Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (17 page)

 
          
“You
got it, sir,” Airman Willis said cheerfully. He dialed a number, spoke for a
few minutes, then hung up with a smile on his face, his head bobbing in time
with the beat of the music throbbing from his portable stereo.

 
          
“You
lucked out, sir,” Willis said, filling out his log. “One room at the Qs, ready
and waiting. If your Major Miller shows, I’ll tell him where you are.”

 
          
“Thanks,”
McLanahan said. “I appreciate your help.”

 
          
“No
problem a-tall, sir,” he said, maintaining the rhythm with a pencil. “You here
for survival school? Got your Odor-Eaters and flea collars ready?”

 
          
“I
went through all that stuff years ago,” McLanahan replied. “I guess they
thought I needed a refresher.”

 
          
“Sure,
sir,” Willis replied, already tuning himself out now that the goofy lost
captain was taken care of. “Everyone needs a little practice bleeding every now
and then.” McLanahan was going to reply, but Willis was far away in his music
and a copy of
Playboy.

 
          
The
shuttle arrived not-so-promptly at twelve-fifteen. No one, not even Airman
Willis, had talked to him since he made his room reservations.

 
          
The
entire terminal was almost empty. McLanahan thanked Willis once again and
climbed aboard the blue school bus when it beeped outside. Again, he was the
only one on the bus as it rattled away.

 
          
It
was a short drive to Fairchild Air Force base. McLanahan showed his ID to the
gate guard and opened his gym bag for the M-16-carrying guard and his huge
German shepherd. Fifteen minutes later, McLanahan sprawled sleepily on a
queen-sized bed in the Visiting Officer’s Quarters.

 
          
He
undressed, showered, and lay awake on top of his bed for a few confused
minutes. It was just after
one
a.m.
Restlessly, he picked up the base phone book
and scanned the personnel directory. There were several Millers listed, and
even two Major Millers, but neither with a similar office symbol as the one on
his printout. McLanahan checked the organizational listings, but there were no
organizations on base even resembling the office symbol on the message.

 
          
He
threw the directory back on the nightstand.

 
          
“Screw
’em,’’ he said half-aloud. “If they want me, they should figure out where to
find me.’’ He left a six-thirty wake-up call at the front desk and slipped
under the coarse olive-drab G.I. horse blankets.

 
          
McLanahan
awoke with a violent start to the furious sound of impatient knuckles rapping
on wood. He felt as if he had been asleep for hours— perhaps it was the
billeting clerk pounding on his door because he got no answer on the wake-up
call. McLanahan glanced at the clock on the dresser. Nope, he’d only been
asleep for an hour.

 
          
He
slipped on a pair of gym shorts from his bag, smoothed down his blond hair, and
opened the door. Two black men, one in a civilian suit and the other an Air
Force security guard, were standing impatiently in the doorway.

 
          
“Captain
McLanahan?’’ the guy in the suit asked. He did not even look at McLanahan—he
was scanning up and down the hallways.

 
          
“Yeah,’’
McLanahan replied irritably, scratching his head.

 
          
“Patrick
McLanahan?’’

 
          
“Yeah,
yeah.’’ McLanahan wasn’t in a conversational mood, but his gruff attitude
didn’t faze these guys.

 
          
The
guy in the suit looked immensely relieved. He put a finger on the security
guard’s chest as if driving his commands into the guard’s body.

 
          
“We
got him. Notify the gate guards. Then get an unmarked car and have it sent over
here pronto. No Air Force or DOD crap on the doors.’’

 
          
“We
got one.’’ The guard trotted away. The guy in the suit pushed his way into
McLanahan’s room and closed and locked the door.

 
          
“I
need your ID, Captain McLanahan,” he said brusquely.

 
          
“Like
hell,” McLanahan said, finally beginning to wake up. “I want to
see your
ID right now or I’ll call back
that sky cop you just chased away.” The guy muttered a “Jesus H. Christ” under
his breath, but pulled out a wallet and held it up. McLanahan turned on the
room light and squinted sleepily at the card and badge.

           
“Staff Sergeant Jenkins, Air Force
Office of Special Investigations,” the man said, snapping the wallet closed.
“Now, sir, if you don’t mind . . .”

           
“Yeah. Okay.” McLanahan fumbled
through his jeans and produced the card. Jenkins already had a walkie-talkie in
his hand. He studied the card, nodded, and thumbed the mike.

           
“Control, seven-seven,” he said as
softly as he could.

           
“Seven-seven, go,” came the reply.

           
“I’ve located our subject. I’ll be
escorting him back to the main rendezvous point.”

           
“Copy, seven-seven.” Jenkins
returned the card.

           
“Captain McLanahan, please get dressed
and get your gear together.”

   
        
“Hey, wait a minute,” McLanahan
protested. “What’s going on?”

           
Jenkins was frowning impatiently,
his fists on his hips. Apparently he didn’t like anyone, even officers, asking
him “why” and “what.”

           
“Sir, we are going back to meet
Major Miller,” he said in short, clipped words. He glanced down at his
walkie-talkie and clicked it off. “You were supposed to wait at the airport for
further instructions, were you not, sir?”

