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

here and I’ll buy him a beer.”
                 “It
would have been different if things were for real,” McLanahan said, taking a
deep pull of the draft. “You would have nailed us from thirty miles away with
one of those new Sidewinders or an AMRAAM, but you don’t get any points for a
beyond-visual range shot.” McLanahan took another swig of beer. That’s why it’s
all just a big game, he thought. Just a game.
                 As
he ambled over to the bar and found himself an empty seat, his thoughts took a
depressing turn. He had been in the Air Force, what? Six years now. And he had
never dropped a live bomb on a target. Each time that he had pressed his finger
down on the pickle switch, it had been a concrete blivet that dropped out the
bomb bay doors.
                 Not
that he should complain. The whole point of what he was doing was to defend his
country, after all. If defending it meant undergoing exercise after exercise,
then so be it. He couldn’t help wondering, though, what it would be like to
drop a bomb under true “game” conditions. He felt like a fireman who is waiting
to be called to his first fire, dreading and welcoming it at the same time.
                 McLanahan
looked up from his beer to find a pretty young brunette in civilian clothes
seated next to him. She was talking to another woman who had long blonde hair
tied up in a bun. On the blonde’s uniform lapel was a lieutenant’s insignia.
                 “Excuse
me, ladies,” McLanahan said, his voice slurring a bit. “But can I interest
either of you in a game of darts?”
                 The
blonde smiled. She looked at her friend. “Wendy,” she said, “why don’t you give
it a try. I never could shoot those things.”
                 The
brunette demurred. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Besides, what chance would I
have competing against the King of Bomb Comp himself.” She fixed McLanahan with
a bemused look, as if all the honors he’d received counted little in her
estimation.
                 McLanahan
mistook the look for active interest and charged forward. “Well, if I’m the
King of Bomb Comp, then I’m willing to let you be my Queen.” He clinked his
beer mug against hers and made a toast. “To . . . what was it? Wendy. To Wendy,
Queen of Bomb Comp and a credit to the United States Air Force.”
                 Wendy
smiled. “Actually, I’m employed by an independent contractor. We build and test
ECM gear.”
                 “Well,
we won’t hold that against you,” McLanahan said. He glanced at the blond
lieutenant.
                 Wendy
looked at McLanahan for a moment as if deciding something, then rose from her
seat and straightened her dress. She reached out her hand. “So nice to have met
you, uh—” McLanahan told her his name. “Yes, of course. Patrick. Well, it was nice to meet you. But I must be
going.”
                 She
waved to the blonde. “Catch you later, Cheryl,” she said. “Stay out of trouble,
okay?”
                 “I’ll
try,” Cheryl said, but something in her eyes told McLanahan she had no
intention of doing any such thing. As Cheryl looked at him over her beer mug,
McLanahan thought of the woman who’d just left.
     
              

             4 Fighter Weapons Training Range , Nellis Air Force Base, Las Vegas , Nevada
     
                 T wo days after the Bomb Comp
festivities ended, Lieutenant-General Elliott rode with General Curtis in a
blue Air Force four-wheel drive truck, bouncing and skidding on dark, dusty,
pitted desert roads. Elliott was wearing short-sleeved olive-drab fatigues and
a blue flight cap. Curtis was wearing a conservative gray suit and tie, even in
the dry desert warmth of the early evening. The sun had set a few minutes
earlier beyond the beautiful mountain ranges of the high