Flight Of The Old Dog

FORD AIR FORCE BASE, CALIFORNIA

Patrick McLanahan was in trouble.

His partner, Dave Luger, had been severely injured by flying glass and metal after his five-inch radar scope exploded from a near-hit by a Soviet S.A-4 surface-to-air missile. Their aircraft had just been jumped by a small squadron of four MiG-25s.

Climbing out of the low-level bomb run area in broad daylight, the B-52 was a sitting duck for the advanced Soviet interceptors.

Luger, lounging in his ejection seat, watched his partner switch the bomb-nay radar scope from off-center present position mode to station-keeping, bringing the radar antenna up to level with the aircraft's longitudinal axis. The display was now configured from attack mode to scanning mode, with a maximum of five miles range with range marks displayed every half mile. He was trying to save their lives.

"Anything I can do for you, Pat?" Luger asked nonchalantly.

"Watch for the damn fighters," McLanahan said.

"Can't do that, buddy," Luger asked. "I've got serious injuries over here, remember?"

As if to emphasize his point, he lolled lifelessly across the aisle, his parachute harness barely keeping him in his ejection seat. He stared up at the overhead circuit breaker panel of the B-52 Ejection and Egress Trainer, his arms flung out awkwardly. McLanahan muttered something about how stupid he looked.

"When did they add that into the scenario?" McLanahan asked.

"I don't know," Luger asked. "I like it, though."

"You're havin' too much of a fucking good time, — McLanahan said.

"I like watchin' you work your butt off, partner."1@ "Too bad your injuries haven't affected your mouth. "McLanahan flipped switches on the instrument panel in front of A him and looked over at his partner.

"Get strapped in like You're supposed to. Can you still reach your ejection trigger ring, or are your hands blown off too?"

Luger went through the charade of inspecting his hands.

"Nope, they look fine. "As he reached for his parachute harness straps, he noticed a faint ripple of light in the upper left-hand corner of the radar navigator's ten-inch radar scope.

"Ten o'clock," Luger said, pointing at the scope. "Interference patterns. Could be "No cheating now, Luger," the instructor, Paul White, interrupted from the control console outside the trainer.

"You're blind, remember?Are you ready for the finale?"

"They've got this place bugged," Luger said, hurriedly pulling on the parachute.

"You'd be dead meat right now if those fighters launched a missile, Dave," White asked. "Don't tell me you're going to unstrap yourself like that during the real thing?"

"Only if there aren't any instructors around," Luger said.

White did not share in the joke, and Luger quieted up and finished strapping himself into his seat.

"Pilot," McLanahan said, acting as if he was talking to the Pilot, "I'm picking up a bogey at ten O'clock, five miles.

Moving rapidly to eleven o'clock."

"Roger," White said, acting now as the pilot. Then, switching roles to the crew electronic warfare officer, he shouted, "Pilot, break left now. "Simultaneously, he turned a large black knob on the console in front of him, putting the trainer into a sharp left turn. The compartment in which McLanahan and Luger were sitting was mounted on four ten-foot hydraulic legs, enabling it to move in any direction at the instructor's command.

"Bogey at one O'clock, three and a half miles," McLanahan reported.

The interference pattern on his radar scope, the telltale sign of the enemy fighter's radar transmissions intermingling with the B-52s radar, disappeared and then hardened into a solid white dot on the upper-right corner of the ten-inch scope. By the time the radar sweep picked up the dot again, it had moved considerably. "Beginning to go off my scope rapidly at three o'clock, three miles. Guns, you should be able to pick him up."

"Pilot," White said, now as the crew gunner, "my firecontrol system is broken. All gun barrels are jammed. No radar contact. "White switched back to the E. W. "Pilot, the fighter's radar has gone down.

Last contact was five o'clock, two miles.

Expecting a cannon attack or infrared missile attack. Continue evasive maneuvers. "White swung the control knob to the right, and the real-motion simulator responded by slamming both crewmembers into their seats. "Dispensing chaff and flares. Continue evasive maneuvers."

