what happened in the accident, Seaver — I’m here to judge if you’re still able to be a combat-ready Air Guard B-1B aviator. But you can ace this check ride and still be on your way out. There are a hundred ways to do it.”
“I know, sir,” Rinc said. This was a very smart guy. It was tough to realize that his skills, knowledge, dedication, and experience suddenly meant nothing — that his fate was in the hands of someone else, plain and simple.
“I think you’ve got the picture. Get some rest — you’ll need it. Tomorrow, oh six hundred.” And he left without looking back.
The big woman behind the bar gave Patrick an evil look as he stepped back inside. Both the place and the bartender had the same tough, hard-shelled atmosphere of the biker bars in his hometown of Sacramento that he had reluctantly tangled with in recent months, but the feel was completely different. Like the biker bars, this place sought to exclude strangers — but he sensed it also seemed to welcome future friends, especially military types.
Patrick walked over to the woman, about to ask where he could find the commander of the Air National Guard squadron, when she wordlessly jerked her head to the right, indicating a hallway. Well, she was consistent — she hadn’t said anything earlier when he said he was looking for Seaver. But the nod had a kind of implicit warning to it — she’s that way, but watch your step.
He followed the hallway. The two doors on the left were the rest rooms. One of the doors on the right looked as if it led to the storeroom or kitchen; the other door had a sign reading “Private.” Patrick had had enough of going into strange rooms in the back of redneck locals-only taverns, but duty called. He took a deep breath and entered.
Patrick always hoped to find a place like this when he was in the military — maybe he hadn’t looked hard enough, or maybe he really didn’t want to find it or believe one even existed. In any case, it was a crewdog’s idea of paradise.
Along with pictures of jets and models all over the walls and ceiling, the room had its own bar stocked even better than the one out front, slot machines, video games, old-fashioned pinball machines, a PC with flight simulator hardware installed, and card tables. It was a bigger room than he’d expected, and he saw half a dozen guys in flight suits, two of them sitting at the bar playing liar’s dice, the other four playing cards.
“Who the hell are you?” asked one of the guys at the table.
“I’m looking for Lieutenant Colonel Furness.”
The guy looked Patrick up and down, noting the flier’s jacket. Didn’t mean a damn — anyone can get one of those by mail order, lots of wannabes had them. “You didn’t answer my question, ace. Who are you?”
“I’m Colonel Furness’s two o’clock appointment,” Patrick said.
The guy put his cards down and got up off his chair. He apparently knew nothing of the appointment and was clearly perplexed, even angry. “You should meet up with her in the squadron… sir,” he said. He had suddenly turned much more polite — apparently realizing it was a good idea to be a bit more sociable until he learned exactly who the newcomer was. He noticed the guy wasn’t surprised when he said Furness was a “her.” “We can show you where the squadron is — it’s on the other side of the airport. I’ll page Colonel Furness immediately and tell her you’ve arrived. May I tell her your name and organization, please?”
“No,” Patrick replied. “We can talk just as well here.” He maneuvered around the guy and began to survey more of the room. The other squadron members stared at him in surprise.
The cardplayer decided to drop a bit of his nice-guy routine. “I’m the colonel’s operations officer and second- in-command, and I don’t know anything about a meeting this afternoon. Are you sure the meeting with Colonel Furness was for today?”
“Yes, Colonel Long.”
John Long blanched. Shit, he thought, he knows who I am. “The colonel is probably back at the squadron right now, sir,” he said. “Perhaps you’d better head on over there.” He motioned to one of the guys at the card table. “Bonzo, take this gentleman to headquarters. I’ll page the colonel.”
“I don’t have an appointment with you or anyone else today, sir,” came a woman’s stern voice, “and I’d appreciate it if you’d be a little more candid with my men. The colonel asked your name. You can tell us, or you can get out.”
Patrick turned and found Lieutenant Colonel Rebecca Furness standing right behind him. She was every bit as attractive as her official photos, but that took away none of the iron in her voice. Back when she was flying the RF- 111G Vampire reconnaissance/attack planes as a flight leader and the Air Force’s first female combat pilot, Furness had earned the appellation “the Iron Maiden.” Patrick could see right away that it was deserved.
“We need to talk, Colonel,” Patrick said, allowing his eyes to survey her body.
Furness didn’t react — but John Long did. “Hey, asshole,” Long said angrily, “the lady said scram. You better leave or we’ll
“Colonel Long, sit down and relax,” Patrick suggested, continuing to stare at Furness. “We’re going to be working together for a long time — if you’re lucky.” He turned, went over to one of the slot machines, put in a quarter, and pulled the handle. A ten-dollar winner dropped a satisfying tinkle of coins into the tray. “Looks like I’m pretty lucky. You guys aren’t. Or maybe that’s
“Who the hell are you?” Furness demanded.
“My name is McLanahan, Colonel. Brigadier General Patrick McLanahan. From Air Force headquarters. General Hayes’s staff.” There was a startled silence in the room at the news that a one-star general had walked into the middle of their “unit training session.”
“I see,” Furness said. “Do you have ID, General? Orders?”
“Yes,” McLanahan replied. He withdrew a set of orders and his green Air Force ID card.
Furness checked the card and scanned the orders, her eyes narrowing in confusion. They were the shortest set of TDY orders she’d ever seen. She handed them to John Long. “These orders don’t say shit,” Long said. “It’s just a bunch of account codes.”
“I’d like something that tells me what you want with my squadron on my base, sir,” Rebecca said.
“Okay.” Patrick reached into his pocket, pulled out a tiny cellular telephone, and tossed it to Furness. She caught it in surprise. “Speed-dial one for General Bretoff in Carson City.” Adam Bretoff was the adjutant general of the state of Nevada, the commander of all Army and Air National Guard forces in the state. “Speed-dial two for General Hayes at the Pentagon. Speed-dial three for the secretary of the Air Force. Speed-dial four for the secretary of defense.”
Furness looked at the phone, then opened it and looked at the keypad. “Who’s speed-dial five?” she asked flippantly.
“Try it and find out, Colonel. But be
Furness glanced at McLanahan. “I’ll call your bluff, General,” she said, then hit some buttons. She was surprised to hear the beeps of a digital scrambler. A moment later she heard “Bretoff here and secure. Go ahead.”
Furness swallowed in disbelief, unable to control her surprise. She recognized the adjutant general’s voice immediately — the call went right to the secure phone on his desk, not to the comm center, his aide, or a clerk. This guy was carrying a
“Problem, Rebecca?”
No pleasantries, no chitchat. She decided that the other speed-dial buttons on the phone were too hot to even
“Are you secure?”
Furness stepped as far as she could away from the noisy video poker machines. “Yes, sir,” she replied.
“McLanahan, Patrick S., brigadier general, Air Force,” Bretoff said. “Came from the chief of staff’s office. Identity verified. Is he there already?”
“Standing right in front of me now, sir. I’m using his cell phone.”
“You’ll get a classified memo first thing in the morning informing you about his arrival,” Bretoff said. “Frankly,
