A Time for Patriots

Five

Ron Spivey strode into the Civil Air Patrol hangar wearing a football jersey, shorts, running shoes, and carrying a backpack. He found Bradley McLanahan and Ralph Markham at a table. Ralph was in a CAP camouflage field uniform, but for the first time he saw Brad wearing a green Air Force — style Nomex flight suit. They had a stack of manuals on the table, along with sign-off forms. “Where the hell were you, McLanahan?” Ron shouted as he came over to the table. “You’re the only guy on the defensive squad that didn’t show for the workout.”

“I told you, Ron — I couldn’t make it because I’m getting my first ride as mission scanner,” Brad replied. “With the current air emergency, we got an ‘A’ mission number, so I get to go for real.” An “A” mission was one assigned and paid for by the Air Force for a specific task.

“Oh yeah — it’s your birthday today. Happy birthday,” Ron said tonelessly. “You get to start training to fly as a scanner for real. So why aren’t you flying?”

“I’m waiting to be briefed. I thought I’d help Ralph with his reading assignments for summer school.”

“Why doesn’t Marky do his own reading?”

“You know he has a little trouble reading,” Brad said. “But if you read it to him first and then help him through it, he picks it up pretty quick.”

“We’d all like someone to spoon-feed us,” Ron said. “But you’re still a cocaptain on the football team, so you’ve got to set a fucking example. You gotta do five miles every day plus wind sprints, and an hour in the weight room until football training-season starts. No excuses. And we train as a damned team. If you don’t show up, other guys won’t show, and pretty soon everyone is fucking around doing their own so-called training routine, which turns out to be nothing but dick .”

“I know,” Brad said. “I won’t miss any more. But I didn’t want to miss out on an ‘A’ mission.”

“Well, get your fucking priorities straight,” Ron said acidly. “I was at practice, and now I’m here, and tonight I’ll be on the FedEx ramp in Elko loading and unloading planes, and after that I’ll be at the AM/PM out there in Elko hoping I won’t get held up and the drunks won’t set the gas pumps on fire.”

“You got a job at the AM/PM in Elko too? You have two night jobs?”

“My mom’s boyfriend knows somebody,” Ron said. “It doesn’t matter. If I can do it, you can fucking do it. Just get your rear in gear and do what you said you’d do, or get the hell out of the way.” And he stormed off.

“Wow, he was sure mad,” Ralph remarked.

“I didn’t realize he was working so much,” Brad said. “He’s probably beat, driving all the way out to Elko and back. He works part-time afternoons at the Walmart too, at least until school starts.”

“Why is he working so much?”

“Helping out at home, I guess,” Brad replied. “He doesn’t talk about it much, after his Dad left and all. I know he likes to take his girlfriend out a lot too.”

“I’m never going to have a girlfriend,” Ralph announced.

“You say that now, but in a year it’ll be totally different,” Brad said.

“ You don’t have a girlfriend. You’re a pilot, and you’re on the football team, but you don’t have a girlfriend.”

“I have friends that happen to be girls,” Brad said, surprised at how uneasy he felt, “but… I don’t know. Lots of reasons. Girls don’t like special-team guys like they do quarterbacks and linebackers; I’m not a private pilot yet, so I can’t take girls on rides; I’m fairly new in school, and… I don’t know, dating is just not high on my list right now. I’m thinking about college, and scholarships.”

Ralph sighed. “I wish I could go to college.”

“You can. We just need to work on your reading. You’re a smart guy — you just don’t learn like other kids.”

“I get tested every year in school. They say I’m like a fourth grader.”

“That’s compared to other students in school,” Brad said. “But how many kids you know can do all the first aid, orienteering, and fieldwork you do? How many kids can pick up a complex adult video game and figure out how to ace it in just a couple hours? Heck, how many kids do you know that have any idea what the one-in-sixty rule is?”

“But that’s easy.”

“It wasn’t when you started. I remember when I first tried to teach you land navigation and how to read a map and compass — you just didn’t have a clue. But you’re a visual learner.”

“What’s that?”

“You find it easier to learn by watching and doing rather than by reading a book or listening to a lecture,” Brad explained. “We tried to teach you map reading in a classroom for weeks and you never got it — you gave up several times. But once we took you out in the field, you learned to visualize the map with the actual terrain features, and once you got a compass in your hand and laid it on a map in the field, it all clicked. Same with video games or computers: you can read the instructions for a week and never get it, but we sit you down in front of one and just let you explore it, and soon you have it down cold.”

“But games and computers are easy,” Ralph repeated. “So why is school so hard?”

“Because traditional school is the same as it was in ancient Greece thousands of years ago — it’s listening to lectures in a classroom and reading books,” Brad said. “But that’s not always the best way to learn. You think the Paiute Indian boys learned how to hunt in a classroom ? The braves took the young boys out in the hills and showed them how to hunt elk and bighorn sheep. If they failed, they didn’t get an F — the tribe didn’t eat. You have to find the best way to teach a person, and it’s not always in a classroom. It depends on the student and the subject matter, I guess.”

Ralph nodded, then said, “I remember the land-navigation courses you taught. They were prerequisites for the fieldwork. I never passed any of the exams.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Then how did I get to go into the field?”

“Because I signed you off anyway.”

“You did? But why?”

“Because I had a feeling you could learn that stuff if we just got you out there and showed it to you,” Brad said. “I’m kind of a visual learner too. Take flying: I can muddle through the classroom stuff and squeak by on the exams, but I really don’t learn anything about flying until I get behind the controls. Then all the classroom stuff makes sense. If you didn’t pick it up in the field, I’d go to the squadron commander and explain what I did. But you did it.”

Ralph nodded and was silent for a few moments, then asked, “So if you’re a visual learner like me, sir — why do you want to go to a traditional college?”

Brad opened his mouth to reply… then realized he didn’t have an answer. But thankfully just then Jon Masters came up to the table. “Hey, there’s the birthday boy!” he greeted him loudly. Brad stood and held out a hand. Jon shook it, then spun Brad around and spanked him eighteen times, plus a last hard one for good luck. “I’m not too old, and you’re not yet so big, that I can’t give you a proper birthday greeting!”

“Thanks, Uncle Jon,” Brad said. “Uncle Jon, this is Cadet Markham. Ralph, meet Dr. Jon Masters.”

“The one that led the search and treated the survivor of that plane crash? Very nice to meet you.” They shook hands. “They tell me you’re quite the video-game expert.”

“I’m a visual learner, sir,” Ralph said proudly.

“I see,” Jon said. “Well, hopefully while I’m here I can show you some stuff that you might just find is right up your alley.”

