A Time for Patriots

Six

As the Sparrowhawk unmanned aircraft turned on course, Chastain pointed to a spot on the left laptop. The screen displayed a sectional chart that showed details of landmarks on the ground — roads, power lines, terrain, and cultural points. “Zoom in on that,” he said. The technician did so, and Chastain pointed to a tiny square at the base of a mountain marked simply ranch . “This is highly classified,” he said. “That’s the ranch I want pictures of.” The technician hit a function key on the center laptop and touched the left screen, and a magenta line indicated that the Sparrowhawk’s course was set. “The Knights have expanded that ranch considerably over the past year and a half. They started out with two families and a half-dozen hands residing there — now it’s sixty families and almost a hundred hands. They add another two or three families almost every week.”

“What do they do there?” Jon asked.

“It’s like a commune: whatever income they have goes to the collective; they contribute skills and manual labor for food and water,” Chastain said. “The ranch hands act as security. Several of the hands are ex-military, and we believe they have the skills to pull off these attacks.”

“Jon, we’re going to have to move the orbit to the northwest or southeast a little to keep the Sparrowhawk off the airway,” the technician named Jeff said. He studied the sectional chart for a moment, then said, “About four miles southeast looks best, with a northeast-southwest orbit.”

Jon nodded. “Go ahead and—”

“Negative, Masters,” Chastain interrupted. “I want an orbit right over the center of the compound.”

“We can’t do that, Agent Chastain,” Jon said, pointing at the sectional chart. “The compound sits almost directly under the center of this Victor airway.”

“What in hell is that?”

“It’s a charted electronic corridor that pilots flying under eighteen thousand feet use,” Jon explained. “It guarantees radio- and navigation-aid reception at or above certain altitudes.”

“So?”

“It’s dangerous for unmanned aircraft that can’t look for other aircraft to fly on an airway,” Jon said. “We just offset ourselves four miles away from the center of the airway, outside the corridor. It’s not a problem — the Sparrowhawk’s sensors can scan the entire compound on one leg easily from that distance. Then we’ll switch sides of the airway and scan it from the other direction so we can—”

“That’s bullshit, Masters,” Chastain snapped. “I want it orbiting right over the compound.”

“That’s not safe.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass, Masters,” Chastain said. “First of all, there’s not supposed to be any other aircraft out there unless they’re on an approved flight plan.”

“That’s not true,” Jon said. “Only aircraft flying in or transiting within fifty miles of Alpha-, Bravo-, or Charlie-controlled airspace have to be on IFR flight plans. If you’re flying under eighteen thousand feet and not flying into or near busy controlled airspace, you can still legally fly anywhere.”

Chastain pointed to the right laptop, which was displaying a radar traffic display similar-looking to an air traffic control system. “Isn’t this supposed to tell us if there are any other planes in the area?”

“This only shows us the aircraft that are on IFR flight plans or are using air traffic control flight-following advisory services,” Jon said. “If there are other planes out there not using FAA radar services, we won’t see them.”

“Aren’t these planes supposed to have beacons or something to locate other planes?”

“Some do, but small light planes or light-sport aircraft that don’t fly in controlled airspace probably won’t,” Jon said. “Besides, those beacons interrogate other planes’ beacons to locate them, and you ordered the Sparrowhawk’s transponder shut off.”

“Because you told me anyone on the ground can identify an aircraft flying overhead with that beacon on the Internet, or even with a camera phone!”

“That’s true.”

“So I’m not going to reveal the drone’s position with a beacon on the wild-ass off chance that another aircraft might be in the exact same location and altitude,” Chastain said. “That’ll tip off the Knights that they’re under surveillance for sure. Besides, pilots are supposed to be looking out for other planes, right? What are the chances of two planes colliding?”

“If the drone is on an airway below eighteen thousand feet, the chances are much greater,” Jon said. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you: if you put the Sparrowhawk right on the airway, the chances of a disaster are greatly increased. If you move it just a few miles away, the chances don’t go to zero, but they are much, much more favorable.”

“So even if we turn on the beacon and move the drone away, it can still be hit by another plane?”

“Unlikely… but yes, it…”

“Masters, I think the odds of something happening are much lower than you’re telling me,” Chastain interjected. “The drone is out in the middle of nowhere, more than a hundred miles from the nearest city; people aren’t flying anyway because of the shitty economy; and even if they were, the odds of two planes being at the same spot at the same time are astronomical. You people that whine all day about safety, safety, safety drive guys who are trying to get the job done, like me, absolutely crazy . Now quit your damned bitching and orbit that compound.”

Jon finally gave up, and he nodded to Jeff to have the Sparrowhawk orbit the ranch. “Make the altitude seventeen thousand feet,” he told his technician. “If they’re on an IFR flight plan, they’ll be at either sixteen or seventeen, so we should be able to see them on the FAA feed.”

“Is that too high?” Chastain asked. “I want detailed imagery of that compound.”

“The sensors on the Sparrowhawk are optimized for ten thousand feet aboveground, which is fifteen thousand feet above mean sea level,” Jon said, “but the resolution is perfectly fine at—”

“Then put the damned drone at fifteen thousand,” Chastain said. “Why in hell would you have it fly higher?”

“Because…” He was going to say, It’s safer, but it was obvious that Chastain didn’t much care for the “safety” argument. Jon turned to Jeff. “Put Sparrowhawk at fifteen thousand,” he said. “Let’s notify Oakland, Seattle, and Salt Lake Centers of the altitude change.”

