“Yes.”
He didn’t say his rank, which meant he was probably a very low-or very high-ranking commissioned or noncommissioned officer. But by the way he acted, Rinc thought, the man most likely outranked him. What was going on here? “What unit?”
“Air Force headquarters. Office of the chief of staff.”
Definitely outranked, Rinc decided — he was probably a light colonel or colonel, maybe even a one-star. That explained a lot. He’d heard that the place was crawling with inspectors, investigators, and evaluators for weeks after the crash; in fact, he had been visited by a few of them while he was in the hospital recovering. But by the time he was out of the hospital, the investigation was just about wrapped up. It was one of the main reasons he felt such an urgency to get back on his feet and explore some alternate theories of the crash on his own in the simulator — he hadn’t had a real opportunity to present his side of the story and time was short. And now that he was trying to get back in the cockpit, the investigators and evaluators were back — gunning directly for him this time.
“Don’t tell me; let me guess. You’re flying with me day after tomorrow,” Rinc said. The guy was probably an ex-crewdog, tapped by someone in the chief of staff’s office or some other Pentagon staffer to decide his fate. The only bright spot was that it meant the brass probably hadn’t already made their decision. “You’re going to do my evaluation for the squadron. You’re also here to see what kind of shape my unit’s in, whether we’re ready to do the job or ready to be disbanded.”
McLanahan nodded. Seaver’s insight and honesty impressed him. “Exactly.”
“We get just one day of mission prep before you decide my future? I don’t get a Guard evaluator from my own unit? No sim ride with you first? That sucks.”
“Major Seaver, if you think the process is unfair, you know you have only one recourse — you can vote with your feet,” McLanahan said coldly.
“Everyone would like that, wouldn’t they?” Rinc snorted. “You ever fly the Bone before, sir?”
“Yes.” But before Rinc could ask the obvious question — when and where — McLanahan asked, “Are you in or out, Major?”
Rinc looked at McLanahan quizzically. A little evasive perhaps? Did this guy have a past, one he didn’t want to talk about? Curiouser and curiouser. He shrugged. “I’ll play it any way Air Force wants to play it. Sir,” he replied.
“There you go,” McLanahan said. “Proper attitude adjustment achieved. I’ll meet you at the squadron at six A.M. tomorrow, and we’ll talk about your ride. If I think we’ll need one, I’ll schedule the simulator.” Rinc knew the simulator was booked up for the next three weeks, but he had no doubt this guy could rearrange the schedule. “I’ll tag along when you mission-plan with your crew at oh eight hundred.”
“Fine by me.”
“See you tomorrow, then.” McLanahan headed for the stairs, then stopped and turned around. “There’s a lot more healing to be accomplished beyond the hospital and the check ride,” he said, looking down the stairs toward the parking lot where Seaver’s dead partner’s wife used to run. “You left the team when you punched out of that Bone. You’ve got to prove that you can be a part of it again.”
“So I’m a putz because I survived, huh?”
“I guess you will be, if you believe you are,” Patrick said.
“You think I caused that crash?”
“That’s for the accident board to determine, not me,” McLanahan replied. “I’m not here to pass judgment on 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.”