Rogue Forces

“Excuse me, sir,” Wilhelm interrupted. “May I have a word with you?” He motioned to a front corner of the Tank, indicating Patrick should follow him; a young Air Force lieutenant wisely evacuated his nearby console when he saw the colonel’s warning glare as they approached.

Just as they reached the console so they could have their private chat, Patrick held up a finger, then reached up to touch a tiny button on an all but invisible earset in his left ear canal. Wilhelm’s eyes bugged in surprise. “Is that a wireless earpiece for a cell phone?” he asked.

Patrick nodded. “Are cell phones prohibited in here, Colonel? I can take it outside—”

“They’re…they’re supposed to be jammed so no one can receive or make calls on them—defense against remotely detonated IEDs. And the nearest cell tower is six miles away.”

“It’s a special unit—encrypted, secure, jam-resistant, pretty powerful for its size,” Patrick said. “We’ll look at upgrading your jammers, or replace them with directional finders that will pinpoint the location of both sides of a conversation.” Wilhelm blinked in confusion. “So it’s okay if I take this?” Wilhelm was too stunned to respond, so Patrick nodded in thanks and touched the “call” button. “Hi, Dave,” he said. “Yeah…yeah, have him make the call. You were right. Thanks.” He touched the earset again to terminate the call. “Sorry for the interruption, Colonel. Do you have a question for me?”

Wilhelm quickly cleared the confusion out of his head, then put his fists on his hips and leaned toward Patrick. “Yes, sir, I do: Who in hell do you think you are?” Wilhelm said in a low, muted, growling voice. He towered over McLanahan, jutting out his chin as if daring anyone to try to hit it and impaling him with a severe direct glare. “This is my command center. No one gives me orders in here, not even the hajji who supposedly commands this fucking base. And nothing comes within a hundred miles of here unless they get my approval and clearance first, even a retired three-star. Now that you’re here you can stay, but I guarantee the next sonofabitch who doesn’t get my permission to enter will get kicked off this base so fast and so hard he’ll be looking for his ass in the Persian Gulf. Do you read me, General?”

“Yes, Colonel, I do,” Patrick said. He did not look away, and the two men locked eyes. “Are you finished, Colonel?”

“Don’t give me any attitude, McLanahan,” Wilhelm said. “I’ve read your contract, and I’ve dealt with thousands of you civilian augmentees or contractors or whatever the hell you call yourselves now. You may be high-tech, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re still just one of the cooks and bottle washers around here.

“With all due respect, General, this is a warning: while you’re in my sector, you report to me; you get out of line, you get hell from me; you violate my orders, and I will personally stuff your balls down your throat.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “You have something you want to say to me now, sir?”

“Yes, Colonel.” Patrick gave Wilhelm a smile that nearly sent the Army colonel into a flying rage, then went on: “You have a phone call from division headquarters waiting for you. I suggest you take it.” Wilhelm turned and saw the communications shift duty officer trotting toward him.

He looked at McLanahan’s smile, gave him a glare, then went over to the nearby console, put on a headset, and logged himself in. “Wilhelm. What?”

“Stand by for division, sir,” the communications technician said. Wilhelm looked at McLanahan in surprise. A moment later: “Jack? Connolly here.” Charles Connolly was the two-star Army general based at Fort Lewis, Washington, who commanded the division assigned to northern Iraq.

“Yes, sir?”

“Sorry, Jack, but I just heard about it myself a few minutes ago and thought I’d better call you myself,” Connolly said. “That contractor assigned to run aerial surveillance missions on the Iraq-Turkish border in your sector? There’s a VIP on board: Patrick McLanahan.”

“I’m speaking to him right now, sir,” Wilhelm said.

“He’s there already? Shit. Sorry about that, Jack, but that guy has a reputation for just showing up and doing whatever the hell he pleases.”

“That’s not going to happen around here, sir.”

“Listen, Jack, treat this guy with kid gloves until we figure out exactly what kind of horsepower he’s got behind him,” Connolly said. “He’s a civilian and a contractor, yes, but Corps tells me he works for some heavy hitters that could very quickly make some career-altering phone calls if you get my drift.”

“He just informed me that he’s bringing another plane out here. Twenty-five more personnel! I’m trying to draw down this base, sir, not pack more civvies in here.”