Read Online Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 by Flight of the Old Dog (v1.1) - Free Book Online

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.”
                 “Most
young B-52 troops are standing in line for a B-l assignment,” General Elliott
remarked.
                 “Not
me,” McLanahan said. He nodded toward an old, dusty model of a B-52 hanging in
a corner. “There’s my baby.” He gave an amiable grin and said, “Sorry about
Pease. Those guys were tough this year.”
                 “Thanks.
The FB-llls will come back next year, I’m sure of it. They were beat out by the
best.” No reaction from the young radar navigator.
                 “You
say you want to stay in B-52s,
Patrick?” Elliott asked curiously. “Why? The B-ls will be replacing them by the
turn of the century.”
                 McLanahan
paused before answering. “I don’t know. I guess it’s just that people see a new
aircraft come on-line and they think all of the older planes are history.” He
took another sip of beer. “They’ve condemned the B-52 a little early. She’s
still got a lot of fight left in her.”
                 Elliott
raised his eyebrows. His thoughts exactly. “Old warhorses can still kick ass,”
he said.
                 McLanahan
smiled. “You know it, sir.
                 “Well,
congratulations again, Patrick. Fairchild Trophy, Bombing Trophy, two years in
a row. You’re unbeatable, it seems.”
                 “I
got the best crew in the business, General,” McLanahan said. He drained the
last of his beer and crumpled the cup in his hand. “We work hard—and party even
harder. Gotta go.”
                 “Stop
by the Headquarters Hospitality Room later,” Elliott said as he shook hands.
“Let’s discuss the old monster some more.”
                 “You
got it, General,” McLanahan said. He hurried off after his crew.
                 Not
much spit and polish to him, Elliott thought. But then he smiled as he recalled
a young pilot thirty years before of whom the same could