“Like what, Uncle Jon?” Brad asked.

Jon put a finger to his lips and winked. “Hush-hush, need-to-know, super-duper secret, all that happy horseshi — well, you get the idea,” Jon said. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

“Really?” Ralph gasped.

“Not really, Ralph, but I like saying that,” Jon said, smiling. “But, I am here to tell you that your sortie this afternoon has been canceled.” Brad’s shoulders slumped. “I feel bad, because my stuff has something to do with it, and I know it was going to be your first mission as the guy who sits in back and looks out the window for stuff.”

“Mission scanner.”

“Right. So to make it up to you, I got you a present. I gave it to your dad.”

“Thank you!” Brad said excitedly. Jon Masters’s gifts were always weird, highly unusual, and one-of-a-kind high-tech gadgets. “When do I get it?”

“As soon as your dad gets off the computer, which might not be until you’re thirty,” Jon said with a smile. “In the meantime, if you guys are done here, why don’t you show me your Civil Air Patrol plane.”

“Sure!” Brad said excitedly. He ran to the communications room and retrieved the airplane’s keys, then escorted Jon and Ralph to the Cessna 182 parked outside. “This is a Cessna 182R Skylane, built in 1984,” he began proudly as they walked up to the red, white, and blue airplane. “It is a four-place, high-wing, single-engine monoplane, constructed mostly of aluminum with some fiberglass components. It is powered by a two-hundred-and-thirty-horsepower normally aspirated piston engine. It has a max gross weight of about three thousand pounds, cruises at about one hundred and forty knots, and has a maximum endurance of about four hours with an hour’s fuel reserve.”

“ ‘Normally aspirated piston engine’? ‘One hundred and forty knots’?” Jon Masters asked incredulously. “Who uses piston engines anymore? It runs on avgas? I didn’t think there were any planes that ran on avgas anymore! And I have unmanned aircraft I can carry in a backpack that can fly twice as fast!”

“The 182 is a good aircraft for the mission, Uncle Jon: good-weather, short-range, short-endurance, low-altitude, low-speed search-and-rescue, flown by civilian volunteers,” Brad said. “We have other planes that fly other missions. The Civil Air Patrol is the largest single operator of 182s in the world, with a fleet of more than five hundred.”

“A fleet of dinosaurs, if you ask me,” Jon said. “The plane is almost thirty years old!”

“They’re introducing newer planes into the fleet as the older ones reach a certain airframe time limit,” Brad said. “We were slated to get a glass-cockpit turbo 182 this year. That was canceled because of the economy and all the cutbacks. Maybe we’ll get it when the recession is over.”

“Or maybe get something better,” Jon mused.

“There’s nothing better than a trusty 182—maybe a turbo 182 with a glass cockpit,” Brad said. He unlocked the pilot’s-side door, then opened the passenger-side door from inside. “We still use the original instruments.”

“Holy cats — I’ll say you do!” Jon exclaimed, his eyes wide in wonder as he scanned the faded Royalite plastic instrument panel. “I can’t remember the last time I saw round steam gauges!” He pointed at the GPS device. “Jeez, that GPS manufacturer hasn’t been in business in fifteen years! And… and is that an FM simplex radio?”

“The radio operates both in simplex and repeater functions,” Brad explained. “CAP operates about five hundred repeater stations around the country to provide communications over a wide area, hostile terrain, or when conventional communications like telephone and the Internet are knocked out.”

“Wow — I didn’t realize you guys did what you do with such… outdated stuff,” Jon exclaimed. “I guess your major tool is the old Mark One eyeball, eh?”

“We have a Gippsland GA-8 with the ARCHER hyperspectral sensor — that’s probably the most high-tech plane in the fleet,” Brad said. “Back in the Vegas squadron they were able to send digital photos from the planes via satellite, but we don’t do that here.”

“It would be easy enough to do,” Jon mused again. Brad could always tell when his uncle’s mind began working a problem, same as his dad: they got this faraway look, as if they were looking through the earth back onto their lab bench or computer, already experimenting and planning. “The transceiver weighs less than a sack lunch. You could even do two-way voice, data, and text.”

“That would be cool,” Ralph said.

“Look at that — vacuum-powered gyroscopic gauges… a wet compass… carburetor heat… my God, an L-Tronics Model LA direction finder,” Jon muttered in disbelief. “Those were built in Santa Barbara, California, by hand practically by one guy, years ago. He was my hero. The guy literally transformed the nation with his gadgets.”

“Most of the time the stuff works pretty well,” Brad said. “And the plane flies great.”

“You’ve flown it?”

“You bet I did,” Brad said. “Ralph too. Every CAP cadet gets five powered and five glider orientation rides. It’s part of CAP’s aerospace education program. We’re not allowed to do takeoffs and landings in CAP airplanes, but I’ve done steep turns, stalls, and slow flight.”

“I didn’t realize the Civil Air Patrol did all that stuff with these planes,” Jon said. “Actually, I never thought about it. So when do you get to pilot one of these hot rods, Brad?”

“Not for a while,” Brad said. “I’ll train to be a mission scanner, get two supervised flights, then train to be a mission observer. Meanwhile, I have to get my private pilot’s license and get a hundred and fifty hours of pilot-in-command time. Then I can train to take a CAP Form 5 check ride, which is like an annual flight review. Once I pass that, I get two supervised flights in the left seat with a crew, followed by a CAP Form 91 evaluation.”

“Sheesh, it sounds worse than the Air Force,” Jon remarked. “They really make you jump through some hoops, don’t they?”

“I’ll be flying two other crewmembers in an Air Force airplane on an Air Force — assigned mission — they want us up to speed,” Brad said. “I don’t think it’s jumping through hoops at all.”

“You sound just like your dad — who, speak of the devil, here he is now.” Jon shook hands with Patrick as he walked up to the Cessna. “Brad was showing me his high-tech piece of machinery here. Are you sure flying one of these isn’t taxing your aging flying skills too much?”

“Jon, even you could pilot one of these,” Patrick said with a smile. “How are you, Ralph?”

“Fine, sir. Brad was helping me with some reading.”

“Good for you, Brad. How’s Jeremy doing?”

“Released from the hospital to his grandparents in Sparks, sir,” Ralph said. Patrick knew the boy would know the details. “He’s doing fine and has asked about joining the CAP.”

“I think he’d be a great cadet,” Patrick said. “So. Are you guys done?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I have a birthday surprise for my son, thanks to Uncle Jon here,” Patrick said. “Unfortunately your first scanner flight was canceled, but I have something else I think you’ll enjoy. Climb on out of that flight suit.” Eyes dancing in anticipation, Brad locked up the Cessna, put the keys away, then returned in a flash in civilian clothes.

