Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (13 page)

 
          
Luger
swore, louder than ever. He crossed his hands, wrapped his fingers around the
trigger ring between his legs, slammed 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 Whii- iite.”

 
          
McLanahan
saw a rectangle of light appear under Luger’s seat, and then his partner was
gone, blasted clear of the wildly-pitching 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 manuevered 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
thump
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 like 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 said. “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-ls to Ellsworth. King of
Canada
. The usual stuff.”

 
          
“Well,
best of luck,” White said. “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 said. “Hot damn.”

 
          
“I
don’t have
anything
yet,” McLanahan
said. “But why is
Wilder
telling me?”

 
          
“Who
knows?” Luger said. “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 friend—and 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. Every 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 in 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?”

 
          
Lugger
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 corner 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.