Flight Of The Old Dog pm-1

by Dale Brown

  "It's a big step "I need an answer now. It won't wait."

  McLanahan averted his eyes, then said, "Sorry, Colonel. I have to discuss it with my family. If an immediate answer's required, I have to say-" "Hold on, Patrick. Don't say it," Wilder interrupted.

  "Patrick, I'm not trying to blow smoke in your face, but you're the best navigator I've ever worked with in my eighteen years in the service. You're energetic, intelligent, highly motivated, and you have as much expertise in the inner workings of your profession as anyone else in the command. Your Officer Evaluations Reports have been firewalled to "Outstanding' every year you've been in the service, and, for the last two years, I've had the unusual honor of being the lowest rater on your OERs because they've always gone up to a higher command level. This year it's gone up to SAC Headquarters, and we didn't even request it-the SAC Commander in Chief asked for it. Personally.

  You'd be a real asset to the Plans people. "Wilder punched a fist into an open palm in frustration, then looked at McLanahan. "But you can't balk like this all the time. You have to grab at opportunities when you can."

  "Another one will come along "Don't count on it, Patrick," Wilder said quickly. He looked into McLanahan's puzzled eyes, then continued. "I meant what I said. You're the best radar nav I've seen. The best.

  But… you need to straighten up a little bit.

  McLanahan glared at the wing commander. "Straighten up?"

  "C'mon, Patrick," Wilder asked. "Gary must've mentioned this to you.

  Look at yourself. Most guys who go to see the commander polish their shoes, get a haircut, and wear a clean uniform. "McLanahan said nothing, but crossed his arms impatiently on his chest.

  "Your record outshines everyone else's, Pat… but the Air Force wants officers nowadays, not just… technicians.

  They want guys who want to be professionals. You've got to look and act like a professional. Real all-around full-time officers, not part-time performers."

  Wilder opened a folder-McLanahan's squadron records.

  "You finished your master's degree, and you're halfway through a second master's degree, but you have hardly any military education. It took you six years to finish a correspondence course that should only take twelve months. No additional duties. Your attitude toward- "There's nothing wrong with my attitude, Colonel," MeLanahan interrupted. "I wanted to be the best. I worked hard to prove that I am. "He paused, then said, "I've been busy at the tavern. I- "I don't doubt that, Patrick," Wilder asked. "I know your situation at home. But you need to make a commitment."

  Wilder stood and walked over to the aircraft status board covering a wall in the Command Post Battle Staff Situation Room. "It's a different Air Force nowadays. You know that.

  The way things are, Patrick, even just meeting standards won't get you anywhere. You've got to excel at everything…

  and then some. And not just in your field of expertise.

  "The so-called 'whole person concept,"' McLanahan said "It may sound like b. s. to you, and to a lot of folks," Wilder said, "but it's still true. They want total immersernent nowadays. Being good…

  hell, even being above average is the norm. I know you have the raw material to make that commitment, Patrick. You just need to make the decision. Yes or no."

  Wilder closed the folder. "Well, that's enough of the party line," he asked. "Get back to me as soon as you've made your decision about the assignment. I'll work on keeping it open, but there are no guarantees."

  After a long moment, McLanahan got to his feet and s aid, "Well, I hope that's all, sir, because I've got some thinking to do.

  "I've got one more thing," Wilder said, returning to his seat.

  McLanahan did the same.

  "It's the reason why we're meeting here, in the Command Post," Wilder explained, "and another reason why I need your answer to this assignment offer. I received an unusual request for a senior, highly experienced B-52 radar navigator to participate in an exercise. The message was highly classified!didn't think there was a classification higher than TOP SECRET, but there is. I had to receive the message from the communications center personally-in fact, they kicked everyone else out of the place but me. Anyway, naturally I thought of you." "Sure, why not?I'll do it," McLanahan asked. "What is it?

  What kind of exercise?"

  Wilder opened the red-covered file folder in front of him.

  "I… I don't have any idea, Patrick," he asked. "I have very simple instructions. Can you be ready to leave in two days?"

  "Two days," McLanahan said. He thought for a moment.