“Drive us over to the hangar,” Patrick said, tossing him the keys to the Wrangler. Brad happily drove to the other side of the base, where the civilian aircraft were parked, the smile not leaving his face.

“Are we going flying, Dad?” Brad asked excitedly after parking beside Patrick’s hangar.

“We are,” Patrick said. “Dr. Masters owns the airspace around the base for his special project today, and he’s not using it for the next two hours, so he got us permission to use it. It won’t be a cross-country — we have to stay within thirty miles of the base — but you’ll be able to get some air work and some landings in.”

“Great!” Brad shouted. His smile dimmed a bit. “But… I can’t afford to fly the 210, even half. I’d be just as happy flying the 172.” Brad had been training for his pilot’s license in a rented Cessna 172 Skyhawk, saving money and doing odd jobs around town and the base to pay for fuel and flying time; Patrick was his flight instructor.

“That’s the second surprise,” Patrick said. “Dr. Masters is paying the tab for this flight. Happy birthday.”

“All right !” Brad cried. “Thank you, Uncle Jon!” Brad had to contain his excitement and, as his father had taught him, put his pilot’s brain in gear as he proceeded to unlock the hangar and get the turbine Cessna P21 °Centurion ready to fly.

Patrick had downsized his airplane from the twin-turbine-powered Aerostar to a single-engine airplane, but it was just as high-tech. Thanks to Jon Masters’s tinkering, this Cessna pressurized single-engine airplane had an advanced turboprop engine that propelled the plane at a top speed of more than three hundred miles an hour for over 1,500 nautical miles at altitudes up to twenty-five thousand feet. It was equipped with two wide-screen electronic flight displays, dual GPS navigators, a NextGen datalink for weather and traffic, side-stick controllers, single-lever engine control, and a host of other features and upgrades. Its advanced electronic ignition system allowed it to burn any kind of liquid fuel available, from automotive gasoline to the latest biofuel.

“I’m going to let you do everything,” Patrick said. “I want to see if you’ve gotten rusty. Take your time.”

“Yes, sir !” Patrick watched as Brad pulled the plane out of the hangar, drove the Jeep inside, and began a preflight.

The exterior preflight mostly consisted of draining the numerous fuel tanks and sumps to check for water or contamination, checking that the flight controls were free and clear, and checking for any signs of leaks or damage. When the walk-around was completed, Patrick climbed into the front passenger seat first, followed by Brad in the pilot’s seat, and he closed and dogged the entry door tight. The interior preflight was even easier: the computers mostly did everything, under Brad’s watchful eye. Engine start was stone-cold simple: turn on the battery switch, command the engine start on the touch-screen electronic controls, watch the engine displays, and watch for any hot-start anomalies that weren’t caught by the computer. Within minutes they were airborne.

“Three of the most dangerous stalls you can do,” Patrick said once they were at their operating altitude, “is an approach-to-landing stall, a departure stall, and a traffic-pattern or accelerated stall, so that’s what we’re going to practice first. Run through those for me.”

“Roger,” Brad said. “Clearing turn, coming left.” He performed a clearing turn left and right to check that the airspace around them was clear of other traffic, then said, “The approach-to-landing stall simulates stalling with the plane in landing configuration. Flaps ten, then the gear.” He lowered the first notch of flaps, then the landing gear. “As the airspeed decreases I’ll pitch up to landing attitude. Flaps twenty… flaps thirty. Power back, nose stays up…” A few moments later, the stall-warning horn sounded and they felt the first rumbles of disturbed air over the wings, the sign of an impending stall.

“Recover,” Patrick said just as it felt as if the plane was going to nose over. Brad released the back pressure on the side-stick controller and fed in full power. When the plane reached takeoff speed, he raised the landing gear and the first notch of flaps and waited until he had a positive rate of climb.

“Good job — minimal loss of altitude, nose straight, positive rate of climb,” Patrick said after Brad had completely recovered from the stall and reconfigured the plane. “Next: departure stall.”

Like the first, Brad verbalized his procedures, then executed them. The departure stall was done in the takeoff configuration with full power, simulating a stall right after takeoff; the third was a stall while turning in the traffic pattern.

“Very good,” Patrick said after the last one was finished. “Remember, keep those controls centered and use rudder to keep the nose straight as you approach the stall — a stall with one wing down is a spin, and the P210 is not a spin-friendly plane at all.”

“Got it, Dad.”

“Good. Let’s do some landings. This plane has prop beta and reversers, but let’s not use any of that — just watch your airspeed. Normal configuration, then half flaps, then no flaps. Watch your descent rates with each flap setting. After that, we’ll go over to the other runway and do a crosswind landing.”

Brad’s landings were very good with the winds right down the runway, but when they switched runways, it was slightly different story. Brad had never been a big fan of crosswind landings. The Cessna P21 °Centurion had thin tubular main landing gear and small tires, which necessitated a crabbed approach to an airport in crosswinds instead of a wing-low approach. A crabbed approach meant angling into the crosswind until just before touchdown, and then “kicking out the rudder”—quickly transitioning to a wing-low approach and using the rudder to keep the wheels aligned with the runway centerline to avoid excessive side loads on the landing gear, all done just moments before touchdown.

Brad had trouble gauging when the crab should end, and on touchdown it felt as if they’d shoot off the side of the runway. Patrick’s hands were ready to grab the throttle and controller, but Brad kept the plane on the runway. “Good recovery,” Patrick said as they taxied off the runway. “Use more nose-up trim to help you keep that landing attitude, and be aggressive with your rudder inputs. Let’s taxi back and do a crosswind takeoff, then another crosswind landing, and that’ll be enough of a workout for you. Verbalize everything you do.”

When they were cleared for takeoff, Brad said, “Okay, crosswind takeoff. I’ve got lots of power and runway, so I’m not going to use flaps.”

“The plane will be on the ground at a higher speed, which is usually bad for landing gear and tires,” Patrick said. “Tell me why you’re not using flaps.”

“Because with flaps the plane will have a tendency to weathervane into the wind, which makes it tougher to straighten out with the rudder,” Brad said. “The extra speed will make controlling it easier too.”

“Exactly,” Patrick said. “Now the crosswind is not that strong, so if you wanted to you could use ten degrees flaps, but you are correct that we have plenty of runway and power. Continue.”

