by Dale Brown
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 wakeup 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 an 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, 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 asked. "I assumed that my final destination was Fairchild-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 A 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."
"Tailed!Me?Why would anybody tail me?"
Jenkins let out a half laugh, half snort in the car's darkness.
Shee-it, " he said, chuckling humorlessly again. "If you don't know, Captain, it must be bad news. "And, at that, the hair
s rose on the back of McLanahan's neck. Jenkins' words echoed through his head as the lights of the airport grew larger and brighter.
If you don't know, Captain, it must be bad news.
Jenkins' monotone voice finally penetrated McLanahan's reverie as the car bypassed the main terminal and headed for a row of hangars adjacent to the taxiways, away from the jet parking ramp. The car's driver had already doused the headlights.
"Your bag will catch up with you, Captain, don't worry," he was saying.
"Remember now-walk away from the car about ten steps then just stop and… wait. "McLanahan had to smile at Jenkins' emphasis on the word 'wait,Chr(34)+ but apparently Jenkins didn't notice. "Someone will meet you and tell you what to do.
The car pulled to a stop in the middle of a deserted parking ramp, far from the brilliantly lit terminal. The door on McLanahan's side was opened by some dark figure outside. He noticed no interior courtesy lights illuminated-someone had punched holes in the plastic lenses with a knife.
"Sorry for the mixups, Sergeant Jenkins," McLanahan said in a low voice in keeping with the hushed, tense atmosphere.
"No problem, sir, " Jenkins said. His walkie-talkie crackled, and he spoke a few words into it. Then, he added, "Good luck," and pulled the door closed. The car moved off and was soon lost in the darkness.
"I don't need luck," McLanahan said to himself, looking around in the gloom. "What I need is out of here."
The ramp was completely dark-even the small blue taxiway lights leading from the runway were turned off.
McLanahan put the terminal on his right side and stepped forward ten paces, as carefully as if he was following a pirate's treasure map.
Somehow, he could feel people all around him, lots of eyes watching him, talking about him, but he couldn't see a thing. He could make out a large, seemingly deserted hangar behind him, its huge front bay door open like a dark cave entrance. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he spotted a few light single-engined Cessnas tied down to his left. The parking ramp was breezy and beginning to grow cold.
He made a motion to pull down his jacket sleeve and check his watch, but he suppressed that urge. This time, he was just going to stand and wait. Checking the time would only make him that much more impatient.
He zipped his jacket up all the way, shoved his hands in his pockets, and stood watching the runway McLanahan guessed that about fifteen minutes had passed since Jenkins dropped him off. His eyes were fully adjusted to the dark now.
There were small birds everywhere, jumping and peeping nervously around him. An occasional rabbit scampered down the asphalt, stopping every now and then to test the air and sniff for danger. Once McLanahan thought he heard the static of a walkie-talkie nearby, but he saw no one. He watched every plane that landed-there were only two-expecting it to pull up in front of him any minute, but they never did.
Another ten minutes passed-or was it another fifteen or twenty?The sky was beginning to clear, and the temperature was taking a noticeable dip. Whoever he was supposed to meet out here was going to find a frozen navigator Popsicle because McLanahan was determined not to screw it up again, even if it meant catching pneumonia. He stamped the cold from his sneakers a few times, then removed his hands from the pockets of his light nylon windbreaker and blew warm air on them.
Let's get on with it, boys, McLanahan said to himself. He blew on his palms once again, cursing the air nipping at his uncovered ears, and slapped two chilly palms together irritably.
He never heard the slap. At that exact instant, in the dark hangar directly behind him, a high-pitched whine erupted.
McLanahan jumped an easy six inches and spun quickly toward the noise.
As he turned, he was blinded by the glare of a set of four landing and taxi lighis aimed directly at him. He had completely misjudged the distance. The lights were less than fifty yards away.
The whine became a low, bellowing roar, and a twin-engined jet taxied rapidly from within the dark hangar, the blinding lights focused directly on the lone figure on the ramp. It seemed to leap out at him, like a tiger springing through a hoop at a circus. McLanahan could not have moved if he had wanted to.
The jet sped up beside him, the wingtip fuel tanks passing a mere five feet from where he stood anchored on the ramp. A curved airstair door was flung open, and a lone man with an Air Force-looking uniform grabbed McLanahan's upper arm with a tight grip and half-guided, half-dragged him to the doorway of the screaming jet.
He was guided with a push onto a hard airliner seat, and a seat belt was quickly yanked around him. The belt was snapped tight around his waist, and McLanahan felt a prickle of panic. They weren't concerned for his safety at all-they wanted him to stay put.
He watched as the man who had pulled him aboard placed a headset over his head and thrust his face forward. He ordered, "ID card. Quickly" McLanahan was startled by the sudden command, and impulsively reached into his right back pocket where the card always was. It wasn't there.
