A Time for Patriots

Seven

“Remember, you’re not looking for anything in particular, Brad,” John de Carteret said. He was in the right front seat of the Civil Air Patrol Cessna 182 as mission observer, with Brad McLanahan in the left rear seat as mission-scanner trainee and his father, Patrick, as mission pilot. “Camps are probably the hardest to find, especially from one thousand feet above ground.”

“It all looks the same,” Brad said. He was using scan techniques, shifting his vision and locking briefly on a spot before shifting and relocking again, and scanning from top to bottom out to the sight line, but it didn’t seem to help. To make matters worse, his stomach wasn’t feeling quite right. “I mean, it’s like I see everything and nothing at the same time.”

“The best thing to look for when looking for camps is how the campers get to the site, not necessarily the site itself,” John said. “Tire tracks, new trails, disturbed ground, open gates, broken fences — those are easier to see from the air.” Brad shifted his attention to those things, but there didn’t seem to be anything like them anywhere.

“Need to take a break, Brad?” Patrick asked. “I can reverse the turn and contour-search the mountain from the other direction to let John do some scanning.” They had been assigned to search North Peak, west-northwest of Battle Mountain, for signs of a missile launch site — the FBI investigators definitely discovered that the first Sparrowhawk had been hit by a Stinger-like missile. Because this was an Air Force — assigned mission, Brad was getting his first of two required actual missions before being able to move up to mission observer. A ground team, led by Michael Fitzgerald with Ron Spivey as the cadet leader, was in the area below searching as well.

“No, I’m good, Dad,” although his stomach sure wasn’t liking these orbits around the mountain. A contour search started a thousand feet above the highest point of a peak, then two left-turn orbits. Then they would descend five hundred feet and do two more orbits, staying about a half mile away from the mountain’s face. After that, they would descend another five hundred feet and do it again.

Working around mountains and ridges always meant turbulence and squirrelly winds, especially in summer, and each bump didn’t help Brad’s stomach. Now he wished he’d eaten something before this mission, and wished he brought a barf bag — the only container he could see within reach was his brand-new flight-gear bag and the case for the digital camera, and he didn’t want to throw up in either one.

“I’m really glad Colonel Spara let us fly together, Brad,” Patrick said.

“Me too,” Brad said uneasily. He took a sip of water, but it didn’t help his stomach much.

“I think it’s because there’s a whole lot less guys hanging around the squadron these days, after the attack on the FBI guys,” John said. “It’s getting harder every day to put a crew together. Leo is busier than ever with the Highway Patrol. I think there’s just one other pilot I’ve seen around, other than Rob and you.”

Just as they were circling the northeast side of North Peak, Brad saw it — two black circles, one small, like a campfire area, and the other much larger. “Dad, I think I see something, nine o’clock.”

“Pick out things around it that will help steer your eyes back to it,” Patrick said. “What do you see?”

“A couple black spots on the ground, right beside a trail,” Brad said. He had to look farther down and back to keep it in sight, and that was even more disorientating.

Patrick scanned out his window, but he knew he couldn’t get too distracted from flying the plane. “I didn’t see it,” he said. “I don’t have enough room to keep turning left, but I’ll loop around to the right and bring you right back to it on the same heading. Coming right.” He made a right turn away from the mountain, perhaps a bit more sharply than he intended…

… but Brad wasn’t ready for it, and when Patrick turned, Brad couldn’t stop it — he put his head between his legs, pulled the headset microphone away from his lips just in time, and threw up on the floor of the Cessna.

“Brad!” Patrick exclaimed, rolling wings level. “Are you all right?” His question was answered with another heave. “Brad?”

“I’m… I’m okay.” But he followed that announcement with a third heave.

Patrick and John pulled their overhead vents open all the way to let in as much fresh air as they could, but it was no use — the smell wafted up to the cockpit, and now it was everywhere, impossible to ignore. Patrick looked over at John, who was already starting to turn a little pale. “John…?”

“I think I’m done for a while too, Patrick,” he said uneasily.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Brad said. “I should’ve eaten something. It’s all the turning, and looking sideways and downward, and the turbulence…”

“Don’t worry, Brad,” Patrick said. “Either it’s happened to every pilot, or it soon will. We’re heading back to base.” John radioed Rob Spara at the squadron to report that they were exiting the search grid and gave them their ETA back to base.

As they were approaching the traffic pattern, John looked and saw a group of about ten cars on either side of the road to the base. “What’s going on down there?” he asked.

Patrick looked himself. Two lines of individuals carrying signs were walking down the road toward the main entrance to the base. “Why, they look like protesters!” he exclaimed. “Looks like they’re going to demonstrate outside the base!”

“I hope they stay outside,” John said. There was really no outer gate to Joint Air Base Battle Mountain, just a light chain-link fence designed to keep out tumbleweeds, and a cattle guard on the road to keep out stray farm animals on the nearby open ranges. All of the base security was electronic, using laser, infrared, and millimeter-wave sensors for all-weather precision scanning, with responses made by unmanned and then manned vehicles. “I haven’t seen a protest march since the Vietnam years.”

Patrick made the landing, brought the plane back to the hangar, then helped clean out the back. Afterward, they checked in with Rob Spara and described what they saw, including the protesters outside the main gate. “Yeah, they warned us about that,” Rob said. “Base security said if it gets bigger they might have to escort folks in and out.” He turned to Brad. “You feel okay, Brad?”

“I’m much better,” Brad replied. He had a packet of cheese and peanut-butter crackers and a ginger ale. “I just needed to eat something. I didn’t really have breakfast. I was too excited.” He turned to Patrick. “Sorry for messing up the plane, Dad,” he repeated.

“Don’t be. It’s okay. Feel like giving it another try?”

“Yes!”

“Sure you want to push it, Brad?” Rob asked. “It’s not going to get any less bumpy out there.”

“I still want to go,” Brad said.

Rob looked at Brad carefully, then glanced at Patrick. But Patrick just put a hand on Brad’s shoulder. “He’s an adult and a senior member now, Rob,” he said with a smile. “He can make his own decisions.”

Rob hesitated. “I’d say airsickness is an ‘illness’ in the ‘IMSAFE’ checkoff that would ground you, Brad,” he said. “But I have a ground team in the field and no other crews to fly the 182.” He turned to John. “You feeling okay, John?”

“Yeah,” he replied. He too was munching on crackers and washing them down with ginger ale, both believed to be good nondrug remedies for airsickness. “I got a little green around the gills when the smell first hit, but I’m good now.”

Rob thought about it a little more, but he finally nodded. “Okay, guys,” he said, punching flight-release information into his computer. “You’re released. Make contact with the ground team and see if you steer them over to that sighting you made.” After Patrick got a bite to eat himself — with a bottle of ginger ale too, just in case — they refueled the plane, preflighted, loaded up, and were off.