“Because the winds are coming from the left, I’m going to start the takeoff on the right side of the runway and aim for the opposite corner, so I have less of a crosswind component,” Brad went on. “Emergency stuff briefed as before: engine failure before takeoff is power to idle and braking as necessary to stay on pavement; engine failure after takeoff but below five hundred feet is best glide speed of eighty knots, flaps full, land straight ahead with minimal turns to avoid obstacles; engine failure above five hundred feet is best glide speed, attempt to return to the runway, gear and flaps when the runway is made.”

“Good,” Patrick said. “Remember to put in full aileron into the wind until your rudder is effective.” Brad made the takeoff, being careful to put in firm aileron and then rudder inputs to maintain runway alignment. “Good takeoff,” Patrick said after they made the turn onto the crosswind leg. “Let’s see how you do on this landing. Keep positive authority on those rudder pedals.”

Patrick could feel that Brad was indeed being more aggressive on the pitch trim and rudder pedals as he lined up with the runway, established his crab angle, lowered the flaps and landing gear, and approached the runway. Normally Patrick’s hands would be ready to take the controls as soon as he felt something amiss, but Brad was reacting well to every change in the winds or every altitude correction. When it was time to flare and kick out the rudder, it was almost a nonevent — Brad pressed in plenty of right rudder to align the plane with the runway centerline, dipped the left wing into the wind to correct for the crosswind, and eased the controller just enough to let the nose come carefully up. As soon as the stall-warning horn bleeped, the main landing-gear wheels kissed the runway in a satisfying SQUEAK SQUEAK of rubber hitting the runway. He put in a tiny bit of power so he had enough airspeed to fly the nose gear onto the runway instead of letting it drop because of a lack of airspeed.

“Excellent job,” Patrick said after they taxied clear of the runway. “You definitely felt like you were in charge of your plane, anticipating rather than reacting. How did that feel?”

“It felt great, Dad,” Brad said. “I think I’m getting used to crosswind landings. They always got me so nervous.”

“It’s the same with just about every pilot in the world,” Patrick said. “No one likes crosswind takeoffs or landings, and a lot of takeoff and landing accidents happen when crosswinds are involved. It just takes practice. Had enough for today?”

“Heck no,” Brad said. “I wish we could go somewhere, but I’m ready to go flying, even if it’s just around the airport. Let’s do some more.”

“Unfortunately, I’ve got stuff to do, and they’re restricting everyone unless they’re on an IFR flight plan,” Patrick said. “Let’s head back to the barn.” Brad’s face registered a hint of disappointment, but he steered the Centurion back to its hangar without complaint. When they arrived, they noticed Jon Masters, Rob Spara, David Bellville, John de Carteret, Ralph Markham, and Michael Fitzgerald standing in front of the hangar.

“What’s going on?” Brad asked. “Did we get another alert?”

“I have no idea,” Patrick said. “Park it out front and let’s find out.” Brad parked the Centurion in front of the hangar, accomplished the shutdown checklist, and stepped outside, with his father following closely behind.

“So, how did he do?” Jon asked.

“He needed a do-over on the crosswind landing,” Patrick said, “but he did good the second time around, and otherwise he’s good to go.”

“I had no doubts,” Jon said. “If you’re good, I’m good.”

“Thank you, Jon,” Patrick said. He turned to his son. “Hop back in, big guy. Three landings with a full stop in between, then bring it in.”

The express delivery truck turned left onto Kittyhawk Drive and was met by a crew with a tractor, which was lifting three-foot-high concrete jersey walls into place on the side of the street. The truck driver had to stop to let the tractor pass. He slid his door open and asked a nearby worker, “What’s going on?”

“The county is closing off Kittyhawk and Vaqueros Streets and the parking lot in front of the administration building,” the worker replied. “Added security, I guess, although it’s not going to protect anybody from another damned plane.”

“Well, who’d want to attack the county building in Pahrump?” the delivery driver asked. The worker just shrugged. “So where do I make the deliveries?”

“You can go ahead for now around to the loading dock — we haven’t closed the streets off yet,” the worker said. “But after this they’ll be setting up the vacant lot across the street for parking. I don’t know about deliveries — they’ll probably be inspected before being allowed in.”

“The times we live in, I guess,” the driver said. As soon as the street was clear, he proceeded on. He took a right onto Vaqueros Street, then another right toward the parking area marked DELIVERIES. He let a security guard see his delivery manifest, then let him peek inside the truck. “All these here in the back,” the driver said, pointing to several large boxes and one wood-framed crate. “Copiers, paper, and office furniture.”

“I thought there was a recession going on,” the security guard grumbled. “Who has the money for all this stuff? The security staff gets cut by half, but some suit gets all-new office stuff?” The guard initialed the manifest. “After today, you guys will have to park across the front parking lot in the vacant lot for inspection.”

“I heard. I’ll pass the word.” The guard handed the driver his manifest, and the driver drove to an empty bay at the loading dock. He took his electronic clipboard inside to the receiving office. Just as he reached the receiving clerk’s window they heard an electronic siren followed by the words, “A FIRE ALARM HAS BEEN ACTIVATED. PLEASE EXIT THE BUILDING THROUGH THE MAIN ENTRANCE IMMEDIATELY,” followed by the same message in Spanish.

“What’s that?” the driver asked.

“It happens about once a week,” the disgusted receiving clerk groused. “Someone’s pissed because they’ve been laid off or had their hours reduced, so they pull a fire alarm or call in a bomb threat.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Unfortunately, no,” the clerk said. “Follow me.”

“Why don’t we go out this way?” the driver asked, pointing toward the loading docks.

“Security wants everybody to go out the front so they can be counted and ID’d,” she said. “Did you leave the keys to your truck in the ignition?” The driver nodded. “If it’s the real deal, the fire department will move it.” She looked at her watch. “It was almost time for my cigarette break anyway.” The driver followed the clerk through narrow hallways that led to the main forum, which further branched out into the different departments. No one seemed to be in any great hurry or panic at all. The driver noticed uniformed court bailiffs leading some men out in handcuffs. “I’m going to meet up with my friend in the sheriff’s department,” the clerk said. She pointed toward a wall of glass doors. “Head right out those doors. Someone will tell you where to go next.”

The parking lot was filling with workers gathering together in small knots while at the center of the lot a security officer had formed a checkpoint and was yelling at folks to get in line to show ID. The driver retrieved his company ID card and clipped it to his uniform pocket. No one seemed to want to line up — they obviously expected the alert to expire soon — so the line moved quickly. After just a few minutes’ wait, he was next in line. “Making a delivery?” the security guard asked.

