'Getting rid of you? What do you mean 'I got a call from Colonel Wilder, the wing commander,' he asked. '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.
'It 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 asked. '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 'Patrick, you run a restaurant, the biggest opportunity.d, '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 asked. '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 asked. '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-52s 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 a' a worrywart,' she asked. 'That's probably why you won so many trophies. No, Patrick, this all- important, highpowered 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 Maxon 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.
'Captain McLanahan to see Colonel Wilder.'
The door lock buzzed, and McLanahan opened it and stepped inside.
The security didn't stop once he was inside. He was met by Lieutenant Colonel Carl Johannsen. Although McLanahan and Johannsen had crewed together for several months, Johannsen, wearing a revolver strapped to his waist, came up to his old navigator and took a peek at his line badge.
'Morning, sir,' McLanahan said, as his badge was quickly checked.
'Hi, Pat,' Johannsen said. He looked a bit embarrassed. 'I probably taught you everything you knew when you were still a wet-behind-the-ears nav. But the boss is here, so we're making it look good. Not under duress or anything?'
'No.
'Good. And call the boss 'sir,Chr(34)+ okay? I'm still your old pilot to you.'
'Yes, sir,' McLanahan asked. 'How do you like the Command Post job?'
'Sometimes I wish I was still flying a Buff low-level in the Grand Tetons,' he asked. 'The boss is in the Battle Staff Situation Room right through there. See you.'
On the way to the office, McLanahan passed by the main communications room itself. That was the most fascinating part of the place. It was hard to believe that the wing commander or duty controllers could put themselves in contact with almost anyone else in the world, on the ground or in the air, through that console. They had direct links to SAC Headquarters, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the perpetually-flying Airborne Command Post, and links to hundreds of other command posts throughout the world. They communicated by telephone, computer, satellite, high-frequency radio, and by coded teletype. In an instant, the SAC Commander in Chief in Omaha, Nebraska, could send a message that could launch all of Ford's bombers and tankers within a matter of minutes. Or, just as easily and just as fast, the President could order those same planes to war.