A long pause. The gyro compass and altimeter were both spinning madly as White, striving for maximum realism in his trainer, jerked the "plane" around as quickly as he could without locking up the hydraulically operated moving trainer.

Then he leveled the trainer out and said, "Crew, this is the co-pilot.

We've taken a missile hit on number four nacelle.

Generators seven and eight are off-line. Pilot, seven and eight engine fire T-handles, pulled."

White studied a hidden closed-circuit TV picture of the inside of the egress trainer-another modification he hadn't told the trainees about.

Both McLanahan and Luger were sitting bolt-upright in their seats, heads shoved back, work tables stowed, their hands gripping the ejection trigger rings between their legs. They were fighting to remain upright in the oscillating box. White twisted the controls, and the wildlybucking box on its hydraulic legs slowly came back to normal.

Both navigators were still tense, waiting for the order to eject.

Not yet, boys, White said to himself. He turned and signaled the technicians assisting him to get ready, then clicked on his interphone.

"Okay, gents," White asked. "Fun's over. I was just checking out my new full-motion range. What do you think?"

"I'll tell you," McLanahan said, "after I puke on your shirt.

"Thanks," White asked. "Okay. You're level at ten thousand feet.

Plenty of time to get ready for ejection, right, Luger?"

"No sir," Luger answered. "Last I remember before you blew my radar scope up-and that was a nifty addition to your little chamber of horrors here, by the way-the terrain was mountainous. Some peaks went up to six or seven thousand feet. Maybe more."

"Very good," White asked. "Pressure altitude is secondaryit's feet above ground you need to worry about. You're still flying over mountains. What else do you have to worry about, McLanahan?"

"The only damn thing I'm going to worry about," McLanahan said, "is how far upwind I can get of that one-point-one megaton bomb I just dropped.

"You guys are sharp, real sharp," White said, beaming. "I guess that's why you picked up eight trophies at Bomb Comp.

All right, now, you only dropped your bomb ten minutes ago.

We were balls-to-the-wall after bomb release, so we escaped the blast effects, but the fallout is still spreading. So if you were the pilot, Luger, what would you do?"

"Well, we only lost two engines," Luger said after thinking for a few moments. "I'd try to keep this Strato-Pig flying as long as I could toward the coast until she wouldn't stay up any more, then start punchin' people out."

"Even with a squadron of MiGs on your tail?"

White prompted.

"Well, shit, " McLanahan asked. "Our day has already gone to hell.

Maybe they'll blow us up, or maybe they'll miss, or maybe they'll go home when they see our right wing on fire.

Who knows?I'm bettin' that, even if they hit us again, we'll still have a couple of seconds to get out before the damn plane falls out of the sky. Our goose is cooked either way."

"Okay, Patrick," White asked. "Don't get all worked up.

This trainer is here primarily to give you practice in using your downward ejection seat, true, but I want you guys to get more out of it. Some guys will punch out as soon as they hear the word 'fire."

Others will wait for an order. Some guys will freeze. Some guys will never punch out-they think they're safer in the plane, or that they can ditch it or crash land it. I want you guys to think about what to do. That's all. Ejecting is a traumatic and dangerous thing to do-and I should know, because I've done it three times. I've seen too many guys die unnecessarily because they don't think first. Okay?"

"Okay," McLanahan said.

"Well, then," White said, "I, uh… listen, I have to use the little boy's room. I'll be back in a few minutes, and we'll just talk about the ejection sequence and finish early. Okay?"

"Sure," McLanahan replied.

"Good. Don't go away" The interphone clicked dead. Luger turned a puzzled glance toward McLanahan. "Leave early?That's a first."

"I smell a rat," McLanahan said.

"Big deal," Luger said. He placed a hand near the yellow ejection trigger ring, now stowed on the front of his ejection seat between his legs. "I've punched out of this thing a dozen-" Luger never finished that sentence.

The trainer suddenly swerved and heeled sharply to the right. Almost immediately afterward, it pitched down so suddenly that both navigators' helmets bumped against their work tables.

he red ABANDON light between the two navigators' seats snapped on.