  "Well, it's not much time, but… sure I can leave. Leave for where?"

  "I don't have that information."

  "What… I don't understand," McLanahan said.

  "Patrick, this is a highly classified exercise. They want you to go to Executive Airport, to the information booth, the day after tomorrow at eight A.M. You show your ID card and this letter. "He handed the letter to McLanahan. "You bring othing else but a change of civilian clothes and toilet articles in one piece of carry-on luggage. They'll give you further instructions when your identity and the letter have been verified. "Wilder studied the young radar-navigator for a moment.

  "Got all that?"

  "Yes, sir," McLanahan replied, shaking off the cloud of confusion. "I understand everything. It just sounds a bit… weird, that's all."

  "You'll find out, when you've been in as long as I have, Patrick," Wilder said, standing, "that all this hush-hush stuff becomes old hat.

  Second nature. It may seem like a real exercise in frustration. But they've got to play their games, you know.

  McLanahan rose. "Oh, I understand that, Colonel," he said.

  "Remember, now," Wilder asked. "Nobody needs to know about this duty.

  Keep this letter out of sight. Don't tell anyone else about what you'll be doing or where you're headed, even after you find out at the airport.

  "Yes, sir, " McLanahan asked. "That won't be difficult to do, since I don't know anything about what I'm doing.

  "Well, don't tell anyone that, either, Pat," Wilder said, smiling.

  "Yes, sir. "McLanahan turned to leave. Just before he stepped out, he turned to Wilder and said, "Sir, when I get back I need to talk to you about assignments-and the Air Force.

  Wilder nodded and folded his hands before him on the desk.

  "I understand, Pat," Wilder replied. "I'm glad, at least, that you're going to talk before doing anything else. Believe me, I know what you're feeling. We'll talk when you get back, but don't let it spoil this exercise."

  "I won't, sir," McLanahan said. He turned and left.

  Wilder stood, paced the floor for a few moments, then reached into a desk drawer and lit up a cigarette, the first in several years.

  ""You'll find out, my boy, when you've been in as long as I have,"' Wilder said sarcastically, mimicking himself, "'that this hush-hush stuff becomes old hat."' What horseshit, Wilder thought. Real horseshit. And he saw right through it all.

  Wilder sat there for a long time smoking the cigarette.

  SUNRISE CALIFORNIA

  "I don't understand any of this," she said finally McLanahan had just stuffed the last pair of socks in his bulging gym bag when his mother came into the bedroom to watch him pack. She stood, arms crossed impatiently on her slim chest, staring in dismay He slowly pulled the zipper closed.

  "Mom," he said, picking up the bag, "there's nothing to understand.

  "Is this some kind of secret mission?" Maureen McLanahan asked, half-jokingly. "Are you a spy?Come on, Patrick. Can't you give me a hint?"

  "You've been reading too much John LeCarre, Mom," McLanahan said.

  "I've got orders, just as if I was going to Bomb Comp or off-station training. You know, TDYs, Mom.

  They come up suddenly."

  "But your orders don't say where, or for how long, or for what.

  "Mom, c'mon. I don't have written orders. I went in to see Colonel Wilder. He gave me all the information."
<
br />   "Which is?"

  "Which I'm not allowed to say. "He turned and put his hands on his hips. "C'mon, now. You know better than to pump me for information I can't give."

  Maureen McLanahan watched her son for a while. Then: "Catherine said something about the Colonel giving you a new assignment. Patrick nodded. "I received the assignment I wanted-an excellent position at SAC Headquarters. I had to call them and beg and plead with them to keep the slot open until I get back from this TDY Any other guy in the Air Force would have packed his bags and been on his way in three days.

  I may lose that assignment. I may already have lost that assignment."

  Maureen tried to be soothing.

  "It sounds like… a wonderful opportunity…"

  "It is," Patrick asked. "But Catherine may not follow me to Nebraska-she thinks that the military is manipulating me.

  And you well, I know what your reaction would be if I moved out.

  Patrick slung the bag over his shoulder and hurried past his mother.

  "Is that all you're taking?" his mother asked as she watched him enter the living room.

