Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (8 page)

 
          
Even
McCaan, a long-time supporter of the
United States
and a friend of Gregory Adams, looked
irritated. The rest of the Security Council members were already departing,
leaving trails of angry comments behind, when McCaan’s gavel tapped the stone.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
Lieutenant-General
Bradley Elliott, the honorary master of ceremonies, glanced at the typewritten
winner’s name at the bottom of the five-byseven card. His shock deepened. In
his three years as honorary awards officer for the annual Strategic Air Command
Bombing and Navigation Competition, he had never seen anything like it. One
organization—one crew, in fact—had blown the doors off the competition as no
other crew in history had. The oddsmakers and the crystal-ball gazers were not
just wrong about this one—they weren’t even in the ballpark.

 
          
General
Elliott waited until the two stagehands were ready and the audience escorts had
moved into position. He straightened his shoulders and smiled. These poor
crewdogs, he said to himself. They wait months for the results of the SAC
Bombing and Navigation competition, and whoever presents the awards teases them
with sly innuendos and hints as to who won. And then, to increase their agony,
the escorts walk through the aisles in the audience, stopping in front of a
unit’s row just long enough for the victory cries to begin, then move on.

 
          
A
few years ago, Elliott recalled with pride, he stood on stage accepting the
trophies for his unit, feeling the applause ripple through the massive hangar.
His old unit, the sleek, supersonic FB-llls at Pease Air Force Base in
New Hampshire
, had been top dog for years. It was
different now, though. It wasn’t that the modern, super-sophisticated new
bombers were taking all the trophies. Rather, crew quality had become the
crucial factor.

 
          
“The
Curtis E. LeMay Bombing Trophy,” General Elliott continued, immediately hushing
the crowd, “is awarded to the bomber crew— whether from B-52s, FB-llls, or
B-lBs—who compiles the most points competing in both high- and low-level
bombing. To give you a little background, this trophy was known simply as the
Bombing Trophy from 1948 until 1980, then renamed in honor of General Curtis E.
LeMay for his contributions to the Strategic Air Command and his support of
strategic air power.

 
          
“For
eight of the ten past competition years, the crews from Pease and
Plattsburgh
have walked away with the
LeMay
trophy. It was
thought
by some that the upgraded Offensive Avionics System and the
B-1B
Ex- calibur
would finally bump
the FBs out of the running.” The General paused, waiting for a reaction from
the crews in the audience. Then, he smiled a sly, secretive smile, and glanced
at the Eighth Air Force commander and the FB-111 crews beside him.

 
          
“With
a score of ninety-five point nine percent damage expectancy in low-level
bombing and an unbelievable ninety percent effectiveness in high altitude
bombing, the 715th Bombardment Squadron ‘Eagles’ of Pease Air Force Base in New
Hampshire set a record in all-purpose bombing—”

 
          
At
that, a huge roar went up from the audience, and the FB-111 crews from
Portsmouth
,
New Hampshire
, began to go berserk. The “fastburner” FB-111 crews had gone through
the entire competition in fear and loathing of the “heavies,” the B-52s with
their spanking-new digital computers and the sleek, deadly B-ls with an even more
sophisticated version of the solid-state bombing equipment. A B-52 crew had won
the previous year, and the FB crews had felt their superiority in this annual
international competition slip.

 
          
The
FB-111 guys had not done too well in the awards ranking until then, although
their performance had been up to their usual near-perfect levels. This, an
all-time Bomb Comp record, was their turning point.

 
          
Elliott
let the celebration continue for a few seconds.
“Sorry, boys, I hate to do this to you
...”

 
          
He
had to raise his voice to make himself heard over the shouts of the FB-111
crews. More effectively than a gunshot or a cannon blast, a single word from
Elliott quieted the audience and broke more hearts, including his own:

 
          
“But
. . .

 
          
“.
. . The winner of the 1987 Curtis E. LeMay Bombing Trophy, with an
unprecedented ninety-eight point seven-seven percent damage effectiveness score
and an unbelievable one hundred percent score in low-level bombing, is . . .
crew E-05, from the 470th Bombardment Squadron.”

 
          
A
massive scream went up from the members and guests of the winning bomb squadron
and, as the winning B-52 crew stood and made their way to the stage, an equally
noticeable groan went up from the rest of the crews in the huge converted
aircraft hangar—now Competition Center at Barksdale Air Force Base in
Louisiana. The restlessness was not unlike the reaction of a crowded football
stadium when the visiting team has just scored another touchdown and gone ahead
by twenty points with only a few minutes remaining in the game. The outcome of
the contest, although far from over, was already obvious.

 
          
The
470th Bombardment Squadron, and Crew E-05 in particular, had just walked off
with five trophies, losing only one trophy to another B-52 unit and three other
trophies that could only be awarded to either an FB-111 or B-1B unit. In
addition, the 325th Bomb Wing, of which the 470th was a part, had taken three
other trophies for their KC-135B tanker unit and also brought home the
Doolittle Trophy for the 470th’s Numbered Air Force award. Everyone knew the
final outcome. If it were not a military formation, the huge converted aircraft
hangar may well have been empty by the time the grand prize, the coveted
Fairchild Trophy, ever made it into the winner’s hands. It was certainly an
anticlimatic finish.

