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 said. “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 livingroom.
“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 said. “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 stupid—sending 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 said. “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.I. 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.
* * *
It was late in the evening when McLanahan finally collected his baggage and stood at the entranceway 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—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 school. McLanahan approached the desk.
“Good evening, sir,” Willis said. “Headin’ out to the base, sir?”
“I guess so,” McLanahan said. “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 said. “I appreciate your help.”
“No problem a-tall, sir,” he said, maintaining the rhythm with a pencil. “You here for survival school? Got your Odor-Eaters 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. McLanahan thanked Willis once again and climbed aboard the blue school bus when it beeped outside. Again, he was the only one on the bus as it rattled away.
It was a short drive to Fairchild Air Force base. McLanahan showed his ID to the gate guard and opened his gym bag for the M-16-carrying guard and his huge German shepherd. Fifteen minutes later, McLanahan sprawled sleepily on a queen-sized bed in the Visiting Officer’s Quarters.
He undressed, showered, and lay awake on top of his bed for a few confused minutes. It was just after one a.m. Restlessly, he picked up the base phone book and scanned the personnel directory. There were several Millers listed, and even two Major Millers, but neither with a similar office symbol as the one on his printout. McLanahan checked the organizational listings, but there were no organizations on base even resembling the office symbol on the message.
He threw the directory back on the nightstand.
“Screw ’em,’’ he said half-aloud. “If they want me, they should figure out where to find me.’’ He left a six-thirty wake-up call at the front desk and slipped under the coarse olive-drab G.I. horse blankets.
McLanahan awoke with a violent start to the furious sound of impatient knuckles rapping on wood. He felt as if he had been asleep for hours— perhaps it was the billeting clerk pounding on his door because he got no answer on the wake-up call. McLanahan glanced at the clock on the dresser. Nope, he’d only been asleep for an hour.
He slipped on a pair of gym shorts from his bag, smoothed down his blond hair, and opened the door. Two black men, one in a civilian suit and the other an Air Force security guard, were standing impatiently in the doorway.
“Captain McLanahan?’’ the guy in the suit asked. He did not even look at McLanahan—he was scanning up and down the hallways.
“Yeah,’’ McLanahan replied irritably, scratching his head.
“Patrick McLanahan?’’
“Yeah, yeah.’’ McLanahan wasn’t in a conversational mood, but his gruff attitude didn’t faze these guys.
The guy in the suit looked immensely relieved. He put a finger on the security guard’s chest as if driving his commands into the guard’s body.
“We got him. Notify the gate guards. Then get an unmarked car and have it sent over here pronto. No Air Force or DOD crap on the doors.’’
“We got one.’’ The guard trotted away. The guy in the suit pushed his way into McLanahan’s room and closed and locked the door.
“I need your ID, Captain McLanahan,” he said brusquely.
“Like hell,” McLanahan said, finally beginning to wake up. “I want to see your ID right now or I’ll call back that sky cop you just chased away.” The guy muttered a “Jesus H. Christ” under his breath, but pulled out a wallet and held it up. McLanahan turned on the room light and squinted sleepily at the card and badge.
“Staff Sergeant Jenkins, Air Force Office of Special Investigations,” the man said, snapping the wallet closed. “Now, sir, if you don’t mind . . .”
“Yeah. Okay.” McLanahan fumbled through his jeans and produced the card. Jenkins already had a walkie-talkie in his hand. He studied the card, nodded, and thumbed the mike.
“Control, seven-seven,” he said as softly as he could.
“Seven-seven, go,” came the reply.
“I’ve located our subject. I’ll be escorting him back to the main rendezvous point.”
“Copy, seven-seven.” Jenkins returned the card.
“Captain McLanahan, please get dressed and get your gear together.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” McLanahan protested. “What’s going on?”
Jenkins was frowning impatiently, his fists on his hips. Apparently he didn’t like anyone, even officers, asking him “why” and “what.”
“Sir, we are going back to meet Major Miller,” he said in short, clipped words. He glanced down at his walkie-talkie and clicked it off. “You were supposed to wait at the airport for further instructions, were you not, sir?”
“Yeah,” McLanahan said, feeling his ears redden. Shit, he thought. I screwed up. He reached for the jeans, wondering if Jenkins was going to stand there and watch him dress. “Ten o’clock. Nobody showed up. I thought I’d get a room at the base and wait ...”
“Why the base, sir?” Jenkins interrupted.
“What do you mean, ‘why the base’? I get orders to Spokane. It’s gotta be . .”
“Sir.” Jenkins was obviously holding in check the massive urge to lash out with a ‘you dumb shit officer, who the hell told you to assume anything?’ but he said instead, “That was an unfortunate . . . misjudgment. You were to meet Major Miller at the terminal. He was delayed, but he expected you to sit tight until you received further directions.” The spitting emphasis on misjudgment was too obvious.
“Okay, okay. Yeah. You’re right, sergeant,” McLanahan replied. “I’ll be ready in a minute.”
Obviously, Jenkins had no intention of leaving.
“Where are we going?”
Jenkins did not reply, but he looked more exasperated than ever with every question. McLanahan glared at him as he finished repacking the gym bag and pulling on his jacket. It really did take McLanahan only a minute to get ready because he carried so few items.
McLanahan retrieved his key, stepped out into the hall and turned toward the lobby.
“This way, sir,” Jenkins said, grabbing McLanahan’s arm and swinging him around toward a dimly lit hallway to the back.
“But my room . . . ?”
“Will be taken care of, sir. This way.” Jenkins led him to a side door that opened up to a laundry delivery dock and a dumpster in the rear of the building. A blue sedan, its engine idling, was waiting. As McLanahan headed for the steps leading down from the dock to the pavement below, Jenkins grabbed the gym bag off McLanahan’s shoulder.
“I’ll take this, sir,” he said quietly. “Get in and we’ll leave.” He trotted down to the sedan, knocked on the window, and
trotted around to the trunk just as it popped open. He hid the gym bag under some blankets and then slid quietly in the back seat next to McLanahan.
As they drove out the gate and onto the highway leading back to Spokane International, Jenkins picked up a device from the front seat and clicked it on.
“Bear with me, sir,” he said, passing the device quickly over McLanahan’s body. He repeated the sweep once more, then clicked it off and set the device next to the driver.
“Now, Sergeant Jenkins,” McLanahan said, “can you tell me what the hell’s going on?”
“As far as I’m allowed, sir,” he replied. “Major Miller was supposed to meet you at ten o’clock at the airport. He was delayed arranging for secure transportation. When he wrote your instructions he assumed that, when your printed instructions left you off at the airport, that you would stop at the airport. A bad assumption on his part, apparently.”
“Well, since we’re admitting to poor assumptions tonight, I’ve got a few more,” McLanahan said. “I assumed that my final destination was Fair- child—why else would I be sent to Spokane? Now I’m assuming all this to mean that Fairchild is not my final destination.”
“I don’t know anything about your final destination, Captain,” Jenkins replied. “You were sent to Spokane for one reason only.”
“Which was?”
“Because they only had eight people booked on that flight,” Jenkins said, as if that explained everything.
“Say again?”
“They needed to know if you were being tailed, Captain McLanahan,” Jenkins explained. “They knew who had reservations on your flight, who signed on after you checked in, who arrived at Spokane, and where everyone went and what everyone did when they got off your flight. They could do this because of the small number aboard. They simply picked a time, date, and location with the fewest passengers and had you get on that flight. It just happened to go to Spokane, Washington. It had nothing to do with Fairchild at all—as a matter of fact, it will probably take some fast explaining to someone when the billeting folks find you gone suddenly.”
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