Flight Of The Old Dog

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 in to 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."

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 asked. "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 living room.

"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 asked. "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 stupidsending 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 asked. "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.l. 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.