“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 said. “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 said. “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-52’s 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 are a worry wart,” she said. “That’s probably why you won so many trophies. No, Patrick, this all-important, high-powered 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 Klaxon 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 know 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,’ okay? I’m still your old pilot to you.”
“Yes, sir,” McLanahan said. “How do you like the Command Post job?”
“Sometimes I wish I was still flying a Buff* low-level in the Grand Tetons,” he said. “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 marked “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 said. “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 roll
ed closed on metal tracks. Lt. 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 said. “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 said. “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-l 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. “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 Evaluation 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 Headquarters SAC, 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 these 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 said. “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,” McLanahan 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 said. “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 Conference 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 immersement 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 said. “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 said, “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—I 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 said. “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 said. “I have very simple instructions. Can you be ready to leave in two days?”
“Two days,” McLanahan said. He thought for a moment. “Welch’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 nothing 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 said. “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 said. “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, sm
iling.
“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.
7 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 into see Colonel Wilder. He gave me all the information.”
“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.”
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