“Do what?” Chastain asked.

“We coordinate all flight activities with Seattle, Oakland, and Salt Lake air traffic control centers,” Jon said. “They don’t disseminate the information without telling us first, but we have to tell them. They can see most primary-target traffic on radar so they—”

“Primary targets?”

“Radar returns that don’t have transponder data such as altitude and identification codes.”

“Speak English, would you please, Masters?”

“It’s important we coordinate with them,” Jon said. “If they’re in radio contact with other traffic, they can advise them of the Sparrowhawk’s position so they can help them avoid it.”

“Fine, fine,” Chastain said dismissively. “As long as they don’t interfere.”

This was incredibly risky, Jon thought, but he issued the orders to put the Sparrowhawk at fifteen thousand feet, then put in a call to air traffic control facilities in Sacramento and Salt Lake City, advising them of the Sparrowhawk’s orbit.

Jon was soon able to relax as the day went on. It looked like Chastain was probably going to be correct: there was very little traffic in the Sparrowhawk’s orbital area. Only once did they have to steer the unmanned aircraft off the airway for a bizjet descending into Reno, and the two aircraft passed well clear of each other without the bizjet’s crew having to turn to avoid the UAV.

They were getting excellent images of the suspect’s entire desert facility, and it was indeed very impressive. It resembled a medieval town, with crop circles and groves of fruit trees in the outlying area, stockyards and maintenance buildings inside that, a variety of housing units from cabins to tents next, then a tall chain-link and stone fence surrounding the main compound. Inside the main compound were several houses, barns, warehouses, storage tanks, and an outdoor meeting area large enough for perhaps five hundred people. They saw several small sheds that many persons walked in and out of, way out of proportion to its size — that had to be entrances to an underground facility.

“All of that activity is being recorded and analyzed by our computers,” Jon said. “Then over time the computers will compare activity at certain times in different locations. If there’s a change in activity — a sudden marshaling of vehicles, or a large movement of people that’s out of the ordinary — the computer will alert us.”

“My agents have been doing that for decades, Masters — it’s called ‘police work,’ ” Chastain said dismissively, taking a sip of coffee and carefully studying the monitors. “Again with the sales pitch. Do you mind? We’re trying to work here.”

Jon held his hands up in surrender and departed.

Talk about coming down from an extreme high, Bradley thought: this morning I was soloing a high-tech turboprop airplane — now I’m scrubbing toilets for six dollars an hour, and thankful I’m doing so.

Brad picked up his cleanup kit and headed out of the men’s room at the city park’s rest facilities. It was still very warm, so the park was empty, but closer to sunset, folks would come out to barbecue or hang out. Brad was a sort of part-time security guard as well as janitor and maintenance man: if there were any problems, such as drug, alcohol, or hooker issues, his job was to call the police and get help; otherwise, his job was to clean the johns and urinals, empty the trash bins, and wipe down benches. After finishing the men’s toilets, his job was to scrub the women’s toilets, so he put out all the “Cleaners Working” and “Use Caution — Wet Floors” signs on his way to mucking out the ladies’ room.

A few minutes into his labors, he heard a voice say, “Hey, I know you.” He turned and found Department of Homeland Security special agent Cassandra Renaldo alone in the bathroom with him.

“Hello,” Brad said. Jeez, he thought, she looked hotter than ever. “What a… surprise.”

“Why, it’s Cadet Bradley James McLanahan, the Civil Air Patrol rescue hero,” Renaldo said. “Fancy meeting you here. Remember me? I’m Cassandra. Cassandra Renaldo.”

Oh yeah, I damn well do remember, he thought, checking out her breasts once again. He could see her hard nipples through her thin blouse from all the way across the bathroom. “I work here,” was all Brad could say, swallowing hard.

“You do?” Renaldo said.

“Just part-time.”

“Why, I think that is very diligent of you,” Renaldo said. “What a weird coincidence. I was heading out to Salt Lake City for a staff conference tomorrow morning, and I left the base without… you know, without stopping, and I spotted the park and decided to stop here. I was thinking of you. I thought, you are such an impressive young man. And suddenly poof, here you are, all by yourself, in the flesh. How lucky can I get?”

“Uh-huh,” Brad heard himself say.

“I think it’s so incredible that young men like you step up and get the training and perform the services you do in the Civil Air Patrol,” Renaldo said. “The whole world is changing, and young men like you are taking the lead in protecting your country and saving lives. You are so incredible, Bradley. Thank you so very much for your service.”

“You’re welcome.” He couldn’t seem to manage to get more than two or three words out at a time.

“So,” Renaldo said, putting her hands together, “are you… going to be done soon?”

“Oh!” Brad said, looking at the scrub brush and the gloves on his hands as if he forgot he had them on. “I’ll just get on out of here and wait… until… you know…”

“Okay.” As he walked toward the door, she put out an arm to stop him. “Brad? Can I call you Brad?”

“S-sure.”

“And you can call me Cassie.” She lowered her eyes. “I have a confession to make.”

“W-what?”

“I didn’t just happen to stop here on my way to Salt Lake City,” Renaldo said, looking deeply into his eyes and taking a deep breath, which only accentuated her breasts even more. “I knew you were going to be here.”

“You did? How?”

“It’s my job to find out things like that,” she said. “But the thing is… I learned that not because of business, but because I wanted to see you.” She lowered her eyes again. “I could lose my job if anyone found out.”

