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White handed him a beer-fortunately it was their last class of the day-and they walked over to an adjacent classroom.

Luger was sprawled on a chair, his flight suit half unzipped one empty beer can near an elbow and another can in his hand: looking rumpled and angry. He scowled at White.

"No more surprises," he told White. "I'm telling the whole squadron about your tricks.

"No, you won't," White said, chuckling. "I know you, Luger-you'd like me to stick it to your buddies just like I stuck it to you. Besides, if you tell them anything I'll just have to think up some other nasty additions. When was the last time you did a manual bailout?"

Luger started to mutter something but then thought better of it.

"Oh, by the way," White said, turning to McLanahan. "You had a phone call from Colonel Wilder's office. Did you get an assignment?"

"Wilder," McLanahan said. He looked puzzled. "No, I didn't get an assignment as far as I know."

"Could be the big time, Muck," Luger said, finishing his beer with a happy belch. "I told you, didn't I?

You're going to SAC Headquarters.

I can feel it. The wing king wants to tell you himself."

"Any other message, sir?" McLanahan asked White.

"No," White replied. "You've got an appointment to see him, though.

Tomorrow morning. Seven-thirty In his office.

What assignment did you put in for?"

The puzzled expression still had not left McLanahan's face.

"Hell, the usual wet-dream things a six-year captain puts in for. Air Command and Staff College with a waiver. SAC Headquarters. Numbered Air Force job. B-1s to Ellsworth.

King of Canada. The usual stuff."

"Well, best of luck," White asked. "Always like to see a good man move up.

Outside the trainer building, Luger could hardly contain his enthusiasm as he and McLanahan headed for their cars.

"Man, I knew you'd get your ticket out of here," Luger asked. "Hot damn."

"I don't have anything yet," McLanahan asked. "But why is Wilder telling me?"

"Who knows?" Luger asked. "But, it must be good. If it was bad news he wouldn't wait until tomorrow. Besides, you're Wilder's showpiece, his trophy-producing machine. If Wilder makes general it'll be because of "Shack' McLanahan."

Luger looked over at his partner and noticed his faraway look. He frowned.

"Man, you don't believe it can happen, do you," he said angrily. "You can't stay here forever, Pat. You've got to decide-" "I'll decide what I want when I want," McLanahan interrupted. "And I don't need any advice from you."

Luger grabbed McLanahan by the arm. "Maybe you're right. Maybe you don't need my advice. But I'm your friendand that gives me the right to tell you when I think you're making a mistake. And I think you'll be making a big mistake if you don't grab whatever the big boys decide to give you."

McLanahan sighed and shook his head. "It's not that simple, Dave. You know it isn't. My mom… Catherine…

they're both down on this Air Force thing. Have been for a while.

Ever since my dad died it's been a real struggle for my mom to keep the bar going. I've had to watch over things. And Catherine-well, you know Catherine. Her idea of the good life has nothing to do with being an Air Force wife. She keeps prodding me to separate from the service and go into business.

Lately, it's begun to make some sense."

" Shit, " Luger said, "what are you saying to me?That you'd rather be in a three-piece suit shuffling papers, or helping your mom out with the bar?That doesn't make sense. Here, at Ford, you're the best.

Hell, you're probably the best damn navigator at SAC.What would you be outside of the service?Just another guy picking up a paycheck, that's what. "Luger shook his head. "It's just not you, Pat. You've got a talent. And you can't turn your back on it. "McLanahan looked out across the airfield at a B-52 taxiing down the runway, then turned back — to Luger. "Sometimes," McLanahan said, "I think it might not be bad being a civilian again. At least, I'd be making a difference, getting things done, having an effect. Sometimes it seems as if all we do here is run simulations, conduct exercises. "He paused. "Take that trainer session today. A part of me sees the point, and another part sees it as just another game."

"It's a game that could save your life someday," Luger said, "but you don't need me to tell you that."

"No, I guess not," McLanahan said. He gestured toward his car.

"Listen, Dave, I… I gotta get going. See you tomorrow, okay?"

Luger nodded. He waited until McLanahan had made his way to the parking lot, then called out. "Hey, Muck!"

McLanahan turned.

"We make a good team, don't we, buddy?"

McLanahan smiled and flashed him the thumbs — up sign.

Thirty minutes later, McLanahan parked his car in front of "The Shamrock," the family restaurant and bar, and made his way through the side entrance upstairs to his third-floor apartment. For some reason, he had no desire to run into his mother or siblings just yet.

An assignment!The more he thought about it, the more confused he became. He knew that this time there weren't going to be any more extensions or delays. If he turned down another important assignment it was probably the end of his Air Force career, He threw his flight jacket and briefcase in the closet and dropped onto the sleeper sofa with a tired thud. Unzipping his flight suit to the waist, he looked around his tiny efficiency apartment and shook his head.

The place was spotless-but not because he was a tidy person. Despite the fact that he lived alone, his mother came by every day at ten o'clock and cleaned and straightened it up.

He once tried to discourage her by locking the door and not giving her the key, but his mother, assuming that the lock had broken somehow, had Patrick s brother Paul call a locksmith to open it. She never considered the possibility that her son might just want his privacy He got up, kicking his flight boots into a comcr of the dining room, and went to the kitchen. He found three six-packs of beer in the refrigerator. Popping open a can, he chuckled to himself. His mother hated to see him drinking anything but milk and water, but she always kept his refrigerator stocked.

Without looking, he knew there were fresh towels hanging on the rods in the bathroom and clean dishes in the cupboards.

For a brief second, he felt a pang of guilt. Christ, he thought, what's wrong with this setup?Shouldn't he be happy, living with his family, not worrying about cleaning or cooking?

Luger would probably give his right nut to have such a life.

Around his family, McLanahan was treated as much more than just the oldest sibling. He was the father, the head of the household, the provider and the decision-maker. It was Paul who ran the restaurant and tavern, and it was his mother who cooked and cleaned and served, but Patrick was the oldest, the manager, and therefore got top treatment. That was the way it was supposed to be. That's how Patrick McLanahan, Senior, was treated. That's how things were. Patrick was not even called "Patrick junior" or "Junior" or even "Pat, " the way his family used to differentiate between him and his father. Patrick was now Patrick, Senior, even though it was unspoken.

Patrick's father was a city policeman who knew nothing else but work from age twenty to age sixty. After he retired from the force, he took jobs as a security guard and private investigator until Paul was old enough to Find "The Shamrock," and even then he slaved over his new enterprise like a teenager. The tavern was everything-not a gold mine, but a family symbol, an heirloom.

Patrick's mother turned immediately to her oldest son after the death of her husband. Selling the tavern, and the apartments that went with the building, was unthinkable. Maureen McLanahan gathered her children around her, told them that selling out would be a dishonor, and charged them with keeping the business open. Because Patrick was the oldest, it was up to him to see they did not fail.