by Dale Brown
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 wanted 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.
Why is it so painful?McLanahan asked himself. Why is it so difficult?
"Hello there."
McLanahan jumped- "Christ, Cat, " he asked. "Did you ever hear of knocking?"
Catherine McGraith glided over, took a genteel sniff of him in his hot, sweaty flight suit, and daintily kissed his lips at a maximum distance.
"I thought I'd surprise you," she asked. "Evidently, I succeeded."
Just seeing Catherine seemed to make things better, he thought. For a moment, he forgot what it was that had been bothering him. Catherine's slender figure-skater body, her tiny upturned nose, her white skin and glistening hair, always made him stop and just watch her, study her, take her in.
He reached out, gathered her in his arms, and kissed her full on the lips. "Hmmm. You look very nice," he said. He proceeded to carry her into the living room and fall back with her onto the sofa.
"Patrick!" Catherine said. She pushed him away, but not too hard.
"You'd think you were on alert for a whole month."
"You make me crazy all the time," McLanahan asked. "It doesn't matter how long I've been on alert."
"It must be the green," Catherine asked. "The green flightsuits, the green planes, the green buildings-all that green must make you guys terminally horny."
"You make me terminally horny," he said.
Catherine finally managed to push herself away. "C'mon, now," she said, rising to her feet. "I finally succeeded in perfectly timing your arrival home. We have a reservation at the Firehouse in Old Sacramento for seven-thirty. Your mom had your suit cleaned, and you can-" McLanahan groaned. "Oh, Cat, c'mon. The trainer today was crazy. I had to manually bail out. Besides, I go on alert tomorrow.
I'm really not in the mood for-" "Alert!Again?You just got back from Bomb Comp. They should give you guys a rest. "She paused, looking at him.
"Oh, Patrick. Nancy and Margaret from school will be there tonight.
Please, let's go?"
McLanahan looked up at the ceiling. "I think they are getting rid of me," he said?"
"Getting rid of you? What do you mean "I got a call from Colonel Wilder, the wing commander," he asked. "I didn't talk to him, but Paul White did. He thinks I got an assignment.
"An assignment. Where?"
"I don't know where. But a few months back Colonel Wilder specifically recommended me to a guy in Plans and Operations at SAC Headquarters.
I've got a feeling that's where I'm going."
"SAC Headquarters!In Omaha?Nebraska?" Catherine frowned. "You got an assignment to Nebraska?"
I'm not certain, Cat," McLanahan said — He could feel the excitement washing away. "That's what I wanted."
"I kno
w, I know," Catherine said. She fiddled with her nails.
"It would be a giant step forward, Cat," McLanahan said, looking at her, trying to read her thoughts. "I think I've worn out my welcome here at Ford. It's time for me to move on."
Catherine's eyes met his. "But you were thinking of getting out of the service, Pat," she asked. "We were going to get married and settle down and- "I'm still thinking of doing it," McLanahan replied.
"Especially the marriage part. But… I don't know it depends on what the Air Force has to offer. If I get an assignment to SAC Headquarters-it'll be great. A perfect "Patrick, you run a restaurant, the biggest opportunity.d, "C'mon, Cat, it's not that big," he said.
"It's a little neighborhood pub that can't support me or us. And I just watch over things, that's all. "He walked over to her and put his arms around her waist.
"You don't have to worry about supporting us," Catherine asked. "You know that. You've established yourself in this town. Daddy will-" "No," McLanahan interrupted. "I don't want your dad to bail me out.
"He wouldn't do that-he doesn't need to do that, Pat," she replied, kissing him on the nose. "I want you to be happy. Are you happy in the military?I don't think so. "McLanahan waited a moment before replying. "Sure," he said, "I'd like to get into business-be my own boss someday.
But I'm doing a job I like right now, and the Air Force is paying for my education at the same time."
"And tacking two years onto your commitment every time you take a class," she pointed out. "It seems as if they're making out better on the deal."
"Maybe," McLanahan said. He sat up on the sofa. "Cat, I don't like to blow my horn, but I'm good at what I do. I like being very good at something. It's important to me."
"You can be good for Patrick McLanahan, too," Catherine replied. "The Air Force is pulling your strings like a puppet, Pat. You deserve better than that. Do what you want to do, what's best for you. Not what's best for the damn Air Force."
She sat down in an armchair in the far corner of the room.
"You're not a bridge-burner, Pat," she asked. "But I'm not a nomad, either. The thought of moving every two or three years, chasing a carrot held out by some general sitting on his fat behind in the Pentagon well, it sickens me. Those B-52s sicken me, your job sickens me. "She rose suddenly from the chair and headed for the kitchen. At the doorway she paused and turned.
"I don't know if I can follow you, Patrick," she said.
"Because I'm not sure what you're following. Your own plans and goals-or the damned military's."
She gave him a final look. "Please be ready by seven."
"Hello, Mrs. King. I'm here to see Colonel Wilder."
Colonel Wilder's secretary glanced at her appointment calendar and smiled. "Good morning, Patrick. Colonel Wilder is expecting you in the Command Post. I'll buzz him and tell him you're on your way.
In the Command Post?That was odd-but everything about this meeting was odd. "Thank you, Mrs. King."
"Congratulations again on winning Bomb Comp this year, Patrick," Mrs. King said with a smile. "I know the Colonel is very proud of you and your crew."
"Thanks," McLanahan said. He was about to leave, but paused in the doorway "Mrs. King?"
"Yes?"
"Everyone knows that you executive secretaries are pretty powerful persons, working so close to the commander. "Mrs. King gave a sly smile.
"Yes, Patrick?"
"Any idea what Colonel Wilder wants to see me about?"
