Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (69 page)

 
          
The
soldiers in bunkers and even chemical weapon-resistant shelters were not
spared—even those in underground storage areas and shielded command centers
could not escape. Eventually the deadly neutron and gamma radiation from the
sixty-four neutron bombs detonated over Salimah, unrestricted by the uranium
outer shell as in regular fission weapons, claimed over twelve thousand lives .
..

 
          
.
.. without harming one piece of oil-drilling equipment, spilling one drop of
crude oil, or ruining one piece of precious military hardware.

 
          
NAVAL
AMPHIBIOUS BASE
CORONADO
,
 
CORONADO
,
CALIFORNIA
 
DAYS LATER

 
          
Patrick
detested running, but it was the only aerobic exercise he cared for, and he
knew he’d probably blow up like a “bunker-buster” bomb if he didn’t do it. When
he was in town he usually jogged the short distance from his condo on
Coronado
Island
, across the bay from
San Diego
, to the base gym at the Naval Amphibious
Base Coronado. This time, however, he had Bradley with him, so he drove. It
took longer to go down to the garage, strap Bradley in, and pull out onto busy
Silver Strand Highway
than it did to get to the base.

 
          
Going
to the gym was one of the few things he liked to do alone, just for himself—but
not anymore. It was another of the little changes he had to make in his life,
with Wendy gone.

 
          
Security
was tight on base—even the sticker on his windshield with the white star on
blue background of a brigadier general didn’t help speed things up. Along with
an ID check, Patrick’s car was checked underneath with a mirror, and the inside
of the car from bumper to bumper was checked visually and also with a military
working dog. Bradley liked the dog, and he enjoyed having his car seat sniffed
by the dog after Patrick had to lift him up and out of his seat. After clearing
security, he headed off to the gym. He checked Bradley into the base gym’s
day-care center—one of Bradley’s favorite places to go, even for an hour or
two— and changed into workout clothes in the locker room. Five minutes on the
elliptical trainer, then five minutes on the stretching chair to warm up, and
he was ready to go.

 
          
The
news on the televisions surrounding the workout room was full of information on
the Libyan attack on the Egyptian military forces defending Salimah. The death
toll in just one day was simply staggering. Patrick had a tough time conceiving
of the five thousand killed at Mersa Matruh, and now the deaths at Al-Jilf and
Al-Kabir were probably going to triple that toll.

 
          
The
toll that most likely included Wendy. Oh, God . ..
That
thought made him tear into his workout with a vengeance.

 
          
The
tail end of the news reports focused on the American response to the attacks on
Egypt
—or, more accurately, the
lack
of response. There were two
aircraft carriers with almost a hundred combat aircraft plus ten thousand U.S.
Marines within helicopter distance of
Egypt
, yet the
United States
made no move to help. There were stem
warnings to Libya not to use any more neutron weapons, that using them
increased the danger of the conflict spreading and growing to a full-scale
nuclear war in a short time—but the response was far short of what most folks
expected of the President.

 
          
Well,
Patrick thought, that was typical of this President—speak softly, but carry a
big twig.

 
          
Soon,
Patrick found he had disregarded his workout log completely and finally ended
up just picking a weight from the racks, in some cases fifty percent more than
he was able to throw around before, doing repetitions until he lost count, then
continuing doing more reps until his muscles gave out completely. After twenty
minutes of an absolutely blistering workout, finally something gave way in his
left shoulder during an incline bench press, and he was forced to toss a
seventy-pound dumbbell aside in pain.

 
          
“Are
you all right, General McLanahan?” he heard behind him. He turned and saw
Captain Fred Jackson, the commanding officer of Naval Amphibious Base Coronado,
standing behind him, a look of serious concern on his face. Jackson was a tall,
powerful-looking ex-SEAL who still looked as if he could command a team on a
mission—he sometimes worked out with Patrick in the gym or at the SEAL Training
Facility across the street, and even though Patrick had been working out for
many years and Jackson was at least five years older, Patrick found it
impossible to keep up with him.

 
          
Patrick
nodded. “I’m okay, Fred,” he said ruefully.

 
          
“My
guys told me you were on the base, so I thought I’d stop by and say hello,”
Jackson
said. “I’ll get a corpsman to look at that
shoulder for you.”

 
          
“Not
necessary. I’ll just get some ice on it.” But
Jackson
was not accustomed to anyone saying “no” to
him—he already had someone on the way. A few minutes later they were sitting
down together, Patrick with a bag of ice on his shoulder.

 
          
“You
upset about something, sir?”
Jackson
asked. “You looked like you were about
ready to toss those dumbbells through the mirrors.”

 
          
“No—just
cranky because I’m getting more and more of these little pains,” Patrick said.

 
          
“The
price of getting old ... I mean older,”
Jackson
said.

 
          
Patrick
nodded at the TV as well. “I don’t understand why we’re not doing more over in
Egypt
, and that’s upsetting me as much as my
shoulder.”