Luger reached for the ejection ring with his free hand, but the cabin rolled over to the left so hard that it appeared it was completely flopped on its side. Not only did Luger's left hand never find the ring, but his right hand was flung away from it.

Swearing softly to himself, McLanahan flicked a small lever on the front left corner of his ejection seat. With his right hand, he grabbed the side of his seat and straightened himself up. The shoulder harness inertial reel took up the slack, anchoring McLanahan's back upright in the seat.

His partner, caught completely unawares, was almost bent in half when the cabin swung over to the left. Straining, McLanahan reached across the narrow aisle and locked Luger's shoulder harness. Luger, propelled by rage that surely could be heard outside on the instructor's control panel, hauled himself upright in his seat.

"C'mon, boys," Major White said, gleefully watching the two navigators struggle on his closed-circuit TV.He glanced over his shoulder to make sure his safety observers and technicians were in place. "Time's a-wastin'.-."

The lights in the compartment had gone out. The cabin was lit only by the eerie glow of the ABANDON light, but a few seconds later that too blinked out. The normally quiet hum of the trainer had been replaced by super-amplified sounds of explosions, screeching metal, hissing gas, and more explosions. Smoke began to fill the compartment. White had really laid on the realism this time, McLanahan thought to himself the smoke began to sting his eyes. The cabin pitched over again, rolling slowly to the right and tipping downward.

Luger swore, louder than ever. He crossed his hands, wrapped his fingers around the trigger ring between his legs, s lammed his head back against the headrest, and pulled the ring as if he were doing a biceps curl.

Closing his eyes and grimacing, Luger yelled, "Damn you, Major Whiiiite. "McLanahan saw a rectangle of light appear under Luger's seat, and then his partner was gone, blasted clear of the wildlypitching trainer by powerful thrusters. Grunting with satisfaction, McLanahan gripped his own trigger ring, braced himself with his legs and feet, and pulled.

Nothing happened.

It was McLanahan's turn to swear, very loudly, but his actions were immediate. With two quick, fluid jerks, he pulled a yellow ring on either side of his ejection seat, freeing himself of the bulky global survival kit underneath him and popping the connections that held him fast. He reached upward, his blind fingers instantly finding the handhold bolted onto the overhead circuit breaker panel, and hauled himself up and out of the malfunctioned seat. The remains of his lap belt and shoulder harness clattered away.

The trainer was now tilted several degrees to the right, and McLanahan had to scramble for a handhold to keep himself clear of the gaping hole where his partner had been sitting a few moments earlier. He clutched the ladder behind Luger's seat and the catapult railing that had shot Luger's seat down into space.

Like a blind man feeling for a chair, McLanahan carefully maneuvered himself around the catapult railing, propping his feet against the hatch edge, feeling for the rim of the hatch.

The cabin tilted over and down even further, and his helmeted head banged against the side of the open hatch. His parachute felt like a huge concrete block on his back, dragging him closer and closer to the opening. The sounds behind him were deafening.

He was now straddling the open hatch, his feet against the back edge of the opening, his hands on either side, his head staring down through the hatch. There was another terrific explosion inside the cabin. A brilliant white light flashed. With one motion, McLanahan let go of both sides of the hatch. His right hand seized the D-ring ripcord on the harness of his parachute, and his left wrapped around his middle.

He tucked his head down and rolled out through the open hatch, curling his knees up to his chest.

He felt a split-second of weightlessness as he somersaulted out. The next instant he was landing with a loud thunW on the thick nylon safety bag eight feet below. The bag carefully deflated with a loud, relieved sound of gushing air, and McLanahan settled slowly and gently to the floor. The ripcord was in his right hand, and a large green ball that activated his emergency oxygen supply was in his left.

A horn blared somewhere, and several green-uniformed Air Force technicians rushed over to him. McLanahan remained motionless, curled up Re an embryo within the mountainous billows of the safety bag.

