Still, Torbin didn’t want to go.
“Glory B, we’re wondering what your fuel situation is,” said the AWACS controller.
“Yeah, mom, we’re close to bingo,” answered Fitzmorris. The pilot was fudging big-time—bingo left about twenty minutes of reserve in the tanks. They were past it by nineteen minutes.
“Falcon Two, Falcon Two, you up? Jack, you hear me?” said Torbin, keying into the Guard band.
Silence.
“Falcon Two, Falcon Two. Jesus man, where the hell are you?”
“We’re going home,” said the pilot over the interphone circuit.
Brussels
2145
MACK SMITH HAD JUST ABOUT GOTTEN TO THE DOOR OF
his hotel room when the phone rang. Ordinarily he would have blown it off and gone on to dinner, but he’d given his room number to a French aerospace consultant just before leaving NATO headquarters this afternoon. The memory of her smile and lusciously shaped breasts—mostly her breasts—grabbed him and pulled him back into the room.
RAZOR’S EDGE
17
“Bonjour,” he said, exhausting his French.
“Major Smith, this is Jed Barclay.”
“Jed?”
“Uh, listen, Major, sorry to bother you but, uh, I need kind of a favor.”
Smith sat down on the bed. Barclay, though probably too young to shave, was a high-level aide at the National Security Council.
“Where are you, Jed?”
Barclay didn’t answer. “Listen, I need you to, uh, get a hold of General Elliott for me.”
“What? Why?”
“I need you to get General Elliott over to a secure phone and call me, okay? He’ll know the drill.”
Brad Elliott, a former three-star general, was in Brussels briefing some of the NATO brass on the recent problems with Iran. Technically retired, Elliott had headed the Air Force’s High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center—Dreamland—for several years. He was now somehow involved with the ultrasecret Intelligence Support Agency, which coordinated black operations with the CIA and elements of the military. Mack wasn’t exactly sure what the involvement was—his own clearance didn’t extend that high. Except that he’d seen the general this afternoon—briefly—he wouldn’t even have known he was in Brussels.
“Why me?” asked Mack.
“This has to be done discreetly,” said Jed.
“Well, I’m your guy,” said Smith, “but I’m not really sure where the hell he is.”
“Uh, this is an open line,” said Jed. “I need you to get him.”
“Yeah, all right, kid. Relax. I’ll do it.”
“As soon as possible, Major.”
“Gee, really?” Smith hung up the phone. He’d come to 18
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Europe on very temporary duty a few days before, assigned to deliver a seminar on differentiating between missile and other damage for visiting VIPs and crash experts next week. He’d hoped he might be able to use the assignment to troll for an interesting berth—though nominally still assigned to Dreamland, he was actually looking for a new command.
Elliott and ISA might be just the ticket. Smith went downstairs and then across the street to a pay phone, where he dialed the European Command liaison office temporarily hosting him.
“Hell-o?” answered a somewhat high-pitched feminine voice.
Patti, the English girl. Good teeth, skinny legs. He’d been working on her before meeting the aerospace consultant.
“Hey, Patti, this is Mack Smith. How were those chocolates?”
“Oh, Major Smith—very good.”
He flashed on a picture of her sucking them down.
Those legs wouldn’t stay skinny for very long.
“Listen, I’m really an airhead today—I was supposed to see General Elliott for drinks but I totally forgot where.”
“Brad Elliott? But I thought he was having a late dinner with General Stumford.”
Stumford. Second in command of JSSOC, the Joint Services Special Operations Command. Army guy. Thick neck, small ears. Here for some sort of consultation.
Probably more ISA stuff.
“Yeah, I’m supposed to meet them—where was it, exactly?”
The restaurant happened to be only two blocks away, on one of the three streets in the city that Mack had mem-orized. As he walked over he wracked his brain for a way RAZOR’S EDGE
19
of getting General Elliott alone. Either the walk was too short or the chilly evening air froze his brain; not a single idea occurred to him before he opened the door.
Mack ignored the long string of foreign words the maitre d’ spewed at him as he walked into the dining room. Elliott and Stumford were sitting at a table at the far end of the room, watching as a sommelier opened a bottle of wine for them.
“Hey, General Elliott,” said Mack, walking forward.
“Mack? I didn’t know you liked French food.”
“Well, I don’t, actually.” Mack glanced around, then over at Stumford, whose frown would have stopped an M1A1 in its tracks. “I, uh, I have a message for you, General. Phone call you need to make. Uh, personal, but uh, important. You’re supposed to call right away.”
Mack hesitated. Elliott wasn’t married, so he couldn’t tell him to call his wife.
“Your mom,” said Smith, lowering his voice to a near whisper. He glanced at Stumford and nodded seriously before turning back to Elliott. “It’s, well, it’s—you probably ought to call right now. If you want, I can let you use my phone over at, uh, the temporary office they gave me.
No charge.”
Elliott gave him a quizzical look. “Okay,” he said finally, pulling his napkin from his lap. “Bill, I’m sorry.”
Stumford nodded. Mack swung away, feeling reasonably proud of himself for pulling it off until Elliott grabbed his shoulder in the front room.
“You’re a good pilot, Major, but you’re going to have to work on your lying.”
“Why?”
“Bill Stumford was at my mother’s funeral.”
MACK TOOK ELLIOTT TO HIS OWN OFFICE TO USE THE SEcure phone, managing to get him down the hall without 20
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
meeting anyone besides the security people. If Elliott had any clue what was up, he didn’t betray it, nor did his face show any emotion when he was finally connected with Barclay. “Go ahead, Jed,” was all he said, and he didn’t so much as grunt in acknowledgment as Barclay filled him in on what was up. He listened without comment for nearly five minutes, then stood up from the chair with the phone still at his ear.
“I’m on my way,” he said before returning the phone to its cradle. Elliott looked up at him so sharply that Mack almost didn’t ask what was up.
Almost.
“So?” he asked, looking for a way to start his pitch for help finding a new command.
“So what, Major?”
“Well, I was just wondering if … well, I—” It had been quite some time since Brad Elliott’s eyes had bored through his skull, but the effect now was immediate.
“You think you could drop me off back at my hotel, sir?”
“You’re coming with me, Major.”
“Really? Great,” said Mack. “Fantastic. This is back channel stuff right? That’s why Jed called me instead of going through official channels.”
“You’re sharp as ever, Major.”
“You know, I’d like to broaden my horizons a bit,”
added Mack, deciding to make his play. “I could do a lot with ISA and, you know me, I want to be where the action is. The projects at Dreamland are drying up, and the only thing I’ve been able to find in the real world is a D.O. slot in a squadron at Incirlik. Armpit of the world.
Jeez, I don’t want to go there.”
Elliott ignored him, starting out of the office so quickly that Mack had to run down the hallway to catch up. “Girls all wear veils, if you know what I mean.”
RAZOR’S EDGE
21
Elliott harrumphed as they left the building, heading for his car.
“If you can help me come up with something—”