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

have been said. Had it
been that many years? Elliott shook his head. Like the B-52, he was fast
becoming a relic. He only hoped that, like the B-52, he had a little fight left
in him yet.
                 The
Strategic Air Command Giant Voice Bombing and Navigation Competition Center was an immense aircraft hangar,
remodeled and converted into the awards and hospitality center that was used
only once a year for just this event. Surrounding the hangar itself were dozens
of smaller offices and conference centers that, on Hospitality Night, were used
by all of the units represented in the competition as specialized drinking and
socializing rooms. Each room had a theme, depending on the unit’s mission or
its geographical location.
                 The
first task at hand, however, was to get inside to visit them. The Competition Center
was so crowded, so packed with military men and women in various stages of
inebriation, that Gary Houser’s crew took ten minutes, once they entered the
hangar’s immense lobby, to even get near the hospitality rooms. There was a
large directory inside the lobby that described where each unit was located,
but that defeated the purpose of Hospitality Night. The object was to visit
each and every room before the three a.m. closing time.
                 “I
don’t believe this,” Luger said as he and Patrick moved through the crowd.
“This Hospitality Night gets bigger and better every year.”
                 Their
first stop was the Texas Contingent, where five rooms had been combined into
one long beerhall. The center of attraction in the jam- packed room was a
massive Brahma bull lounging in the middle of the beerhall. It had a mural of a
B-1B painted on each side. The bull was standing in a huge sandbox. In the back
part of the sandbox, already half-covered with bull droppings, was a strip of
r^d sand labeled, “To Russia With Love, From the Excalibur.” The bull wore a
ten-gallon cowboy hat and was busy eating out of a trough filled with party
snacks and corn.
                 Luger
and McLanahan were welcomed by two girls dressed like Dallas Cowboy
Cheerleaders, who promptly filled their hands with Lone Star beer and bowls of
chili.
                 “Where
y’all from?” one cheerleader asked.
                 “ Amarillo ,” Luger drawled. “Patty here’s from California but he’s okay.”
                 “I
just love Amarillo ,” the other cheerleader said, giggling.
                 “And
I just love California ,” the first one said.
                 “Well,”
McLanahan said, slipping an arm around one cheerleader’s waist while the other
took his arm. “Why don’t you two Southern belles show us around your little Texas tearoom here?”
                 McLanahan
weaved unsteadily in a corner of an old-time Western saloon, wearing a toy
six-gun at his side and a red felt cowboy hat behind his neck. The place was
packed with riotous crewmen, some celebrating, some trying to drown their
sorrows with massive amounts of beer and chili. A non-com bartender, a crew chief
from the 5th Fighter Interceptor Squadron from Minot , North Dakota , patiently waited on each one of them.
                 With
one hand, McLanahan picked up a huge mug of beer from the end of the bar. He
strolled over to a dartboard at the far end of the saloon and looked over the
target—five darts, lodged in the exact center of the cork- board.
                 “Pretty
good shootin’, huh, Sergeant Berger?” McLanahan said to the bartender. The
sergeant, dressed like a Barbary Coast innkeeper, smiled.
                 “Your
Sergeant Brake’s the one who can do some shooting,” Berger said. “If anyone had
told me a B-52 would shoot down an F-15 in broad daylight, I’d have said they
were crazy. I was the crew chief on that F-15 that got shot down, but send Bob
Brake over