hangar, remodeled and converted into the awards and hospitahty center that was used only once a year for just this event.
Surrounding the hangar itself were dozens of smaller offices and conference centers that, on Hospitality Night, were used by all of the units represented in the competition as specialized drinking and socializing rooms. Each room had a theme, depending on the unit's mission or its geographical location.
The first task at hand, however, was to get inside to visit them. The Competition Center was so crowded, so packed with military men and women in various stages of inebriation, that Gary Houser's crew took ten minutes, once they entered the hangar's immense lobby, to even get near the hospitality rooms. There was a large directory inside the lobby that described where each unit was located, but that defeated the purpose of Hospitality Night. The object was to visit each and every room before the three A.M. closing time.
'I don't believe this,' Luger said as he and Patrick moved through the crowd. 'This Hospitality Night gets bigger and better every year.'
Their first stop was the Texas Contingent, where five rooms had been combined into one long beerhall. The center of attraction in the jam-packed room was a massive Brahma bull lounging in the middle of the beerhall. It had a mural of a B-1B painted on each side. The bull was standing in a huge sandbox.
In the back part of the sandbox, already half-covered with bull droppings, was a strip of red sand labeled, 'To Russia With Love, From the Excalibur. 'The bull wore a ten-gallon cowboy hat and was busy eating out of a trough filled with party snacks and corn.
Luger and McLanahan were welcomed by two girls dressed like Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, who promptly filled their hands with Lone Star beer and bowls of chili.
'Where y'all from?' one cheerleader asked.
'Amarillo,' Luger drawled. 'Patty here's from California but he's okay.'
'I just love Amarillo, ' the other cheerleader said, giggling.
'And I just love California,' the first one said.
— Well, — McLanahan said, slipping an arm around one cheerleader's waist while the other took his arm. 'Why don't you two Southern belles show us around your little Texas tearoom here?'
McLanahan weaved unsteadily in a corner of an old-time Western saloon, wearing a toy six-gun at his side and a red felt cowboy hat behind his neck. The place was packed with riotous crewmen, some celebrating, some trying to drown their sorrows with massive amounts of beer and chili. A non-com bartender, a crew chief from the 5th Fighter Interceptor Squadron from Minot, North Dakota, patiently waited on each one of them.
With one hand, McLanahan picked up a huge mug of beer from the end of the bar. He strolled over to a dartboard at the far end of the saloon and looked over the target-five darts lodged in the exact center of the corkboard.
'Pretty good shootin', huh, Sergeant Berger?' McLanahan said to the bartender. The sergeant, dressed like a Barbary Coast innkeeper, smiled.
'Your Sergeant Brake's the one who can do some shooting, ' Berger said.
'If anyone had told me a B-52 would shoot down an F-15 in broad daylight, I'd have said they were crazy.
I was the crew chief on that F- 15 that got shot down, but send Bob Brake over here and I'll buy him a beer.'
'It would have been different if things were for real,' McLanahan said, taking a deep pull of the draft. 'You would have nailed us from thirty miles away with one of those new Sidewinders or an AMRAAM, but you don't get any points for a beyond-visual range shot. 'McLanahan took another swig of beer. That's why it's all just a big game, he thought.
Just a game.
As he ambled over to the bar and found himself an empty seat, his thoughts took a depressing turn. He had been in the Air Force, what?
Six years now. And he had never dropped a live bomb on a target. Each time that he had pressed his finger down on the pickle switch, it had been a concrete blivet that dropped out the botab bay doors.
Not that he should complain. The whole point of what he was doing was to defend his country, after all. If defending it meant undergoing exercise after exercise, then so be it. He couldn't help wondering, though, what it would be like to drop a bomb under true 'game' conditions. He felt like a fireman who is waiting to be called to his first fire, dreading and welcoming it at the same time.
McLanahan looked up from his beer to find a pretty young brunette in civilian clothes seated next to him. She was talking to another woman who had long blond hair tied up in a bun. On the blonde's uniform lapel were lieutenant's insignia.
'Excuse me, ladies,' McLanahan said, his voice slurring a bit. 'But can I interest either of you in a game of darts?'
The blonde smiled. She looked at her friend. 'Wendy,' she said, 'why don't you give it a try?I never could shoot those things. 'The brunette demurred. 'I don't think so,' she said.
'Besides, what chance would I have competing against the King of Bomb Comp himself. 'She fixed McLanahan with a bemused took, as if all the honors he'd received counted little in her estimation.
McLanahan mistook the look for active interest and charged forward.
'Well, if I'm the King of Bomb Comp, then I'm willing to let you be my Queen. 'He clinked his beer mug against hers and made a toast. 'To.
.. what was it?Wendy.
To Wendy, Queen of Bomb Comp and a credit to the United States Air Force.'
Wendy smiled. 'Actually, I'm employed by an independent contractor.
We build and test ECM gear.'
'Well, we won't hold that against you,' McLanahan said.
He glanced at the blond lieutenant.
Wendy looked at McLanahan for a moment as if deciding something, then rose from her seat and straightened her dress.
She reached out her hand. 'So nice to have met you, uh-' McLanahan told her his name. 'Yes, of course. Patrick. Well, it was nice to meet you. But I must be going.'
She waved to the blonde. 'Catch you later, Cheryl,' she asked. 'Stay out of trouble, okay?'
'I'll try,' Cheryl said, but something in her eyes told McLanahan she had no intention of doing any such thing. As Cheryl looked at him over her beer mug, McLanahan thought of the woman who'd just left.
FIGHTER WEAPONS TRAINING RANGE, NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE, LAS VEGAS, NEVADA 19 — ISO IV 19
Two days after the Bomb Comp festivities ended, LieutenantGeneral Elliott rode with General Curtis in a blue Air Force four-wheel drive truck, bouncing and skidding on dark, dusty, pitted desert roads.
Elliott was wearing short-sleeved olivedrab fatigues and a blue flight cap. Curtis was wearing a conservative gray suit and tie, even in the dry desert warmth of the early evening. The sun had set a few minutes earlier beyond the beautiful mountain ranges of the high Nevada desert.
'It's incredible,' Elliott said, closing the top secret file he held in his hand. 'Absolutely incredible.'
'And those are the things we're sure of,' Curtis said.
'Those are the things that'll be presented in the United Nations. I believe-and I'm alone on this so far-that the Russians have an extremely advanced, fully operational laser defense system in place, right now. As a matter of fact, I believe it's been operational for months, ever since the Iceland summit.'
'This is amazing. The Russians are further ahead of us in beam defense than anyone ever imagined. So what do we do?
Go to the United Nations?Ask them to shut the thing down?'
'That's one option we're pursuing,' Curtis replied, loosening his tie against the lingering heat. 'But I've been authorized to explore two other possible responses. 'He paused. 'Ice Fortress is one of them.'
