Starfire (23 page)

Patrick put an armored hand on Brad's shoulder. “Easy, son,” the electronic voice said softly. “I know this is a lot to process, but you still need to show some respect.”

“I'll try, Dad, but right now it's a little difficult,” Brad said bitterly. “And second?”

“The Russians came after you,” Patrick said. “That was the last straw for me. I was in a facility in Utah when all this went down, and I asked to be with you.”

“A facility?”

“Storage facility,” Patrick said.

“A storage facility?”

“We can talk more on the plane on our way back to St. George,” Kevin Martindale said. “Let's load up and—”

“I can't leave here, sir,” Brad said. “I'm about to finish my first year at Cal Poly, and I just made a presentation for a summer lab project that could land the engineering department a big grant from Sky Masters Aerospace. I can't just leave. I'm leading a big research and development team, and they're all counting on me.”

“I understand, Brad, but if you return to San Luis Obispo and Cal Poly you'll be too exposed and vulnerable,” Martindale said. “We can't risk your safety.”

“I appreciate the sergeant major getting me out of there, sir,” Brad said, “but—”

“I asked that you be pulled out, son,” Patrick interrupted. “I know it'll be a complete disruption of your life, but we just don't know how many Russian agents are or could be involved. Gryzlov is just as crazy as his father, and he could be sending in dozens of hit teams. I'm sorry. We'll put you in protective custody, build you a new identity, send you someplace to finish your education, and—”

“No way, Dad,” Brad said. “We have to figure out another way. Unless you hog-tie me and throw me in the back of your cool cargo plane there, I'm going back, even if I have to hitchhike.”

“I'm afraid that's not possible, Brad,” Patrick said. “I can't allow it. It's too dangerous. I need you to—”

“I'm an adult now, Dad,” Brad interrupted, finding it a little amusing to be arguing with a twelve-foot-tall robot. “Unless you take my constitutional rights away from me by force, I'm free to do whatever I want to do. Besides, I'm not afraid. Now that I know what's going on—at least a little bit more than what I knew just a couple hours ago—I'll be more careful.”

Kevin Martindale leaned toward Patrick and said, “Sounds like a damned McLanahan to me, all right,” he commented with a smile. “What are you going to do now, General? Looks like the immovable object has met the irresistible force.”

Patrick remained silent for several long moments. Finally: “Sergeant Major?”

“Sir?” Wohl responded immediately.

“Meet with Bradley and your team and come up with a resolution to this dilemma,” Patrick said. “I want to know the risks and your assessments as to how to reduce or mitigate those risks to Bradley's person if he returns to that university campus. Report back to me as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” Wohl responded, pulling out his cell phone and getting to work.

“Brad, you are not going back to school until this is settled to my satisfaction, and if necessary, to ensure your compliance, I
will
hog-tie you and throw you in the baggage compartment—and it won't be
that
plane's compartment, but one a lot smaller,” Patrick went on. “Sorry, son, but that's the way it's going to be. Looks like we're staying here for the foreseeable future.” He paused, silently scanning his onboard computer displays for information. “There's a motel not far from here with a restaurant, Sergeant Major,” he said. “They're showing plenty of vacancies. I'll have Kylie get you rooms and send you the info. Stay there for tonight and we'll come up with a game plan in the morning. Have one of the men bring back some food for Bradley, please.”

“Yes, sir,” Wohl responded, and he turned and departed.

“But what are
you
going to do, Dad?” Brad asked. “You can't check into a motel.”

“I'll be secure enough right here,” Patrick said. “I don't need hotel beds or restaurants anymore, that's for sure.”

“Then I'll stay here with you,” Brad said. The CID was motionless and silent. “I'm staying here with you,” Brad insisted.