"You a" a worrywart," she asked. "That's probably why you won so many trophies. No, Patrick, this all-important, highpowered secretary has no idea why the commander wants to see you. "She smiled at him.
"Why?
Got a guilty conscience?"
"Me?C'mon."
"Well, then, you'd better get going. I'll tell him you're on your way "Thanks.
In his six years at Ford Air Force Base, McLanahan had only been in the Command Post less than a half dozen times. The first time was for his initial Emergency War Order unit mission certification, when every SAC crewmember has to brief the wing commander on the part he will play, from takeoff to landing, if the Maxon sounded and he should ever go to war.
Most of the time, he simply stopped by to drop off some mission paperwork to the command post controllers after a late-night mission, or drop off some classified communications documents for the night.
Despite his experience, he was still somewhat awed whenever he had to report to the Command Post.
Part of the aura of the Command Post was the security required to get near it. McLanahan dug his line badge out of his wallet-luckily, he had taken it out of its usual place in a flightsuit pocket-and pinned it to his shirt pocket. He then stood in front of the main entrance to the Command Post, which was a heavy iron grate door. He pushed a buzzer button, and the grate was unlocked for him by someone inside.
As he stepped inside the short corridor, called the "entrapment" area, he heard the iron grate door lock behind him.
If there's one thing I hate, McLanahan said to himself, it's doors locking behind me like that.
He walked to the other end of the corridor and stood before a door that had a full-length one-way mirror on it. Spotlights were arranged on the mirror to completely flood out the dim images of the men and women working beyond it. McLanahan picked up a red telephone next to the door.
"Yes, sir?" came a voice immediately on the other end.
"Captain McLanahan to see Colonel Wilder."
The door lock buzzed, and McLanahan opened it and stepped inside.
The security didn't stop once he was inside. He was met by Lieutenant Colonel Carl Johannsen. Although McLanahan and Johannsen had crewed together for several months, Johannsen, wearing a revolver strapped to his waist, came up to his old navigator and took a peek at his line badge.
"Morning, sir," McLanahan said, as his badge was quickly checked.
"Hi, Pat," Johannsen said. He looked a bit embarrassed. "I probably taught you everything you knew when you were still a wet-behind-the-ears nav. But the boss is here, so we're making it look good. Not under duress or anything?"
"No.
"Good. And call the boss 'sir,Chr(34)+ okay? I'm still your old pilot to you."
"Yes, sir," McLanahan asked. "How do you like the Command Post job?"
"Sometimes I wish I was still flying a Buff low-level in the Grand Tetons," he asked. "The boss is in the Battle Staff Situation Room right through there. See you."
On the way to the office, McLanahan passed by the main communications room itself. That was the most fascinating part of the place. It was hard to believe that the wing commander or duty controllers could put themselves in contact with almost anyone else in the world, on the ground or in the air, through that console. They had direct links to SAC Headquarters, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the perpetually-flying Airborne Command Post, and links to hundreds of other command posts throughout the world. They communicated by telephone, computer, satellite, high-frequency radio, and by coded teletype. In an instant, the SAC Commander in Chief in Omaha, Nebraska, could send a message that could launch all of Ford's bombers and tankers within a matter of minutes. Or, just as easily and just as fast, the President could order those same planes to war.
The Battle Staff Situation Room was the hub of the Command Post during situations, whether real or simulated, where the wing commander and members of his staff met to coordinate the wartime actions of Ford Air Force Base's two thousand men and women, twenty B-52 bombers, and twenty-five KC-135 tankers. McLanahan knocked on the door.
"C'mon in, Patrick."
Colonel Edward Wilder was seated behind the center desk in the Battle Staff office. Colonel Wilder, the commander of all the forces on Ford Air Force Base, looked about as old as a college freshman. He was tall, trim and fit from running marathons a few times a year, and had not a touch of gray in his light brown hair despite being well past forty. He stood, shook McLanahan's hand, and motioned to a thick, cushiony seat marke
d "Vice Commander."
Wilder poured two cups of coffee. "Black, right, Patrick?"
Wilder asked, pushing the cup toward him.
"That's right, sir."
"I should have that memorized by now," the wing commander asked. "I watched you put away enough of it during Bomb Comp. As he spoke, he pushed a button on his desk. A curtain over the window separating the Battle Staff Office from the communications center rolled closed on metal tracks.
Lieutenant Colonel Johannsen and the others glanced up at the moving curtain but quickly went back to their duties.
Colonel Wilder had a red-covered folder on his desk in front of him.
"I tried to get hold of you before your trainer began yesterday, but you had already started."
"Yes, sir," McLanahan asked. "Major White's egress trainers are getting extremely realistic."
"The guy is a basement inventor. A genius," Wilder said.
"The small amount of money we could spare for White's group was the best money we ever spent. We may have created a monster, though.
McLanahan laughed, but it was short and strained. Wilder noticed the atmosphere, took a deep breath, and went on.
"Any idea why you're here this morning?"
I hate when they start out that way!McLanahan thought.
"No, sir," he asked. "I thought it might have something to do with an assignment."
"It does, Patrick," Wilder said. He paused a bit, looked at his desktop, then said, "Good news. SAC Headquarters wants you.
Soonest.
Plans and Operations for the B-1 program.
Congratulations-that was my first Headquarters job, although I was with the B-52 program when that monster was the hot new jet."
McLanahan shook Wilder's proffered hand. "That's great, sir. Great news."
"I hate to lose you, Patrick," Wilder went on. "But they're hustling you out pretty damned quick. Your reporting date is in three months.
McLanahan's smile dimmed a bit. "That soon?For a Headquarters position?"
"It just came open," Wilder explained. "It's a great opportunity."
Wilder studied McLanahan's face. "Problems?"
"I need to discuss it with my family," McLanahan said.