They retrieved their luggage a short time later and headed for the rental-car counters beside the baggage carousels. On the way, the man stopped at a gift shop and emerged a few minutes later with a large shopping bag. “What did you get?” the woman asked him.
“Airplane models,” the man replied. “One of the EB-52 Megafortress, the one that General McLanahan used when he first attacked Russia, and another of the EB-1C Vampire, one of the bombers he used against the Russian president’s bunker after the American Holocaust.” The massive subatomic cruise-missile attack against American air defense, intercontinental-ballistic-missile, and long-range-bomber bases was known worldwide as the American Holocaust, during which over fifteen thousand Americans were killed. Patrick McLanahan had led a counterattack against Russian mobile intercontinental-ballistic-missile sites and eventually against Russian president Anatoliy Gryzlov’s underground command bunker, killing Gryzlov and putting an end to the conflict.
“I thought you already had models of all of McLanahan’s experimental aircraft,” the woman pointed out.
“I do,” the man said, grinning like a young boy on Christmas morning, “but not this big! The largest of my models are one-forty-eighth scale, but these bad boys are one-twenty-fourth scale! Twice as big as my other ones!”
The woman shook her head in mock disbelief. “Well, you have to carry them,” was all she said, and they proceeded to get in line for a rental car for the drive to their hotel in downtown Sacramento.
The next morning, both were up early. They dressed, had breakfast in the hotel dining room, went back to their room to pack, and were checked out and leaving the hotel in their rental car by seven thirty. The downtown streets of the capital city of the state of California on this weekend morning were quiet, with just a few joggers and merchants about.
The couple’s first stop was at McLanahan’s, a small bar and restaurant that had been popular with law enforcement officers since it opened just after the turn of the twentieth century. A relative had bought the property from Patrick McLanahan’s sisters, the only surviving members of the family other than Patrick’s son, Bradley, and turned the upstairs apartment into a small Patrick McLanahan museum. Downstairs it was still a bar and restaurant, but the owner had hundreds of framed photographs and newspaper clippings depicting events in Patrick McLanahan’s life as well as the lives of those who served in the U.S. Air Force during the Cold War. “Closed,” the woman observed. “Not open until eleven A.M. We have to be in San Francisco by ten.”
“I know, I know,” her companion said. “Let’s try the columbarium.”
The entrance to the newly redesigned section of Sacramento Old City Cemetery had a security access aisle with a CLOSED sign over it, but the couple found the gate open and an elderly man wiping down the table beside an X-ray machine. The man smiled and nodded as the couple approached. “Mornin’, folks,” he greeted them cheerfully. “Sorry, but we’re not open for about another hour.”
The European man did not try to hide his disappointment one bit. “We must be in San Francisco on important business by ten, and we will not have an opportunity to come back. I wanted so much to see the general’s crypt.”
The caretaker nodded, a little pang of regret in his eyes, then asked, “Where are you from, sir?”
“I am from Vilnius, Lithuania, sir,” the man said. “My father was a colonel in the Lithuanian Air Force under General Palcikas when my country announced its independence from the Soviet union , and he witnessed the events firsthand when the Russians invaded in retaliation. He told many stories of the incredible battles fought by Patrick McLanahan, Bradley Elliott, and the brave fighters of the secret task force code-named ‘Madcap Magician’ on behalf of my country. He talked about Patrick so often I thought we were related.” The caretaker smiled at that. “And now here I am, standing outside his gravesite, anxious to say good-bye to our family’s true hero, and I cannot.” His face turned crestfallen. “Well, good day to you, sir,” and he turned to depart.
“Wait,” the caretaker said. The Lithuanian man turned, his face brightening. “I’m a docent here at the memorial.” He thought for a brief moment, then said, “I can take you in to see the crypt. Just a quick look so we don’t get a flood of people wanting to go inside, no pictures out of respect—”
“That would be wonderful, sir!” the Lithuanian man exclaimed. “Honey, did you hear that?” The woman seemed elated for her companion. “Just a quick look, no touching, no pictures. You have made my day, sir!” The caretaker let the couple in and closed the gate behind them.
“I need to look inside your bag,” the caretaker said. The Lithuanian man had brought the large bag of model planes with him. “Our X-ray machine is off, and it’ll take a long time to get it warmed up—”
“Of course, of course,” the man said. He lifted up one of the large boxes. “An EB-52 Megafortress model. I already have one—”