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

with military and civilian reporters, and letting the gleam
of two long tables full of silver trophies dazzle their eyes. Colonel Edward
Wilder, commander of the bomb wing, and Lieutenant-General Ashland, the
commander of Fifteenth Air Force and Wilder’s boss, then took turns lifting the
huge ten-gallon Fairchild Trophy cup over their heads in triumph as a dozen
photographers jockeyed for the best positions.
                 Two
men stood away from the jubilant crowd at the front of the hangar, watching the
festivities on stage from a deserted projection room overlooking the hangar.
Lieutenant-General Elliott had been going over several pages of computer
printout and notes as the other man, in civilian clothes, shook his head in
amazement.
                 “A
B-52 won Bomb Comp,” Colonel Andrew Wyatt exclaimed. “Hard to believe. We’ve
spent megabucks on the B-l, on the Avionics Modernization Program on the
FB-111, on the Offensive Avionics System for the B-52’s to carry cruise
missiles—and an unmodified vacuum-tube B-52 that entered the service when / did
almost thirty years ago wins the Fairchild Trophy. Incredible.”
                 “Those
guys are good. That’s all there is to it,” Elliott said, closing the classified
notes he was reading and handing them back to Wyatt. Wyatt did a fast
page-count and locked the folder away in his briefcase.
                 “I
thought the FB-11 Is were gonna pull it out,” Elliott said, “but this was the
first year of their AMP weapons delivery system modification and I think they
still have some software bugs in it.”
                 Wyatt
nodded. “So. What about a tour of your funny-farm in Nevada ? The general is brainstorming. He thinks
your research and development center might have some toys he can play with.”
                 Elliott
smiled and nodded. “Sure—that’s why we call it Dreamland.” For a few moments
both men looked at the celebrations on the floor of the Awards Hangar. Then,
General Elliott cleared his throat.
                 “What’s
going on, Andy?” he asked. Colonel Wyatt took a fast look around the projection
room and decided there was no way the room could be secure.
                 “Not
here, sir,” he said in a low voice. “But General Curtis is very anxious to meet
with you. Very anxious. And not in an
. . . official capacity.”
                 Elliott
narrowed his eyes and looked sideways at the young aide to the Chairman of the
Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Not in an official capacity? What the hell does that
mean?”
                 “It
means it’s to be a private tour,”
Wyatt said. “He’ll be in civvies. He wants to get some ideas, enlist some
assistance.”
                 “On
what?”
                 “He’ll
make that plain to you when he sees you, sir,” Wyatt said. Elliott rolled his
eyes in frustration.
                 “More
JCS doubletalk,” Elliott said. “All right, all right. Day after tomorrow. Staff
will be at a minimum—skeleton crew. He’ll get the royal tour, but not the royal
reception.”
                 “I
believe you’ve got the right idea, General,” Wyatt said. He extended a hand.
“Very nice to see you again, General.”
                 “Same
here, Andy,” Elliott said, shaking the aide’s hand. “You ever going to get your
fighter wing back, or are you content with being a general’s patsy?”
                 Now
it was Wyatt’s turn to look exasperated. “The old Elliott eloquence,” Wyatt
said. “Cut right to the heart. No, I’m busier than I’d ever thought I could be,
sir. Besides, that fighter stuff is for the young bucks.”
                 Elliott’s
face darkened. “Well, you’re welcome to stay for the rest of the Symposium,
Colonel. SAC’s biggest bash. The Vice President is showing up in a few