Michael Malone - Weebly

otherwise sound as a dollar. A big man in a Boy Scout
scoutmaster's uniform.
Commander Hector Brickhart was a man of action,
not thought.
Urgently summoned, he had left his scout troop in
mid-trip of their first shot at Mother Nature. Without
taking time to change, he had hitched a ride from
Alaska through a pal in SAC, had been flown into
Boston, and had flown himself in a borrowed
monoplane to the private airport north of Dingley Falls.
He had been humping hard, he said, hotter than hell, to
save the face of the nation by destroying this dumb
base. "Now hear this, you three stooges. You're in here
boozing on your fat butts, dressed up like a fairy chorus
line of greasy hoods, but you don't know fuck about
shit."
Impatiently, Brickhart heard the Washingtonians
elaborate on the situation regarding Operation
Archangel. In brief, there were bodies all over the base.
They wanted them covered up. He told them, "Listen,
boys, you're not thinking straight. If you look up your
own asshole, there's just one thing you're going to see.