was doubly surprising to see an Air Force man wearing it, let alone an officer. The star atop the Airborne wings meant that he had retained his parachutist’s rating for at least six consecutive years. “What about this Briggs?” Russell asked. “An Air Force guy wearing Army insignia?”
“Volunteered for Ranger school after completing the Air Force combat-air-controller’s course,” Curtis continued. “Briggs could have played tight end on any pro-football team in the country—probably still could— but he’s chief of security and Brad Elliott’s aide-de-camp at HAWC. Nothing in the regs specifically prohibiting him from wearing Army insignia. On him, they fit. Believe me. He was picked not only because he knows the target, but he’s a very highly trained and skilled commando type himself.”
“He can wear Mickey Mouse ears for all I care,” Russell said irritably, “as long as he does his job.” The military was truly another world to Russell, one that he would never understand—a huge, hulking machine that didn’t come with an instruction manual or documentation. Having to interface between the civilian and military worlds was turning out to be a very unenviable part of his job. But there was one thing he was learning about the American military machine that had been built in the past fifteen years—no matter what the politicians decided should be done, the military could devise a way to do it.
“Tell me about these other guys,” Russell said distractedly as he thumbed through the other jackets. “What about McLanahan?”
“Probably the key to the whole operation,” Curtis said, lighting a Cigar. “Tough, intelligent, dedicated, and still the best bombardier in the Country He was Luger’s partner on the Old Dog mission—he brought the plane back after the other two pilots were hurt. Early forties, pretty good shape—with a little training at Camp Lejeune or Quantico, he’ll be able to keep up with the Special Ops guys, as will Briggs.”
“Any engineering or scientific training?”
“Very little, all informal,” Curtis replied, “but he’s one of the best pure-systems operators in the Air Force, and he’s got a good eye for weapons systems.” Curtis motioned to the last jacket sitting on the National Security Advisor’s desk. “General John Ormack is the man you want to go in and extract the data on the Soviet Fi-170 stealth bomber. He was the Old Dog crew copilot, but he was also the Megafortress’s chief designer. Late forties. Racquetball freak—Air Force champ two years in a row now. He’s both a Ph.D. in aeronautical engineering and a command pilot—with help, he should be able to go along with the assault team without hindering them. Out of all the Old Dog crew members, these are the best suited for this mission.”
The Old Dog crew. Russell’s mind wandered to the day he opened that classified file, several hours after getting off Air Force One with Curtis, and read the details of the B-52 mission that undoubtedly spelled the beginning of the end of the Cold War and the USSR. Russell was just a grade-school kid during the Cuban Missile Crisis, so he knew virtually nothing about “finger on the red button” tensions, but from what he read, the world had stepped right up to the brink that day. A lone B-52, nicknamed the Old Dog, had flown thousands of miles and had run an incredible gauntlet of Soviet air defenses to destroy a Soviet ground-based laser site in Siberia that had been shooting down American satellites and aircraft.
The mission was a success, and the ripples of shock, surprise, and fear that shot back and forth between Washington and Moscow could be felt all over the world, even though Old Dog was classified at the highest possible level. Although the episode was often presented as a breakdown in diplomacy, an abuse of power by the President of the United States, and a circumvention of the normal military chain of command, Old Dog set the stage for a successful U.S. military strategy and doctrine—hit hard, hit swiftly, hit stealthily, hit with the best you’ve got—for years to come.
Now Curtis wanted to bring back members of the same crew for the extraction of Luger.
“General, everyone you’ve picked on this mission was part of the other one,” Russell said, an exasperated sigh in his voice. “This really isn’t the time for a class reunion.”
“And this isn’t the time for making jokes, George.”
“I don’t make jokes,” Russell said with an even voice. “I do, however, think that you’re injecting a little personal bias in this. After all, you were heavily involved in the mission that eventually led to Luger being caught. You sure this isn’t a bit of guilt drifting into the planning?”
“You asked for recommendations with specific objectives and problems,” Curtis replied. “You wanted engineers to study the Soviet stealth bomber and be able to pick up the right documents, you wanted someone close to Luger, and you wanted them all in a hurry. Well, I got them for you. Whatever other motivations there may be, real or imagined, I have fulfilled your selection criteria. Now you can reject the candidates and I can have the J-staff come up with a new list of names, or I can instruct Special Operations Command to come up with their own team members. Now tell me what you want, George.”
