Starfire Page 18

  “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.”

  Brad’s face fell once again. “I guess you have a lot of time to surf the Internet, don’t you, Dad?” he remarked in a quiet, sad tone.

  This time, Patrick unplugged himself, went over to his son, put his armored arms around him, and held him. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me or pity me, Brad,” he said after several long moments. He went back to his spot, plugged himself in, then stood up straight and froze. “Please don’t. As I said, I feel very connected to you because I can watch you and check up on you online. I’ve even tweeted you a couple times.”

  Like a flashbulb going off, Brad’s face illuminated in astonishment. “You have? Who are you? What’s your Twitter name?”

  “I don’t have one. I’m invisible.”

  “Invisible?”

  “Not visible to a user or to other visitors.” Brad looked skeptical. “I have the ability to monitor anyone’s accounts on social media sites without ‘friending,’ Brad. A lot of government agencies and even companies have the ability. I search posts for key words, and I leave messages for you. Sometimes it’s just a ‘like’ or one or two words. I just like keeping tabs on you. I’m content to just watch and read.”

  Despite his son’s initial unease at the thought of unknown persons, companies, or government agencies having access to his social media posts, Patrick thought that this was the happiest Brad looked since he emerged from the Sherpa. “You know something, Dad? I’ve always had the feeling, not very strong but just kind of deep down in the back of my head, that you were watching me. I thought it was a religious or spiritual thing, like it was your ghost or you were up in heaven or something. I think that of Mom too.”

  “You were right. I was watching you . . . even digitally speaking with you. And I think Mom does watch over us too.”

  “Damn. Trust your feelings, I guess,” Brad said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Let’s talk about Cal Poly.”

  “I’ve got to go back, Dad,” Brad said. “I am going back. Starfire is too big of a deal. If you’ve been looking in on me, you know how big it is.”

  “I know you’ve been working really hard on it,” Patrick said. “But I’m not going to let you go back until I know you’re safe. The house you were in is being shut down—it’s just too isolated.”

  “Then I’ll live in the dorms and eat in the dining halls,” Brad said. “They’re plenty crowded. I don’t know how much work I can get done there, but I have twenty-four/seven access to the Reinhold Aerospace Engineering building—I can work there.”

  “If anyone can think of a way to have you safely go back there, Chris Wohl will do it,” Patrick said. “So how did you pick Cal Poly?”

  “Best aerospace engineering school on the West Coast I could get into with my grades,” Brad said. “I guess too much football, Civil Air Patrol, and Angel Flight West charity flying in high school really affected my grades.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “So it’s no coincidence that there happened to be that rancherita available when I was looking for housing? Does it really belong to the sergeant major?”

  “It belongs to Scion Aviation,” Patrick said. “I felt it was easier to keep an eye on you there than in the dorms. So you really like Cal Poly?”

  “Cal Poly is a great school, I like most of my professors, and it’s well within range for the P210 so I can fly to Battle Mountain to visit Sondra Eddington when I can.”

  “You two hit it off pretty well, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but it’s tough going,” Brad said. “She’s always gone, and I have virtually no spare time.”

  “Still want to be a test pilot?”

  “You bet I do, Dad,” Brad said. “I’ve been staying in touch with Boomer, Gonzo, Dr. Richter, and Dr. Kaddiri at Sky Masters, and Colonel Hoffman at Warbirds Forever. They might be able to get me an internship at the Nevada Test Pilot School between my junior and senior years if I keep my grades up, and maybe Sky Masters will even sponsor me for a class slot, like Warbirds Forever is doing with Sondra training to fly the spaceplanes at Sky Masters.” Warbirds Forever was an aircraft maintenance facility at Stead Airport in Reno, Nevada, that also trained civilian pilots in a wide variety of aircraft, from old classic biplanes, multimillion-dollar bizjets, and retired military aircraft; Sondra Eddington was one of their instructor pilots. “A million and a half dollars for a master’s degree and accreditation as a test pilot. I eventually want to fly the spaceplanes into orbit too. Maybe Sondra will be my instructor.”

  “Congratulations. I think you’re well on your way.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Brad paused, looking the CID up and down, and smiled. “It’s great to be able to talk with you again, Dad,” he said finally. “I think I’m starting to get over the fact that you’re sealed up inside a machine.”

  “I knew it was going to be hard for you at first and maybe later on too,” Patrick said. “I considered not stepping out of the Sherpa, or not telling you it was me, just so you’d be spared the pain this has caused. President Martindale and I talked about it, and he said he’d play it any way I wanted. I’m glad I did tell you, and I’m glad you’re getting used to it.”

  “I get a feeling that it’s not really you in there,” Brad said. “You say you’re my dad, but how do I know that?”

  “Do you want to test me?” Patrick asked. “Go ahead.”

  “Okay. You fixed something for me all the time for dinner that was simple for you and good for me.”

  “Mac and cheese with roasted sliced hot dogs,” Patrick said immediately. “You especially liked the MRE version.”

  “Mom?”

  “You scattered her ashes at sea off Coronado,” Patrick said. “It was amazing: the ashes glistened like silver, and it seemed as if they never touched the water. They went skyward instead of downward.”

