Dale Brown - Flight Of The Old Dog

by Flight Of The Old Dog [lit]

  "Very good," White asked. "Pressure altitude is secondaryit's feet above ground you need to worry about. You're still flying over mountains. What else do you have to worry about, McLanahan?"

  "The only damn thing I'm going to worry about," McLanahan said, "is how far upwind I can get of that one-point-one megaton bomb I just dropped.

  "You guys are sharp, real sharp," White said, beaming. "I guess that's why you picked up eight trophies at Bomb Comp.

  All right, now, you only dropped your bomb ten minutes ago.

  We were balls-to-the-wall after bomb release, so we escaped the blast effects, but the fallout is still spreading. So if you were the pilot, Luger, what would you do?"

  "Well, we only lost two engines," Luger said after thinking for a few moments. "I'd try to keep this Strato-Pig flying as long as I could toward the coast until she wouldn't stay up any more, then start punchin' people out."

  "Even with a squadron of MiGs on your tail?"

  White prompted.

  "Well, shit, " McLanahan asked. "Our day has already gone to hell.

  Maybe they'll blow us up, or maybe they'll miss, or maybe they'll go home when they see our right wing on fire.

  Who knows?I'm bettin' that, even if they hit us again, we'll still have a couple of seconds to get out before the damn plane falls out of the sky. Our goose is cooked either way."

  "Okay, Patrick," White asked. "Don't get all worked up.

  This trainer is here primarily to give you practice in using your downward ejection seat, true, but I want you guys to get more out of it. Some guys will punch out as soon as they hear the word 'fire."

  Others will wait for an order. Some guys will freeze. Some guys will never punch out--they think they're safer in the plane, or that they can ditch it or crash land it. I want you guys to think about what to do. That's all. Ejecting is a traumatic and dangerous thing to do-and I should know, because I've done it three times. I've seen too many guys die unnecessarily because they don't think first. Okay?"

  "Okay," McLanahan said.

  "Well, then," White said, "I, uh... listen, I have to use the little boy's room. I'll be back in a few minutes, and we'll just talk about the ejection sequence and finish early. Okay?"

  "Sure," McLanahan replied.

  "Good. Don't go away" The interphone clicked dead. Luger turned a puzzled glance toward McLanahan. "Leave early?That's a first."

  "I smell a rat," McLanahan said.

  "Big deal," Luger said. He placed a hand near the yellow ejection trigger ring, now stowed on the front of his ejection seat between his legs. "I've punched out of this thing a dozen-" Luger never finished that sentence.

  The trainer suddenly swerved and heeled sharply to the right. Almost immediately afterward, it pitched down so suddenly that both navigators' helmets bumped against their work tables.

  he red ABANDON light between the two navigators' seats snapped on.

  Luger reached for the ejection ring with his free hand, but the cabin rolled over to the left so hard that it appeared it was completely flopped on its side. Not only did Luger's left hand never find the ring, but his right hand was flung away from it.

  Swearing softly to himself, McLanahan flicked a small lever on the front left corner of his ejection seat. With his right hand, he grabbed the side of his seat and straightened himself up. The shoulder harness inertial reel took up the slack, anchoring McLanahan's back upright in the seat.

  His partner, caught completely unawares, was almost bent in half when the cabin swung over to the left. Straining, McLanahan reached across the narrow aisle and locked Luger's shoulder harness. Luger, propelled by rage that surely could be heard outside on the instructor's control panel, hauled himself upright in his seat.

  "C'mon, boys," Major White said, gleefully watching the two navigators struggle on his closed-circuit TV.He glanced over his shoulder to make sure his safety observers and technicians were in place. "Time's a-wastin'.-."

  The lights in the compartment had gone out. The cabin was lit only by the eerie glow of the ABANDON light, but a few seconds later that too blinked out. The normally quiet hum of the trainer had been replaced by super-amplified sounds of explosions, screeching metal, hissing gas, and more explosions. Smoke began to fill the compartment. White had really laid on the realism this time, McLanahan thought to himself the smoke began to sting his eyes. The cabin pitched over again, rolling slowly to the right and tipping downward.

  Luger swore, louder than ever. He crossed his hands, wrapped his fingers around the trigger ring between his legs, s lammed his head back against the headrest, and pulled the ring as if he were doing a biceps curl.

  Closing his eyes and grimacing, Luger yelled, "Damn you, Major Whiiiite. "McLanahan saw a rectangle of light appear under Luger's seat, and then his partner was gone, blasted clear of the wildlypitching trainer by powerful thrusters. Grunting with satisfaction, McLanahan gripped his own trigger ring, braced himself with his legs and feet, and pulled.

  Nothing happened.

  It was McLanahan's turn to swear, very loudly, but his actions were immediate. With two quick, fluid jerks, he pulled a yellow ring on either side of his ejection seat, freeing himself of the bulky global survival kit underneath him and popping the connections that held him fast. He reached upward, his blind fingers instantly finding the handhold bolted onto the overhead circuit breaker panel, and hauled himself up and out of the malfunctioned seat. The remains of his lap belt and shoulder harness clattered away.

