Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 Read online

  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.”

  Luger couldn’t argue with that observation. “Fab-enough—but I'm, worried about you,” Luger said, “and I want to know when we’re going back out there to look for Wendy.”

  “As soon as my son stops crying himself to sleep,” Patrick replied bitterly. Again, Luger had no reply for that.

  “Been watching the news?”

  “No.”

  “Susan Bailey Salaam was elected president of Egypt,” Hal Briggs said. “She’s got the Libyans, Sudanese, Syrians, Lebanese, Iranians, Iraqis, Jordanis, and Saudi
s cheering for her like she’s some kind of rock star.”

  “Good for her.”

  “There’s talk of another United Arab Republic,” Luger added. “Egypt and Syria merged for a few years back in the late fifties and early sixties under Nasser—they’re saying that Susan Salaam might be able to unify the entire Arab world.”

  Now Patrick’s interest was piqued a bit. “Interesting. So I’ll bet Martindale is calling because the Central African Petroleum Partnership called....”

  “Exactly—wanting to know if we’re going to stay on the case,” Briggs said.

  “What’s going on out there?”

  “Salaam has brought Libya in as a partner in the cartel, for starters,” Luger said.

  “Libya? Partnered up with Egypt?”

  “Hey, they’re all huggy and kissy lately,” Briggs said. “Egypt is giving out work visas to Libyans and Sudanese to work in Salimah like crazy—almost ten thousand persons have migrated to Salimah in just the past few days. There’s already talk of Sudan, Syria, and Jordan joining the oil partnership.”

  “Sounds like Egypt decided to trade jobs for peace,” Patrick observed. “Good move.”

  “And so far it’s paying off big-time,” Luger said. “Not only are they not fighting, but they’re praising and cooperating with each other unlike anything anyone’s ever seen.”

  “So Egypt becomes the new center of the Arab world,” Patrick mused.

  “Makes sense,” Luger said. “Egypt is by far more powerful than any of the other countries, and they’re more centrally located and strategically important, with the Suez Canal and the Salimah oil fields. They have strong ties to the Muslim world, the African world, Europe, and the West all at the same time.”

  “And, last but not least, Egypt has Susan Bailey Salaam—they’re calling her the reincarnation of Cleopatra,” Hal Briggs added. “She was elected in a landslide and cheered in eight different African and Middle East capitals the night of her election. It’s pretty amazing to watch. Less than a month ago she had almost gotten herself blown up and was on the run, being hunted down by assassins—now, she’s not only president, but being considered the up-and- coming leader of the whole freakin’ Arab world.”

  “And naturally, the Central African Petroleum Partners are not happy with this arrangement—right?”

  “You got it,” Luger said. “Egypt is the majority partner, and Salaam has been allowing more Arab and African workers in to work at Salimah, displacing the Asians and Europeans.”

  “And with the price of oil hitting new highs, all those folks are getting mighty rich,” Briggs added.

  “Speaking of which.” David Luger held out three envelopes. “Wire-transfer receipts: our payment from the Central African Petroleum Partners. Paul made you executor of his estate.”

  Patrick looked at the receipts in the envelopes, closed his eyes, then dropped them on a table. “It’s a lot of money,” he said softly. “But was it worth it, guys?” he asked.

  “It’s never worth it when you take losses, man,” Briggs said. “But we all volunteered. We’re all doin’ what we want to be doin’.” He looked carefully at Patrick; then: “Aren’t we?”

  Patrick did not—could not—answer.

  SKY MASTERS INC. TEST FACILITY,

  TONOPAH TEST RANGE, NEVADA

  THE NEXT MORNING

  Jon Masters found Kelsey Duffield at a computer workstation in the research library, sound asleep, with a blanket thrown over her shoulders. Her mother, Cheryl, was asleep in a chair in a comer of the room, but awoke immediately when Jon entered—and she did not look happy.

  “I’ve been looking for you guys. Your phones are off,” Jon whispered.

  “Kelsey has been working all night—she refused to leave,” Cheryl said. “She’s been on the phone to scientists and laboratories all over the world. I finally had to shut it off—we had no chance of getting any rest otherwise.” She awakened her daughter and told her to go to the bathroom. Kelsey walked out, rubbing her eyes and shuffling along like kids who just woke up do.

  “Poor kid. She’s a trouper, that’s for sure.”

  “ ‘Trouper’? She’s being overworked—and I’d say this verges on abuse,” Cheryl said angrily. “Keeping her locked up in this place ... spending days on end on that computer or in the lab. It’s ridiculous. You can’t expect her to keep on working like this.”

  “Cheryl, I’m not expecting her to do any of this,” Jon said. “Kelsey is the one who walked into library and hasn’t come out.”

  “Come out? How can she? Security officers besiege us every time we turn around. It wastes almost half a day going in and out of security. Kelsey feels less intruded upon by just staying here.”

  “Well, that’s the conclusion most of us come to,” Jon admitted with a sheepish grin. “It’s almost as if the Air Force designs the security this way to make us work harder.”