“The McLanahans getting reacquainted,” Martindale said. “Lovely.” He pulled out a smartphone and read the display. “My jet is landing. As soon as it taxies over, I'm going back to St. George and sleep in my own bed for a change. You can work out the details of how to deal with the younger McLanahan, General.” He paused, and everyone fell silent, and sure enough they could hear the sound of an approaching jet outside the hangar. “My ride has arrived. I wish you gents well. Keep me advised, General.”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick's electronically synthesized voice replied.

“Good night, all,” sad Martindale, and he turned on a heel and departed, followed by his security detail.

Patrick spoke into midair through the CID unit's extensive communications system: “Kylie?”

A few moments later:
“Yes, sir?”
replied “Kylie,” an automated voice-recognition electronic personal assistant that was given the same name as Patrick's real-life assistant back at Sky Masters Inc.

“We need two motel or hotel rooms nearby for tonight, and maybe three more for tomorrow and the next day for the sergeant major's team,” Patrick said. “I'll be staying here tonight; ‘Policeman' is heading back to headquarters.” “Policeman” was the code name for President Martindale.

“Yes, sir,”
Kylie responded.
“I have already received ‘Policeman's' updated itinerary. I will send lodging information to the sergeant major right away.”

“Thank you,” Patrick said. “Out.” To Brad he said, “Pull up a chair, son. I can't wait to start getting caught up.” Brad found bottles of water in the small refrigerator. The CID extended a thick extension cord from a compartment on his waist, plugged it into a 220-volt outlet, stood up straight, then froze in place. Brad brought a chair and the water over to the CID. Inside the robot, Patrick couldn't help but smile at his son's expression. “Pretty weird, isn't it, Brad?” he said.

“ ‘Weird' doesn't even begin to describe it, Dad,” Brad said, shaking his head, then placing a cold bottle against the swelling bruise on his head. He studied the CID carefully. “Do you sleep okay in there?”

“Mostly nap. I don't need much sleep. Same with food.” He reached into another armored compartment on his waist and withdrew a curved container that looked like a large hip flask. “Concentrated nutrients infused into me. The CID monitors my blood and adjusts the nutrient mix.” Brad was just sitting there, shaking his head slightly. “Go ahead and ask me anything, Brad,” Patrick said finally.

“What have you been doing?” Brad asked after a few moments to clear his swimming consciousness. “I mean, what does President Martindale have you do?”

“Most of the time I train with Chris Wohl's and other direct-action teams using a variety of weapons and devices,” Patrick said. “They also use my computers and sensors to plan possible missions and do surveillance.” He paused for a moment, then said in a very obviously somber tone, “But mostly I stand in a storage locker, plugged into power, nutrients, medication, waste disposal, and data, scanning sensor feeds and the Internet, interacting with the world . . . sort of. Digitally.”

“You stay in a storage locker?”

“Not much reason for me to be walking around unless we're in training or on a mission,” Patrick said. “I creep people out enough already, I think.”

“No one talks to you?”

“During training or operations, sure,” Patrick said. “I put together reports of things I see and submit them to Martindale, and we might discuss them. I can instant-message and teleconference with just about anybody.”

“No, I mean . . . just talk with you, like we're doing now,” Brad said. “You're still
you
. You're Patrick McLanahan.”

Another pause; then: “I was never one for chitchat, son,” he said finally. Brad didn't like that response, but he said nothing. “Besides, I didn't want anyone knowing it's me in the CID. They think it's unoccupied when in storage and that a bunch of pilots show up to train with it. They don't know it's occupied twenty-four/seven.” He saw the look of absolute sorrow in his son's face and desperately wanted to hold him.

“Doesn't it get . . . you know, kind of rank in there?” Brad asked.

“If it does, I can't detect it,” Patrick said. “But they put me in a different CID periodically.”

“They do? So you
can
exist outside the CID?”

“For very short periods of time, yes,” Patrick said. “They change dressings, give me medications if I need them, check stuff like muscle tone and bone density, then lower me into a clean robot.”

“So I
can
see you again!”