He squirmed around and felt for the card in his left back pocket. Not there, either.
"Quickly!" the man said again. He pulled a boom mike near his lips and spoke a few clipped words into it. McLanah an glanced at a pair of wild-looking, dark eyes, then turned away as he furiously patted his pockets. Glancing toward the front of the jet, he saw the co-pilot leaning to his left into the narrow aisle between him and the pilot.
The co-pilot wore a camouflaged helmet and a green flight suit. With a start, McLanahan noticed the co-pilot half-concealing a stubby, short-barrelled Uzi submachine gun behind the cockpit curtain.
"Oh, shit," McLanahan said. His hands flew over his pockets, finally finding the card in his left front pocket. He fished it out and held it up to the man pinning him in the seat, nearly clipping a piece of the man's nose off in the process.
The man snapped on a tiny red-beamed flashlight, examined the card, then swept the tiny beam of light across McLanahan's dumbfounded face.
The man's hard features softened a bit, washing clear with an immense sense of relief.
He pulled the mike closer to his lips and leapt to his feet.
"Let's roll, pilot," he shouted, dropping the card in McLanahan's lap.
The Uzi peeking behind the curtain disappeared. The man with the headset scurried back and hauled up the airstair door and dogged it closed. A few short moments later, the jet was screaming skyward.
The guard wearily dropped into a seat across from McLanahan and took a moment or two to take a few deep breaths.
"Sorry about all that, Captain," the man said after the plane was safely on its way. "When you disappeared from the airport terminal, we got a little nervous. We may have overreacted a bit. I'm sorry if we got a little rough."
"I'm the one who should be apologizing, I think," McLanahan said, slowly recovering from his shock. "I've handled this whole thing pretty irresponsibly Are you Major Miller, the one I was finally supposed to contact?"
The man laughed and nodded toward the e aulets on his shoulders. "No, Captain. I'm First Lieutenant Harold Briggs. I work for the project coordinator. We are Major Miller."
"Major Miller was a code name for you," Briggs explained.
"Whenever you or someone from your unit mentioned Major Miller, my section was notified. I'm in charge of getting you to the project coordinator."
"The project coordinator?Who is he?"
"You'll find that out soon," Brigs replied. "We're on our way, finally, to meet him. Meanwhile, if you need anything, just let me know. Call me Hal, please. I'll be working with you for the entire duration of the project.
"The project?"
"Yes, sir," Briggs said, smiling. "I can't tell you about that.
You'll have to see the project coordinator for that. But, I am your aide from now on.
"Aide, huh?" McLanahan asked. "Well, I don't know if I can handle that. "He extended a hand. "Call me Patrick and can the 'sir' stuff, okay?"
"You got it. "They shook hands, and Briggs stowe
d his headset in an overhead rack and flicked on a light. Hal Briggs was very, very young, with short-cropped black hair on top of a lean, thin face and dark brown eyes. He wore lieutenant epaulets on his blue fatigues, a pair of Army paratrooper's wings, and an Air Force Security Police badge over his left breast pocket. McLanahan noticed he wore a green webbed infantry belt over his blue Air Force trousers, but he couldn't see the weapon bolstered there.
"Sergeant Jenkins said something about me being tailed," McLanahan said as Briggs opened a small refrigerator near his seat and pulled out a couple of beers.
"Yeah," Briggs said, popping open his can and handing the other to McLanahan. Briggs tipped his can to McLanahan and took a long swallow.
"Call it youthful exuberance. When you showed up at the terminal, then suddenly disappeared, I got… nervous. I called Sergeant Jenkins, who was my backup out there from Fairchild, and I sounded the alarm.
Aoy, those O.S.I guys can move out."
"We?"
"You're not OSIT' "No. "Briggs smiled. "Anyway, Jenkins had a search organized in no time. We were more or less in control of the tactical environment, as we say in the game, at the airport.
When you moved to the base, we lost control. Hell, we…
painted a half-dozen different scenarios about what happened to you.
All bad."
"Whoa, whoa!" McLanahan held up a tired hand. "Happened to me?I don't get it. What are you guys so afraid of?"
What can happen to me?And why me in the first place?"
Briggs drained his beer and reached for another.
"Pat, you are very, very hot property right now," he said, watching McLanahan's wide-eyed expression from behind the upturned beer can.
"if we lost you, if something happened to you, if you didn't arrive at the project headquarters by tomorrow noon He finished the beer in a few long, 10 furious gulps, then said, "The vibrations would be felt all the way… to the top."
"Hal," McLanahan said, his mouth suddenly very dry, "that's not an explanation. "For the second time, the hairs on the back of his neck were catching a breeze from somewhere.
"The top?Top of what?"
