Free Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 by Flight of the Old Dog (v1.1)

Nevada desert.
                 “It’s
incredible,’’ Elliott said, closing the top secret file he held in his hand.
“Absolutely incredible.”
                 “And
those are the things we’re sure of,” Curtis said. “Those are the things that’ll
be presented in the United Nations. I believe—and I’m alone on this so far—that
the Russians have an extremely advanced, fully operational laser defense system
in place, right now. As a matter of fact, I believe it’s been operational for
months, ever since the Iceland summit.”
                 “This
is amazing. The Russians are further ahead of us in beam defense than anyone
ever imagined. So what do we do? Go to the United Nations? Ask them to shut the
thing down?”
                 “That’s
one option we’re pursuing,” Curtis replied, loosening his tie against the
lingering heat. “But I’ve been authorized to explore two other possible
responses.” He paused. "Ice Fortress is one of them.”
                 Elliott
looked surprised, but nodded thoughtfully. “That certainly will get people’s
attention,” he said. “But it’s a sitting duck, if that laser is as capable as
you say it is.”
                 “They
wouldn’t dare shoot down a manned space platform,” Curtis declared.
                 Elliott
shook his head. “Tell that to the widows and widowers of that downed RC-135,
sir.”
                 Curtis
glared at Elliott, but said, “Ice
Fortress is different.’’
                 “You
bet, sir,” Elliott replied. “It’s worse.” They rode on in silence. Elliott
added: “Besides, wasn’t Ice Fortress cancelled? I know the Vanden- burg control center is closed.”
                 “It was cancelled,” Curtis said, “but not
because it wasn’t feasible. We had to cancel it because of that damned treaty
we signed. It’s frustrating. The Russians can shoot down one of our RC-135s,
but we can’t violate a treaty. We come out losers both ways.” His angry voice
seemed loud enough to be heard by the sentries at the guard shack a hundred
yards ahead of them.
                 “I
haven’t heard anything about the incident,” Elliott remarked. “Everything seems
very quiet.”
                 “The
situation politically has stabilized somewhat,” Curtis said. “The White House
is hoping this whole thing will just fade away. I’m sure the President will be
more than happy to let the matter fizzle out, take the Russians’ excuses and
minimal reparations. The President is really counting on Secretary of State
Brent to defuse the whole affair.”
                 “But
the Russians aren’t offering excuses or reparations, are they?” Elliott asked,
stretching his aching muscles.
                 “Hell,
why should they?” Curtis said. “They’re holding all the damn cards. We, the
military, whine and bitch that the Russians are shooting down our spy
satellites. Half the White House doesn’t believe us—and the other half doesn’t want to believe us.” He paused for a
moment, then added, “I’m sorry about the RC-135 crew, Brad. I know you worked
with them in the past. I’m sorry those crewmembers died.”
                 “I’m
sorry, too, Curtis,” Elliott said. “Those men and women were doing their job,
their duty , something they trained
hard to perfect. Their murder was senseless—premeditated, cruel, and
senseless.” Elliott shook his head and tried not to think of the friends he had
lost. “So,” he said finally, “Ice
Fortress is one option. And you’re out here to see what else we have up our
sleeves.”
                 “Putting
you in charge out here was the best move the Defense Department ever made,
Brad,” Curtis said. “What we needed was a guy who never said it can’t be done.
A guy happy to lock horns with Congress or anyone else who