But it was soon obvious that Brad’s stomach was not going to cooperate. They were on the downwind leg of the departure, still in the climb and not yet at pattern altitude, in smooth air, when Brad said, “I don’t feel so good again, Dad.”

Both air vents were already wide open. Patrick leveled off at about five hundred feet aboveground and reduced airspeed to smooth out the ride. “Try looking out the front window instead of the side window for a while, Brad,” John suggested.

“I tried that,” Brad said. “I think it’s sitting in the back. I feel all cooped up back here. I never got airsick when I sit in front or when I’m flying.”

John turned to look at Brad, and he saw how miserable he looked. “I think we better put it down, Patrick,” he said. “Brad’s not—” And at that moment they heard a loud PRRING! and felt a sharp metallic impact vibration from the left wing. “What was that? Did we hit a bird?”

“Didn’t feel like a bird,” Patrick said. “Back me up on altitude while I look, John.”

“Roger.”

Patrick searched the leading edge of the wing for the source of that noise. “I don’t see any—”

“I see a hole in the wing!” Brad said suddenly. “Out by the tip, just forward of the aileron! Fuel is coming out!”

Patrick saw it a moment later. “Now, how in heck did that happen?” he asked no one in particular. He turned the control wheel slightly, then scanned the instrument panel. “Everything feels okay, and the engine instruments look—” And at that instant they felt and heard another sharp rap on the airplane, this time from somewhere on the tail and rear fuselage. “What the hell…?”

“Hey, the back window is broken!” Brad exclaimed. They all turned and saw the rear Plexiglas window with numerous spiderweb-like cracks emanating from a deep round hole near the upper edge! “It looks like a bullet hole!” Brad said.

“Holy crap , I think someone’s shooting at us!” Patrick shouted. He mashed the microphone button: “Battle Mountain Tower, CAP Twenty-seven-twenty-two, declaring an emergency, requesting immediate landing clearance.”

“CAP Twenty-two, Battle Mountain tower, roger, cleared to land, any runway,” the tower controller responded immediately. “State fuel and souls on board and the nature of your emergency.”

“CAP Twenty-seven-twenty-two, three souls, four hours’ fuel on board,” Patrick replied as he banked steeply toward the northeast-southwest cross runway. “I think someone hit us with gunfire.”

There was a momentary pause; then: “CAP Twenty-two, say again ?”

“I think someone on the ground hit us with gunfire,” Patrick said. “They put a hole in our left wing and back window.”

“Roger,” the controller said, obviously trying to remain calm. “Do you require men and equipment?”

“Affirmative,” Patrick said. “I’m going to land on Runway zero-three. Advise any other aircraft to remain clear of the protesters outside the main gate — I think one of them might have a rifle.”

The appearance of the two squat remote-controlled Avenger air-defense armored vehicles inside the main gate of the air base, with their Sidewinder antiaircraft missile-launcher tubes and twenty-millimeter cannons aimed forward and elevated in a definitely menacing position, only served to enrage the protesters even more. The crowd of about thirty chanted, “Hey hey, ho ho, the killer robots have got to go!” and “Spy planes spy planes, what do you see? Innocent citizens living free! Spy planes spy planes go away, if you come back, you will pay!”

Just then they heard sirens behind them. A convoy of six Nevada Highway Patrol vehicles, sirens and lights on, moved slowly up the road to the main gate, led by a vehicle that somewhat resembled the armored vehicles inside the base. “This is the Nevada Highway Patrol,” a voice on a loudspeaker blared. “You are blocking a public thoroughfare without permission and interfering with freedom of travel. Please disperse immediately . Thank you for your cooperation.” The convoy stopped just a few yards away from the crowd of protesters.

“We’re not going anywhere until they shut down the robots and spy planes!” someone shouted.

“Your grievances will be forwarded to the Department of Defense and the governor and attorney general of the state of Nevada,” the voice on the loudspeaker said. “Be assured, all of your grievances will be promptly addressed. But you are still blocking a public-access thoroughfare and creating a disturbance. Please return to your vehicles and leave the area so free access to this public roadway can be restored. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“We’re not going anywhere until the governor or the president orders all the spy planes and robots out of Nevada!” someone in the crowd shouted. “This is bullshit! You’re flying weaponized planes and operating armed robots out of this base to terrorize innocent citizens! How do we know you’re not looking in on me or my children right now? We want it to stop right now ! Right now! Right now! ” And the chanting and anger level rose once again.

“Please return to your vehicles and leave the area,” the voice on the loudspeaker said over the chanting. “The public roadway must remain clear. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Oh yeah?” someone else shouted. “What are you going to do — blast us with that cannon or those missiles, cop? You gonna drop a bomb on us from one of those CAP planes you got flying around?”

“Thank you for your continued support of our community,” the voice said. “The Nevada Highway Patrol is here to assist you. Please return to your vehicles. Thank you for your cooperation.”

It took several minutes, but soon the energy level of the protesters seemed to decrease, and one by one they turned and headed away from the main gate. A few slammed their signs on the armored vehicles and spit on the Highway Patrol vehicle’s windshields, but the officers did not react.

“Well, this is definitely a new one for me,” Nevada Highway Patrol sergeant Leo Slotnick said. He was standing beside his car, the second in the convoy behind the armored car, talking with his partner. He was wearing a bullet-resistant vest over his uniform that read NHP and POLICE in large yellow letters, a Kevlar riot helmet with face shield, and heavy Kevlar gloves — his riot baton and cans of pepper spray were inside the vehicle, out of sight but quickly available. Most persons passing by him waved hello — no one seemed to be angry at him personally. “A protest march, way out here in Battle Mountain? I think it’s pretty funny. I had to dust off my riot gear— literally dust it off.”

“Whatever happened to the sheriff’s department?” Leo’s partner, a relatively new member of the Nevada Highway Patrol named Bobby Johnson, asked. He was outfitted the same as Leo but with a small digital video recorder affixed to his helmet; Leo was his training officer in his first six-month probationary period. “They’re a no-show?”

“They said they couldn’t spare the manpower,” Leo said. “Technically this road is a state highway, so we have jurisdiction, but they should be out here with us. They never showed when the Civil Air Patrol was searching for that downed plane either.”

“I heard one of your guys thinks he was shot at by someone in this crowd,” Bobby said. “These bastards were shooting at aircraft over the base? Are they nuts? I think we should search each and every one of them for that rifle.”

