Executive Intent by Dale Brown Page B

orbit before deciding what color to paint it, okay?” He shrugged his shoulders and added, “And the way the Air Force is faring these days, that color will probably be battleship gray.”

TWO
    Beaten paths are for beaten men.
    â€”E RIC J OHNSTON
    L AS V EGAS , N EVADA
    J ANUARY 2012
    â€œYou have the mind of a twenty-year-old, the bod of a thirty-year-old—but the eyes of an eighty-year-old?” Air Force Colonel Gia “Boxer” Cazzotto said, giving Patrick McLanahan a kiss on the cheek. Gia was tall, with straight dark hair, mischievous brown eyes, and a disarmingly shy smile—all of which disguised a woman who commanded one of America’s few remaining heavy bomber wings. “Cataract surgery, intraocular implants— you ?”
    â€œâ€™Fraid so, babe,” Patrick said. Patrick was a retired three-star Air Force general and one of the most highly regarded and popular military men in American history, having led mostly secret bombing missions all over the world for almost two decades, as well as the man responsible for starting America’s military SpaceDefense Force. But today, he was sitting up on a hospital bed in street clothes, being prepped for surgery. “I guess they’re common for astronauts, high-altitude pilots, and anyone who works where ultraviolet rays are stronger.”
    â€œNo, it’s common for old guys,” quipped Jonathan Colin Masters, who was also waiting with his friend. “Nervous, buddy?”
    â€œA little,” Patrick admitted.
    â€œYou are the first guy to get the newest version of the e-lenses,” Jon said. “But the other versions have worked out very well, so there’s nothing to be worried about.”
    â€œI don’t like anyone messing with my eyes.”
    â€œYour eyes will still be blue and gorgeous,” Gia said, giving Patrick another kiss. “Heck, I might get my lenses replaced—if Jon lowers the price.”
    â€œNo military discounts—yet,” Jon said. “But in a few years, everyone will have them.” In the hour Patrick had been in pre-op, nurses had been putting various drops in his eyes every few minutes, and his pupils were fully dilated, so even tiny bits of light were bothersome. He had an intravenous line put in, but the anesthesiologist hadn’t put anything in the saline bag just yet. Patrick’s blood pressure was slightly elevated, but he appeared calm and relaxed.
    Since leaving the U.S. Air Force two years earlier, he had let his hair grow a bit longer, and despite almost-daily workouts, he couldn’t keep a little “executive spread” from setting in. He still bore some scars from his time in Iraq on the ground evading Republic of Turkey fighter-bombers; the blond hair was gone, replaced by middle-age brown with a slowly rising forehead and rapidly spreading temples of gray; and the bright blue eyes were slowly being clouded by ultraviolet radiation. But otherwise he was looking good for a man approaching his midfifties.
    For the umpteenth time he was asked if he had any allergies, that it was indeed his left eye they were going to operate on, and ifhe had anything to eat or drink in the preceding twelve hours—and finally it was time to go. Gia and Jon said their good-byes and headed for a nearby laboratory to watch the procedure on a closed-circuit monitor while Patrick was wheeled into the operating room.
    The entire procedure took less than thirty minutes. After immobilizing his head and face, an eye surgeon made a tiny incision in Patrick’s left cornea, and he inserted an ultrasonic probe that dissolved the clouded left eye lens so it could be flushed away. Another tiny probe inserted the new artificial lens and positioned it in place. After several checks and measurements, Patrick was wheeled into the recovery room, where Gia was waiting for him and Jon and two other engineers from Sky Masters Inc. worked on a laptop