Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (15 page)

 
          
“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 rolled 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.”