  The trainer was now tilted several degrees to the right, and McLanahan had to scramble for a handhold to keep himself clear of the gaping hole where his partner had been sitting a few moments earlier. He clutched the ladder behind Luger's seat and the catapult railing that had shot Luger's seat down into space.

  Like a blind man feeling for a chair, McLanahan carefully maneuvered himself around the catapult railing, propping his feet against the hatch edge, feeling for the rim of the hatch.

  The cabin tilted over and down even further, and his helmeted head banged against the side of the open hatch. His parachute felt like a huge concrete block on his back, dragging him closer and closer to the opening. The sounds behind him were deafening.

  He was now straddling the open hatch, his feet against the back edge of the opening, his hands on either side, his head staring down through the hatch. There was another terrific explosion inside the cabin. A brilliant white light flashed. With one motion, McLanahan let go of both sides of the hatch. His right hand seized the D-ring ripcord on the harness of his parachute, and his left wrapped around his middle.

  He tucked his head down and rolled out through the open hatch, curling his knees up to his chest.

  He felt a split-second of weightlessness as he somersaulted out. The next instant he was landing with a loud thunW on the thick nylon safety bag eight feet below. The bag carefully deflated with a loud, relieved sound of gushing air, and McLanahan settled slowly and gently to the floor. The ripcord was in his right hand, and a large green ball that activated his emergency oxygen supply was in his left.

  A horn blared somewhere, and several green-uniformed Air Force technicians rushed over to him. McLanahan remained motionless, curled up Re an embryo within the mountainous billows of the safety bag.

  "Are you okay, Patrick?"White asked as he helped McLanahan off with his helmet. "Hurt anywhere?"

  McLanahan uncurled himself and stared at the bottom of the trainer cabin looming over him. "Son of a bitch!"

  "You're okay," White said with an amused Cheshire-cat smile. He helped McLanahan up to his feet and out of his parachute harness.

  "You did great," White asked. "It took longer for Luger to punch out on his ejection seat than it did for you to manually bail out after you realized your seat had malfunctioned. Most guys never even make it out. If they don't make it within thirty seconds then they never will, especially at low altitude. You did it in fifteen.

  White handed him a beer-fortunately it was their last class
of the day-and they walked over to an adjacent classroom.

  Luger was sprawled on a chair, his flight suit half unzipped one empty beer can near an elbow and another can in his hand: looking rumpled and angry. He scowled at White.

  "No more surprises," he told White. "I'm telling the whole squadron about your tricks.

  "No, you won't," White said, chuckling. "I know you, Luger-you'd like me to stick it to your buddies just like I stuck it to you. Besides, if you tell them anything I'll just have to think up some other nasty additions. When was the last time you did a manual bailout?"

  Luger started to mutter something but then thought better of it.

  "Oh, by the way," White said, turning to McLanahan. "You had a phone call from Colonel Wilder's office. Did you get an assignment?"

  "Wilder," McLanahan said. He looked puzzled. "No, I didn't get an assignment as far as I know."

  "Could be the big time, Muck," Luger said, finishing his beer with a happy belch. "I told you, didn't I?

  You're going to SAC Headquarters.

  I can feel it. The wing king wants to tell you himself."

  "Any other message, sir?"McLanahan asked White.

  "No," White replied. "You've got an appointment to see him, though.

  Tomorrow morning. Seven-thirty In his office.

  What assignment did you put in for?"

  The puzzled expression still had not left McLanahan's face.

  "Hell, the usual wet-dream things a six-year captain puts in for. Air Command and Staff College with a waiver. SAC Headquarters. Numbered Air Force job. B-1s to Ellsworth.

  King of Canada. The usual stuff."

  "Well, best of luck," White asked. "Always like to see a good man move up.

  Outside the trainer building, Luger could hardly contain his enthusiasm as he and McLanahan headed for their cars.

  "Man, I knew you'd get your ticket out of here," Luger asked. "Hot damn."

  "I don't have anything yet," McLanahan asked. "But why is Wilder telling me?"

  "Who knows?"Luger asked. "But, it must be good. If it was bad news he wouldn't wait until tomorrow. Besides, you're Wilder's showpiece, his trophy-producing machine. If Wilder makes general it'll be because of "Shack' McLanahan."

  Luger looked over at his partner and noticed his faraway look. He frowned.

  "Man, you don't believe it can happen, do you," he said angrily. "You can't stay here forever, Pat. You've got to decide-" "I'll decide what I want when I want," McLanahan interrupted. "And I don't need any advice from you."

  Luger grabbed McLanahan by the arm. "Maybe you're right. Maybe you don't need my advice. But I'm your friendand that gives me the right to tell you when I think you're making a mistake. And I think you'll be making a big mistake if you don't grab whatever the big boys decide to give you."

  McLanahan sighed and shook his head. "It's not that simple, Dave. You know it isn't. My mom... Catherine...

  they're both down on this Air Force thing. Have been for a while.