“Yep,” the driver said. The guard glanced at the ID card, then at the driver, and nodded. But something caught his eye, and he ran a finger along the edge of the photo on the badge. With just a tiny bit of effort, the photo started to peel away from the badge!

“Wait a minute — is this your ID badge?” the security guard asked.

The driver shook his head, smiled, and replied, “No, it isn’t”—and at the same moment he lifted a device in his left hand and pressed a button. There was an intense burst of light, followed by an earsplitting explosion that shook the ground. People screamed and scattered in all directions as what seemed like a mile-wide fireball erupted from the back of the administrative building, followed by a huge black cloud of smoke and debris.

Brad McLanahan’s face turned into a mask of sheer disbelief. “Wha- what ?” he stammered.

“Time to solo, son,” his father, Patrick, said confidently. “You’re more than ready. Go for it. I’ll be on the portable radio in case you need me.” Patrick was expecting him to be more excited than this. Brad looked completely stunned. “You okay, big guy?”

“S-sure,” Brad said. “Three landings. Got it.” He stepped hesitantly back to the Centurion, looked around inside for a moment, then climbed in. Patrick listened for the entry door to be fully latched and looked for seat belts hanging out. He then waited for the strobes to come on and the starter to start winding up, but Brad just sat there. After a few long moments, Patrick went over to the passenger-side emergency-exit window. Brad reached over and opened it, still wearing that same blank expression. “What, Dad?” he asked in a low voice.

“You okay, Brad?”

“I… guess,” Brad said. “I mean… the cockpit looks so much bigger with no one else sitting here.”

“You can do it, Brad,” Patrick said. “You’re the pilot in command now. You do everything you just did and you’ll be fine. Remember what I said: when you step near the plane, you put your pilot-in-command brain on until you lock the door to the hangar after you button up the plane. Right?”

Brad nodded, then looked past his father at the others. “Are they all going to watch me?”

“You might as well get used to it: pilots watch other pilots all the time, and everyone’s a critic. Try not to think about it. Fly the plane like I know you can do. Put your pilot-in-command brain on. Have a good one.” Patrick closed the window, stood there to make sure Brad locked it from the inside, and then stepped back.

It took another few long moments, but at last Brad reached up and took the checklist in his hand, and finally his nervousness began to subside. Reading the checklist items and then touching the proper switch, lever, or readout helped to pull him back into the routine of flying, and soon he forgot that it was his first solo flight and he was alone…

… until he was ready to taxi. He was so accustomed to leaning forward to look around his father to see out the right window, and when he did so again he realized he didn’t have to do that, and he remembered he was alone. He had to wipe his sweaty palms on his jeans.

“Centurion Two-Niner Bravo Mike, Battle Mountain Ground.”

Brad couldn’t find the mike button for a few moments, but he finally managed to key the button: “Niner Bravo Mike, go ahead.”

“Message from Sierra Alpha Seven: Taxi on out or park it.”

Brad looked out the window and saw his dad waving his cellular phone at him. The others with him had smiles on their faces but were looking a little concerned — all except Ralph, who gave Brad a big excited smile and two thumbs-up.

“I can do this, damn it,” he said aloud to himself. “I know what I’m doing, I know what I’m doing.” He took a deep breath, then keyed the mike again: “Roger, Ground, Centurion Two-Niner Bravo Mike ready to taxi from the south hangars with information Tango.”

“Niner Bravo Mike, information Uniform is current, winds three-two-zero at eight, altimeter three-zero-one-zero,” the ground controller reported — Brad had forgotten to get the current Automatic Terminal Information System data. “Two-Niner Bravo Mike cleared to taxi to Runway three-zero.”

“R-roger,” Brad responded nervously. “Taxi to Runway three-zero, Niner Bravo Mike.” Wiping his sweaty palms on his pant legs again, he turned on the taxi light, released the parking brake, and started rolling.

It was a long and lonely ride to the runway, even though he had done this dozens of times. Brad had to consciously remind himself to use beta and low power settings to avoid tapping the brakes. Everything seemed louder, and every bounce or sway was cause for alarm. What was that vibration? Was that rattling from the nose gear normal? He found himself checking every millimeter of the electronic displays, looking for some indication of a problem, and then he found himself swerving too much across the taxi line.

“Get it together, shithead,” he said aloud to himself. “You’re the damned pilot. Be the pilot, or park it. When you’re taxiing, you concentrate on taxiing, not on looking around the cockpit. Be the pilot, or park it.”

He taxied to the run-up area and completed the “BEFORE TAKEOFF” checklist. He couldn’t believe how nervous he was: he actually forgot what to do next ! The checklist jumped to the “AFTER TAKEOFF” items, but what was he supposed to do now? Maybe I’m really not ready to…

… and at that moment he was startled from a blur of motion in front of him. It was an XS-19A Midnight single-stage-to-orbit spaceplane, coming in for a landing at Battle Mountain! In all his confusion about what to do next, he had never even noticed the radio transmissions between it and the control tower!

The Midnight was the most incredible aircraft in the world: it could take off and land from almost any airport in the world, but once it refueled after takeoff, it could launch itself into Earth orbit. It could take passengers or supplies to and from Armstrong Space Station, fly around the planet in just a couple hours, retrieve and deploy satellites in orbit, and even launch antisatellite and antiballistic-missile interceptors or ground-attack weapons.

That’s what I want to do, Brad told himself: I want to fly a spaceplane. I want to go on missions to the space stations, orbit Earth hundreds of miles up, fly around the planet in less than two hours, and defend America with weapons fired from space…

… and the first step to doing all that: make three takeoffs and three landings solo in this little air-breathing Cessna Centurion.

And like that, everything came together. He switched radio frequencies on the right multifunction display like he always did and spoke: “Battle Mountain tower, Centurion Two-Niner Bravo Mike, ready for takeoff Runway three-zero, staying in the pattern.” When cleared, Brad released the parking brake, cleared the approach end of the runway, taxied out, and made his first solo takeoff.

The three landings and takeoffs were over before he knew it, and he taxied the Centurion back to the hangar, after acknowledging a “Good job, new solo pilot,” from the tower controller. After shutting down and securing the plane, his father and the others greeted him to applause. As soon as he stepped away from the plane, the others ran up and doused him with water from plastic bottles, and his father ripped half of the back of his shirt off. “Gotta have someplace to write about your first solo,” he said. “Every new pilot-in-command gives it up. Congratulations, Brad.”

Brad hugged his father tightly as the others continued their applause. “I wasn’t sure if I could do it,” he admitted. “I couldn’t even remember what to do after I finished the checklist. But I saw the Midnight come in, right in front of me, and it all came back.”