“Found out what?”

“That… that I’m turned on by you,” Renaldo said. “You’re a hardworking, dedicated guy, but”—she put a hand on his chest—“but you’re also great-looking, and you have this hard young body, and I’m just plain turned on by you. I know I could lose my job if anyone ever found out I followed you here, but right now I don’t care. And I saw the way you looked at me back on that first day in the hangar. I was flattered. That makes me even hotter for you.” She stepped closer to him. “Brad, can… can I kiss you?” All he could do was stand there and sweat. “I know you just turned eighteen today, so you’re a man, and that turns me on even more. I love hard, strong young men.” And she lightly touched his lips with hers, with the very tips of her nipples pressing against his chest.

“I knew you would have soft lips,” she murmured. “Hard-body guys always have soft lips.” She backed away, her eyes still closed, and she smiled when she opened them and saw Brad frozen like a statue in front of her. She pressed a card into his hand. “Call me sometime on my cell when we can… be alone,” she said. “And please, Brad, keep this a secret. My career depends on your discretion.” And she turned and walked out.

Brad stood there, still frozen, until he heard Renaldo’s car door slam and the engine start up… and when he was able to move, he found his legs as weak and rubbery as straws.

How in the world, he thought after a long breathless moment, am I going to get anything else done today… with no damned blood above my waist ?

“I’d say that was a very successful first deployment,” Jon Masters said. He had just ordered the first Sparrowhawk remotely piloted aircraft back to base, and the second was en route to take up the surveillance orbit. “Almost five straight days on station, and we gathered a ton of useful data on the routine in that compound.”

“But we don’t know anything more than we did five days ago,” Special Agent Chastain grumbled.

“We know a lot more,” Jon said. “If there’s any meaningful change in the routine, we’ll know about it right away, and we can launch a Sparrowhawk to follow up. Any change in the number of residents, new vehicles, large meetings, new construction, any new fortifications, even changes in temperature of individual buildings — the computer will notify us.”

“I wish we could identify some of those individuals down there,” the agent named Brady said.

“We’re working on face-recognition capabilities for some of our remotely piloted aircraft,” Jon said. “Ten thousand feet and overhead is not a good position to get a good shot of a face, but an unmanned plane at a lower altitude and standing off would have a better angle at a face. After that, it’s just biometric comparison done by computer — we’ve been doing that for years.”

“You’re always with the damned sales pitch, Masters,” Chastain snapped, “but we’ve been sitting here for four damned days and we haven’t seen a thing that helps our investigation.” He studied the laptop monitors. “If we flew the drone lower, we’d get better resolution on these pictures, right?”

“The sensors are optimized for ten thousand feet aboveground,” Jon replied. “The resolution will always be better the lower you go, but usually we go for the best resolution at a higher altitude, not lower. The lower you go, the more likely it is for your target to spot the aircraft. We also have problems with data transmission and interference from local radio and TV broadcasts, not to mention having to think about terrain and obstacle avoidance. We usually—”

“I’m not interested in what you ‘usually’ do, Masters,” Chastain said. “I’m only interested in results. Fly the drone at ten thousand feet.”

“But… that’s less than a mile aboveground,” Jon said. “Most folks can see large aircraft quite easily if they’re less than a mile up.”

“No, they can’t.”

“And ten thousand is the minimum en route altitude for the Victor-113 airway,” Jeff the aircraft control technician chimed in. “Any small aircraft flying the airway heading southwest will pick ten thousand feet.”

“We’ve been flying the drone right on the damned airway for five days and we’ve had to move it… what, twice?” Chastain argued. “And even if we didn’t move the drone, it would’ve missed the other traffic by miles. There’s no traffic up there we need to worry about. Fly the drone at eleven thousand.”

“That puts it right at the altitude that northeast-bound traffic flies,” Jeff said.

“Then add five hundred feet, or six hundred, I don’t care, just do it !” Chastain snapped. “I’m tired of you eggheads arguing with me. Change the altitude, and do it now, or I’ll recommend to Washington that we get someone else to do the job.” Jon nodded to Jeff, who put in the commands on the laptop. “When does the first drone return to our airspace?”

“In about twenty minutes.”

“Make sure the airspace is closed down again, and fly the thing so it stays away from populated areas,” Chastain said. “We’ll have it orbit inside protected airspace until dark, then land it.” Jeff selected North Peak, about fifteen miles west of Battle Mountain and clear of all airways, to orbit the Sparrowhawk, and he was careful to turn on its transponder beacon to help air traffic control steer other aircraft away from it. Jon contacted air traffic control and advised them of the orbiting unmanned aircraft.

Time passed much as it had done the previous four days. With both Sparrowhawks flying, Charlie Turlock was able to use the interior of the hangar during the daytime to help Agent Randolph Savoy train in the Cybernetic Infantry Device robots, and as she expected, he was a very fast learner; at night, they trained outdoors. Wayne Macomber watched, but kept to himself most of the time, using rubber cables to keep up with his rehabilitation exercises. “Any questions, Randolph?” Charlie asked after their last session ended.

“None,” Savoy said. “You were right: it’s pretty intuitive and straightforward to learn how to pilot these things.” The other agents looked over and shook their heads at the sight of the two massive mechanical humanoids conversing in electronic voices, as if they were acquaintances who had just met on the street.