 
          
“I
expected you to be in
Washington
advising the President on what to do,”
Jackson
said.

 
          
“Why
do you say that?”

 
          
“According
to what I’ve been reading, you’re still the number-one candidate for national
security adviser,” the Navy SEAL said. “I thought you’d be out there in the
thick of things, writing your policy papers, getting your classified briefings,
and getting ready to testify in front of the Senate Armed Services Committee
after your nomination.”

           
“So that’s why you’re over here
looking me up, eh, Fred?” Patrick asked with a smile. “Thought you’d get a
little face time with the rumored number-one guy?”

           
“Now, would I do that, sir?” he
asked with a toothy grin. “Oh, by the way, I’m letting your son play in my
office, I got him his own SEAL to watch him, and I brought in a gourmet chef
from the
Del
to fix him lunch. Is that okay?”

           
“Sorry to disappoint you, Fred, but
I haven’t been anywhere near Washington or the White House in many moons, and
I’m not likely to be,” Patrick said. “We don’t see eye to eye on much of
anything.”

           
“Which is why all the pundits are
saying you’re ‘it’— Thom likes surrounding himself with ideological opposites,”
Jackson
said. “You just remember your buddies who
give you their tee times and let you fly your plane from their airstrips, the next
time you talk to the President about the next chief of naval operations, okay?”

 
          
“Don’t
hold your breath, Captain,” Patrick said with a laugh—his first laugh in many,
many days.

 
          
“How’s
the missus?”
Jackson
asked.

           
Patrick tried not to let his smile completely
wash away. “Still away. She should be back in town next weekend.”

           
“Good. Can’t wait to see her again.
You still owe my wife and me a rematch of our last golf match.”

           
“You’re on, Fred.”

           
Jackson
could tell something was wrong, but he
decided not to pursue it further. He nodded toward the televisions. “So what do
you think we’ll do over in
Egypt
? Anything?”

           
Patrick shrugged as he readjusted
the ice pack on his shoulder. “Move up the
Kennedy
battle group to the Red Sea to defend the Suez Canal, keep the two carrier
groups on station in the Med, and try to keep the conflict from spreading to
the Persian Gulf or Israel,” Patrick said. “Purely defensive moves—I don’t
think the President wants to send in any military forces. If
Libya
stays on the move, destroys Salimah, takes
the
Suez Canal
, and crosses over the
Red Sea
into
Israel
, then I think the President might make a
move. But I think he’s really hoping Susan Salaam will pull the Arab countries
together to fight off
Libya
.” He looked at
Jackson
. “So what do you think we’ll do?”

 
          
“What
I think we’ll
do!
Same as you—
nada
,” Jackson replied. “What I think we
should
do? We should go pay President
Zuwayy of Libya a little visit, blow up a few of his palaces just to get his
attention, and then deprive him of his bombers, fighters, airstrips, and
rockets—and that’s all for starters. My guys can do all that in one night. Two
at the most.”
Jackson
was definitely not above a little hubris when it came to sending Navy
SEALs into action. He looked carefully at Patrick. “Of course, scuttlebutt says
someone or some group of someones might have been already mixing it up with the
king. Wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, sir?”

 
          
“Not
a thing. But if they did, they should have their heads examined.”

 
          
“Maybe
they can show our commander-in-chief how it’s done,”
Jackson
said.

 
          
“President
Salaam needs to fight for her country too. She’s got a military—she needs to
use it to defend her people.”

 
          
“If
anyone can do it, she can. Not bad for an Air Force puke, I guess.”

 
          
“No
Air Force cracks—unless you want to lose those four stars I had planned for
you.”

 
          
“Oops—sorry,
sorry, sir, sorry,”
Jackson
said with a smile—he was one of the few Navy SEALs Patrick had ever met
that actually seemed to like to smile. He shook Patrick’s hand warmly. “If
there’s anything you need, sir, please don’t hesitate to ask. And I hope you
don’t mind I have my spies out keeping an eye on you. You’re the biggest
celebrity we’ve had hanging around the area since Dennis Conner. We’ll be sorry
to see you and Wendy head back to
Washington
.” Before Patrick could protest again,
Jackson
added, “I know, I know, you’re not in the
running. I’ll remember you said that when I see you at your confirmation party
in
Washington
. You sure you don’t need a doctor to look
at your shoulder?”

           
“I’m fine, Captain. And you can let
your spies go home too.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir. Take care of that shoulder—I want to beat you fair and square on the golf
course.” Patrick noticed
Jackson
motion to a young sailor who had been standing near the entrance to the
workout room with a cell phone, who departed with
Jackson
. The base commander was a good guy, Patrick
decided, but there was no doubt that he played the political battles as well as
he undoubtedly played the real-world military battles—and making friends with
potentially influential persons was one way to get ahead in the Navy.