“Good for you, son,” Patrick said. “You’ll be flying a Midnight before you know it. Your uncle John is going to kick in with us for the rest of your flight training, right up to your check ride. By the time you get your cross-country flights, night flights, and instrument time, you’ll have enough hours to do the check. And since I just got my authorization as an FAA designated examiner in the turbine P210, I’ll be giving you your check ride.”

“Awesome!”

“I’ll be ten times worse than any other check pilot,” Patrick said with a smile, “but I know you can do it. You’ll be a licensed pilot before you know it. Now, you’re in charge of putting the plane away, because I need to run over to the other side of the base and find out why the Midnight is in. Congratulations again, son.” He hated to leave the celebration, but the sudden appearance of the XS-19 was unexpected.

“Sierra Alpha Seven, Alpha,” he heard on his secure subcutaneous transceiver. The transceiver was a leftover from his days with the top-secret High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center at Elliott Air Force Base; although it was capable of global two-way communications, it was mostly used for regular UHF and VHF radio transmissions these days. “Alpha” was the base commander of Joint Air Base Battle Mountain, Air Force Brigadier-General Kurt “Buzz” Givens, a former bomber navigator and operations officer when Patrick commanded the base.

“Go ahead, Alpha,” Patrick responded.

“I’m going to put ‘it’ in Uniform.” Both men knew exactly where “it” was.

“Roger,” Patrick responded. “I’d like to meet up with it and the crew.”

“Approved.” There were six secure aircraft hangars aboveground, but the Uniform secure area was sixty feet underground. The belowground aircraft storage and servicing area — big enough for several B52 Stratofortress bombers — was a leftover from Battle Mountain’s Cold War days.

Patrick drove over to the secure aircraft parking hangar. The XS-19 Midnight spaceplane had just been directed to park inside a large aircraft shelter, and Patrick followed it in and parked beside it. A few aircraft handlers and maintenance officers were standing ready and waiting to assist the crew, but no one could get near the ship for several more minutes because the skin was still too hot to touch — just minutes earlier it had been reentering Earth’s atmosphere, flying thousands of miles an hour, and even the ultracold upper-air molecules acted like billions of keys being scraped against a sidewalk, turning the carbon-carbon composite skin red-hot.

The floor of the aircraft shelter was actually a giant elevator. As soon as it was safe to do so, the Midnight spaceplane was secured with chains, and the ship, Patrick’s Wrangler, and the handlers were lowered underground. It took twelve minutes to go six stories — part of the security of the underground facility were ultraslow elevators that allowed security forces to get into position to repel attackers — but finally they reached the floor.

“Hey, General!” Patrick heard a voice shout. The entry hatch to the spaceplane’s cockpit had opened, and Hunter “Boomer” Noble, the vice president of engineering for Sky Masters, Inc., appeared in the opening. Not quite thirty years old, roguish good looks, a bit taller than most astronauts, and always with an above-average air of excitement and humor about him, Boomer was one of a generation of young, idealistic, limitless creative dreamers whom Jon Masters liked to surround himself with at Sky Masters. He was wearing one of the newer Electronic Elastomeric Activity Suits, or EEAS, a tight-fitting garment that used electronically controlled filaments to apply pressure on the body instead of a traditional bulky space suit, which used breathing air under pressure. “I heard you were here at BAM again! How are you, sir?”

“Doing okay, Boomer, doing okay,” Patrick replied. They had to talk at a distance because the spaceplane was still too warm to put up a boarding ladder. “How was the flight?”

“Excellent — except for the finish.”

“What happened?”

“You haven’t heard? It just happened about twenty, thirty minutes ago.”

“I was out flying with Bradley. He soloed today.”

“Little Bradley? Congrats to him. But you haven’t heard what happened?”

“No.” Patrick felt a sudden pang of loss — he was getting very, very tired of being out of the loop.

“There was another terrorist attack on a government office in Nevada,” Boomer said. “The Nye County administrative office in Pahrump was attacked with a truck bomb.” Patrick’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Twenty-one people were killed. All flights in and out of Las Vegas, Nellis, Henderson, and as far away as Riverside were diverted. That’s why I’m here.”

Patrick was thunderstruck. “Did they detect radioactive materials?” he asked.

“Yes,” Boomer said. “I don’t know what it was, but it’s apparently a lot nastier than the stuff used in Reno.”

Patrick’s transceiver beeped. “Sierra Alpha Seven,” he responded.

“This is Alpha,” Kurt Givens radioed. “Gizmo and Nutcracker want the airspace cleared and want immediate launch authority.” “Gizmo” was Jon Masters’s call sign, and “Nutcracker” was Special Agent Chastain’s, picked by Patrick himself — both appropriate call signs, if he did say so himself. “Is ‘it’ secure?”

“Affirmative,” Patrick replied.

“Roger. Make sure the Centurion knows his airspace access is terminated. Alpha out.”

Patrick put in a call to Bradley’s cell phone to make sure the plane was put away — it was, and Brad was already back at the Civil Air Patrol squadron, in utility uniform, awaiting a briefing on the new terrorist attack — then turned to Boomer, who had finally joined him on the deck. “Jon and the FBI have full control of the Class-C airspace, and they’re going to close it, so you’re our guest for the immediate future,” he said.

“Fine with me,” Boomer said. He motioned to a young woman standing beside him. “You remember Gonzo, don’t you?”

“You mean Major Faulkner? Of course,” Patrick said, extending a hand. Jessica Faulkner was one of the more experienced astronauts in the U.S. Space Defense Force. A Marine Corps F-35 Lightning II fighter pilot before the program was canceled, the petite red-haired, green-eyed woman was also wearing an EEAS, which accentuated her curves very, very well indeed. She shook hands. “How are you, Major? Or is it Colonel by now?”

“I took an early retirement a few months ago, sir,” Jessica said. “I’m with Sky Masters, Inc., now. They’re practically the only ones flying the spaceplanes.”

“Well, congratulations on your retirement and new employment,” Patrick said. “Boy, Boomer, is there anyone from the Space Defense Force that Jon hasn’t hired lately?”

“Just you, sir,” Boomer said. “Do you know why they’ve closed the Class-C airspace, General?”

“No, but I guess I don’t have a need to know,” Patrick said. “I assume it has to do with whatever Jon brought in the Skytrain.”

“The only reason it’s a secret is because the FBI is involved — if it was up to me, we’d be telling the world,” Boomer said. “The White House gave the FBI a couple of Jon’s newest unmanned surveillance aircraft and two CIDs to search for bad guys.” He looked at Patrick and added, “The most qualified guy to deploy UAVs and CIDs is standing right beside me, sir. Why aren’t you assigned to this?”

