The restaurant is our life. If you move away, I don't know if we could handle it by ourselves."
Patrick walked back to where she was standing and kissed her on the cheek. "I understand, Mom. I really do. But…
the business is almost running itself now. And you have Paul.
You don't need me like before. "He gave her a hug. "It will be all right, Mom. Believe me."
Maureen McLanahan buttoned the top button of her son's shirt. "You'll be back, won't you, Patrick?"
She hadn't really heard a thing. "Yes," he sighed. "I'll be back." She brushed back a lock of hair from her forehead and smiled. "I love you, Patrick."
"I love you too, Mom," he said. He gave her a firm reassuring look, turned and walked out.
The ride to the airport in Catherine's Mercedes was fast and very quiet. McLanahan held hands with Catherine right up until she pulled up to the curb in front of the United Airlines terminal, but few words were exchanged. She did not stop the engine, but only put it into neutral and watched as he retrieved his bag and jacket from the back seat.
"I'm going to miss you," he said as he piled his belongings on his lap.
"I'll miss you, too," she replied. There was an uncomfortable pause.
Then she added, "I wish you didn't have to go."
"Part of the job, Cat," he asked. "It's kind of exciting, all this mystery. A ticket on the Orient Express.
"Well," she said, "I don't think it's exciting. It's stupidsending you off to God knows where and not even telling you when you'll be back."
He stared back at her and said nothing.
"Thank God you won't have to do this much longer," she went on. "This just underscores how the military treats people like you. The best nav in the Air Force, bundled up like a sack of dirty laundry and hustled off to Timbuktu."
"The Air Force has been a good life, Cat. A good job. It's had its ups and downs… " " Oh, Pat, that sounds like you, all right," she said, glaring at him. "Here you are, on your way to some nonsense at a moment's notice, and you're still spouting the ol' party line."
She watched him as he opened the car door.
"Got to go, Cat," he said, leaning over and giving her a peck on the cheek. "Thanks for the lift. "He started to step out of the car…
"Patrick," she said suddenly, "when you… get back, we have to talk-about us."
He looked at her for a moment, trying to read her expression, then shrugged. "Okay," he asked. "Fine. "He 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.