 
          
Patrick
McLanahan, his crew, and officers and invited guests of the 325th Bomb Wing
were on stage for a solid hour after the ceremonies, getting pictures taken,
holding interviews with military and civilian reporters, and letting the gleam
of two long tables full of silver trophies dazzle their eyes. Colonel Edward
Wilder, commander of the bomb wing, and Lieutenant-General Ashland, the
commander of Fifteenth Air Force and Wilder’s boss, then took turns lifting the
huge ten-gallon Fairchild Trophy cup over their heads in triumph as a dozen
photographers jockeyed for the best positions.

 
          
Two
men stood away from the jubilant crowd at the front of the hangar, watching the
festivities on stage from a deserted projection room overlooking the hangar.
Lieutenant-General Elliott had been going over several pages of computer
printout and notes as the other man, in civilian clothes, shook his head in
amazement.

 
          
“A
B-52 won Bomb Comp,” Colonel Andrew Wyatt exclaimed. “Hard to believe. We’ve
spent megabucks on the B-l, on the Avionics Modernization Program on the
FB-111, on the Offensive Avionics System for the B-52’s to carry cruise
missiles—and an unmodified vacuum-tube B-52 that entered the service when / did
almost thirty years ago wins the Fairchild Trophy. Incredible.”

 
          
“Those
guys are good. That’s all there is to it,” Elliott said, closing the classified
notes he was reading and handing them back to Wyatt. Wyatt did a fast
page-count and locked the folder away in his briefcase.

 
          
“I
thought the FB-11 Is were gonna pull it out,” Elliott said, “but this was the
first year of their AMP weapons delivery system modification and I think they
still have some software bugs in it.”

 
          
Wyatt
nodded. “So. What about a tour of your funny-farm in
Nevada
? The general is brainstorming. He thinks
your research and development center might have some toys he can play with.”

 
          
Elliott
smiled and nodded. “Sure—that’s why we call it Dreamland.” For a few moments
both men looked at the celebrations on the floor of the Awards Hangar. Then,
General Elliott cleared his throat.

 
          
“What’s
going on, Andy?” he asked. Colonel Wyatt took a fast look around the projection
room and decided there was no way the room could be secure.

 
          
“Not
here, sir,” he said in a low voice. “But General Curtis is very anxious to meet
with you.
Very
anxious. And not in an
. . . official capacity.”

 
          
Elliott
narrowed his eyes and looked sideways at the young aide to the Chairman of the
Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Not in an official capacity? What the hell does that
mean?”

 
          
“It
means it’s to be a
private
tour,”
Wyatt said. “He’ll be in civvies. He wants to get some ideas, enlist some
assistance.”

 
          
“On
what?”

 
          
“He’ll
make that plain to you when he sees you, sir,” Wyatt said. Elliott rolled his
eyes in frustration.

 
          
“More
JCS doubletalk,” Elliott said. “All right, all right. Day after tomorrow. Staff
will be at a minimum—skeleton crew. He’ll get the royal tour, but not the royal
reception.”

 
          
“I
believe you’ve got the right idea, General,” Wyatt said. He extended a hand.
“Very nice to see you again, General.”

 
          
“Same
here, Andy,” Elliott said, shaking the aide’s hand. “You ever going to get your
fighter wing back, or are you content with being a general’s patsy?”

 
          
Now
it was Wyatt’s turn to look exasperated. “The old Elliott eloquence,” Wyatt
said. “Cut right to the heart. No, I’m busier than I’d ever thought I could be,
sir. Besides, that fighter stuff is for the young bucks.”

 
          
Elliott’s
face darkened. “Well, you’re welcome to stay for the rest of the Symposium,
Colonel. SAC’s biggest bash. The Vice President is showing up in a few hours.
The ladies in the Strategic Air Command get better and better looking every
year.”

 
          
“You
know General Curtis, sir,” Wyatt said. “If I’m not back in
Washington
before supper, I’ll be lucky to get command
of a security police kennel. Thank you anyway, sir.” Wyatt hurried away.

 
          
Elliott
made his way downstairs and into the hallway behind the huge Awards ceremony
hangar. There, standing alone in front of a huge model of the B-1B
Excalibur,
beer cup in hand, was Captain
Patrick McLana- han. He was easy to recognize—the young bombardier had been up
on stage receiving trophies for most of the afternoon.

 
          
Elliott
studied McLanahan for a moment. Why were the good ones always like that?
Loners. Too intense. The best bombardier in SAC— probably the best in the
world—standing out here, alone, looking at a damn airplane model. Weird.

 
          
Elliott
studied him closer. Well, maybe not
that
intense. Boots unpolished. No scarf. Flight suit zipped down nearly to his
waist. Hair on the long side. Drinking during a military formation. At least a
dozen Air Force regulation 35-10 dress and appearance violations. He had to
restrain himself from going over there and chewing the guy out.

 
          
But
he did stroll over to the young officer. “Is that your next conquest, Captain
McLanahan?” Elliott said.

 
          
McLanahan
turned, took a sip of beer, and casually studied Elliott— something that
Lieutenant-General Bradley Elliott was very unaccustomed to. The general
noticed none of the panic that usually accompanied confronting a three-star
general; no stumbling over words, no overly exuberant greeting, no great big
macho handshake.

 
          
After
a moment, McLanahan smiled and extended his hand. “Hello, General Elliott.” He
glanced back at the B-1B
Excalibur
model. “This thing? No. Too high-tech for me.”