  "This is all they wanted me to take," he replied. "I imagine they'll supply me with whatever else I need."

  "Oh, Patrick," his mother said, wringing her hands. "I want to help you make the right decision, but I can't help it.

  The restaurant is our life. If you move away, I don't know if we could handle it by ourselves."

  Patrick walked back to where she was standing and kissed her on the cheek. "I understand, Mom. I really do. But…

  the business is almost running itself now. And you have Paul.

  You don't need me like before. "He gave her a hug. "It will be all right, Mom. Believe me."

  Maureen McLanahan buttoned the top button of her son's shirt. "You'll be back, won't you, Patrick?"

  She hadn't really heard a thing. "Yes," he sighed. "I'll be back." She brushed back a lock of hair from her forehead and smiled. "I love you, Patrick."

  "I love you too, Mom," he said. He gave her a firm reassuring look, turned and walked out.

  The ride to the airport in Catherine's Mercedes was fast and very quiet. McLanahan held hands with Catherine right up until she pulled up to the curb in front of the United Airlines terminal, but few words were exchanged. She did not stop the engine, but only put it into neutral and watched as he retrieved his bag and jacket from the back seat.

  "I'm going to miss you," he said as he piled his belongings on his lap.

  "I'll miss you, too," she replied. There was an uncomfortable pause.

  Then she added, "I wish you didn't have to go."

  "Part of the job, Cat," he asked. "It's kind of exciting, all this mystery. A ticket on the Orient Express.

  "Well," she said, "I don't think it's exciting. It's stupidsending you off to God knows where and not even telling you when you'll be back."

  He stared back at her and said nothing.

  "Thank God you won't have to do this much longer," she went on. "This just underscores how the military treats people like you. The best nav in the Air Force, bundled up like a sack of dirty laundry and hustled off to Timbuktu."

  "The Air Force has been a good life, Cat. A good job. It's had its ups and downs… " " Oh, Pat, that sounds like you, all right," she said, glaring at him. "Here you are, on your way to some nonsense at a moment's notice, and you're still spouting the ol' party line."

  She watched him as he opened the car door.

  "Got to go, Cat," he said, leaning over and giving her a peck on the cheek. "Thanks for the lift. "He started to step out of the car…

  "Patrick," she said suddenly, "when you… get back, we have to talk-about us."

  He looked at her for a moment, trying to read her expression, then shrugged. "Okay," he asked. "Fine. "He stepped out of the car and watched for a few seconds as she drove away.

  The information counter handled McLanahan's request as if cryptic orders for tickets were honored every day. He produced his ID card-the only piece of identification he was allowed to bring-and he was promptly given a sealed envelope and directions to the boarding gate.

  Curiosity overcame him on the escalator ride to the upper floor, and he opened the envelope. Inside was a round-trip ticket to Spokane, Washington, with an open return date. The office symbol of the ticket purchaser was a strange four-letter military official symbol with no base or office location.

  He exchanged one of the tickets for a boarding pass at the gate and sat down to wait. Why all the damn mystery, he asked himself. Spokane was the location of Fairchild Air Force Base, the Air Force's basic survival school. He had already been to basic survival right after undergraduate navigator training, but Fairchild had a number of survival schools and other training courses.

  Well, that was it, then. He had been tapped for some exotic survival training school-maybe it was a special school under development. He had heard rumors of a new school in the works that taught survival in environments contaminated by nuclear fallout. Or perhaps it was a new twist on the mock-up prisoner-of-war camp located at Fairchild, a facility complete with interrogation centers, a prison camp, and real Eastern bloc-trained guards and interrogators.

  The waiting became much, much easier after McLanahan had sorted it all out for himself. Fairchild. All this lousy secrecy, all the hassles, all the worrying-all for some dumb exercise, some stupid class where CIA or DIA interrogators could get their hands on a real crewdog for a while. What a waste.

  McLanahan did not have long to wait until his flight was called, and all the passengers were on board in a matter of minutes. Only a handful of people-a few obviously G.l. by the looks of their haircuts, a few civilians-were headed for Spokane. McLanahan scanned an inflight magazine, wishing he'd brought a magazine or a book, wishing the damned military had let him bring one.