"Are you okay, Patrick?" White asked as he helped McLanahan off with his helmet. "Hurt anywhere?"

McLanahan uncurled himself and stared at the bottom of the trainer cabin looming over him. "Son of a bitch!"

"You're okay," White said with an amused Cheshire-cat smile. He helped McLanahan up to his feet and out of his parachute harness.

"You did great," White asked. "It took longer for Luger to punch out on his ejection seat than it did for you to manually bail out after you realized your seat had malfunctioned. Most guys never even make it out. If they don't make it within thirty seconds then they never will, especially at low altitude. You did it in fifteen.

White handed him a beer-fortunately it was their last class of the day-and they walked over to an adjacent classroom.

Luger was sprawled on a chair, his flight suit half unzipped one empty beer can near an elbow and another can in his hand: looking rumpled and angry. He scowled at White.

"No more surprises," he told White. "I'm telling the whole squadron about your tricks.

"No, you won't," White said, chuckling. "I know you, Luger-you'd like me to stick it to your buddies just like I stuck it to you. Besides, if you tell them anything I'll just have to think up some other nasty additions. When was the last time you did a manual bailout?"

Luger started to mutter something but then thought better of it.

"Oh, by the way," White said, turning to McLanahan. "You had a phone call from Colonel Wilder's office. Did you get an assignment?"

"Wilder," McLanahan said. He looked puzzled. "No, I didn't get an assignment as far as I know."

"Could be the big time, Muck," Luger said, finishing his beer with a happy belch. "I told you, didn't I?

You're going to SAC Headquarters.

I can feel it. The wing king wants to tell you himself."

"Any other message, sir?" McLanahan asked White.

"No," White replied. "You've got an appointment to see him, though.

Tomorrow morning. Seven-thirty In his office.

What assignment did you put in for?"

The puzzled expression still had not left McLanahan's face.

"Hell, the usual wet-dream things a six-year captain puts in for. Air Command and Staff College with a waiver. SAC Headquarters. Numbered Air Force job. B-1s to Ellsworth.

King of Canada. The usual stuff."

"Well, best of luck," White asked. "Always like to see a good man move up.

Outside the trainer building, Luger could hardly contain his enthusiasm as he and McLanahan headed for their cars.

"Man, I knew you'd get your ticket out of here," Luger asked. "Hot damn."

"I don't have anything yet," McLanahan asked. "But why is Wilder telling me?"

"Who knows?" Luger asked. "But, it must be good. If it was bad news he wouldn't wait until tomorrow. Besides, you're Wilder's showpiece, his trophy-producing machine. If Wilder makes general it'll be because of "Shack' McLanahan."

Luger looked over at his partner and noticed his faraway look. He frowned.

"Man, you don't believe it can happen, do you," he said angrily. "You can't stay here forever, Pat. You've got to decide-" "I'll decide what I want when I want," McLanahan interrupted. "And I don't need any advice from you."

Luger grabbed McLanahan by the arm. "Maybe you're right. Maybe you don't need my advice. But I'm your friendand that gives me the right to tell you when I think you're making a mistake. And I think you'll be making a big mistake if you don't grab whatever the big boys decide to give you."

McLanahan sighed and shook his head. "It's not that simple, Dave. You know it isn't. My mom… Catherine…

they're both down on this Air Force thing. Have been for a while.

Ever since my dad died it's been a real struggle for my mom to keep the bar going. I've had to watch over things. And Catherine-well, you know Catherine. Her idea of the good life has nothing to do with being an Air Force wife. She keeps prodding me to separate from the service and go into business.

Lately, it's begun to make some sense."

" Shit, " Luger said, "what are you saying to me?That you'd rather be in a three-piece suit shuffling papers, or helping your mom out with the bar?That doesn't make sense. Here, at Ford, you're the best.

