“Yes, sir.”
“You cut any throats you have to. Even dog boy’s. I want my birds back in the air.”
“Got any throats I can slit?” Ivy lay her head down on the desk, not even bothering to shove aside any of the paperwork.
“How about mine?” Colby was too exhausted to slouch and barely managed a slump in his own chair. Three shifts had cycled through the WHMO without making them much wiser.
The organization chart of who was informed of flight operational frequencies hung on one wall. They’d managed to reduce the list by a third—General Arnson’s approval for that had arrived less than six minutes after they’d sent him the proposal.
Three different radio experts had reviewed the operations frequency selection methodology—the White House Communications Agency was a part of the WHMO, so they did
