Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (59 page)

 
          
He
nodded, once, slowly, and then turned. In a blink of an eye and a loud hiss of
compressed air, he was gone. Susan thought she heard a clunk of boots on the
rooftop across the street, but she couldn’t see anything.

 
          
McLanahan
was an emotional wreck right now—his brother dead, his wife blown to atoms, his
men decimated, his mission failed and shattered. Did she actually expect him to
be able to fight?

 
          
The
quicker he was out of the country, she decided, the better.

CORONADO
,
CALIFORNIA
 
DAYS LATER

 
          
The
answering machine picked up for the sixth or seventh time that evening; again,
Patrick ignored it.

           
It was an exceptionally warm
evening, so Patrick was out on the big bayview balcony, sipping a Grand Marnier
and watching the activity in
San Diego
Bay
. He could see all the way from the
Thirty-second Street Naval Base to the south to North Island Naval Air Station
and Point Loma Naval Base to the north.
North Island
, the home of the Navy’s
Anti-Submarine
Warfare
Center
, was a buzz of activity—it usually was,
with aircraft of all sizes buzzing down the Pacific beaches of Coronado, right
behind the Del Coronado Hotel, coming in for a landing. To the south on
Coronado was the Navy Basic Underwater Demolition Service Training Center, the
home of the Navy SEALs; one could usually see inflatable boats going up and
down the coast all year long, day and night.

 
          
It
was hard to tell from the level of activity in the harbor what was happening in
the world.
North
Island
had two carriers in port right now—that was
unusual. Thirty- second Street Naval Base was busier than Patrick had ever seen
it before—every pier looked occupied. Would it be busier if war was imminent as
ships prepared for deployment, or would it be quieter because all available
warships were heading into battle? Patrick didn’t know. A trained spy might be
able to deduce the answer to that, but Patrick wasn’t a spy.

 
          
He
wasn’t anything right now—not a military man, not a Night Stalker. Just a man
with a young son, a missing wife, a dead brother, and not much else—not even a
future.

 
          
After
the last strikes against
Libya
by the Night Stalkers and the Sky Masters
Inc.’s EB-52 Megafortress, Patrick finally got his men out of
Egypt
. They first flew by CV-22 Pave Hammer
tilt-rotor aircraft to an isolated base in southern
Israel
, where they sanitized their gear and
received civilian travel documents. They drove to Tel Aviv, flew via commercial
airlines to
London
, then to
Los Angeles
, and finally to
San Diego
.

 
          
Coming
home was without question the happiest—and the saddest—day in Patrick’s life.
Little Bradley was brought to San Diego-Lindbergh International Airport by
Patrick’s mother and sisters; they hugged Patrick warmly, but they wore stony,
stem expressions on their faces—they were silently accusing him of killing both
Paul and Wendy and nearly orphaning his son. Patrick ignored their anger. He
hugged his son long and hard right at the Jetway door, ignoring the aggravated
comments of the others who had to maneuver around them. One look at Hal Briggs,
Chris Wohl, and David Luger, however, and the complainers fell silent and went
about their business.

 
          
But
no sooner did they turn away from the Jetway than five-year-old Bradley asked,
“Dad, where’s Mom?”

 
          
Patrick
was dreading this moment. He took his son aside to an isolated set of seats
near a big picture window, motioned the others to go on ahead, and sat his son
beside him. Despite his request, his mother and sisters stayed, respectfully
apart from them but close enough to watch and listen.

           
“Brad,” Patrick said, “Mommy’s not
coming home with us.”

 
          
Bradley’s
blue eyes instantly filled with tears. “Why?”

           
“Mommy was hurt,” Patrick replied.
“She was helping me, and Uncle Paul, and Uncle Hal, and Uncle Dave, and Uncle
Chris, and a bunch of our other friends, and she got hurt real bad.”

           
“Is she dead?”

 
          
Patrick
took immense comfort and drew a lot of strength from little Bradley’s maturity.
He wasn’t sure if Bradley completely understood what death was, but the very
fact that he asked if she was dead made Patrick think that he understood a
little of what death meant. Bradley watched a lot of movies that should
probably not be watched by young children, and then he liked to act out the
fight scenes with his father and baby-sitters. But in the movies, the dead guys
all came back to life when he replayed the movie; in their playacting, Daddy
always got up moments after Bradley delivered the coup de grace with his
plastic laser-sword. Was that his only concept of death?

 
          
“She’s
missing,” Patrick told him. When Bradley furrowed his eyebrows, Patrick went
on, “The bad guys got her, and they took her to a place where a lot of people
were killed. We haven’t found her yet.”

 
          
“Mommy
was killed?”

 
          
“I
don’t know, buddy....”

 
          
“Mommy’s
dead?”
Bradley asked, louder this
time. Patrick’s mother rushed over and grabbed Bradley in her arms. The
suddenness of her movements startled him, and he started to cry. Patrick’s
sisters looked at their brother with a strange, painful mixture of pity and
contempt as they followed their mother out to the parking garage.

 
         
That
was a few days ago. They had gone back up to
Sacramento
for Paul McLanahan’s memorial service and
interment beside their father in
City
Cemetery
in downtown
Sacramento
. His sisters offered to take Bradley, but
Patrick insisted on bringing his son home with him to their high-rise
condominium on
Coronado
Island
, That did not please them at all.