“I’ll tell you when it’s safe to tell you,” Patrick said.

“So there’s a reason other than you decided to move to Nowhere, Nevada, and babysit what’s left of the Space Defense Force?”

“Keep it to yourself,” Patrick said. He nodded at the XS-19 Midnight spaceplane. “Anything fun in the jet?”

“Boy, you really are unplugged out here, aren’t you, sir?” Boomer remarked. He turned to Jessica. “Hey, Gonzo, how about getting out of the EEAS and we’ll meet up with you in a few.”

“Sure, Boomer,” Jessica said. She understood: Go away, because the grown-ups want to talk. “Nice to see you again, sir.” She gave Boomer a warning glare but said nothing as she turned and walked out of earshot.

“She’s a cutie,” Patrick said.

“Jon only hires the cute ones,” Boomer said. His expression started to turn much more serious. “Jon doesn’t keep you informed of what’s going on in the company, does he, sir? You still have a top-secret clearance, don’t you?”

“I do, but if I don’t have a need to know, I’m not entitled to a briefing,” Patrick said.

“That’s Air Force and Department of Defense policy,” Boomer said. “I’m talking about company policy.”

“I don’t work for Sky Masters,” Patrick said. “Besides, what’s the difference? Sky Masters is a major defense contractor. They should follow DoD guidelines for operational security.”

“For DoD programs, yes, sir,” Boomer said. “But what if it wasn’t a DoD program?”

“I’m not following you, Boomer.”

Boomer thought for a moment, then nodded toward the cargo bay. “Let’s go up and take a look, sir.”

“Am I cleared?”

“As far as I’m concerned you are,” Boomer said. “Heck, after all, it was your idea — Jon just took all the credit for it, of course.”

Boomer ascended the boarding ladder, and Patrick followed. The Midnight’s cargo-bay doors atop the fuselage had been opened to help ventilate residual heat from reentry. Boomer climbed up onto the fuselage and motioned inside the cargo bay. “It was meant as a subscale test article for a nonreusable booster, but it’s been working so well that Jon told me to rewrite the entire proposal and submit it for spaceplane use. Remember the ‘Serviceman’ idea you developed?”

“What?” Patrick remarked, peering inside the cargo bay in surprise. What he saw resembled a large silver propane tank, with thruster nozzles on each end and two visible grappling arms on top. “That’s ‘Serviceman’?”

“That, sir, is a one-hundred-and-ten-million-dollar Navy — not Air Force, not Space Defense Force — contract to build three demonstration units of an autonomous, reusable satellite refueling, rearming, and space-debris cleanup system — the very one you proposed when you were still working for Sky Masters,” Boomer said stonily.

“I knew nothing about it,” Patrick said.

“Jon got the contract less than six months after you left the company,” Boomer said. “I think it became a Navy project because of Joseph Gardner… and because if it was Air Force, you might find out about it sooner.”

“Me?”

Boomer nodded solemnly. “Yeah… or about the two-point-seven-five-million-dollar bonus that belongs to the design team — in this case, you .” Patrick looked up at Boomer, who was looking back at him with a deathly serious expression. “Nowhere in the project proposals or design specs does it mention your name, but we both know you came up with the idea. I don’t know where the money is, but I don’t think you have any of it, do you?” Patrick said nothing — which was all the response Boomer needed. “If this goes to full deployment, I estimate it’ll be a two-billion-dollar contract over five years. That’s an additional fifty million dollars, if I’m not mistaken… and I’m not . And if the government doesn’t buy the system and we decide to set up our own service and space-debris cleanup system for other countries or companies, it could be worth hundreds of times more than that.”

“That’s not cash money, Boomer — that’s usually put right back into the company,” Patrick said.

“True, sir,” Boomer said. “Most of us take a small portion of it, pay the taxes, and then take stock or stock options on the rest and hope the capital-gains taxes remain at zero like they are now. Did Jon offer any of that to you?” Patrick said nothing. “I didn’t think so. Sir—”

“Enough,” Patrick said, holding up a hand. “Jon and I are friends. We go back a lot of years. He’s been bugging me for years to go back to Sky Masters — maybe he was going to bring it up then. Maybe he invested the money back into the company, knowing that’s what I’d do, or thought it would be better not to have it while I was going through the legal issues with the government.” Boomer lowered his head and nodded, not wanting to argue. Patrick took another look at the device in the Midnight’s cargo bay, then stepped toward the ladder. “Secure that cargo bay, Boomer,” he said as he headed down, “and let’s go find out what in hell’s happening topside.”

“Jesus, Masters, I thought you said we’d have this thing airborne this morning!” FBI special agent Chastain shouted as he strode into the hangar. “What’s the holdup this time?”

“No holdup — we’re ready to go,” Jon replied anxiously, clearly agitated that this first flight was way behind schedule. He waved to his ground crew, and one of them hit the switch to open the hangar doors. Inside the hangar was an unusual-looking vehicle on spindly landing gear. As the hangar doors opened, Jon gave another signal, and ground-crew members began to tow the vehicle out of the hangar.

As they pulled it forward, the vehicle started to transform itself: wings began to unfold from each side of the fuselage; from within each wing a turboprop engine unstowed itself; and from around each engine, propeller blades unfolded as the wings extended their full length. In less than two minutes, the ungainly vehicle had become a tilt-rotor aircraft. But unlike other tilt-rotor aircraft that had their engines on the wingtips, the turbo-diesel engines on the RQ-15 Sparrowhawk were mounted on swiveling mounts that connected the inner and outer portion of the wings, which gave the Sparrowhawk a much longer wingspan. The engines remained tilted at a forty-five-degree angle, allowing the propeller blades to clear the pavement.

“It’s about time,” Chastain said. “It’s finally looking like a real damned airplane.”

“It has twice the endurance and twice the payload of a Predator or Reaper, with the same airspeed,” Jon said. “If necessary, it can hover — that’s something the first-generation UAVs can’t do. Plus, you don’t have to disassemble them to transport them in a cargo—”

“You just can’t stop the snake-oil-salesman pitch, can you, Masters?” Chastain said. “Just get the damned thing airborne, will you?”

“Let’s go to the control room,” Jon said. He and Chastain went to the “control room”—a desk set up with three large-screen laptops, surrounded by partitions to block out ambient light. “Everything is done with the touch-screen laptops,” Jon said. “The Sparrowhawk has already been programmed with the airfield’s runways and taxiways, so it will steer itself to the proper runway for takeoff. After climb-out, you just touch the map on the laptop screen to tell it where to go — no need for a pilot or flight plan. If you see a target you want to look at closer, you just tell it to orbit or hover by touching the image on the screen.”