  Ever since my dad died it's been a real struggle for my mom to keep the bar going. I've had to watch over things. And Catherine-well, you know Catherine. Her idea of the good life has nothing to do with being an Air Force wife. She keeps prodding me to separate from the service and go into business.

  Lately, it's begun to make some sense."

  " Shit, " Luger said, "what are you saying to me?That you'd rather be in a three-piece suit shuffling papers, or helping your mom out with the bar?That doesn't make sense. Here, at Ford, you're the best.

  Hell, you're probably the best damn navigator at SAC.What would you be outside of the service?Just another guy picking up a paycheck, that's what. "Luger shook his head. "It's just not you, Pat. You've got a talent. And you can't turn your back on it. "McLanahan looked out across the airfield at a B-52 taxiing down the runway, then turned back -to Luger. "Sometimes," McLanahan said, "I think it might not be bad being a civilian again. At least, I'd be making a difference, getting things done, having an effect. Sometimes it seems as if all we do here is run simulations, conduct exercises. "He paused. "Take that trainer session today. A part of me sees the point, and another part sees it as just another game."

  "It's a game that could save your life someday," Luger said, "but you don't need me to tell you that."

  "No, I guess not," McLanahan said. He gestured toward his car.

  "Listen, Dave, I... I gotta get going. See you tomorrow, okay?"

  Luger nodded. He waited until McLanahan had made his way to the parking lot, then called out. "Hey, Muck!"

  McLanahan turned.

  "We make a good team, don't we, buddy?"

  McLanahan smiled and flashed him the thumbs -up sign.

  Thirty minutes later, McLanahan parked his car in front of "The Shamrock," the family restaurant and bar, and made his way through the side entrance upstairs to his third-floor apartment. For some reason, he had no desire to run into his mother or siblings just yet.

  An assignment!The more he thought about it, the more confused he became. He knew that this time there weren't going to be any more extensions or delays. If he turned down another important assignment it was probably the end of his Air Force career, He threw his flight jacket and briefcase in the closet and dropped onto the sleeper sofa with a tired thud. Unzipping his flight suit to the waist, he looked around his tiny efficiency apartment and shook his head.

  The place was spotless-but not because he was a tidy person. Despite the fact that he lived alone, his mother came by every day at ten o'clock and cleaned and straightened it up.

  He once tried to discourage her by locking the door and not giving her the key, but his mother, assuming that the lock had broken somehow, had Patrick s brother Paul call a locksmith to open it. She never considered the possibility that her son might just want his privacy He got up, kicking his flight boots into a comcr of the dining room, and went to the kitchen. He found three six-packs of beer in the refrigerator. Popping open a can, he chuckled to himself. His mother hated to see him drinking anything but milk and water, but she always kept his refrigerator stocked.

  Without looking, he knew there were fresh towels hanging on the rods in the bathroom and clean dishes in the cupboards.

  For a brief second, he felt a pang of guilt. Christ, he thought, what's wrong with this setup?Shouldn't he be happy, living with his family, not worrying about cleaning or cooking?

  Luger would probably give his right nut to have such a life.

  Around his family, McLanahan was treated as much more than just the oldest sibling. He was the father, the head of the household, the provider and the decision-maker. It was Paul who ran the restaurant and tavern, and it was his mother who cooked and cleaned and served, but Patrick was the oldest, the manager, and therefore got top treatment. That was the way it was supposed to be. That's how Patrick McLanahan, Senior, was treated. That's how things were. Patrick was not even called "Patrick junior" or "Junior" or even "Pat, " the way his family used to differentiate between him and his father. Patrick was now Patrick, Senior, even though it was unspoken.

  Patrick's father was a city policeman who knew nothing else but work from age twenty to age sixty. After he retired from the force, he took jobs as a security guard and private investigator until Paul was old enough to Find "The Shamrock," and even then he slaved over his new enterprise like a teenager. The tavern was everything-not a gold mine, but a family symbol, an heirloom.

  Patrick's mother turned immediately to her oldest son after the death of her husband. Selling the tavern, and the apartments that went with the building, was unthinkable. Maureen McLanahan gathered her children around her, told them that selling out would be a dishonor, and charged them with keeping the business open. Because Patrick was the oldest, it was up to him to see they did not fail.

  With help from his brothers and sister, and large infusions of his Air Force paycheck for improvements, Patrick kept the old tavern in business. He had been determined to turn that money into the security he wa
nted for his family, and his mother knew he would succeed. After all, he was the head of the household, n am and he was a McLanahan.

  The thought of failure never entered Maureen McLanahan's mind.

  Surprisingly, the Air Force had cooperated. They had assigned Patrick to a base close to his family and had extended him a few extra years so that he could finish a master's degree and work on the family business' ' His success at the annual SAC Bomb Competition two years in a row, plus his knowledge and skill as a navigator, now made him a very valuable commodity But that extension was about to run out. His future destination-SAC Headquarters in Omaha, Nebraska; the Pentagon in Washington; or a staff position in a B-1 Excalibur unit in South Dakota or Texas-meant high-visibility and prestige, but it also meant moving to a location light-years from home. It was a painful thought.