the 470this Numbered Air Force award. Everyone knew the final outcome.
If it were not a military formation, the huge converted aircraft hangar may well have been empty by the time the grand prize, the coveted Fairchild Trophy, ever made it into the winner's hands. It was certainly an anticlimactic finish.
Patrick McLanahan, his crew.and officers and invited guests of the 325th Bomb Wing were on stage for a solid hour after the ceremonies, getting pictures taken, holding interviews with military and civilian reporters, and letting the gleam of two long tables full of silver trophies dazzle their eyes. Colonel Edward Wilder, commander of the bomb wing, and Lieutenant-General Ashland, the commander of Fifteenth Air Force and Wilder's boss, then took turns lifting the huge ten-gallon Fairchild Trophy cup over their heads in triumph as a dozen photographers jockeyed for the best positions.
Two men stood away from the jubilant crowd at the front of the hangar, watching the festivities on stage from a deserted-looking projection room over the hangar.
Lieutenant-General Elliott had been going over several pages of computer printout and notes as the other man, in civilian clothes, shook his head in amazement.
'A B-52 won Bomb Comp,' Colonel Andrew Wyatt exclaimed. 'Hard to believe. We've spent megabucks on the B-1, on the Avionics Modernization Program on the FB-111, on the Offensive Avionics System for the B-52s to carry cruise missiles-and an unmodified vacuum-tube B-52 that entered the service when I did almost thirty years ago wins the Fairchild Trophy. Incredible.'
'Those guys are good. That's all there is to it,' Elliott said, closing the classified notes he was reading and handing them back to Wyatt. Wyatt did a fast page-count and locked the folder away in his briefcase.
'I thought the FB-111s were gonna pull it out,' Elliott said, 'but this was the first year of their AMP weapons delivery system modification and I think they still have some software bugs in it.
Wyatt nodded. 'So. What about a tour of your funny-farm in Nevada?
The general is brainstorming. He thinks your research and development center might have some toys he can play with.'
Elliott smiled and nodded. 'Sure-that's why we call it Dreamland.' For a few moments both men looked at the celebrations on the floor of the Awards Hangar. Then, General Elliott cleared his throat.
'What's going on, Andy?' he asked. Colonel Wyatt took a fast look around the projection room and decided there was no way the room could be secure.
'Not here, sir,' he said in a low voice. 'But General Curtis is very anxious to meet with you. Ven anxious. And not in an… official capacity.'
Elliott narrowed his eyes and looked sideways at the young aide to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. 'Not in an official capacity?
What the hell does that mean?'
'It means it's to be a private tour,' Wyatt asked. 'He'll be in civvies. He wants to get some ideas, enlist some assistance.'
'On what?'
'He'll make that plain to you when he sees you.sir,' Wyatt said.
Elliott rolled his eyes in frustration.
'More JCS doubletalk,' Elliott asked. 'All right, all right.
Day after tomorrow. Staff will be at a minimuni-skeleton crew. He'll get the royal tour, but not the royal reception.'
'I believe you've got the right idea, General,' Wyatt said.
He extended a hand. 'Very nice to see you again, General.'
'Same here, Andy,' Elliott said, shaking the aide's hand.
'You ever going to get your fighter wing back, or are you content with being a general's patsy?'
Now it was Wyatt's turn to look exasperated. 'The old Elliott eloquence,' Wyatt asked. 'Cut right to the heart. No, I'm busier than I'd ever thought I could be, sir. Besides, that fighter stuff is for the young bucks.'
Elliott's face darkened. 'Well, you're welcome to stay for the rest of the Symposium, Colonel. SAC's biggest bash. The Vice President is showing up in a few hours. The ladies in the Strategic Air Command get better and better looking every year.
'You know General Curtis, sir,' Wyatt asked. 'If I'm not back in Washington before supper, I'll be lucky to get command of a security police kennel. Thank you anyway, sir.
Wyatt hurried away.
Elliott made his way downstairs and into the hallway behind the huge awards ceremony hangar. There, standing alone in front of a huge model of the B-1B Excalibur, beer cup in hand, was Captain Patrick McLanahan.
He was easy to recognizethe young bombardier had been up on stage receiving trophies for most of the afternoon.
Elliott studied McLanahan for a moment. Why were the good ones always like that?Loners. Too intense. The best bombardier in SAC-probably the best in the world-standing out here, alone, looking at a damn airplane model. Weird.
Elliott studied him closer. Well, maybe not that intense.
Boots unpolished. No scarf. Flight suit zipped down nearly to his waist. Hair on the long side. Drinking during a military formation.
At least a dozen Air Force regulation 35–10 dress and appearance violations. He had to restrain himself from going over there and chewing the guy out.
But he did stroll over to the young officer. 'Is that your next conquest, Captain McLanahan?' Elliott said.
McLanahan turned, took a sip of beer, and casually studied Elliott-something that Lieutenant-General Bradley Elliott was very unaccustomed to. The general noticed none of the panic that usually accompanied confronting a three-star general; no stumbling over words, no overly exuberant greeting, no great big macho handshake.
After a moment, McLanahan smiled and extended his hand.
'Hello, General Elliott. 'He glanced back at the B-1B Excalibur model.
'This thing?No. Too high-tech for me.'
'Most young B-52 troops are standing in line for a B-1 assignment,' General Elliott remarked.
'Not me,' McLanahan said. He nodded toward an old, dusty model of a B-52 hanging in a corner. 'There's my baby.
He gave an amiable grin and said, 'Sorry about Pease. Those guys were tough this year.'
'Thanks. The FB-111s will come back next year, I'm sure of it.
They were beat out by the best. 'No reaction from the young radar navigator.
'You say you want to stay in B-52s, Patrick?' Elliott asked curiously.
'Why?The B-1s will be replacing them by the turn of the century.'
McLanahan paused before answering. 'I don't know. I guess it's just that people see a new aircraft come on- line and they think all of the older planes are history. 'He took another sip of beer. 'They've condemned the B-52 a little early. She's still got a lot of fight left in her.'
Elliott raised his eyebrows. His thoughts exactly. 'Old warhorses can still kick ass,' he said.
McLanahan smiled. 'You know it, sir.'
'Well, congratulations again. Patrick. Fairchild Trophy, Bombing Trophy, two years in a row. You're unbeatable, it seems.'
'I got the best crew in the business, General. 'McLanahan said. He drained the last of his beer and crumpled the cup in his hand. 'We work hard-and party even harder. Gotta go.'
'Stop by the Headquarters Hospitality Room later,' Elliott said as he shook hands. 'Let's discuss the old monster some more.'
'You got it, General,' McLanahan said. He hurried off after his crew.
Not much spit and polish to him, Elliott thought. But then he smiled as he recalled a young pilot thirty years before of whom the same could have been said. Had it been that many years?
Elliott shook his head. Like the B-52, he was fast becoming a relic.
He only hoped that, like the B-52, he had a little fight left in him yet.
The Strategic Air Command Giant Voice Bombing and Navigation Competition Center was an immense aircraft