“So get it going already,” Chastain said irritably. “I want plenty of imagery on the Knights to see if we can link them to this new attack.” Jon nodded to his technicians, and moments later the turbo-diesel engines started up and the Sparrowhawk taxied away. As it started down the long taxiway to the active runway, Chastain shook his head. “Why in hell do you need to drive that thing all the way to the end of the runway? If you say it can hover, why not just take off right now?”

“Because it’s been programmed for all of the taxiways and…” But he looked at Chastain’s impatient face, then said to his technician, “You have enough taxiway there, Jeff?”

“I think so, Jon.”

Jon checked the engine readouts to make sure the engines were at operating temperature, then said, “Launch it from the taxiway, Jeff, and let’s get this mission under way.” The technician stopped the Sparrowhawk and entered commands into the center laptop’s keyboard. A few moments later they could see the taxiway rushing out of view, and the Sparrowhawk was airborne. It took a bit more taxiway than anticipated — they caught a glimpse of the blue taxiway lights missing the nose gear by just a few feet.

Michael Fitzgerald was testing the radios in the rear of the Civil Air Patrol’s communications trailer parked beside the hangar when he heard a booming voice say, “Well, well, look at all this fancy gear.” He turned to find none other than Judah Andorsen, dressed as he was the first time they met — leather flying jacket, work gloves, boots, and cowboy hat.

“Mr. Andorsen,” Fitzgerald said, surprised. He got out of the trailer and they shook hands. “How are you today, sir?”

“I’m doin’ just fine… uh, the name’s Fitzgerald, right?”

“Yes, sir. Michael Fitzgerald. What brings you out here?”

“I just got done with another chat with the Homeland Security folks, including a hot and sassy agent who I’d let frisk me all day long, if you get my meanin’.”

“Cassandra Renaldo. She didn’t give me the time of day.”

“Renaldo. That’s the one.”

“I told her and her FBI pals to kiss my hairy ass until I got a lawyer,” Fitzgerald said.

“I know I shouldn’t be talkin’ to no federal agents without a lawyer, but what the hell, I don’t have anything to hide, so I just… holy bejeezus, what in hell is that?”

Fitzgerald turned to follow Andorsen’s surprised gaze and saw the Sparrowhawk flying across the airfield. “I don’t know planes myself, sir,” Fitzgerald said, “but if you hang around this place long enough, you’ll see all kinds.”

“It looks like it’s unmanned — I don’t see no cockpit on the thing!”

“It’s probably a surveillance aircraft, like a really big Predator,” Fitzgerald said. “They fly a lot of unmanned planes out of here, although I don’t recall seeing that one before.” He jabbed a finger toward one of the hangars surrounded by a tall barbed-wire fence off in the distance. “Came from one of those hangars over there, in the restricted area, I think.”

“Is that right?” Andorsen watched the Sparrowhawk until it flew out of sight, then shook his head and turned his attention to the trailer. “So, what do you got here?”

“This is our Civil Air Patrol communications trailer,” Fitzgerald said. “It’s a thirty-foot ‘toy hauler’ that we converted into a mobile incident command post.” He stepped inside. “This is a high-frequency radio; those two are tactical VHF base stations; that’s a VHF airband base station; that’s a computer terminal that we can link up with the global satellite Internet network; and we carry several portable radios. The front of the trailer has a galley, latrine, bunks, and a small planning area, big enough for two guys. We have a telescoping thirty-foot antenna mounted on the roof for the radios, and we can pull in satellite broadcasts as well. We have enough fresh water, power generators, propane, supplies, and gray water storage for two men to deploy for as long as a week without any hookups. We can communicate with just about any local, state, or federal agency even with power knocked out.” Fitzgerald tapped a wood-and-brass plaque attached to the bulkhead over the desk. “In fact, sir, we have you to thank for the trailer — you donated it to Civil Air Patrol a couple years ago.”

“You don’t say!” Andorsen exclaimed. “When you get to be my age, you forget a lot of stuff. I’m happy to help out.” He was silent for a few moments, then said, “You spend a lot of time with the Civil Air Patrol, do you?”

“More nowadays,” Fitzgerald said in a low voice. “I got laid off from the Department of Wildlife.”

“Sorry to hear that, son.”

“They said it was ‘budget cutbacks,’ but I’m sure the FBI complained to my boss that I wasn’t answering their questions, and told them to can me,” Fitzgerald said bitterly. “Now that I can’t afford a lawyer, the FBI probably thinks I’ll talk. They can kiss my ass.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. “Fucking feds. They don’t give a shit about personal freedom or individual rights — they just want answers, and they’ll do whatever they feel like, and fuck the Constitution. I was less than a year from retiring from the department. I’m screwed. I got no savings, and now no retirement, thanks to the feds.”

“Sounds like you might have a case against the Department of Forestry, son,” Andorsen said. He pulled out his wallet and handed Fitzgerald a card. “Call that number. I set up a legal defense fund for Nevada and California ranchers to help them keep their land if they’re getting foreclosed on or if the state or county comes after them for back property taxes. I’m sure they can help you, or if they can’t, at least get you pointed in the right direction.”

“Thank you, sir,” Fitzgerald said, looking at the business card in awe. “I appreciate that very much.”

“It’s my pleasure, son,” Andorsen said. “Us folks gotta stay together in these tough times, especially when the government thinks they can run roughshod over us.”

“Damned right,” Fitzgerald said.

“And if the Department of Forestry doesn’t do right by you,” Andorsen said, “I’ll make sure my people tell me. I might have a position for someone with your skills in my organization.”

“Working for you ?”

“No promises,” Andorsen said, holding up a hand in caution, “but you seem like a squared-away guy that has his priorities straight: tell the government to back off, and get busy taking care of the things that matter. You volunteer your time for the Civil Air Patrol when most guys out of work would either be out breaking into houses, beating their wives, kids, or girlfriends, or drinking themselves into a stupor. I like that attitude, and I try to surround myself with men and women that have that same can-do, will-do attitude.”

“Yes, sir, that’s me,” Fitzgerald said. “Screw the government. Hardworking guys can take care of their families and communities just fine.”

“Amen,” Andorsen said. “Hey, Fitz, I gotta go. Nice to talk to you.” He shook hands with Fitzgerald. “Give my folks a call. They’ll help you out. And thank you for doing this Civil Air Patrol stuff. It’s pretty darned cool.”