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.
The Battle Staff Situation Room was the hub of the Command Post during situations, whether real or simulated, where the wing commander and members of his staff met to coordinate the wartime actions of Ford Air Force Base's two thousand men and women, twenty B-52 bombers, and twenty-five KC-135 tankers. McLanahan knocked on the door.
"C'mon in, Patrick."
Colonel Edward Wilder was seated behind the center desk in the Battle Staff office. Colonel Wilder, the commander of all the forces on Ford Air Force Base, looked about as old as a college freshman. He was tall, trim and fit from running marathons a few times a year, and had not a touch of gray in his light brown hair despite being well past forty. He stood, shook McLanahan's hand, and motioned to a thick, cushiony seat marked "Vice Commander."
Wilder poured two cups of coffee. "Black, right, Patrick?"
Wilder asked, pushing the cup toward him.
"That's right, sir."
"I should have that memorized by now," the wing commander asked. "I watched you put away enough of it during Bomb Comp. As he spoke, he pushed a button on his desk. A curtain over the window separating the Battle Staff Office from the communications center rolled closed on metal tracks.
Lieutenant Colonel Johannsen and the others glanced up at the moving curtain but quickly went back to their duties.
Colonel Wilder had a red-covered folder on his desk in front of him.
"I tried to get hold of you before your trainer began yesterday, but you had already started."
"Yes, sir," McLanahan asked. "Major White's egress trainers are getting extremely realistic."
"The guy is a basement inventor. A genius," Wilder said.
"The small amount of money we could spare for White's group was the best money we ever spent. We may have created a monster, though.
McLanahan laughed, but it was short and strained. Wilder noticed the atmosphere, took a deep breath, and went on.
"Any idea why you're here this morning?"
I hate when they start out that way!McLanahan thought.
"No, sir," he asked. "I thought it might have something to do with an assignment."
"It does, Patrick," Wilder said. He paused a bit, looked at his desktop, then said, "Good news. SAC Headquarters wants you.
Soonest.
Plans and Operations for the B-1 program.
Congratulations-that was my first Headquarters job, although I was with the B-52 program when that monster was the hot new jet."
McLanahan shook Wilder's proffered hand. "That's great, sir. Great news."
"I hate to lose you, Patrick," Wilder went on. "But they're hustling you out pretty damned quick. Your reporting date is in three months.
McLanahan's smile dimmed a bit. "That soon?For a Headquarters position?"
"It just came open," Wilder explained. "It's a great opportunity."
Wilder studied McLanahan's face. "Problems?"
"I need to discuss it with my family," McLanahan said.
"It's a big step "I need an answer now. It won't wait."
McLanahan averted his eyes, then said, "Sorry, Colonel. I have to discuss it with my family. If an immediate answer's required, I have to say-" "Hold on, Patrick. Don't say it," Wilder interrupted.
"Patrick, I'm not trying to blow smoke in your face, but you're the best navigator I've ever worked with in my eighteen years in the service. You're energetic, intelligent, highly motivated, and you have as much expertise in the inner workings of your profession as anyone else in the command. Your Officer Evaluations Reports have been firewalled to "Outstanding' every year you've been in the service, and, for the last two years, I've had the unusual honor of being the lowest rater on your OERs because they've always gone up to a higher command level. This year it's gone up to SAC Headquarters, and we didn't even request it-the SAC Commander in Chief asked for it. Personally.
You'd be a real asset to the Plans people. "Wilder punched a fist into an open palm in frustration, then looked at McLanahan. "But you can't balk like this all the time. You have to grab at opportunities when you can."
"Another one will come along "Don't count on it, Patrick," Wilder said quickly. He looked into McLanahan's puzzled eyes, then continued. "I meant what I said. You're the best radar nav I've seen. The best.
But… you need to straighten up a little bit.
McLanahan glared at the wing commander. "Straighten up?"