“Bobby, think about it — there’s thirty of them, and just twelve of us,” Leo said. “If there’s a gun in that crowd, we don’t want it let loose on us. If they start heading off and going home without another shot being fired, that’s a good thing. Next time there’s a protest, we’ll be ready with more guys.” As his eyes scanned the departing protesters, he caught a glimpse of two men, apart from each other but definitely together, walking along with the crowd toward their vehicles but looking as if they were scanning the crowd themselves. “Get a shot of those two tall guys at twelve o’clock,” Leo said.

Bobby turned in that direction but couldn’t really see whom Leo was referring to. “What’s up?”

Leo shook his head. “Just a hunch,” he said. “Remember what you were taught at the Academy about the personalities that create a disturbance?”

“Agitator, instigator, aggressor, and… and…”

“The lemmings — the followers,” Leo said. “Who are the agitators here?”

“The guy who organized this march.”

“True,” Leo said, “but couldn’t you also say it was the Air Force when they rolled out those armored vehicles over there? Maybe the crowd wouldn’t be so agitated if they hadn’t brought those out.”

“Well, then couldn’t you say that we are agitators for bring our armored car?”

“Good point,” Leo conceded, “although then you have to think about officer safety, and that’s a command decision. Now, the instigator is the one who does the first noncivil action — in this case, maybe the ones hitting the armored car with their signs. But he doesn’t usually cause the riot. It’s the aggressors that you have to watch out for — the ones who wait for something to happen, then push everyone around them over the top. Then the lemmings do whatever the aggressors and the rest of the crowd does, and the thing turns into a riot.”

“So if you can find the aggressors, you might have a chance of stopping the riot.”

“Exactly,” Leo said. “The agitators are the hotheads, but they’re usually just lashing out, not attacking — they get the crowd’s attention with an overt act, but the crowd hasn’t turned into lemmings yet. The aggressors do the extreme actions that turn the crowd.”

Bobby continued searching the crowd, but still couldn’t see whom Leo was referring to. “Gotcha.”

Leo made eye contact with one of the tall guys he was watching, broke eye contact and scanned the crowd for a few seconds, then came back to the guy — and they made eye contact again. “And the first rule of surveillance?”

“Countersurveillance,” Bobby said. “Make sure you’re not being watched yourself.”

“Either we’re being watched, which I doubt,” Leo said, “or these guys were on their way to do something else and have now noticed that they’ve been spotted. They’re spooked, but they’re not running — they know it’s the running man that attracts attention.” He looked behind him at some of the protesters widely circling his car, but couldn’t see anyone else who stood out — there could easily be another pair behind him, but he couldn’t make them out. “Weird vibes around here, that’s for sure.”

When he looked back at the pair, they had both vanished, and no one was running or shoving — they had quite literally disappeared.

“I don’t know what to say, Brad,” Patrick said as they examined the Civil Air Patrol Cessna. They had pans and buckets underneath the hole in the left wing, collecting leaking avgas. Maintenance crews already had the shattered window off, and they were getting ready to start removing inspection panels and rivets to replace the damaged left-wing sections. “You have about thirty hours total time flying the C-172 and P210, and I don’t recall you ever getting airsick. I know you flew in the back of the Aerostar a few times when Gia was with us, but you were a lot younger and you weren’t looking out the window — you were usually asleep. Did you ever get airsick flying cadet-orientation rides?”

“I don’t think I ever flew in the back,” Brad said. “There was never anyone else riding along.”

“So today was the first time that you’ve ever ridden in the back of a light plane with your eyes open and searching out the window,” Patrick summarized, “and every time you’ve done it, you’ve gotten sick.”

“But what does that mean, Dad?” Brad asked. “If I can’t ride in the back without getting sick, I can’t be a mission scanner, and if I can’t be a scanner, I can’t be a mission pilot. And that’s what I want to be!”

“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves, big guy,” Patrick said. “We’ll get you a few rides with you not doing scanner duties but just sitting in back, not looking out the side windows, to get you accustomed to sitting in back; we’ll find out about approved medicines or other remedies. You can still be a transport mission pilot — ferrying planes, taking cadets on orientation rides, towing gliders — and a mission observer, and there may even be a way for you to be a mission pilot without being a scanner first. I think the reason they have you qualify for scanner first is to see how well you do in a light plane. But we know you can fly a plane without getting airsick — it’s just that you get airsick riding in back. We’ll start checking out all the options. But just remember, there’s more to Civil Air Patrol than flying. You can lead a ground-search team, and you can man an incident command post and put together sortie packages—”

“But I want to fly, Dad. I want to be a pilot, in charge of a crew.”

“And you can fly… just maybe not with the Civil Air Patrol as a mission pilot,” Patrick said. “We’ll have to see what happens. But don’t act like it’s the end of the world if you can’t be a mission pilot. There are plenty of ways to serve. You’ll find that life throws you a lot of obstacles — you have to figure out how to overcome them. That’s the fun of being a grown-up.”

“Well, so far being a grown-up really sucks,” Brad said, and he turned and walked away.

“Amen to that.” Patrick turned and saw Jon Masters standing beside him, looking at the damage to the Cessna. “So you think someone took shots at you, huh? He’s got to be a pretty darn good shot — you were five hundred feet up, going about eighty knots?” He went over and looked at the hole in the wing. “Pretty good-size hole — maybe a hunting rifle?”

“Or an infantry rifle,” Patrick said.

“A military shooter? A marksman with serious military hardware? You mean, someone from the base?” Patrick had no answer. Jon was silent for a short while, then asked, “So what’s Brad sulking about?”

“He got airsick when riding in the back of the Cessna as a scanner,” Patrick said. “He’s okay up front, but not in back.”

“I get airsick sitting in the back too, sometimes, but I take a dimenhydrinate and I’m okay,” Jon said. “I don’t think that’s an option if you’re a crewmember, though.”

“Back in my B-52 days, I had gunners and EWOs who flew facing backward and got airsick all the time, especially when flying low-level,” Patrick said. “They were using stuff like scopolamine patches behind their ears for airsickness, but I don’t know if that’s the case anymore. They have wristbands and neckbands for seasickness, but I don’t know if those are gimmicks or not. Ginger-root pills worked good for me if I took them before a space flight. We’ll find out. But I don’t like to see Brad start to mope around after each and every downturn. He’s got to learn to roll with it.” He looked at Jon. “So what are you up to?”

“Moping around after my latest downturn — losing twenty million dollars’ worth of aircraft in one night,” Jon said. “The Sky Masters, Inc., board members hit the freakin’ roof.”

“Why? The government should make it right. It might take a while, but…” He looked at Jon, his eyes narrowing. “Okay, what did you do?”

“We… hadn’t exactly worked out the details of the contract before the Sparrowhawks were deployed,” Jon admitted.

“Uh-oh…” Patrick said. “You didn’t get a signed contract before you deployed? You donated the Sparrowhawks to the government?”