Hell, you're probably the best damn navigator at SAC.What would you be outside of the service?Just another guy picking up a paycheck, that's what. "Luger shook his head. "It's just not you, Pat. You've got a talent. And you can't turn your back on it. "McLanahan looked out across the airfield at a B-52 taxiing down the runway, then turned back — to Luger. "Sometimes," McLanahan said, "I think it might not be bad being a civilian again. At least, I'd be making a difference, getting things done, having an effect. Sometimes it seems as if all we do here is run simulations, conduct exercises. "He paused. "Take that trainer session today. A part of me sees the point, and another part sees it as just another game."

"It's a game that could save your life someday," Luger said, "but you don't need me to tell you that."

"No, I guess not," McLanahan said. He gestured toward his car.

"Listen, Dave, I… I gotta get going. See you tomorrow, okay?"

Luger nodded. He waited until McLanahan had made his way to the parking lot, then called out. "Hey, Muck!"

McLanahan turned.

"We make a good team, don't we, buddy?"

McLanahan smiled and flashed him the thumbs — up sign.

Thirty minutes later, McLanahan parked his car in front of "The Shamrock," the family restaurant and bar, and made his way through the side entrance upstairs to his third-floor apartment. For some reason, he had no desire to run into his mother or siblings just yet.

An assignment!The more he thought about it, the more confused he became. He knew that this time there weren't going to be any more extensions or delays. If he turned down another important assignment it was probably the end of his Air Force career, He threw his flight jacket and briefcase in the closet and dropped onto the sleeper sofa with a tired thud. Unzipping his flight suit to the waist, he looked around his tiny efficiency apartment and shook his head.

The place was spotless-but not because he was a tidy person. Despite the fact that he lived alone, his mother came by every day at ten o'clock and cleaned and straightened it up.

He once tried to discourage her by locking the door and not giving her the key, but his mother, assuming that the lock had broken somehow, had Patrick s brother Paul call a locksmith to open it. She never considered the possibility that her son might just want his privacy He got up, kicking his flight boots into a comcr of the dining room, and went to the kitchen. He found three six-packs of beer in the refrigerator. Popping open a can, he chuckled to himself. His mother hated to see him drinking anything but milk and water, but she always kept his refrigerator stocked.

Without looking, he knew there were fresh towels hanging on the rods in the bathroom and clean dishes in the cupboards.

For a brief second, he felt a pang of guilt. Christ, he thought, what's wrong with this setup?Shouldn't he be happy, living with his family, not worrying about cleaning or cooking?

Luger would probably give his right nut to have such a life.

Around his family, McLanahan was treated as much more than just the oldest sibling. He was the father, the head of the household, the provider and the decision-maker. It was Paul who ran the restaurant and tavern, and it was his mother who cooked and cleaned and served, but Patrick was the oldest, the manager, and therefore got top treatment. That was the way it was supposed to be. That's how Patrick McLanahan, Senior, was treated. That's how things were. Patrick was not even called "Patrick junior" or "Junior" or even "Pat, " the way his family used to differentiate between him and his father. Patrick was now Patrick, Senior, even though it was unspoken.

Patrick's father was a city policeman who knew nothing else but work from age twenty to age sixty. After he retired from the force, he took jobs as a security guard and private investigator until Paul was old enough to Find "The Shamrock," and even then he slaved over his new enterprise like a teenager. The tavern was everything-not a gold mine, but a family symbol, an heirloom.

Patrick's mother turned immediately to her oldest son after the death of her husband. Selling the tavern, and the apartments that went with the building, was unthinkable. Maureen McLanahan gathered her children around her, told them that selling out would be a dishonor, and charged them with keeping the business open. Because Patrick was the oldest, it was up to him to see they did not fail.

With help from his brothers and sister, and large infusions of his Air Force paycheck for improvements, Patrick kept the old tavern in business. He had been determined to turn that money into the security he wanted for his family, and his mother knew he would succeed. After all, he was the head of the household, n am and he was a McLanahan.

The thought of failure never entered Maureen McLanahan's mind.