“The whole idea was to issue CID robots to young, qualified soldiers right out of basic training, so it had to be easy to learn,” Charlie said. “Combat training is a whole different story: the basic combat course is two months, and each weapon backpack is another two weeks, plus range time. But if we had the funding, we could field an army of CIDs.” She stepped over to the storage container, climbed out, then initiated the refolding and stowage sequences, and Savoy did likewise. “Now I guess we wait to see what they find at that Knight compound.”

The images from the second Sparrowhawk orbiting at the lower altitude were indeed much better, and now the federal agents crowded around the wide-screen laptop, studying the compound carefully. “Look at the heavy weapons those guys have in there,” the agent named Brady said, pointing at the screen. “There’s at least four machine-gun squads right there.”

“Looks like they’re getting ready for something,” Chastain said. “Looks like we might need the robots after…” Just then, the image went blank. “What happened?”

“I told you that might happen,” Jon Masters said. “The lower altitude means more interference.” They waited, but the image did not reappear.

“Jon, we might have a problem — I’m not getting flight data from Sparrowhawk Two,” Jeff said. “We might have lost satellite contact.”

“What the hell does that mean, Masters?” Chastain asked impatiently.

“It’s no big deal,” Jon said. “It’ll orbit the area until satellite contact is restored. If it’s not restored within two hours, it’s programmed to return to the airport.”

“Send the other drone back over the compound,” Chastain said. “The Knights looked like they’re getting ready for something — I need to know what’s going on.”

“It’ll have to fly higher than ten thousand.”

“But we were getting great shots at ten thousand,” Chastain said.

“We don’t know where the second Sparrowhawk is,” Jon said. “We can’t fly it at the same altitude as the first.”

“Then fly it at nine thousand.”

“That’s only four thousand feet aboveground!”

“I don’t care. Just do it.”

“It can’t stay on station for very long,” Jeff reminded them. “It’s already been airborne four days.”

“How long can it stay?”

Jeff turned to the first Sparrowhawk’s flight-data screen… and his mouth dropped open in surprise. “Uh, Jon…” Jon looked… and found the flight data on the first Sparrowhawk blank as well!

“What the hell happened?”

“Not now, Chastain,” Jon said, pushing Jeff out of the way and frantically typing instructions into the laptop. He waited for a few moments, then pounded the desk in frustration. “Get Bidwell and Henderson out there to check the satellite uplink and network connectivity, now, ” he shouted, jabbing a finger at Jeff. “If they don’t find anything wrong, have them hardwire the computer interfaces with the uplink and antenna instead of using the wireless routers. Reboot the computers and run the network and I-O diagnostics before reinitializing the software. Call Las Vegas and have the entire staff stand by — no, better yet, have them send the entire Sparrowhawk team up here.”

“Masters, what’s going on?”

“We’ve lost contact with both Sparrowhawks,” Jon said, staring at the blank data readouts in complete bewilderment. “Losing one is bad, but it happens — losing both at the same time is a freakin’ disaster.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve got two hours until they start heading back to base. Make sure the airspace is clear. I’ll talk to air traffic control and see if they have primary radar hits on either one of them.”

The next two hours was a flurry of activity inside and outside the hangar. As they got closer to the arrival time, Patrick drove Jon and Special Agent Chastain in the airfield operations truck to the taxiway intersection closest to the approach end of the arrival runway and started scanning the sky for the Sparrowhawks. It was not yet sunset, but the eastern sky was dark enough to prevent seeing any aircraft unless its position and landing lights were on. “What did air traffic control say, Jon?” Patrick asked.

“None of your business, McLanahan,” Chastain growled as he swept the sky with binoculars. Jon lowered his binoculars, looked at Patrick, and shook his head. “How much longer, Masters?” the FBI special agent asked.

“Any minute now.”

Chastain’s cell phone rang. “Chastain.” He listened for a few moments, his eyes growing wider by the moment. “Oh, shit . I’ll be right there… find a TV.”

“In my office,” Patrick said.

“What happened?” Jon asked.

At first Chastain wasn’t going to say anything with Patrick there, but he decided Patrick was going to find out soon anyway: “There are news crews at the Knights’ compound,” he said. “The drone crashed.”

“What … ?”

“There are pieces of another plane out there too — they’re saying there was a midair collision,” Chastain said. “It’s all over the damned news.”

They raced back to Patrick’s office and turned on the television. They expected to see pictures of the crashed drone, but instead they were looking at what appeared to be a large area of scorched desert just south of a multilane divided highway that appeared to be Interstate 80. “What is this ? They’re reporting on a brush fire?” Chastain asked.

They found out soon enough: the caption on the bottom of the screen read: Scene of the second unmanned aircraft crash near Battle Mountain, Nevada.

“What in hell … !”

“ Both Sparrowhawks crashed?” Jon Masters said in a low, stunned voice, almost a whimper. “My God…”

Chastain’s cell phone was in his hands in a flash. “I want those crash sites cordoned off and all news helicopters kept away,” he said.

“I’ve got to get out there,” Jon said tonelessly, his eyes wide with disbelief and despair. “I’ve got to find out what happened.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Masters,” Chastain said, putting a hand over his cell phone’s microphone. “This is still a classified operation.” He turned back to his cell phone. “Jordan, Chastain here. I want…” He fell silent, listening, then veins started to pop out on his forehead. He jabbed a finger at Patrick, then at the door, silently ordering him to get out. After Patrick departed, Chastain yelled, “Get HRTs Four and Five loaded up and on their way out to that compound now . I’ll get Los Angeles and Seattle to send their teams.”