“I have a draft of a contract,” Jon argued, “so we can argue that it wasn’t meant to be a donation.” Patrick smiled but shook his head ruefully. “The FBI said they were in a hurry, and I wanted to get the aircraft out there before they put the job out for bids. It’ll work out, don’t worry.”

“Sure… five years from now,” Patrick said. “Well, I guess that’s why a lot of the contractors we hire are attorneys.”

“Exactly,” Jon said. “Our job is to get things done, not worry about stupid contracts. Let the suits work out the details.”

“Right,” Patrick said. “Besides, you got insurance on the Sparrowhawks, right?” He saw Jon’s downcast expression, and his eyes widened in surprise. “Jon, no insurance… ?”

“I have R-and-D insurance out the ying-yang,” Jon said, “but… well, I didn’t have a government contract — yet — and you wouldn’t believe what those insurance companies wanted for these simple little missions. You’d think we were flying armed combat missions over Iraq again!”

“Jon, you can’t do stuff like that,” Patrick said. “At best you could get fired — at worst, you could get fired, sued, and have to pay for the Sparrowhawks yourself!”

“Hey, look who’s talking about bending the rules! You practically made an entire career out of it!”

“I did it when I had the discretion as the on-scene tactical commander,” Patrick said. Jon looked at him with a skeptical “oh, really?” expression. “And when I did it otherwise, I was either kicked out, forced to retire, or was sued. You work for a private company. The directors and officers make the decisions, not you.”

“Well, I’d be worried — if I already wasn’t the smartest guy in the company,” Jon said dismissively. “They can’t fire me or sue me — it’d tank the stock and we’d be lucky to get a contract to provide propeller beanies to Cub Scouts. Don’t worry about it.” He paused, looking in the direction of where Brad walked off. “I feel sorry for the kid,” he said. “What’s a scanner do?”

“His job is to search for mission targets or for hazards,” Patrick said. “Apparently Brad has trouble when he looks sideways out the window in a turn, or has to look downward or backward — we don’t quite know yet what triggers the motion sickness.”

“He looks out the window? That’s it ?”

“He’ll also take pictures, make records of what happens on a mission, run checklists, maybe talk to mission base or ground teams on the radio, but basically his job is to search outside the plane, from engine start to engine shutdown.”

“We have stuff that can more than take the place of a scanner,” Jon said. “We’ve developed sensor balls that can fit easily on the wings of a little bug smasher like your Cessnas. They’re a quarter of the size of a Predator’s sensor dome but do even more stuff and perform better. Plus, the scanner can operate the sensors from the ground. You save weight, the plane performs better, and you put fewer crewmembers at risk. Plus, once we install the video datalink, you can up- and download voice, data, telemetry — almost anything.”

“You know,” Patrick said after adopting that “ten-thousand-yard stare” expression for a moment, “the Civil Air Patrol flies missions called Predator Surrogate. They mount a Predator sensor ball on the Cessnas, and they fly around the Nellis Air Force Base ranges. The Army and Marine Corps use them to train sensor operators. It solves the problem of ‘see-and-avoid’ and loss of control that unmanned planes have — you have two guys in the plane that can look for traffic, and they can take the controls if the aircraft loses contact with remote operators.”

Jon was starting to adopt the same faraway expression as Patrick. “But our sensor domes are much better for the job than the Predator’s,” he said. “All we have to do is stick one on the Cessna… maybe one on each wing for better coverage and to even out the drag. Even with two, you’d have lower weight and better performance—”

“Jon, this is the Civil Air Patrol, not the U.S. Air Force or Space Defense Force,” Patrick said. “The whole idea of CAP was to have civilian volunteers helping their country by using their planes and skills. It defeats the purpose of the organization to start outfitting the planes like military aircraft. They’re—” But Patrick stopped… because the idea was starting to make total sense to him. “But… it would take years to get approval to put those sensors on the CAP Cessnas.”

“Maybe so,” Jon said. “So… let’s stick them on your Cessna. The CAP plane here with the bullet holes in it is out of commission, right? Let’s use yours, and anyone else’s plane who wants some toys to play with.”

“What?” But after a few moments, the idea made him smile. “You know, CAP once only used a member’s plane — they switched to using CAP-owned planes about twenty years ago.” But then he shook his head as reality set in. “It would take months, maybe years, to get a field approval from the FAA for that kind of major modification. We’d have to do engineering drawings, do controllability and flutter tests, get authorization for—”

“Blah blah blah blah blah,” Jon Masters said, shaking his head. “Sheesh, maybe living way the hell out here has softened you up. So you decertify your plane and turn it into an ‘Experimental.’ You’re worried about the FAA? Have you ever seen the FAA out here at Battle Mountain? Do they even have field inspectors anymore? What are the odds of getting ramp-checked these days? Besides, if they do catch you, so what? They’ll make you take the sensors off, so we’ll take them off. There are lots of options, Patrick. It seems to me you’re coming up with more excuses not to do it than ideas on how to do it.”

Patrick realized that was exactly what he was doing, and he nodded his head. “You’re right,” he said. But he looked at Jon seriously and added, “But we’re just going to grab a couple sensor balls from the company, again, like the Sparrowhawks? We can’t do that.”

“You’re right, we shouldn’t,” Jon said. He held out his hand. “Got a credit card? We’ll make it a straight-out purchase. The company will be happy.”

“But I don’t have enough money to—”

“There you go again with the negative waves, Patrick,” Jon said with a laugh. “Always with the reasons not to do it. C’mon, it’ll be fine. I just need the account number — I won’t run anything against it. If it works, we’ll work something out moneywise. I’ll order up the parts and bring a mechanic up from Vegas, and we’ll have you flying in no time.”

Brad changed out of his flight suit and into civilian clothes, then sat by himself outdoors at a picnic table beside the hangar. My first flight as mission scanner — on an actual mission, no less — and I can’t handle being a backseater, he lamented to himself. This really sucks.

He had reserved the entire day for flying, and now he had nothing to do. He pulled out his cell phone and was going to start calling his buddies to find out what they were up to when he found Cassandra Renaldo’s business card.

Should I do it? he asked himself. She was an older woman, but she was still hot as hell. Was she just stringing him along, being a cockteaser or trying to make a fool out of him, or was she serious about wanting to see him again? He wished he knew more about women, like Ron Spivey did — he always seemed to have a different girl every week, and even when he treated them like crap, they always seemed to come back. How did guys learn how to do that?

I guess this is one way, Brad thought as he commenced dialing her number…

“Renaldo.”

“It’s me. Brad.”

Cassandra looked up at Special Agent Chastain and nodded. “Let me finish up here and go somewhere where I can talk. Hang on.” She put the call on hold.

“Who is that?” Chastain asked.

