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

stood in the way of
developing new ideas. Now, I need you to find some for me. I want—”
                 “To
take out this . . . this site,” Elliott said quickly, glancing sideways at the
driver. “Attack it.”
                 Curtis
was somewhat taken aback. “No one said anything about ‘taking out’ anything,
especially in goddamned Russia .” He smiled. “Jesus, Brad, you’re a
sonofabitch.”
                 General
Elliott smiled back at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, then leaned
forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “We’ll walk from here, Hal. Meet
us back at the guard shack in an hour.”
                 The
truck ground to a halt, and the driver, a young second lieutenant wearing
fatigues and carrying a small Uzi submachine gun, trotted around to General
Curtis’ door and held it open for him. Both men stepped out.
                 “You
won’t get lost from here, will you, General?” the lieutenant asked Elliott in a
low enough voice to keep Curtis from hearing. “Straight down the road, about
four hundred—”
                 “This
is my desert, Hal,” Elliott growled.
With a smile he said, “Get out of here. Make sure they have fresh coffee at the
guard shack, and don 7 drink it all.”
The young officer saluted, trotted back to the driver’s seat, and drove off.
                 “This,
sir, is Dreamland,” Elliott said, beaming. He spread his hands out across the
desert as he spoke. “Ideas become reality here. Theories become machines. Men
like you don’t come here just to visit—you come here to get answers.” Elliott’s
mind was racing—it was exhilarating for Curtis just to watch.
                 “Kavaznya.
Heavily defended, I’d say, according to your intel.”
                 “That
would be an understatement,” General Curtis replied. “They converted their
small supply airfield into a full-scale year-round base.”
                 “Rule
out a carrier task force, then,” Elliott said, nodding. “They’d be blown out of
the water thirteen hundred miles north of Japan . The Russians would see a flight of F-15s
and their tankers long before they reached Kavaznya, and you might need two
squadrons to beat past the defense and take that complex out.” He looked at
Curtis.
                 “Bombers.
Heavy bombers. B-ls, perhaps?”
                 “What
else would I get from an old SAC warhorse?” Curtis said, smiling.
                 Elliott
went on: “We don’t want the Russians to think we just declared war on them. One
bomber, launch three, but pick the best for the attack. One lone penetrator,
even against heavy defenses, has a chance. Especially a B-l.”
                 “My
thoughts exactly.”
                 It
was Elliott’s turn to smile. “You didn’t come here to shop, did you, sir? You
came to buy. Cash and carry. Price is no object. All that stuff.”
                 “I
wanted to see your little playland here, too,” Curtis said, “but I knew you’d
have what I’m looking for.”
                 “I
don’t have a B-l here,” Elliott said as they approached the guard shack. “But
I’ve got something . . . you won’t believe.”
                 “I
knew you’d put on a show for me,” Curtis said. “But where the hell are we?”
                 “We’re
in Nevada , sir,” Elliott said, scanning the horizon
with the corners of his eyes. It was an old Navy seadog trick taught to him by
his father: the corners of the eyes can detect motion easier than the center,
because of the lesser concentration of light receptors at the edges. “In the
middle of nowhere. That’s the Groom Mountain range over there,” Elliott said, pointing
to the twilight-streaked horizon. “You can just barely see Bald Mountain over there. Papoose Range is over