“What happened?” Jon asked.

“The damned Knights are dragging pieces of the drone inside their compound,” Chastain said. “The news crews are going in with them. They say they’re expecting the government to respond with force, and they say they’re going to defend themselves and repel all attackers.”

“You mean they’re stealing my Sparowhawk ?” Jon cried out.

“Shut up about your damned drones, Masters,” Chastain said. “They’re evidence, and I’m going to get them all back, you can count on that .”

“Send in the Cybernetic Infantry Device robots,” Jon said. “The robots will get them back.”

Chastain thought for a moment, then redialed his cell phone. “Richter, I’m going to brief you and Savoy on a mission. Meet me at the drone control desk. We’ll deploy by helicopter in fifteen minutes.”

They drove back to their hangar, where they met Jason Richter, Charlie Turlock, Wayne Macomber, and FBI agent Randolph Savoy at the Sparrowhawk control center. “Flip back to the last images of the compound,” Chastain ordered. He waited until the right images were displayed. “Okay, here’s where the drone crashed, about two hundred yards outside the main fenced part of the compound, at the edge of one of their crop circles.” He pointed to the machine-gun squads. “Here’s where the terrorists are setting up machine-gun nests, behind cover of these buildings outside the fence. It’s been more than two hours since these pictures were taken, so we’ve got to assume they’ve moved some of these nests closer to the crash site.” He turned to Richter. “Can you pull the wreckage away from the compound?”

“I’m sure we can,” Jason said. “But if the terrorists are armed with machine guns, we’ll be going into a combat zone. Randolph’s not trained for that, and we have no defensive weapons. Charlie and I will do this mission.”

“You’re not supposed to have any weapons, Richter,” Chastain said. “First of all, this is an FBI operation, so Savoy goes. That’s what he’s been training for.”

“Let me go in,” Whack said.

“Get out of here, Macomber — this isn’t for you,” Chastain snapped. Whack backed up a step; Chastain was going to order him out, but one look at Whack’s dark scowl made him decide to just turn and ignore him.

“I’ll go in the second CID,” Charlie said. “Randolph and I have been working together all this time — it’s best to keep us together.” Jason thought about it for a moment, then nodded.

“Second, I don’t want you to engage with them,” Chastain said to Charlie. “What I’m asking is: Can the robots provide you with enough protection from machine-gun fire to allow you to get in there and drag the wreckage away from the compound so those terrorists can’t take all of it?”

Charlie thought for a few moments, studying the frozen Sparrowhawk images. “What kind of guns are those, Whack?” she asked.

“They look like M60 machine guns,” he said after studying the screen for a few moments. “I see a couple others that might be M16s, but bigger. AR-18s on a bipod, maybe.”

“Well, Turlock?” Chastain urged.

Charlie turned to Savoy, a look of concern on her face. “The CIDs can take 5.56- and 7.62-millimeter fire at all ranges, even full auto,” she said directly to Savoy. “They can’t hurt you, but you will feel them. It can get really distracting, even disorientating, like bugs or bats flying around your head. You need to—”

“I can do it, Charlie,” Savoy said. “Let’s go.”

“If it’s a heavier caliber, like a fifty-cal or twenty-millimeter, at close range with sustained automatic fire, it could damage a muscle joint or sensor, especially in the head,” Charlie went on. “If they use heavier weapons — and your sensors will alert you to the weapon size, direction of fire, and range — you’ll have to protect your forward sensor with your forearms. Try not to use just your hands, because the armor’s not as tough. If you feel heavy automatic fire on you, you have to move right away so you don’t get sustained impacts on one section of armor. The robot’s sensors will tell you if you’re taking damaging fire… sheesh, we’ve hardly talked about the sensors and helmet warning and malfunction readouts—”

“I understand them pretty well,” Savoy said. “I’m ready.”

“We haven’t talked at all about a helicopter insertion.” She turned to Chastain. “We can’t do this, Chastain. He’s not ready.”

“I am ready,” Savoy repeated.

“Is he ready or not, Turlock?” Chastain growled.

Charlie looked at Savoy with concern, but nodded. “I’ll be right beside you,” she said. “The best thing to do if you get pinned down by several nests is to run away.”

“Got it, Charlie,” Savoy said. “Let’s go.”

Charlie looked at him carefully once more, then nodded at Chastain. “Let’s go.”

While Charlie and Savoy mounted inside their CIDs, an Army National Guard UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter was flown over to the hangar. The UH-60 was a long-range medevac model with an external fuel tank on a short pylon on each side mounted above the entry doors, plus protective skids surrounding the landing-gear tires. With the helicopter hovering, Charlie showed Savoy the exact place to hold on to the pylon. “You can fend yourself away from the landing gear,” she radioed to him, “but don’t squeeze the pylon, because you’ll snap it right off. Grab onto this cross-member on the pylon, circle your fingers around it, and keep your fingers closed. Don’t squeeze.”

Minutes later, they were airborne — and the moment they lifted off, Charlie heard a loud CH — CHUNK! on the other side of the helicopter. “Randolph? You okay?”

“I might have grabbed the pylon a little too hard,” he admitted.

“You copy that, pilot?” Charlie radioed. “You might lose the left fuel tank.”

“They’re both empty,” the pilot radioed back.

“Roger,” Charlie said. “If you feel it coming loose, Randolph, just let it bounce off your back.” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “And if you fall… well, have a nice ride down. You should be okay when you hit.”

