Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (14 page)

 
          
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 run “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,
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-l
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 said. “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 said. “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 said, “it doesn’t matter how long I’ve
been on alert.”

 
          
“It
must be the green,” Catherine said. “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 said. “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.

 
          
“I
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 said. “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 opportunity.”

 
          
“Patrick,
you run a restaurant, the biggest . . .”

 
          
“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 said. “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 said. “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-52’s 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
are
a worry wart,” she said. “That’s
probably why you won so many trophies. No, Patrick, this all-important,
high-powered 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
Klaxon 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.