Russell considered all that was said; then, with a resigned nod, said, “All right. Let’s go meet ‘em.”
Russell, Curtis, and their aides left the office, down past the President’s second-floor office, and to the elevator which took them to the second underground floor. After checking in with the Secret Service agent’s desk, they walked down a long corridor to the White House Situation Room, a large conference room with a sophisticated adjoining communications center.
The room was crowded with attendees, who all stood as Russell and Curtis entered the room and took their seats.
Among those assembled that Russell knew were the Commandant of the Marine Corps, General Vance K. Kundert, a medium-height, powerful-looking man in his mid-fifties, with the de rigueur “high and tight” haircut; Army General Mark V. Teller, the tall, silver-haired, athletic commander of the U.S. Special Operations Command, with a similar short haircut like Kundert’s; and Kenneth Mitchell, the Director of Central Intelligence, with one of his Defense Intelligence Agency deputy chiefs.
Russell recognized Elliott, McLanahan, Ormack, and Briggs from the personnel records he had just reviewed. The others assembled were officers and aides who would conduct the more detailed briefing afterward. Russell didn’t know them and probably never would, but he did know they did the lion’s share of the work.
“Let’s get started,” Russell said brusquely as he took his seat. “General Curtis, please start.”
“The following information is classified top secret, not releasable to foreign nationals, sensitive sources involved,” Curtis began immediately. “Recently, a secret noncombatant personnel-extraction mission was conducted by a joint Air Force and Marine Corps special ops unit in the Republic of Lithuania. This unit brought back information from the Fisikous Institute of Technology in Vilnius on a Soviet aircraft that, after analysis, we believe is their latest strategic bomber, an intercontinental stealth bomber.
“The Pentagon would like to propose a covert infiltration of this Fisikous Institute to gather more data on the bomber.”
Russell watched their reactions.
Kundert was unemotional—his men had already had a starring role in gathering the data; they would certainly be the prime movers in the next stage. McLanahan and Briggs, both just in from Elliott’s High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center in Nevada, leaned a bit closer, their eyes alert, their faces sporting mischievous grins, hoping they would be a part of whatever operation developed. Ormack, the deputy commander of HAWC, also had anticipation written all over him. Russell remembered the file on Ormack. Like Elliott, another wild card.
And then the National Security Advisor looked at Lieutenant General Bradley Elliott only to find Elliott staring right at him. Elliott’s look was one that could kill. Eyes burning with accusation.
Russell unconsciously swallowed, then sighed, realizing Elliott knew about Luger being at Fisikous. Shit. Of all the people he didn’t need on his back… Would Curtis have told Elliott? He dismissed the thought. Curtis wouldn’t have lasted a day as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs if he had. No, Elliott found out another way, but how?
“Excuse me, sir,” Captain Hal Briggs said, raising his hand. “Why us? Why not just send in the CIA or use HUMINT resources?”
Curtis’s eyes darted to Russell, who gave a slight nod to proceed. Chomping on his cigar, he said, “We’ve got a lot of resources planned for use, but you don’t need to know about them. Nevertheless, there is another reason we’re sending this particular team in.” Curtis took a deep drag on the cigar and placed it in a nearby ashtray. “For some time now there’s been a Western engineer at Fisikous, possibly working with the Fisikous design team. The, uh, engineer is ex-U.S. military. Ex-Air Force, in fact . .
Elliott couldn’t stand it any longer.
He was on his feet, staring directly at Russell, who’d been staring at him. “You sonsofbitches! You’ve known for four months that he’s been there and you didn’t do diddly about it. Now we’re finally getting around to an extraction mission? This is criminal!”
Confusion swept over the room. Everyone began talking at once, their voices echoing off the walls of the Situation Room, hitting Elliott with a barrage of questions. Ormack had risen, trying to calm Elliott down. “Brad, go easy, now. What’s going on…?”
Curtis was banging his ashtray on the table, trying to restore order.
“Tell them, Mr. National Security Advisor,” Elliott snapped. “Tell ‘err! who’s over there.”
“Take your seat, General, or I’ll see to it that you’re out permanently!” Russell ordered. “I don’t know how you found out, but if you blabbed this it could kill your friend and ruin this whole operation. Now sit down!”