“ ‘Should be’?”

It was a short flight to the Knight compound. From a hundred feet aboveground and two miles away, Charlie could easily see the Sparrowhawk’s crash site through her telescopic imaging infrared sensors. The residents had several pickup trucks surrounding the crash, with headlights helping workers pull pieces of wreckage free and throw them into the trucks. “Base, looks like they’ve just about got the whole thing — we’re too late,” Charlie said. “There’s four pickups around the crash site full of debris, and it looks like they’re loaded up and getting ready to head back. I recommend we—”

At that instant Charlie saw a long, thin flash of yellow fire winking from a few dozen yards west, followed by another several yards north. “Ground fire!” she shouted. “We’re taking heavy machine-gun fire! Pilot, break right !” The Black Hawk swung hard to the right at sixty degrees of bank…

… and as it did, the entire left pylon snapped from the sudden g-loads and broke free, disappearing into the darkness.

“We lost Savoy!” Charlie shouted, and she let go of the right pylon and fell to earth.

Her landing on the desert surface wasn’t her best, because the helicopter had been in such a violent turn when she released, and she rolled and skidded across the hard-packed sand and dirt for about twenty yards before regaining her armored feet. She crouched low and scanned the area. The machine guns were still firing into the night sky. Seconds later, her electronic sensors located Savoy, just fifty yards away, and she dashed toward him. He was facedown, motionless, his arms and legs splayed in unnatural directions.

“I’ve located Savoy,” Charlie radioed. “Randolph, can you hear me? Damn, he looks hurt.” No response. She checked his physiological readouts. “He’s alive but unconscious.” She picked him up in a fireman’s carry, then scanned the area. Several pickup trucks were heading from the west toward them, headlights bouncing wildly as they raced across the desert. “They’re after me. I’ll move east away from these jokers.”

Just as she started to run, her sensors picked up a burst of heavy machine-gun fire on her armor. “Those bastards have a heavy machine gun mounted on one of those pickups!” she radioed. “Might be a fifty-cal!” The fire was pretty sustained considering she was running and the trucks were bouncing all over the place — those pricks were pretty good gunners, she thought. Savoy, on top of Charlie’s shoulders, was taking most of the hits. “They’re catching up to me,” she radioed. “These guys are driving like maniacs.”

“We’ve got you in sight,” the Black Hawk pilot radioed. “Keep on coming.” Charlie spotted the Black Hawk in front of her, not more than thirty feet aboveground, heading straight for the pickups.

“They’ve got a big machine gun,” Charlie radioed. “Break off!”

“Just keep coming,” the pilot said, as calm and cool as if he were sipping a beer. Moments later, the Black Hawk zoomed overhead, flying better than eighty miles an hour.

Charlie could hear the machine gun open fire, but no rounds were hitting her. Were they firing at the helicopter? They must have night vision to be able to see it! Just then she saw a flare of light similar to the machine-gun muzzle flashes, but this one was directed down at the ground. Moments later in the sky she saw a burst of fire, followed by a brief trail of fire and loud pops of metal. The roar of the Black Hawk’s engines seemed to surge, then hesitate, then surge again. “Are you guys okay?” she radioed. “Are you hit?”

“We took some hits — that last one felt like a missile or RPG,” the pilot radioed, still as calmly as before, “but I got it, I got it, I—” And at that second there was a brilliant flash of light, an earsplitting explosion, and a sharp vibration that rolled through the earth under Charlie’s armored feet. She turned and saw a massive fireball blossom across the sky.

“Oh God …” She ran in the direction of the crash, less than half a mile away, even though she began receiving “POWER 50 PERCENT” warning messages. But as she got closer, she could see the Black Hawk fully engulfed in flames. Soon several pickup trucks surrounded the wreckage, and men began shouting and shooting automatic weapons in the air in celebration.

“One cannon backpack — that’s all I need,” Charlie said. Angrily, reluctantly, she turned away from the wreckage and the extremists and headed across the desert to safety.

“This is without a doubt one of the most flagrant and outrageous misuses of power since Japanese internment camps during World War Two,” former president Joseph Gardner said. Gardner, a tall and impossibly handsome character bred for politics, was a longtime Washington power player — secretary of the Navy and ardent sea-power advocate, who parlayed his steep buildup of naval forces after the American Holocaust into a successful campaign for president of the United States on a strong national defense platform.

“Who would have believed,” Gardner went on, “that Ken Phoenix would order the FBI to use military hardware to secretly spy on American citizens, over American soil?” Gardner went on, deliberately not using Phoenix’s title when talking about him. “And then, in an even greater assault on personal freedom, they send two of those manned robots in to attack that community. It’s unthinkable .”

“Why do you say it’s military hardware, Mr. President?” the morning talk-show interviewer asked. “Unmanned aircraft are used by police and Border Patrol agencies, not just the military.”

“Both drones were built by a company called Sky Masters, Inc., which is a small but well-known developer of military hardware of all kinds, including weapons, satellites, and aircraft,” Gardner said. “The drones that crashed were called MQ-15 Sparrowhawks. They are capable of carrying up to a thousand pounds of sensors or weapons, including laser-guided missiles, and they’ve been used in Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iraq. That Ken Phoenix actually ordered the FBI to fly potentially armed aircraft over the United States to target innocent American citizens is criminal. And those robots belong to the U.S. Army and are armed with cannons and missile launchers — clearly, military technology, designed to kill. Someone has to be held accountable for this outrage, and the buck stops right on Mr. Phoenix’s desk.”

