Brad Elliott simply left his suit, shirt, shoes, and underwear on a chair in the outer office — here in the corporate world, someone took care of cleaning and pressing and stuff like that. He usually took the time to hang up his suit neatly, bag his underwear, and spit-shine his shoes before hitting the rack, but why waste the time? — someone would do all that for him in the morning no matter how neatly it was all put away. He said “someone.” He assumed it would be his “assistant”—they didn’t use the term “secretary” anymore, and the more military titles “clerk” and “aide” were usually met with round eyes full of shock. It didn’t matter anyway, because he spent little time in the office, preferring to be in the labs or on the flightline, and he didn’t even know his “assistant’s” name. He didn’t even know that the sofa in his office was a sleeper, because he never sat in the damn thing.
The sofa bed had stiff fresh sheets and an old thick green wool blanket, and Wendy had left an apple and a glass of milk on the table next to the sofa. What a sweetheart she was, Elliott thought. Years ago, back when she was a civilian contractor working on new high-tech defensive electronic countermeasures systems for heavy bomber aircraft, she had been such a serious, technoid cold fish. But then she’d met Patrick McLanahan at the Strategic Air Command Bomb Competition Symposium at Barksdale Air Force Base, and she’d come back an entirely new woman. Now, as a wife — and a mother, Elliott guessed, although neither McLanahan had announced anything yet, and Wendy tried her best to hide it — she had been transformed into a caring, loving woman as well as a brilliant electronics engineer.
Unfortunately, Elliott thought, now her husband Patrick was the technoid cold fish. He showed no life, no spark, no drive. Sure, he’d been brilliant as ever on the secret B-2 stealth bomber project. Sure, he’d worked hard to get Sky Masters’s new B-52 modification program signed and funded. But he seemed to have lost a lot of his killer instinct since his voluntary early retirement last year. His appetite for decisive, raw, raging combat, to do whatever it took to achieve victory, the urge to drive your enemies before you and take command, was gone. He was a technoid now, almost reaching full “suit” status. Elliott couldn’t imagine it, but Patrick might actually prefer flying a desk now instead of flying a bomber. The old “Muck” McLanahan, bombardier extraordinaire, would never allow a squid to get between him and control of the skies, the earth, or the seas anywhere in the—
Brad Elliott was just starting to ease his artificial leg under the stiff, clean white sheets when the phone on the table near the window rang. Swearing aloud, he got up to answer it. “What?”
It was an Asian voice on the other end: “Do I have the pleasure of speaking with Lieutenant General Bradley James Elliott?”
“Who the hell is this?”
“My name is Kuo Han-min, General. I am the ambassador to the United States of America from the Republic of China, calling from New York. I am very pleased to speak to you.”
“You were in the White House, meeting with the President.”
“Yes, General. I am pleased that the President has pledged his support for my country, and I hope he successfully convinces your parliament and the American people that my country should remain independent from the Communists.”
“How did you find my number?”
“I am well familiar with Dr. Jon Masters and his company," Kuo explained. "Once I saw you and Colonel Patrick McLanahan with Dr. Masters. I logically assumed you were working with him. After that, it was easy to trace your office number."
“I'm not listed," Elliott said, in an angry tone. "Not here, not anywhere."
“I must give credit to my eager staff," Kuo said, in a light tone, “and admit I do not know’ how I came to get your number, only that I haye it — as w’ell as your Oregon address and your trayel itinerary for today."
“What do you wont?"
"General, sir. I haye called to ask a great boon," Kuo said. “I deduce by your conversation with President Martindale and your hasty return to Dr. Masters's facility in your charming southern American state of Arkansas that you are preparing to launch a great mission to support my people and my country against the threat we now face by the Chinese Communists."
“You deduce wrong," Elliott said. “Good-bye."
“Let us coordinate our attacks. General," Kuo went on quickly. "Together. we can destroy the Communist fleet once and for all. The power of your incredible bomber fleet, matched with my country's naval power, will mean certain death for any who threaten my country or any democratic society in Asia."
“I don't know’ w’hat you're talking about," Elliott said. “What we're doing is none of your business. What you're doing is none of ours."
“The Communist carrier battle group is carrying nuclear weapons," Ambassador Kuo said. “The carrier is earning three nuclear-tipped M-11 land attack missiles, and the two destroyers each earn four nuclear-tipped SS-N-12 anti-ship missiles."
Elliott's jaw dropped open in surprise. “You're shitting me… you know’ this for a fact? Are you sure?"
“We are positive of our information. General," Ku said. “We believe their target is Quemoy Tao. My country is sending our newest frigate, the Kin Men, out to intercept and destroy these vessels before they can get within range and launch their missiles. I am begging you to help us. Use the power of your Megafortress bombers to help defend our warship until it can successfully destroy the three nuclear-armed Communist worships."
“How’ in hell do you know’…?"
“General Elliott. l assure you? many friends as well as many enemies know or can logically assume much about your special bomber fleet,” Kuo said, “ Believe me, sir, the Republic of China is a friend, You are my best hope for survival until President Martindale can defeat his opponents in your Congress and commit the full force of American military strength against the Chinese Communists, You are the new Flying Tigers, the new American Volunteer Group, the band of brave Americans who seek to save your friends the Chinese Nationalists from being destroyed by powerful imperialistic invaders. Please help us. Let us fight together.”
Brad Elliott knew he should put the phone down and ignore this man. He knew he should report this foreign contact to the Aif Force Office of Special Investigations and to Sky Masters, Inc.’s security department right away. The Megafortress mission to Asia was in jeopardy and it hadn’t even begun. This man, whoever he was, knew far too much about the Megafortress project.
But instead. Brad Eliott said. “Don’t tell me where you are — I’ll track you down.”
“Thank you, General Elliott,” the Asian voice said, and hung up.
Elliott retrieved his electronic address book and found the name of a friend in the Military Liaison Office of the U S. State Department, he would tell him how to contact the new Taiwan embassy in Washington, who would tell him how to contact the ROC ambassador. If they gav e him a number and it connected him to Kuo, he would hang up, call the ROC embassy again, and ask to be patched in to Kuo. If that worked, he would then redo the embassy patch, this time through the Pentagon s' National Military Command Center communications room, which could detect and defeat any blind phone drops, shorts, or secret outside switches.
If the third call was successful — then they’d talk about stopping the damned Chinese.
CHAPTER TWO
… Evaluating the enemy, causing the enemy’s ch’i to be lost and his forces to scatter so that even if his disposition is complete he will not be able to employ it, this is victory through the Tao.”