“Bradley McLanahan,” she said, smiling evilly. “I told you he’d call.”

Chastain smiled back. “Reel him in,” he said.

She took the call off hold a few moments later. “I’m so glad you called, Brad,” she said in her sweetest, most heartfelt voice. Chastain shook his head and smiled at her performance. “I’ve missed seeing you. How are you?”

“I’ve been better.”

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“It’s an… an airsickness thing. I’m okay when I’m piloting, but not so good when I’m in back.”

“Oh no,” Renaldo said. “Are you all right now?”

“Oh yes, I’m good.”

“Then when can I see you?”

There was a bit of a pause; then: “Well, I was supposed to be flying all day, but that’s been canceled…”

“I heard — someone shot at a Civil Air Patrol plane,” she said. “You mean, you were on that plane?”

“Yes.”

“My God, Brad! How awful!”

“So I’m… I’m not doing anything for the rest of the day.”

“That’s perfect,” Renaldo said, giving Chastain a wink. “You’re at the Civil Air Patrol hangar now?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. If you walk down Powell Avenue toward the base exchange, I’ll pick you up in about ten minutes. We can go to my place. How does that sound?”

“Okay.”

“Great. I’ll see you soon, baby.” She hung up. “He’s on the line — now it’s time to start landing him,” she said to Chastain. She thought for a moment, then asked, “How bad do you want the dad?”

“Badly.” Chastain picked up the latest report from Brady’s reconnaissance of the suspected terrorist compound. “So far we’ve discovered that there are nineteen residents of the Knights’ compound who are active members of the Civil Air Patrol Battle Mountain squadron. All but two are ex-military. Eight are Iraq and Afghanistan vets, including multiple deployments; four are Desert Storm vets; and two are Vietnam vets. All have combat experience. We’re trying to obtain medical backgrounds on them, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find some PTSD cases in there, or worse. McLanahan could have his own little strike force in that CAP outfit.”

“Then I’ve got an angle on the son that could really lock him in good,” Renaldo said. “I’m going to meet up with him. I’m going to borrow a little something from our drop stash, okay?”

Chastain looked at her seriously. “I definitely see why they call you the ‘Black Widow,’ Renaldo.”

“Nothing evil, I assure you,” she said. “I’m not going to hurt him — well, maybe just a little. But if you want him, and the dad, I’ll get them for you.”

Chastain thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Have fun,” was all he said.

“Oh, I intend to,” Renaldo said with a growing crocodile smile. “I intend to.”

This was turning out to be a pretty sucky day, Patrick told himself as he headed to his trailer to change out of his flight suit — and it wasn’t even half over yet. Like Jon, he felt sorry for Brad. But he was acting more like a ten-year-old than an eighteen-year-old. He would have to make some phone calls to the aerospace physiology folks in the Air Force — the ones who installed an electronic heart monitor in him when he started suffering from heart arrhythmias during space flight — and find out the best way to treat Brad. But whatever the outcome, he wanted to cure the boy of whining and feeling sorry for himself whenever…

… and it was then, just before he was going to pull into his hard-baked mud driveway beside the trailer, that he noticed the front door to his trailer partly open.

That was not unusual — these were not the best-constructed trailers in the world, not by a long shot — and he or Brad could have failed to close and lock it properly. But alarm bells were going off in his head, and he had learned many years ago that ignoring those bells was extremely unwise.

Patrick activated his intraocular computer monitor and called up the security-camera images from inside his trailer. The security system’s readouts showed that the door had been opened by key just a few minutes ago. He could see a person wearing a cowboy hat, blue jeans, a white untucked shirt, and a long black-and-gray ponytail with his back to the camera, going through mail and articles on the dining-room table. The other cameras revealed no other intruders. Patrick then retrieved an object from under his Wrangler’s seat that resembled a flashlight, but was actually a launcher that would fire a wireless projectile that would act like a Taser, embedding probes into a person’s skin and incapacitating the person with a high-voltage but nonlethal shock.

He stepped quickly to the porch, skipped the steps, pushed open the door, and aimed the launcher at the intruder. “Stop right there!” he shouted.

The intruder jumped, a little cloud of mail flying from his hands, and whirled around to face him. “Patrick! You startled me!”

“Oh my God… Gia !” Patrick cried. He put down the launcher and rushed into her arms. Gia Cazzotto buried her face into his shoulder, sobbing. “You’re back, you’re finally back!”

“Oh, Patrick, I’m so sorry I left like I did,” Gia said after several long moments, “and for not keeping in touch, but… well, I wanted to get well before I came back to you.” She looked up at him, her brown eyes searching his for any signs of hostility or distrust. Her dark hair was much longer and streaked with a lot more gray than he remembered, and she looked thinner. He didn’t smell any alcohol on her breath — that was a major change right there. “Do you… want me to go, or—”

“Of course not, Gia!” Patrick said, hugging her tightly again. “I’ve been waiting for you to come home! I knew you had a key, so I never changed the lock. Sit down, sit down, for God’s sake!” He led her to the couch, sat on the ottoman before her, and took her hands in his. “Are you all right? Where have you been?”

“Southern California,” Gia said. “I went back to Palmdale to see if I could get work. But with the economy still in the tank, no one was hiring.” She lowered her eyes, then added, “Even for jobs that didn’t require a security clearance.”

“I told you before: just wait another four years, and you can apply for a full pardon,” Patrick said. “The president has told me often he’ll do that, as long as you don’t have any other convictions.” He looked at her carefully. “Everything okay in that regard, Gia?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “No other convictions.” But her voice told him that this wasn’t all. After a few moments, she looked up and said, “I met someone.”

Patrick felt his heart explode in his chest, and he had to choke down a surge of anger. “ ‘Met someone’?”

“In rehab,” Gia said. “He’s an alcoholic, like me. He’s a building contractor. He’s been sober for a few years, and he was helping me, making sure I went to the meetings, making sure I was applying for work and benefits, giving me some part-time work here and there.”

There was still something in her voice that said there was much, much more to tell, Patrick thought. “What else?” he demanded, a lot harsher than he intended.

“That’s all,” she insisted. He didn’t believe her, and she could see that in his eyes, and she didn’t try to defend herself. “I told him about you, and he said I had to choose, because he knew I still wasn’t over you, and he said I had to go back and see you, and—”

“What? Choose between us?” Patrick snapped. “Compare notes?”

“Find out if you still loved me, Patrick,” Gia said. “I know I haven’t been here for you, trying to deal with my own problems. I wanted to be with you, but I had to leave so I could figure out if I wanted to be sober or not.”

“You had to decide whether or not to be sober?”