           
Patrick also did not offer any
explanations to his family on what happened to Paul or to Wendy. That made them
even angrier. His mother and sisters hugged Bradley tightly as they got on the
plane to
San
Diego
,
but Patrick could have hugged pieces of plywood that had more warmth or
tenderness than he felt from them.

 
          
He
had an entire day by himself with Bradley. They made their usual stops: out to
North Island Naval Air Station to watch the Navy planes come and go and to see
if they could spot any submarines over at Point Loma; a visit to the
Star of India,
the old sailing barque on
the San Diego waterfront, standing on deck pretending to be pirates; out to the
Windsock Grill at San Diego-Lindbergh Airport to have lunch and watch the
airliners as they seemingly threaded between the high-rises of the downtown
district and skimmed the top of the parking garage on their way to the runway;
then out to the lawns on Shelter Island where they tossed a Frisbee around and
watched the Navy warships, yachts, and tour boats head out to sea. By then
Bradley was ready for a nap; Patrick carried him to his room, as he usually had
to do after all-day outings like this.

 
          
While
Bradley napped, Patrick checked his e-mail—no messages. That meant they had
been dumped or erased by Sky Masters Inc., or intercepted by the feds. He
checked his cell phone—no service, which meant either that service had been cut
off or the secure system was detecting eavesdropping and deactivated itself. He
tossed the phone onto his desk—frankly, he was glad to be rid of it.

 
          
The
phone calls started shortly thereafter. The first one, which Patrick let the
answering machine pick up, was from former President of the United States Kevin
Martindale. “I heard you were back in town, Patrick. Call me right away.” The
second call was also from Martindale just ten minutes later; Patrick again did
not answer. By the third call, Patrick had shut off the ringer.

 
          
After
a one-hour nap, Bradley came into the living room, biting his red blanket. He
had given up his blankets almost a year earlier, calling them silly and
childish. Patrick had cut up all but one of them, making little kid
handkerchiefs out of them, but Wendy had insisted on keeping one intact, the
red one, his favorite. Patrick hadn’t seen it in many months; he didn’t know
how Bradley found it, but he did, and he held it tightly against his face and
chest as he walked into the room. “Hi, big guy,” Patrick greeted his son.

 
          
“Where’s
Mommy?” he asked, his voice muffled by the blanket.

 
          
“Mommy’s
not here, Bradley,” Patrick said, choking down yet another lump in his throat.
He wondered where his glass of Grand Marnier was right now. “We’re going to
look for her soon, remember?”

 
          
“I
want my mommy,” Bradley said tearfully.

 
          
“I
know, big guy. Don’t worry. Everything will be okay.” Patrick rose to go hug
his son, but Bradley ran back to his room and closed the door. When Patrick
went inside, he found him curled up in the middle of the floor. Oh, shit...

 
          
He
picked him up and held him tightly. Bradley wasn’t crying; he bit his blanket
and stared straight ahead, hardly blinking. Scared, Patrick went back to the
living room and held him until, thankfully, he fell asleep again, and then
carried him into his bedroom and put him under the covers, on Wendy’s side of
the bed.

 
          
Patrick
stayed with him and waited to see if Bradley would wake up soon for dinner, but
his heavy breathing told him he was down for the night, so Patrick took his
shoes and clothes off and tucked him under the covers once again. Patrick
usually did not allow Bradley to sleep in his bed—“big boys sleep in their own
beds,” he would often admonish his son—but tonight, having him sleep anywhere
else was completely out of the question.

 
          
He
didn’t usually drink when caring for Bradley, but this time he poured himself a
stiff shot of the orange liqueur and went out to the patio. These past few days
were simply hell, he thought. If Bradley started going to pieces, he would
too—it was as simple as that.

 
          
“Muck,
we’re on our way up,” he heard Hal Briggs call on the subcutaneous
microtransceiver. “Feel like some company?”

           
“Sure.” A few minutes later, Hal
Briggs, along with Chris Wohl and David Luger, let themselves into Patrick’s
condo. They found seats in the living room; Patrick knew they wanted to talk
business, which was why he did not go outside again.

 
          
“You
drinking that sissy stuff again, Muck?” Hal asked. Patrick did not reply. Hal
found something he liked in the liquor cabinet; David and Chris did not drink.
“How are you doin’, man?” Still no answer.

 
          
A
few quiet minutes later, they heard crying from the bedroom. Patrick shot to
his feet to go check on Bradley, but Chris Wohl silently waved him back to his seat,
and he went inside to check on him. He saw Wohl carry Bradley to the kitchen,
give him a glass of milk, and start fixing him a fried bologna and cheese
sandwich on toast, Wohl’s favorite meal. Briggs and Luger stayed behind with
Patrick in the living room.

 
          
“Big
bad-ass Marine is really a sucker when it comes to kids,” Briggs observed.

 
          
“President
Martindale’s been calling,” Dave Luger said to Patrick.

 
          
“I
know.”

 
          
“He’s
worried about you.”

 
          
“Like
hell he is. He just wants to know when we’re ready to go back out there.”