“Brad, I don't think you'd want to see me,” Patrick said. “I was pretty busted up, sitting in the windblast of that shot-up B-1 bomber for so long. By the way, thank you for bringing us back safely.”

“You're welcome. But I'd still like to see you.”

“We'll talk about that when the time comes,” Patrick said. “They give me a couple days' warning. I'm on life support while I'm outside.”

Brad looked even more dejected than before. “What is all this for, Dad?” he asked after a long silence. “Are you going to be some sort of high-tech killing machine, like the sergeant major says you've become?”

“The sergeant major can be a drama queen sometimes,” Patrick said. “Brad, I've seen the importance of the gift of life, because it was almost taken away from me. I know how precious life is right now. But I also want to protect our country, and I have an extraordinary ability to do that now.”

“So what then?”

For a moment Brad thought he saw his father shrug his huge armored shoulders. “Honestly, I don't know,” Patrick said. “But President Martindale has been involved in creating many secret organizations that defended and advanced American foreign and military policies for decades.”

“Any you can tell me about?” Brad asked.

Patrick thought for a moment, then nodded. “You've seen the Predator with the Customs and Border Protection shield on it, but I think you've noticed that the guards and other personnel here are not CBP. It's one way to do surveillance within the United States but maintain complete deniability. It gives the White House and Pentagon a lot of room to maneuver.”

“Sounds illegal as hell, Dad.”

“Probably so, but we do a lot of great work as well that I feel kept the world from going to war several times,” Patrick said. “President Martindale and I were involved in a defense contractor company called Scion Aviation International, providing contract aerial surveillance and eventually attack services to the U.S. military. When I joined Sky Masters, I lost track of what Scion was doing, but now I know he's kept the operation going. He does a lot of antiterrorist surveillance work all over the world, on contract to the U.S. government.”

“Martindale is starting to creep me out, Dad,” Brad said. “He's like a cross between a greasy politician and a generalissimo.”

“He's the kind of guy who thinks outside the box and gets the job done—the ends always justifies the means with him,” Patrick said. “As U.S. vice president, Martindale was the driving force behind using experimental high-tech planes and weapons being developed at the secret test sites at Dreamland and other places in what he called ‘operational test flights,' and as U.S. president, he created the Intelligence Support Agency that covertly supported the CIA and other agencies in operations all around the world, including within the United States.”

“Again, Dad, it sounds totally illegal.”

“Nowadays, perhaps,” Patrick responded. “During the Cold War, the politicians and commanders were looking for ways to accomplish the mission without violating the law or the Constitution. The law prohibited the CIA from operating within the U.S., but civilian surveillance and intelligence
support
groups were not illegal. Their definition, identity, and purpose were kept purposefully hazy.”

“So what do
you
want to do, Dad?” Brad asked.

“I've been given something I could never repay: the gift of life,” Patrick said. “I owe something to President Martindale for giving me that gift. I'm not saying I'm going to be his hired gun from now on, but I'm willing to follow this path to see where it leads me.” Brad had a very concerned expression on his face. “Let's change the subject. One of the things I monitor every day is
you,
at least your digital life, which these days is pretty extensive. I can access your social media sites, and I can access some of the security cameras on campus as well as the security cameras in your house and out at the airport in the aircraft hangar. I've been keeping an eye on you. You haven't done much flying or much of anything else except school stuff. Busy with the Starfire project, I see.”

“We pitched it to Dr. Nukaga this afternoon,” Brad said. It was good to see him brighten up as he started talking about school, Patrick thought. “As long as I didn't put the idea in his head that it's secretly a military project, which it's not, I think we have a good shot. One of our team leaders, Jung-bae Kim, gets along really well with Nukaga. He might be our ace in the hole.”

“Your entire team is pretty remarkable,” Patrick said. “Lane Eagan's parents are world-class researchers, and he's probably smarter than both of them put together. Jodie Cavendish was a superstar high school science student in Australia. She's received a dozen patents before she's finished her first year of college.”