“You don’t understand being an alcoholic, Patrick,” Gia said. “I like drinking. I like being able to suppress the rage and the despair as easily as drinking a little Cabernet Sauvignon. I didn’t care if I couldn’t fully function, as long as I didn’t have to feel the anger, the frustration, the helplessness.” She paused, then said, “But now I understand who I am, Patrick. I’m an alcoholic. I know now that I was wasting my life dealing with my anger with alcohol, and I want to change that… no, I’m going to change that.”

Patrick let go of her hands and stood. “And… he helped you realize that,” he said.

“The rehab program got me to stop drinking and start dealing with my anger in a positive way,” Gia said. “But he was there at the meetings, and he knew I was out of work, and he said he could help, and he did. Now he wants to… to take it to the next level, but he said I had to decide about you. But I didn’t know how you felt about me.”

“How could you ever doubt that I love you, Gia?” Patrick asked, almost pleading. “Brad and I welcomed you back every time you left, without hesitation, without a word. I helped you find treatment programs here. You’d be good for a few weeks, and then you’d be gone again. But when you came back, we always welcomed you.”

“I know, I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. But you and Brad were… were always gone, and I was here alone in this trailer. I tried to make it a home for all of us, but then I didn’t know how to suppress the anger any way else but with alcohol, and then I didn’t want to be around you and especially Bradley when I was drunk, so I’d leave. And then I’d miss you so badly, and I’d get the courage to come back, and then the whole thing would start all over again.”

Patrick sat back down on the ottoman and took her hands again. “It can be different now,” he said. “I’m retired, Gia. Maybe I needed to grow up and finally realize that. I pretended I had a job and a function here, but now I know I don’t. So I can be with you and help you in any way I can, any way you need.”

Gia looked up, touched the collar of his Air Force — style sage-green Civil Air Patrol flight suit, and choked down a sob with a smile. “I find that a little hard to believe,” she said with a wry smile. “Somehow I can’t see you settling down. If it’s not Civil Air Patrol, Angel Flight West charity flying, flight instructing, or meeting up with your space-faring buddies, it would be something else.”

“Well, Gia, I guess I’ll always do a little bit of that stuff,” Patrick said honestly, “but with you and me together, it can be different. We’ll move off base, rent until we save up some money, then when Brad graduates high school and goes off to college, we can pick a place together and move.”

“Move off base?” Gia asked. “What about… you know, the Russians…?”

“It’s been almost a year since we found out about that, and nothing has surfaced,” Patrick said. “I think the CIA shut that threat down completely. They’ve got bigger fish to fry, and I’ve been under their radar for too long.”

“I saw you on TV, on the news, as part of the team that rescued that little boy in the desert,” Gia said. “I think you’re on the radar again.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Patrick said. “You’re much more important to me than some supposed threat that young Agent Dobson came up with.”

CIA agent Timothy Dobson, an adviser to Kenneth Phoenix when he was vice president, had warned Patrick of the threat of Russian assassination squads sent out after him in retaliation for last year’s attacks in the Gulf of Aden and Yemen, and had suggested that Patrick move to Battle Mountain to make it easier for the CIA and FBI to detect their approach.

Gia looked into his eyes, saw that he was sincere, and smiled. “Thank you, Patrick,” she said. “Let’s take a little time to get to know each other again, and find out what Bradley thinks of all this. And my first order of business is to find a meeting place here on base or in town.”

“I can find that out for you in the blink of an eye… literally,” Patrick said. He activated his intraocular monitors, virtual keyboard, and computer network…

… but Gia put a hand on his arm. “Let’s start exploring a new life together… by doing away with the high-tech gadgets a little more,” she said with a smile. “Frankly, that thing you do creeps me out.”

It was becoming an almost daily occurrence now: mornings around eight A. M., the protesters would return to the main gate. Their numbers were growing, but they were becoming more civilized as well. The Nevada Highway Patrol cars were reduced to just two, with no armored vehicles and no riot gear. The Air Force Avenger units were no longer in sight inside the base either, although they were not far away.

The protests were organized, almost routine, and relatively nonthreatening. The marchers — about a hundred of them today, the biggest number yet — would pile up to the front gate, chanting and singing as they approached, waving signs and banners, surrounded by photographers and crews from news outlets all over the world. A Highway Patrol trooper would order them to get off the highway. Someone with a bullhorn would read off a list of demands, usually right into the trooper’s face. The Highway Patrol trooper would repeat the order. The protesters continued to sing and chant, amplified with bullhorns, and a half dozen or so would sit down in front of the gate. The trooper would put one of them in handcuffs, surrounded by the crowd, yelling and screaming while the one person was taken away. Then the one patrol car’s lights and sirens activated, and the crowd would slowly move off to either side of the highway. They would stay for another hour or so, then start to leave. The one arrested protester would be allowed to leave as soon as the cameras were out of sight. By nine-thirty, ten o’clock tops, it was over.

It was Leo Slotnick’s turn at the front gate. The air was already fairly hot and humid for this time of day, but he still wore his long-sleeved blouse with body armor underneath, and he was already damp with sweat. He had been sure to install a pair of foam earplugs to help preserve his hearing from the noisy crowd with their bullhorns, and he was wearing a pair of black Kevlar knife-proof gloves with steel knuckles. His trainee, Bobby Johnson, was back beside the patrol car, ready to take today’s designated volunteer arrestee into custody.

When the protesters approached, Leo let them chant and sing for about fifteen minutes — he thought a few of them were actually looking at their watches, wondering why he was taking so long to confront them. At the next pause between songs, he filled his lungs and shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please. I am Sergeant Slotnick of the Nevada Highway Patrol. I am here to inform you that you are illegally blocking a state thoroughfare and interfering with normal traffic, in violation of Nevada Revised Statute four-eighty-four B point nine-twenty dash one. You are hereby ordered to clear the highway and allow traffic to proceed. Failure to obey a traffic officer is also a violation of Nevada Revised Statutes four-eighty-four B point one hundred, and could result in arrest and detainment. Please clear the highway immediately. Thank you.”

Now it was time for the shouting and demands. Leo folded his hands in front of his body — these folks were mostly harmless, but he still had to be ready to protect himself — and he steeled himself to accept the amplified yelling and screaming that was about to occur. Sure enough, the bozo with the bullhorn began shouting just a couple feet away from his ear, and even with the earplugs firmly installed, the bastard was giving him a splitting…

… and then he saw them: the same two tall guys he had seen at the first demonstration, but this time they were right up front, at the head of the crowd.

He tilted his head so he could talk into his shoulder-mounted microphone: “Bobby, this is Leo. C’mon out here and cover me, will you?”

“Roger,” came the immediate reply.