           
“Yeah,” McLanahan said, feeling his
ears redden. Shit, he thought. I screwed up. He reached for the jeans,
wondering if Jenkins was going to stand there and watch him dress. “
Ten o’clock
. Nobody showed up. I thought I’d get a room
at the base and wait ...”

           
“Why the base, sir?” Jenkins
interrupted.

           
“What do you mean, ‘why the base’? I
get orders to
Spokane
. It’s gotta be . .”

           
“Sir.” Jenkins was obviously holding
in check the massive urge to lash out with a ‘you dumb shit officer, who the
hell told you to
assume
anything?’
but he said instead, “That was an unfortunate . . . misjudgment. You were to
meet Major Miller at the terminal. He was delayed, but he expected you to sit
tight until you received further directions.” The spitting emphasis on
mis
judgment was too obvious.

 
          
“Okay,
okay. Yeah. You’re right, sergeant,” McLanahan replied. “I’ll be ready in a
minute.”

           
Obviously, Jenkins had no intention
of leaving.

           
“Where are we going?”

           
Jenkins did not reply, but he looked
more exasperated than ever with every question. McLanahan glared at him as he
finished repacking the gym bag and pulling on his jacket. It really did take
McLanahan only a minute to get ready because he carried so few items.

 
          
McLanahan
retrieved his key, stepped out into the hall and turned toward the lobby.

 
          
“This
way, sir,” Jenkins said, grabbing McLanahan’s arm and swinging him around
toward a dimly lit hallway to the back.

 
          
“But
my room . . . ?”

 
          
“Will
be taken care of, sir. This way.” Jenkins led him to a side door that opened up
to a laundry delivery dock and a dumpster in the rear of the building. A blue
sedan, its engine idling, was waiting. As McLanahan headed for the steps
leading down from the dock to the pavement below, Jenkins grabbed the gym bag
off McLanahan’s shoulder.

 
          
“I’ll
take this, sir,” he said quietly. “Get in and we’ll leave.” He trotted down to
the sedan, knocked on the window, and trotted around to the trunk just as it
popped open. He hid the gym bag under some blankets and then slid quietly in
the back seat next to McLanahan.

 
          
As
they drove out the gate and onto the highway leading back to Spokane
International, Jenkins picked up a device from the front seat and clicked it
on.

 
          
“Bear
with me, sir,” he said, passing the device quickly over McLanahan’s body. He
repeated the sweep once more, then clicked it off and set the device next to
the driver.

 
          
“Now,
Sergeant Jenkins,” McLanahan said, “can you tell me what the hell’s going on?”

 
          
“As
far as I’m allowed, sir,” he replied. “Major Miller was supposed to meet you at
ten
o’clock
at the
airport. He was delayed arranging for secure transportation. When he wrote your
instructions he assumed that, when your printed instructions left you off at
the airport, that
you
would stop at
the airport. A bad assumption on
his
part, apparently.”

 
          
“Well,
since we’re admitting to poor assumptions tonight, I’ve got a few more,”
McLanahan said. “I assumed that my final destination was Fair- child—why else
would I be sent to
Spokane
? Now I’m assuming all this to mean that Fairchild is
not
my final destination.”

 
          
“I
don’t know anything about your
final
destination, Captain,” Jenkins replied. “You were sent to
Spokane
for one reason only.”

 
          
“Which
was?”

 
          
“Because
they only had eight people booked on that flight,” Jenkins said, as if that
explained
everything.

 
          
“Say
again?”

 
          
“They
needed to know if you were being tailed, Captain McLanahan,” Jenkins explained.
“They knew who had reservations on your flight, who signed on after you checked
in, who arrived at
Spokane
, and where everyone went and what everyone did when they got off your
flight. They could do this because of the small number aboard. They simply
picked a time, date, and location with the fewest passengers and had you get on
that flight. It just happened to go to
Spokane
,
Washington
. It had nothing to do with Fairchild at all—as a matter of fact, it
will probably take some fast explaining to someone when the billeting folks
find you gone suddenly.”

 
          
“Tailed!
Me? Why would anybody tail
me?”

 
          
Jenkins
let out a half laugh, half snort in the car’s darkness. “Shee-it,” he said,
chuckling humorlessly again,
“liyou
don’t know, Captain, it
must
be
bad
news.”

 
          
And,
at that, the hairs rose on the back of McLanahan’s neck. Jenkins’ words echoed
through his head as the lights of the airport grew larger and brighter.

 
          
If you don't know, Captain, it must be bad
news.

           
Jenkins’ monotone voice finally
penetrated McLanahan’s reverie as the car bypassed the main terminal and headed
for a row of hangars adjacent to the taxiways, away from the jet parking ramp.
The car’s driver had already doused the headlights.

 
          
“Your
bag will catch up with you, Captain, don’t worry,” he was saying. “Remember
now—walk away from the car about ten steps then just stop and . . .
wait.
” McLanahan had to smile at
Jenkins’ emphasis on the word ‘wait,’ but apparently Jenkins didn’t notice.
“Someone will meet you and tell you what to do.”