stepped out of the car and watched for a few seconds as she drove away.
The information counter handled McLanahan's request as if cryptic orders for tickets were honored every day. He produced his ID card-the only piece of identification he was allowed to bring-and he was promptly given a sealed envelope and directions to the boarding gate.
Curiosity overcame him on the escalator ride to the upper floor, and he opened the envelope. Inside was a round-trip ticket to Spokane, Washington, with an open return date. The office symbol of the ticket purchaser was a strange four-letter military official symbol with no base or office location.
He exchanged one of the tickets for a boarding pass at the gate and sat down to wait. Why all the damn mystery, he asked himself. Spokane was the location of Fairchild Air Force Base, the Air Force's basic survival school. He had already been to basic survival right after undergraduate navigator training, but Fairchild had a number of survival schools and other training courses.
Well, that was it, then. He had been tapped for some exotic survival training school-maybe it was a special school under development. He had heard rumors of a new school in the works that taught survival in environments contaminated by nuclear fallout. Or perhaps it was a new twist on the mock-up prisoner-of-war camp located at Fairchild, a facility complete with interrogation centers, a prison camp, and real Eastern bloc-trained guards and interrogators.
The waiting became much, much easier after McLanahan had sorted it all out for himself. Fairchild. All this lousy secrecy, all the hassles, all the worrying-all for some dumb exercise, some stupid class where CIA or DIA interrogators could get their hands on a real crewdog for a while. What a waste.
McLanahan did not have long to wait until his flight was called, and all the passengers were on board in a matter of minutes. Only a handful of people-a few obviously G.l. by the looks of their haircuts, a few civilians-were headed for Spokane. McLanahan scanned an inflight magazine, wishing he'd brought a magazine or a book, wishing the damned military had let him bring one.
He was fast asleep, the gentle roar of the engines acting as a narcotic for his settling nerves, long before the plane's wheels ever left the ground.
A waste of time, he nodded to himself just before he dropped off. A complete waste of time.
SPOKANE, WASHINGTON
It was late in the evening when McLanahan finally collected his baggage and stood at the entrance way to Spokane International's central lobby.
He put his single carry-on bag down on an empty chair and reread the cryptic, computer-printed instructions he received when he departed:
ARRIVE SPOKANE 2135L. HAVE BAGGAGE IN POSSESSION BY 2200L AND WAIT FOR FURTHER DIRECTIONS.
It was 2345, almost two hours after his scheduled what?
Another classic example of the military's standard 'hurry up and wait' procedures. Get to where you're going on time or else, but sit on your butt and wait till they're ready.
McLanahan slung his gym bag over a shoulder and went over to a counter with a sign that read SHUTTLE TO FAIRCHILD.The desk was empty, but a sign with two moveable hands on an Air Force recruiting clock face promised that an Airman Willis would be back by twelve o'clock. The hands looked as if they hadn't been moved in months.
McLanahan chose a seat near the counter and waited.
A few minutes later, a tall, muscular Air Force enlisted man in a neat pair of combination one double-knits with a few impressive rows of ribbons arrived at the desk. He filled out a line of a clipboard log beneath the counter, turned on a huge portable tape deck, and took a seat on a tall stool. McLanahan approached the desk.
'Good evening, Sir,' Willis asked. 'Headin' out to the base, Sir?'
'I guess so,' McLanahan asked. 'When's the next shuttle?'
'Twelve-oh-five, or thereabouts, Sir,' Willis replied. He retrieved his clipboard. 'Can I see your orders and ID, Sir?'
'I don't have orders,' McLanahan said. He fished his plastic-coated card out of his jeans pocket. Willis examined the card, made a few entries on his log, and returned it.
'Do you have any quarters arranged, Sir?'
'No,' McLanahan replied. 'I left… on pretty short notice.
'Do you have someone we can contact at the base?
Someone who knows you're coming?Your sponsor perhaps?'
McLanahan pulled out the original message and scanned it.
'All I have is a Major Miller, but he only has a Washington office symbol and number. Nobody at Fairchild. I didn't…
I mean… I wasn't sure I'd be coming here Willis looked at Patrick McLanahan quizzically, suppressing a slight, 'Jesus, another space cadet,' remark.
'Well, Sir, I can give billeting a call, but without orders or a point of contact you'll be space-available only and that's pretty slim pickins right now.
McLanahan put the message back in his pocket and said, 'The shuttle leaves at five after twelve, right?'
'Yes, Sir.'
'Okay Please give billeting a call and see what the room situation is like. My contact, whoever it's supposed to be, was scheduled to meet me by ten. If he doesn't show I might as well get a room and try to contact him in the morning.'
'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 asked. 'I appreciate your help.'
'No problem a-tall, Sir,' he said, maintaining the rhythm with a pencil. 'You here for survival school?Got your OdorEaters 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-