  He was fast asleep, the gentle roar of the engines acting as a narcotic for his settling nerves, long before the plane's wheels ever left the ground.

  A waste of time, he nodded to himself just before he dropped off. A complete waste of time.

  SPOKANE, WASHINGTON

  It was late in the evening when McLanahan finally collected his baggage and stood at the entrance way to Spokane International's central lobby.

  He put his single carry-on bag down on an empty chair and reread the cryptic, computer-printed instructions he received when he departed:

  ARRIVE SPOKANE 2135L. HAVE BAGGAGE IN POSSESSION BY 2200L AND WAIT FOR FURTHER DIRECTIONS.

  It was 2345, almost two hours after his scheduled what?

  Another classic example of the military's standard "hurry up and wait" procedures. Get to where you're going on time or else, but sit on your butt and wait till they're ready.

  McLanahan slung his gym bag over a shoulder and went over to a counter with a sign that read SHUTTLE TO FAIRCHILD.The desk was empty, but a sign with two moveable hands on an Air Force recruiting clock face promised that an Airman Willis would be back by twelve o'clock. The hands looked as if they hadn't been moved in months.

  McLanahan chose a seat near the counter and waited.

  A few minutes later, a tall, muscular Air Force enlisted man in a neat pair of combination one double-knits with a few impressive rows of ribbons arrived at the desk. He filled out a line of a clipboard log beneath the counter, turned on a huge portable tape deck, and took a seat on a tall stool. McLanahan approached the desk.

  "Good evening, Sir," Willis asked. "Headin' out to the base, Sir?"

  "I guess so," McLanahan asked. "When's the next shuttle?"

  "Twelve-oh-five, or thereabouts, Sir," Willis replied. He retrieved his clipboard. "Can I see your orders and ID, Sir?"

  "I don't have orders," McLanahan said. He fished his plastic-coated card out of his jeans pocket. Willis examined the card, made a few entries on his log, and returned it.

  "Do you have any quarters arranged, Sir?"

  "No," McLanahan replied. "I left… on pretty short notice.

 
; "Do you have someone we can contact at the base?

  Someone who knows you're coming?Your sponsor perhaps?"

  McLanahan pulled out the original message and scanned it.

  "All I have is a Major Miller, but he only has a Washington office symbol and number. Nobody at Fairchild. I didn't…

  I mean… I wasn't sure I'd be coming here Willis looked at Patrick McLanahan quizzically, suppressing a slight, "Jesus, another space cadet," remark.

  "Well, Sir, I can give billeting a call, but without orders or a point of contact you'll be space-available only and that's pretty slim pickins right now.

  McLanahan put the message back in his pocket and said, "The shuttle leaves at five after twelve, right?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Okay Please give billeting a call and see what the room situation is like. My contact, whoever it's supposed to be, was scheduled to meet me by ten. If he doesn't show I might as well get a room and try to contact him in the morning."

  "You got it, Sir," Airman Willis said cheerfully. He dialed a number, spoke for a few minutes, then hung up with a smile on his face, his head bobbing in time with the beat of the music throbbing from his portable stereo.

  "You lucked out, Sir," Willis said, filling out his log. "One room at the Qs, ready and waiting. If your Major Miller shows, I'll tell him where you are."

  "Thanks," McLanahan asked. "I appreciate your help."

  "No problem a-tall, Sir," he said, maintaining the rhythm with a pencil. "You here for survival school?Got your OdorEaters and flea collars ready?"

  "I went through all that stuff years ago," McLanahan replied. "I guess they thought I needed a refresher."

  "Sure, Sir," Willis replied, already tuning himself out now that the goofy lost captain was taken care of. "Everyone needs a little practice bleeding every now and then. "McLanahan was going to reply, but Willis was far away in his music and a copy of Playboy.

  The shuttle arrived not-so-promptly at twelve-fifteen. No one, not even Airman Willis, had talked to him since he made his room reservations. The entire terminal was almost empty.