63
“General Nason,” Harrington’s salute was sharp as Drake deplaned at Groom Lake.
Last time they’d met had been four years ago at a strategy conference. Then they’d shaken hands rather than saluting. But it had been a tense couple of days and he hadn’t been the CJCS at that point.
And that meeting hadn’t been at the center of Groom Lake. He hadn’t been out here in years. It still had the long, salt bed runway that he recalled. There were more buildings, but not many. Two-story, concrete block structures and vast hangars. The place was like a faded watercolor painting titled “Boring.”
“General Harrington,” he delayed returning the salute long enough to let the man know he was treading on very thin ice. “If I find that you are still holding back a single thing, you’ll be in Leavenworth