“A spokesperson for the Department of Justice said that suspects residing in the compound where the drone crashed were linked to the recent attacks in Reno and southern Nevada,” the interviewer said. “Shouldn’t we be using all the resources we have to investigate such extreme terrorist activity, Mr. President?”

“Where’s the evidence backing this claim?” Gardner said, spreading his hands. “Let’s see the evidence. Besides, the FBI has its own resources— legal resources — to investigate crime. Why did Phoenix give the FBI military hardware?”

“So you oppose using drones and these manned robots to conduct surveillance on suspected terrorists?” the interviewer asked. “As I understand it, it is not against the law for the U.S. military to assist law enforcement, as long as they don’t make arrests or attack civilians.”

“How would you like a military spy plane flying over your home taking pictures and sending them to gawkers in the FBI and White House?” Gardner asked. “And what do you think those robots were doing out there — taking pictures? It’s crazy. This is America, not Soviet Russia. And where’s the warrant authorizing these drone flights? Who was the judge that signed the warrant? Or did Phoenix himself order the surveillance, without a warrant? And what if there was a midair collision, as the residents there claim? Did Phoenix kill innocent civilians with this dangerous and possibly illegal surveillance? We need answers to all these questions, and so far the Phoenix administration has been slow and extremely reluctant to provide them.”

“That’s a load of crap, Gardner,” Vice President Ann Page said acidly at the television she was watching from the Oval Office. She muted the sound, but continued to watch as the cable news network showed a low-light camera image of the Cybernetic Infantry Device robot running across the desert, carrying another robot. “I’ve put out a press release detailing the entire operation, including the name of the U.S. District Court judge that signed the warrants.”

“I know, Ann, I know,” President Ken Phoenix said. “President Gardner is just spouting off. Point out all of his inaccuracies in the daily press briefing and folks will start to ignore him.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” Ann said heatedly.

The computer on the president’s desk beeped, and Phoenix hit a button to put the secure videophone call on speakerphone. The screen was split, with Attorney General Jocelyn Caffery on one half and FBI director Fuller on the other. “General Caffery, Director Fuller, this is the president. How are you?”

“Good, thank you, sir,” Attorney General Caffery replied. “Director Fuller has an update for you.”

“Go ahead, Justin.”

“Thank you, sir,” FBI director Justin Fuller replied. “I’m en route to Nevada to oversee the investigation on those two drone crashes and the Black Hawk attack. Here’s is the latest:

“There are five casualties: two U.S. Army National Guard pilots and one National Guard crew chief — all volunteers assisting the FBI — and one FBI agent died in the Black Hawk crash. Another FBI agent piloting the Cybernetic Infantry Device robot died about thirty minutes ago of trauma from his fall from the helicopter and wounds from heavy machine-gun fire that pierced his armor. The pilot reported to one of the CIDs that he thought he had been hit by a missile or a rocket-propelled grenade. The FBI and Army are on the scene of the helicopter crash, and the residents of that compound are not interfering, but I ordered all investigators to stay away from the compound.”

The president nodded his assent.

“The wreckage of the drone that crashed near the interstate has been taken to Joint Air Base Battle Mountain for forensic examination,” Fuller went on. “With your permission, sir, I’ve ordered the National Transportation Safety Board not to convene an accident panel until the FBI completes its investigation.”

“Approved,” the president said, “but I’d like you to turn over any unclassified findings to the NTSB as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Mr. President. We did have a very interesting development regarding the first drone: an eyewitness who was hunting in the vicinity south of the crash site claims he saw what he described as a contrail.”

“Contrail… you mean, a missile trail?” Ann asked.

“The witness couldn’t be sure,” Fuller said. “He said the trail was pretty straight, and motor smoke from a man-portable air-defense missile is usually not. We’re investigating. We should be able to tell once we get a look at the wreckage.”

“Domestic terrorists, armed first with radioactive materials… and possibly now with antiaircraft missiles?” Ann breathed. “It’s too scary to think about.”

“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves here,” Phoenix said. “Director Fuller, who authorized the robot action against the extremists?”

“Special Agent Philip Chastain, special agent in charge of terror investigations, out of the San Francisco office.”

“He should have asked for permission to deploy those robots.”

“He made a tactical decision, sir,” Fuller said. “He was given the robots to use as part of this investigation of extremist groups, and he acted when he saw that drone being captured by the extremists. I can’t fault him, sir. I stand behind his decision.”

Phoenix thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well,” he said. “You’re right: we expect these men to make decisions and act. And thank you for sticking with your man.”

“Yes, sir. Chastain is one of our best.”

“So we may never know if it was involved in a midair collision, like the extremists claim?”

“We’ve been in contact with the FAA and they say that there were no other aircraft in the vicinity of the second drone, sir,” Fuller said. “However, that’s inconclusive because of radar limitations — they might not see small or low-flying aircraft — but the claim that there was a midair collision might be untrue. They are extremely rare, even with unmanned aircraft. We won’t know until we examine the wreckage.”

“Which leads us to the big question, sir: what to do about those extremists,” Caffery said. “They’ve dragged all the wreckage of the second drone into their compound; they fired on our helicopter and the CID units with heavy automatic weapons; and they may have used antiaircraft weapons against our surveillance planes.”