  “It’s not funny, Dr. Masters.”

  “No one is forcing her to do this, Cheryl. She’s doing it all on her own.” He looked at her carefully. “You really are worried, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Are you telling me that Kelsey’s never worked like this before? This is the first time she’s been so ...”

  “Obsessed? Single-minded? Manic?” Cheryl exploded. “That’s what I’m saying, Dr. Masters. Sure, she’s worked hard before—she works hard on everything she’s ever done. But never like this. I’m really worried about her.”

  “I don’t have kids, Cheryl, so I’m no expert,” Jon said, “but if I didn’t know better, I’d say Kelsey is ...”

  “What?”

  “Having fun,” Jon said. When Cheryl rolled her eyes in disbelief, Jon went on, “No, really. Putting together inertial confinement chambers and laser generators is like ... like putting together a dollhouse or a Lego castle is to most kids.”

  “Jon, you’re wrong. Completely, absolutely wrong.” But even as she said the words, Jon could see that she really didn’t believe they were true. “I wish this never happened. I wish Kelsey was just a normal, everyday kid.”

  “Cheryl, she is just an everyday normal kid—but with an incredible gift,” Jon said. “I think you see the security and the weapons and the horror and destruction all this could cause, and you wonder and worry about how this will affect your daughter.”

  “Of course I’m worried!”

  “But have you looked at your daughter lately ... I mean, stepped back and really looked at her?” Jon asked. “I mean, I’ve never had kids, but I’m a kid at heart. And I’ve seen supersmart kids before. Some of them are really full of themselves. They’ll talk about the offers they get from universities and big companies and consultants to work for them; they’ll talk about their stock portfolios and patents and the money they’re making.”

  He paused, staring out into space as if reliving some scene in his mind’s eye. “I know about those kids—because I was one. I am probably still one.” He chuckled. “Man, I used to love stuffing one down some four-star general’s shirt. He thought he knew everything—I couldn’t wait to blow him away. Every tactic, every procedure, every concept he had, I had a response or an alternative that he never thought about. I used to cream the big corporate CEOs daily. They wouldn’t give me the time of day— until I showed them a design for something they absolutely had to have. I was a third of their age and had bank accounts and portfolios bigger than theirs. I... was ... the greatest.”

  “Kelsey has done all that stuff too,” he said softly. “She’s built companies, lectured at Cornell, given presentations in front of the National Science Foundation and the Lawrence Livermore Laboratories. She has almost as many patents as I have and she’s a fourth my age. But you know the difference between Kelsey and those other Generation-X nerds? The other bozos tell you all the stuff about themselves—myself included. I had to go out and find out all the stuff about Kelsey. She doesn’t brag about all her accomplishments.” He looked at Cheryl and smiled. “May
be that has as much to do with you as it does with her?” For the first time in a very long time, Cheryl Duffield smiled.

  Jon smiled back, then looked around. “Where did she go?”

  “Bathroom.”

  “That was a few minutes ago,” Jon said. “Uh-oh. If I know Kelsey, she’s not going to come back here right away. I know where she is.” Jon was correct: He walked directly to the AL-52 laser lab and found Kelsey with her laser goggles on, punching instructions into a computer beside the large mounting racks where the components of the plasma laser were mounted. Kelsey wore only a pair of socks on her feet, and her Top Secret ID badge was pinned to the tops of her underwear peeking over the top of her pants.

  Jon was simply and unabashedly dumbfounded whenever he walked into this lab. In an amazingly short period of time, he and Kelsey had managed to build a full-scale working model of a laser that had been virtually unheard of. The bench that the laser was mounted to was the same size as the interior of the B-52 aircraft; the laser waveguides were mounted in an adjacent room, and the power capacitors and other support equipment were mounted in other rooms as well, networked here for the tests.

  The room was dominated by a large aluminum sphere seven feet in diameter, with a number of electrodes and cables running around the outside. This was the main component—the inertial confinement chamber. Set on the inside surface of the sphere were four hundred diode lasers, like powerful laser pointers, aimed into the center of the sphere. Inside the sphere, magnetrons—magnetic guns— were also set up, pointing into the center as well. A tube ran through the center, and there was an opening in the front end of the sphere that connected the confinement chamber to a large cylinder with thousands of rectangles etched into it—the laser generators—and from there to the Faraday oscillator that would collect the light energy from the generators and produce a laser beam.

  The tube fed tiny pellets of deuterium and tritium into the sphere, and the laser beams bombarded the pellets. The deuterium and tritium elements in the gaseous cloud that formed in the center of the sphere released energy particles but were then trapped, focused, and squeezed by the laser beams until the heat built up to a point where the elements no longer repelled one another but were fused together. When they fused, they created a massive release of heat and energy. Further squeezed by the magnetrons, the fused particles suddenly snapped apart, creating a cloud of free electrons and positively charged particles called ions—a plasma field. The magnetrons then focused the field and sent it to the laser generator, where the plasma energy stripped high-energy particles from neodymium, creating laser light.