Leo looked directly at the taller of the two men. They returned his gaze, not attempting to retreat or hide at all. Over the blaring bullhorn beside him, he waved two fingers at the man. “You, sir, would you come with me, please?” The man did not move. “I said, you, sir, come with me.” The crowd, sensing something unknown was unfolding, seemed to back away from the direct line between the two men. “Anyone here know this man?” Leo shouted.

“He has a right to be here!” the guy with the bullhorn shouted. “What’s your beef, man?”

“I want to talk with you, sir,” Leo said to the stranger. “I want you to come with me.”

“What the hell’s going on, Leo?” the guy with the bullhorn asked. Leo recognized him as the night-shift clerk at the 7-Eleven in town. “Why are you dissin’ this guy?”

“Do you know who he is, Tommy?” Leo asked him. “Have you met him before? Is he from around here?”

The guy with the bullhorn looked at the stranger with a blank expression, but turned to Leo and said, “Hey, Leo, I don’t get it. I don’t know this dude, but he ain’t doin’ nuthin’. We don’t want no trouble, bro. He’s not the one we’re going to get arrested today with you, so don’t—”

“I want you to come with me, sir, right now, ” Leo shouted, and he put a hand on his sidearm…

… and no one was exactly sure what happened first after that:

There was the sound of gunshots, four in rapid succession. Screams, cries of surprise and fear, and an immediate retreat of the dozens of persons crowded around Leo and the stranger at the main gate, as if pushed aside by a mighty gust of wind. Then several loud explosions erupted behind the crowd, followed by an immense billowing mushroom cloud of green skin-burning gas. The crowd of protesters surged forward away from the noxious green chlorine-smelling gas directly at the base’s main gate. Almost the entire crowd of over a hundred protesters rushed onto the base, trampling anyone who was overcome by the gas or not quick enough to surge forward or get out of the way fast enough.

Following the hearse and the limousine carrying the family members of Nevada Highway Patrol sergeant Leo Slotnick were three dark blue armored Suburbans and several other limousines. Behind the limousines was a truly awe-inspiring sight: a long line of police cars from all over the United States, stretching for miles along Interstate 80, with lights flashing, slowly making their way to the cemetery. The police cars were followed by hundreds of other cars, some with Civil Air Patrol flags affixed to their roofs. The Nevada Highway Patrol troopers who were blocking crossroads and directing the impossibly long procession of cars saluted the hearse as it drove past. At Exit 48 on the freeway, the lead group continued on to the Northern Nevada Veterans Memorial Cemetery, while the hundreds of police cruisers and Civil Air Patrol members that were part of the procession lined up and stopped in the number two lane. The passengers got out of the cars, and they held salutes or hands over their hearts until the hearse was out of sight.

The flag-draped casket was brought to the center of the visitors’ center, escorted by an honor guard composed of Air Force, Highway Patrol, and Civil Air Patrol officers and cadets. Since the facility was so small, only a small fraction of the thousands of attendees could be seated inside, but hundreds of others stood outside to listen to the service on loudspeakers. The family members — Leo’s wife, three young children, his parents, and his wife’s parents — were escorted to their seats, followed by the invited VIP guests: the vice president of the United States, the secretary of the Air Force, the governor of Nevada, the commandant of the Nevada Highway Patrol, and the national commander of the Civil Air Patrol, among many other dignitaries.

After the service was over, the vice president’s motorcade departed first, heading west on Interstate 80 toward Reno with two armored Suburbans as escorts, where her C-32 transport, a VIP-modified Boeing 757–200, was waiting at Reno-Tahoe International Airport. “Patrick, it’s good to see you again,” Vice President Ann Page said. “You need to come to Washington more often — it seems I only get to see you at funerals.”

“Thank you, Madam Vice President,” Patrick McLanahan said. “It’s good to see you too.”

“And I never would have recognized young Bradley here,” the vice president said to Brad, seated beside his father, “although you’re certainly not so young anymore. Congratulations on the Civil Air Patrol save.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You know who Mr. Dobson is, don’t you, Brad?” the vice president asked, motioning to the man seated beside her.

“I think so,” Brad said, but it was obvious he didn’t remember — and that was the way Patrick had wanted it, at the time, when Dobson delivered the message that Russian hit men had been sent to target his father for assassination in retaliation for the attacks on Russian installations in the Middle East and East Africa. They left Henderson, Nevada, soon after President Kenneth Phoenix’s inauguration, went to Washington to support Gia Cazzotto in her trial and to await Patrick’s trial, then moved to Battle Mountain after Gia’s sentence was commuted and Patrick was pardoned.

“Mr. Dobson has some information for your father,” Ann said, “but I thought it was okay if you hear it too, because it concerns both of you, and I think you’re old enough to know everything. Tim?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Timothy Dobson said. Dobson, a fifteen-year veteran of the Central Intelligence Agency, had served with then — vice president Ken Phoenix on a panel to rewrite the national space policy. But when China and Russia began a cooperative plan to attack American space-defense satellites, Phoenix assigned Dobson to work with Patrick on a covert strike plan to destroy the Chinese antisatellite-missile sites and Russian intelligence radar sites that were damaging the American antisatellite-weapon garages. In the aftermath of Patrick’s attacks, Dobson had discovered that Russia was sending assassination squads into the United States, targeting Patrick for reprisals.

“We’ve analyzed photos and videos taken at the demonstrations in front of Battle Mountain air base,” Dobson said, “and my team has identified two and possibly four foreign agents that have been moving closer and closer to the air base at Battle Mountain.”

“They’re getting bolder by the day,” the vice president said. “They’re moving right to your doorstep. You’re not safe.”

“We think Sergeant Slotnick detected the agents about two weeks ago at one of the demonstrations,” Dobson went on, “and actually confronted one the day he was killed. Most likely it was one of the agents that killed Slotnick, and the backups in the crowd set off the tear-gas bombs that caused the protesters to panic and rush the base.”

“The base is still a safe place for you,” the vice president said. “The security there is the best in the nation. But it’s closing soon, and you’ll lose that protection. And I’m concerned about young Brad here. You go to high school off base, and I know you have off-base jobs and activities, and that’s where they could get to you. It won’t be much of a life stuck on the base.” She turned to Patrick. “That’s why I want to suggest you come to Washington, Patrick.”

“Ma’am…”

Page held up a hand. “I understand all about Colonel Cazzotto, how angry she was at President Phoenix for not pardoning her. But have you seen her lately?”

“Yes, I have, ma’am,” Patrick said. “In fact, she’s at my trailer right now.”

Ann turned a horrified expression to Tim, who had a look of concern on his face that made Patrick’s fingertips tingle. “The FBI has had her under observation ever since she started applying for work at defense contractors in Southern California, General,” Dobson said. “With her felony conviction she can’t get a security clearance, and with the bad economy few firms are hiring anyway.”

“That’s what she told me,” Patrick said.