Surprisingly, the Air Force had cooperated. They had assigned Patrick to a base close to his family and had extended him a few extra years so that he could finish a master's degree and work on the family business' ' His success at the annual SAC Bomb Competition two years in a row, plus his knowledge and skill as a navigator, now made him a very valuable commodity But that extension was about to run out. His future destination-SAC Headquarters in Omaha, Nebraska; the Pentagon in Washington; or a staff position in a B-1 Excalibur unit in South Dakota or Texas-meant high-visibility and prestige, but it also meant moving to a location light-years from home. It was a painful thought.

Why is it so painful?McLanahan asked himself. Why is it so difficult?

"Hello there."

McLanahan jumped- "Christ, Cat, " he asked. "Did you ever hear of knocking?"

Catherine McGraith glided over, took a genteel sniff of him in his hot, sweaty flight suit, and daintily kissed his lips at a maximum distance.

"I thought I'd surprise you," she asked. "Evidently, I succeeded."

Just seeing Catherine seemed to make things better, he thought. For a moment, he forgot what it was that had been bothering him. Catherine's slender figure-skater body, her tiny upturned nose, her white skin and glistening hair, always made him stop and just watch her, study her, take her in.

He reached out, gathered her in his arms, and kissed her full on the lips. "Hmmm. You look very nice," he said. He proceeded to carry her into the living room and fall back with her onto the sofa.

"Patrick!" Catherine said. She pushed him away, but not too hard.

"You'd think you were on alert for a whole month."

"You make me crazy all the time," McLanahan asked. "It doesn't matter how long I've been on alert."

"It must be the green," Catherine asked. "The green flightsuits, the green planes, the green buildings-all that green must make you guys terminally horny."

"You make me terminally horny," he said.

Catherine finally managed to push herself away. "C'mon, now," she said, rising to her feet. "I finally succeeded in perfectly timing your arrival home. We have a reservation at the Firehouse in Old Sacramento for seven-thirty. Your mom had your suit cleaned, and you can-" McLanahan groaned. "Oh, Cat, c'mon. The trainer today was crazy. I had to manually bail out. Besides, I go on alert tomorrow.

I'm really not in the mood for-" "Alert!Again?You just got back from Bomb Comp. They should give you guys a rest. "She paused, looking at him.

"Oh, Patrick. Nancy and Margaret from school will be there tonight.

Please, let's go?"

McLanahan looked up at the ceiling. "I think they are getting rid of me," he said?"

"Getting rid of you? What do you mean "I got a call from Colonel Wilder, the wing commander," he asked. "I didn't talk to him, but Paul White did. He thinks I got an assignment.

"An assignment. Where?"

"I don't know where. But a few months back Colonel Wilder specifically recommended me to a guy in Plans and Operations at SAC Headquarters.

I've got a feeling that's where I'm going."

"SAC Headquarters!In Omaha?Nebraska?" Catherine frowned. "You got an assignment to Nebraska?"

I'm not certain, Cat," McLanahan said — He could feel the excitement washing away. "That's what I wanted."

"I know, I know," Catherine said. She fiddled with her nails.

"It would be a giant step forward, Cat," McLanahan said, looking at her, trying to read her thoughts. "I think I've worn out my welcome here at Ford. It's time for me to move on."

Catherine's eyes met his. "But you were thinking of getting out of the service, Pat," she asked. "We were going to get married and settle down and- "I'm still thinking of doing it," McLanahan replied.

"Especially the marriage part. But… I don't know it depends on what the Air Force has to offer. If I get an assignment to SAC Headquarters-it'll be great. A perfect "Patrick, you run a restaurant, the biggest opportunity.d, "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 asked. "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 asked. "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-52s 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 a" a worrywart," she asked. "That's probably why you won so many trophies. No, Patrick, this all-important, highpowered 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 Maxon 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 knew 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,Chr(34)+ okay? I'm still your old pilot to you."

"Yes, sir," McLanahan asked. "How do you like the Command Post job?"

"Sometimes I wish I was still flying a Buff low-level in the Grand Tetons," he asked. "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 asked. "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.

Lieutenant 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 asked. "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 asked. "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-1 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 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.