  “I remember that day,” Brad said. “The guys with us were sad, but you didn’t seem that sad.”

  “I know,” Patrick said. “I believed that as commanding officer, I wasn’t supposed to show sadness, fear, weakness, or sorrow, even regarding my own wife. That was wrong. I always thought you never noticed. Obviously, you did.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “I’m sorry, son. Your mother was an extraordinary woman. I never told you stories about what she did. I’m sorry about that too. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “That would be cool, Dad.” Brad motioned over his shoulder to the C-23C Sherpa. “Is that your airplane?”

  “One of many in President Martindale’s collection,” Patrick said. “Surplus from U.S. Air Forces in Europe. It’s the smallest cargo plane I can fit in. He’s got a Boeing 737-800 freighter for overseas trips. He paints them all black despite how dangerous and illegal that is, and how screwed up it makes the plane’s environmental control systems. He’s been like that ever since I’ve known him: everything is a means of control and intimidation, even the color of paint on an aircraft, and screw the mechanical, social, or political ramifications.”

  “Are you ever going to tell Aunt Nancy and Aunt Margaret?” Brad asked.

  “I will never say never, Brad, but for now I want my existence to be a secret,” Patrick said. “You can’t tell anyone either. Only President Martindale, President Phoenix, Chris Wohl, and a handful of others know. Not even Dr. Kaddiri and Dr. Richter at Sky Masters know, and their company is the prime contractor on the Cybernetic Infantry Devices. To everyone else, I’m just a call sign.”

  “What’s that?”

  There was a slight pause, then Patrick replied, “ ‘Resurrection.’ ”

  “We think it can be done, sir,” Chris Wohl said as he and his men entered the hangar early the next morning. He set a bag of breakfast sandwi
ches on the table in the conference room where Brad was sleeping.

  Brad was awake instantly, and he followed Wohl and his men into the main hangar, where the CID was standing. “You came up with a plan so soon?” he remarked. “It’s not even six A.M.”

  “The general said as soon as possible,” Wohl said matter-of-factly. “We worked all night.” To Patrick in the CID he said, “Sir, we downloaded maps of the campus and the surrounding area, and obtained information on the campus security police unit, city police, San Luis Obispo county sheriff’s department, California Highway Patrol, and federal law enforcement agencies based in and near the city of San Luis Obispo. All agencies are very well staffed and trained. The campus police have an extensive camera surveillance system—virtually every door and hallway in the education and administration buildings, almost every street corner, and every exterior doorway in every other building on campus, have cameras and are recorded. Major crime on campus does not appear to be a big problem.

  “There are approximately nineteen thousand students on campus,” he went on. “The student population is primarily from California, primarily white, Hispanic, and Asian; only two percent of the student population is from other countries, and only fifteen percent of foreign students are from Eastern Europe. The county is rural and hilly and does not appear to have a serious gang presence, although there are numerous reports of meth labs and marijuana farms in the countryside that are quickly eradicated by county, state, and federal agencies that appear to work closely with each other.

  “Problems: Access to the campus and most all the buildings is not normally controlled, although the campus’s buildings, labs, and classrooms can be remotely locked down electronically by campus security; and emergency communications via text messaging is excellent,” Wohl continued. “However, because access is not controlled, it would be easy for my team to go on campus if necessary. Identifying an attacker or surveillance among all the students would be difficult, and countersurveillance tactics training should be mandatory so Bradley can identify a shadow. Weapons are not allowed on campus, and concealed-carry firearm permits are almost impossible to get in that county or the entire state for that matter, but there were a great number of reports of armed students. ‘Policeman’ might be able to help get a concealed-carry firearm permit. The county jail is less than two miles south, and the California Men’s Colony, a minimum- and medium-security state prison, is less than three miles to the northwest. The San Luis Obispo Regional Airport is four-point-two miles south.

  “My recommendation, sir, based on our preliminary analysis, would be for your son to move back on campus as soon as possible, but not into the mass dormitories,” Wohl concluded. “Our recommendation would be to have him move to the housing unit known as Poly Canyon. It is more like an apartment building complex, has fewer students, is farther away from the main campus, each building has its own dedicated full-time manager and full-time security team, and each floor has shifts of student resident assistants, so there appears to be a lot of eyes open twenty-four/seven. We estimate that he would have a moderate to good chance of survival if he gets some proper countersurveillance, self-defense, and weapons training, and carries a firearm.”

  “I’d love to do all that stuff!” Brad exclaimed. “When do I start?”

  The CID remained motionless for several long moments, but it finally moved its head. “Excellent report, Sergeant Major,” Patrick said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  “Set up a training schedule for Bradley at a local gym or similar facility,” Patrick said. “I believe Chief Ratel is still in the area. Get started as soon as possible. I’ll contact ‘Policeman’ and have him work on a legal concealed-carry permit and getting into Poly Canyon. Train Brad on how to use and carry a gun anyway until we get a legal unlimited concealed-carry permit.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wohl responded, and turned and went into the conference room with his teammates.