“I’ve got two Hostage Rescue Teams standing by to enter that compound and make arrests, with two more on the way to assist,” Fuller said. “We’ve set up long-range ground-based surveillance of the compound, and in a few days we’ll have a clear picture of exactly what we’re up against there.”

“I don’t want anybody entering that compound,” the president said. “Surround it, prevent anyone from entering or leaving unless it’s a humanitarian necessity. Collect intelligence, and start negotiating a surrender of those responsible for shooting at the helicopter. I’m not going to have another Branch Davidian disaster televised for the entire world.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I’ll be waiting to hear more about the results of the investigation into the first drone,” the president said. “Anything else for me?”

Attorney General Caffery looked a little uneasy, but said, “About former president Gardner, sir.”

“I heard him this morning,” Phoenix said, rubbing his eyes wearily. “He’s entitled to his own opinions.”

“But not his own facts, sir,” Caffery said. “What he’s saying is not only untrue, but I’m afraid it could spark more violence if he scares the American people into believing that the government is using the military against them.”

“We’ll deal with that if and when we have to,” the president said. “But we’ll expose the former president’s untruths in the daily press briefings — the more he fabricates the facts, the faster he’ll marginalize himself.”

Patrick McLanahan was driving by the parking lot outside the hangar being used by the FBI, and he saw Special Agent Chastain getting out of his car. He stopped and got out of the car, which immediately attracted Chastain’s attention. “I’m very sorry about your men, Agent Chastain,” Patrick said. “Agent Savoy was extremely brave for going on that mission.”

“He was doing his job,” Chastain said flatly. He stepped toward Patrick, looking at him carefully. “I’m sure you know already,” he said, “but the U.S. attorney has decided not to charge you.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“But I still don’t get you, General,” Chastain said. “I spoke with the Pentagon. They say you are retired, period. You still have a security clearance, but it’s ‘confidential’ only, like most retired flag-rank officers. You are permitted virtual unfettered access to the base, not because you have any official duties but because of your rank and because you were once the commander here. Along with your retiree benefits you receive temporary base housing in lieu of cost-of-living adjustments and not because you’re part of the staff. Yet you keep on telling me and everyone that you work for the Space Defense Force as some sort of liaison or facility manager.”

Patrick shrugged. “I guess I feel deep down that I do have a role here,” he said. “Frankly, being retired is the pits. I don’t recommend it. It’s a way I can keep involved with the Air Force and space operations, and at the same time I have time to spend with my son.”

“Like the Civil Air Patrol thing,” Chastain said.

“Exactly,” Patrick said. “I get to fly, contribute my skills, and wear a green bag, just like the old days. I’m with a great bunch of locals and we like to tell stories and teach the cadets about the military and service to the community and the country.” Chastain just nodded — Patrick thought he was just plain uninterested. “Again, I’m sorry about your men.” They shook hands, and Patrick drove off.

Inside the hangar, Chastain found Brady and Renaldo around the Sparrowhawk control table, going over the video they recorded from the reconnaissance flights, along with photos of the compound obtained by agents using telescopic high-resolution digital cameras. “What do you have?” he asked.

“The Knights are really getting cocky, the sons of bitches,” Brady said. “They’re out in the open, still celebrating, still going in front of the media telling the world how evil the FBI and U.S. military are, setting up defenses, and doing target practice with automatic weapons. They must have a shitload of weapons and ammo out there, because dozens of them have been doing target practice for hours, with a whole range of weapons. We’re identifying about a half-dozen new residents an hour.” He looked at Chastain’s distracted expression. “What’s up?”

“I just spoke with McLanahan.”

“You did?” Cassandra Renaldo asked. “You mean he actually talked to you?”

“Condolences for Savoy and Eberle,” Chastain said, “but he was unusually chatty after that. I told him that I checked him out and found out he’s really not the manager of anything around here, and he didn’t seem to care. He seemed to be… feeling pretty relaxed, considering the shit that happened here last night.”

“That’s weird,” Brady said. He nodded toward the images on the laptop screens. “Kinda like these jerk-offs here, celebrating the fact that they killed five fellow Americans, shot down three aircraft, and are flaunting their illegal automatic weapons in front of federal and state authorities.”

Chastain looked at the pictures, and his eyes flared. “Are you putting together files on these people?”

“Of course.”

“How many of them belong to the Civil Air Patrol?” Chastain asked.

“I haven’t drilled down to nonpolitical affiliations yet,” Brady said. “The support staff is doing basic background, aliases, employment, criminal history, and military experience on about a hundred and forty individuals and counting.”

“Start looking into Civil Air Patrol membership,” Chastain said. “I had a bad feeling about McLanahan the moment he refused to talk, but I couldn’t figure out why a guy like him would be involved with domestic terrorists. The Civil Air Patrol could be the common thread. A lot of ex-military, a lot of patriotic wave-the-flag rhetoric, a lot of old guys wearing military-style uniforms…”

“I’m on it,” Brady said excitedly.

“I’m still not so sure,” Renaldo chimed in. “I don’t get that feeling about him. Now, a couple of the guys I’ve interviewed in this CAP unit like Fitzgerald, Slotnick, and de Carteret, yes, they could be extremists; McLanahan, no.”

“I want to keep searching,” Chastain said. “My radar is buzzing, and it’s still aimed right at McLanahan and now this Civil Air Patrol unit. What about the son?”

“He’s ready to pop — literally, if I do say so myself — any day now,” Renaldo said with a smile. Brady gave her a leer and a wink. “He’ll call me soon, don’t worry.”