“High-profile individual, highly skilled and intelligent, formerly had a top-secret security clearance but out of work with a federal felony conviction, angry at the government, an alcohol problem, possibly emotional problems — the textbook example of a disgruntled worker,” Ann said. “And a woman to boot. A perfect target for recruitment by a foreign or enemy power.”

“What?” Patrick exclaimed.

“She met a guy in one of her twelve-step meetings that was helping her out, befriending her, hiring her part-time, maybe… maybe something more intimate,” Dobson said hesitantly.

“She said all that too,” Patrick said perturbedly. Dobson paused. “Spit it out, Tim,” he said.

“We’re having… trouble, difficulties, identifying the guy, sir,” Dobson said uncomfortably. “His neighbors and acquaintances have the same story about him: he’s a building contractor, he’s been in the area for years, he’s dependable, he’s a good guy. His license is real. But when we dig one or two levels lower, we start to lose continuity. His Social Security number and his previous addresses on his contractor’s license application don’t correlate.”

“So what are you saying, Tim?” Patrick asked.

“Agent more-than-polite Dobson here is trying to say that your girlfriend’s new boyfriend doesn’t check out, and he thinks he’s a sleeper agent working for the Russian Federal Security Bureau, targeting Cazzotto to get close to you to set you up for a hit,” Vice President Page interjected impatiently. “C’mon, Patrick, wake up and smell the damned coffee. Someone got to your alkie girlfriend for the express purpose of getting close to you . Get with the program, will you? You’re a former Air Force intelligence chief, for Christ’s sake.” She saw Patrick’s eyes flare in indignation, which only egged her on: “Don’t give me that ‘I’m shocked! Shocked!’ expression, McLanahan,” Ann retorted before he could speak. She stuck a finger directly into Patrick’s face. “Don’t try to tell me you didn’t have some suspicions when this woman suddenly turns up on your doorstep after being gone for seven weeks.”

“I thought she was just returning home,” Patrick said. “This is her home, ever since she left the service…”

“Yeah, right — and you thought she was going to come back to the armpit of the world and sit on the porch of your little double-wide trailer in one-hundred-degree desert heat and wait for you to come back from your heroic Civil Air Patrol and Angel Flight West flying missions and snuggle close to her,” Ann retorted. “Can you possibly be that blind or galactically stupid, Patrick? In her mind, Phoenix screwed her, but saved you . That means you screwed her in her twisted crazy fevered head. With that mind-set, she’ll shack up with anyone who wants to get close to you, for whatever reason imaginable. Wake up, damn it. This is serious. Are you paying attention to me, General?”

Patrick didn’t answer, which to Vice President Page meant that he was certainly paying attention. “I invited you to ride with me because, in essence, this is a kidnapping — for both of you gentlemen,” she said. “Battle Mountain is getting too dangerous for you and Brad. I think you’ll both be safer in Washington. The entire District of Columbia is all about counterintelligence and counter-counterintelligence. I think you’d be safer there, no matter how many hoods the Russian Federal Security Bureau sends over. Besides, the president wants to start ramping up the Space Defense Force program again, and he wants you to head that program, be the out-front guy, the face of the entire push for military space. You can’t do that from a base that’s going to be a ghost town in a few months.”

“I don’t like the idea of running from these hit-man goons, Madam Vice President,” Patrick said. He sat back, thought for a few moments, then looked at Brad. “But the most important thing is your safety, son.”

“But what about my friends, my team, the squadron?” Brad asked. “We can’t just disappear. And if I’d be in danger, wouldn’t all my friends be in danger too?”

Dobson looked at the vice president. “He’s right, ma’am,” he said. “Any one of Brad’s friends — maybe even their entire families — could be targets.”

“One problem at a time here, guys,” Ann said irritably. “I don’t mean to scare you, Brad, but it would be an immense blow to the entire nation to lose your father to an assassin’s bullet. I know you’d be missing out on your senior year in high school with your friends, but Mr. Dobson and I feel it would be too dangerous for you to go back. You can enroll in high school in Washington. I know you’re accustomed to military moves, so this shouldn’t be too much of a shock to your system, right?” She didn’t wait for a reply; to Patrick, she said, “In Washington, you’d be working in the White House again as my special adviser for space affairs — unfortunately not a salaried position, but all of your housing would be provided as well as stipends for living expenses.” She looked at him carefully. “I don’t expect you to go back to Battle Mountain, guys. I’ll send some folks to get your things, but you and Brad are coming with me to Washington, today .”

Patrick thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I appreciate the concern, Madam Vice President,” Patrick said, “but Brad is right: if they couldn’t get to me through Brad, they’d try it with someone else. And if we moved to Washington, they’d just start the whole hunt over again, and the FBI and CIA would have to start looking all over again. The whole reason to send me to Battle Mountain in the first place was not just to hide out, but to draw the assassins in to a place where it would be easier to detect their presence. And with all due respect, ma’am, I’m not running out on my friends to save my own neck — especially Gia. She’s in the greatest danger of all next to Brad, and she’s the most vulnerable.”

“You’re insane, General,” Ann said. “You actually think you’re safer in Battle Mountain than in Washington?” She shook her head, then looked at him directly. “I could order you to leave, in the interest of national security.”

“You wouldn’t do that, Ann,” Patrick said. “Besides, you know I’m right.” She didn’t answer him. He smiled at her, which only made her scowl darken. “But I appreciate the try.”

“You’re wrong — I would do that, Patrick, and you know it,” Ann said. She leaned forward toward him. “Let me ask you a direct question, Patrick: this woman, the one that left you many times, the one who shacked up with some guy, the one who is probably leading another hit squad up here to target you — you still care about her?”

“I not only care for her, Ann — I love her,” Patrick replied. “When she first told me about the other guy, I was furious. But she still came back to me. I wasn’t sure if she would stay, but I decided that if she left I’d carry on, and maybe she’d be happier. But now that you’ve told me this guy might be a sleeper, I know he doesn’t really care about her. That just makes me want to help her even more. And if she leaves again anyway… well, Brad and I will deal with that later.”

Ann Page nodded. “You’re a good guy, Patrick,” she said. “You are. Sometimes you’re dumber than a bag of doorknobs and sappier than a maple tree in the fall, but you’re a good guy.”

“Thank you, Madam Vice President.”

“Bite me, McLanahan,” she said with a faint smile. “And you’re still coming to Washington — the president has already ordered it. You’re working for me, in the White House, to spearhead the charge to get the Space Defense Force fully funded, set up, and running. President Phoenix agreed to wait until next summer, after Brad was on his way to college.”

“That sounds fine, Madam Vice President,” Patrick said. “I think I’d enjoy working for you.”

“You’re damned right, you will,” Ann said. “You’re damned right.”