  “Kylie.” Patrick spoke into his communication system.

  “Yes, sir?” the computerized assistant responded.

  “I need immediate summer and full-year residency at Poly Canyon student housing on the California Polytechnic University, San Luis Obispo campus for Bradley McLanahan,” he said. “I also need a nationwide concealed-carry permit for Bradley, including authorization to carry on college campuses. Notify headquarters and ‘Policeman’ of this request—he may need to assist you to overcome any bureaucratic or political obstacles.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m still not totally comfortable with this, Brad,” Patrick said after signing off from his electronic assistant, “but if we can get you into Poly Canyon and the sergeant major can get you trained up, I’ll feel better. I’m hoping the Russians won’t bother you or your aunts after encountering Sergeant Major Wohl, but we’ll assume they’ll come back and try again after they regroup and track you down, so we’ll do everything we can to keep you safe and staying in school. I’m sure Gryzlov will send more teams after you as soon as you resurface, so we have just a short time to get you trained, and Chris and his team won’t always be available to watch over you, so it’s important to get trained up as soon as possible.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Brad said. He walked over to the CID and gave it a hug—thinking of the big robot as his father was becoming easier every minute. “That would be great. I’ll work really hard at it, I promise. One of my team leaders lives in Poly Canyon, and if I didn’t already have Sondra back home, I’d definitely like to be with her.”

  “Just remember to keep your eyes and ears open and listen to that little voice in the back of your head, the one that was telling you that your father was watching you,” Patrick said. “It will warn you of danger.”

  “I will, Dad.”

  “Good. Go talk to the sergeant major and arrange with him to take you to a hotel in town until we can get your room set up on campus. You probably also need to get your story straight and talk with the police about what happened back at the rancherito. I’ll be heading back to St. George tonight.”

  “Back into storage?”

  “Back where I can check on my targets and get caught up again,” Patrick said. “I’ll be in touch, Brad. I love you, son.”

  “I love you too, Dad,” Brad said. He gave the CID another hug, then went to the conference room and found Chris Wohl. “Thanks for doing that report so quickly, Sergeant Major,” he said. “I didn’t realize the campus was so safe.”

  “It’s not,” Wohl said, “at least not for you against Russian hit men.”

  Brad’s smile disappeared. “Say what?” he asked with a stunned expression.

  “Think about it, McLanahan: nineteen thousand students, probably five thousand more faculty and staff, crammed into an area less than three square miles,” Wohl said. “Anyone can come and go around the clock anywhere on campus they please. There is just one sworn campus police officer per shift for every one thousand students, and they have no heavy weapons and no SWAT training. You’re done with all of your freshman-year courses, so your class sizes will be smaller from now on, but you’ll still be in classes and labs with dozens of kids.”

  “Then why did you recommend I go back?”

  “Because I believe your father is being too protective—he would be very happy to just lock you away, stand you in a nice safe secure box like him, and have the world fed to you through the Internet,” Wohl said. “He wouldn’t care how miserable you’d be, because in his mind you’d be safe from the dangerous world he’s lived and fought in almost all his life.”

  “So what do you care about what my father wants to do about me, Sergeant Major?” Brad asked. “I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. You said you’re not a friend of my father. Why do you care?”

  Wohl ignored the question. “The information I gave was accurate: it’s a relatively safe campus and city,” he said instead. “With some training, the danger can be managed, maybe even minimized.” He gave Brad a big smile
, which still looked pretty malevolent, and added, “Besides, now my men and I have you, and we got the go-ahead to build a training program to get your ass in shape and learn the proper way to look at the world. Every day, one hour a day.”

  “Every day? I can’t train every day. I’ve got—”

  “Every day, McLanahan,” Wohl said. “You will train each and every day, rain or shine, sick or well, exams or dates, or I’ll send you back to your father, and he’ll happily lock you away inside the red rocks of southern Utah. You’ll do weights and cardio for physical fitness; Cane-Ja and Krav Maga for self-defense; and classes and demonstrations of surveillance, countersurveillance, investigation, observation, and identification techniques.” He made that evil smile once more, then added, “You thought Second Beast at the Air Force Academy was tough? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, bubba.” Wohl’s smile disappeared, and he wore a thoughtful expression. “The first thing we need to do is give you your call sign,” he said.

  “A call sign? What do I need a call sign for?”

  “Because I’m tired of calling you ‘McLanahan”—too many syllables,” Wohl said. “Besides, McLanahan is definitely your father until he kicks the bucket, and I don’t think that’s going to happen for a very long time.” He looked at his teammates in the conference room with him. All three of them were tall, square-jawed, and heavily muscled, the Hollywood version of a Navy SEAL, which Brad thought they probably used to be. “What do you boys think?”

  “Pussy,” one said. He was the biggest of the three, well over six feet tall and well over two hundred pounds, with a thick neck, broad shoulders tapering to a thin waist, enlarging again to thick thighs and calves, then tapering again to thin ankles. He looked like a professional bodybuilder, Brad thought. “Better yet, just give him to the chief. He’ll chew him up and spit him out, the general will send him to St. George, and then we don’t have to fuck with him.”