Elliott all but spat in disgust as he complied, but he did return to his chair.
Now all eyes were on Russell, who was furious with Elliott for setting him up like this. I’ll be lucky to get out of here alive, he thought wearily.
“Who’s General Elliott talking about?” Lieutenant Colonel McLanahan asked Russell with concern. “Who’s been at Fisikous for five months?”
Russell noticed that this blond-haired, blue-eyed bomber jock got right to the point—and didn’t even add a “sir” when addressing a Cabinet member. Half the time, general officers wouldn’t speak up at all at these meetings, but that certainly wasn’t this colonel’s problem. Elliott’s influence, no doubt.
Curtis cleared his throat, having decided to pull Russell’s ass out of the sling. He looked straight at McLanahan, but addressed the entire room: “Well, he’s been there longer than five months, but it’s… David Luger.”
“What?” McLanahan asked incredulously. “Luger?”
Everyone in the room leaned forward. Voices started coming at Curtis and Russell all at once.
“Are you sure?”
“Thought he’d died …”
“Must be a mistake …”
“Some kinda joke …”
“Bad intelligence …”
Russell, who had just about had enough, said, “Shut up, gentlemen, or I’ll clear this room.”
Curtis took a long drag off his cigar. “We believe Luger has undergone extensive psychological and personality alteration at the hands of the KGB, or ex-KGB. Luger goes by the name of Doctor Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov, a Russian scientist. The contact we’ve got in place says Luger has been undergoing this KGB indoctrination training at Fisikous for some time.”
“What kind of indoctrination training?” asked McLanahan. “The KGB disbanded—”
Curtis looked at him as if he should have known better. “Right. Anyway, he’s in poor physical condition, which is consistent with the use of depressive drugs and physical torture. To make matters worse, he’s been reported to have mood swings and discombobulation, which means they’ve been working overtime on his, uh, modification.”
“So what’s the deal?” McLanahan interrupted. “A prisoner exchange? are you getting him out?”
“That hasn’t been decided yet,” Curtis replied uneasily. “If we acknowledge to the Soviets that we know about Luger, it’s possible Luger and the stealth bomber will disappear.”
“Well, you can’t just leave him in there,” McLanahan said emphatically. “The guy saved our lives. This country makes trades all the time— for the biggest sleazebuckets in the world—certainly you’re going to get an American airman, a hero at that.”
“Interesting you should bring that up, Colonel,” CIA director Mitchell interjected. “Deputy Director Markwright here has been doing an extensive investigation into the Old Dog incident.”
“What kind of investigation?” General John Ormack interjected.
Markwright turned to Ormack. “The DIA had closed the investigation on Old Dog and declared Luger legally dead, according to your testimony as commander of the aircraft and the last person to see Luger alive. His reappearance has reopened that investigation and introduced a number of allegations.”
“Such as?”
“Such as why, after operating for months in total secrecy, did the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center in Nevada suddenly come under attack only days after Lieutenant Luger was assigned to it?”
“What are you talking about?” Ormack demanded. “We’d been threatening to send a strike mission for days, and there was four hundred percent more activity at Dreamland after the Soviets knocked out our satellites than before. All other military bases had virtually ceased flying activity and put their birds on alert, ready to go if the balloon went up—all bases except HAWC. If the Soviets wanted to hit a base with a terrorist attack, Dreamland was the logical place.”
“No, the logical place would have been Ellsworth, the home base for the B-1s scheduled to perform the strike against the Kavaznya laser site,” Markwright argued. “The B-52 test-bed aircraft was never considered for the mission—yet it came under direct attack by Soviet-trained terrorists.”
“Well, why wouldn’t the informant have told the Soviets to attack Ellsworth?”
“Because Luger… I mean, the informant, didn’t know that the B-1s would come out of Ellsworth,” Markwright said. “He did know that your team was developing weapons, hardware, and tactics for B-1 and other strike aircraft, and he did know that there were B-1 bombers at Dreamland that were being loaded with the data being used on the test-bed B-52—he could have assumed that the aircraft to be used on the actual strike were the B-1s already at Dreamland, not at some other operational unit. The B-1s from Dreamland departed from there, went to Ellsworth to pick up their strike crews, then staged from there—but Luger thought they were going to strike from Dreamland—so he could have ordered the attack on Dreamland.”
