A Time for Patriots

Eight

“I’m sorry to have to tell you, folks,” Squadron Commander Rob Spara said at the Civil Air Patrol seniors’ squadron meeting, “but the CAP national headquarters is suspending our squadron’s activities until further notice.”

There was a rumble of disbelief and surprise around the conference room. “Why in the hell are they doin’ that, Rob?” Michael Fitzgerald boomed.

“They feel it’s too dangerous to come on the base anymore,” Rob said. “The protesters, the shootings — frankly, I can’t argue with them. The planes have already been scheduled to depart: as soon as the 182 is flyable, it’ll go to Winnemucca; the ARCHER is already in Minden; and the 206 will go to Elko. The comm trailer will probably go to Winnemucca too.”

“Well, that blows,” Fitzgerald grumbled. “What about the cadets? Are we just going to shut down emergency services and all the cadet programs just like that ?”

“All emergency services are suspended,” Rob said, “but cadet aerospace, military, and PT programs can continue away from the base, as long as the cadets don’t wear utility or Air Force — style uniforms and aren’t seen doing drill-team or marching exercises outdoors. PT and Class-B clothing are okay.”

“Don’t wear uniforms?”

“National HQ is afraid that extremists that see the cadets in uniform off base will think the military is moving into their communities,” Rob said, “and if any of the extremist violence is directed at CAP, they may try to harm the cadets too. I want you and David to get those organized, maybe at the church or at your place, Fid.”

“Nothing but spineless wussies,” Fitzgerald grumbled again. “You know, this is our town and our base too — it doesn’t belong just to the nut jobs. Why don’t the cops do something to protect us ?”

“When was the last time you saw a sheriff’s deputy on the street, Fid?” David Bellville asked. “It seems they’re all on vacation or something. Ever since Leo was killed, it’s as if all the cops are staying out of sight.”

“Screw ’em anyway,” Fitzgerald said. He patted his right hip. “I’m takin’ care of business myself right here.”

“Not around the cadets you’re not, Fid,” Rob said.

“I won’t — as far as you know,” Fitzgerald said, and it was obvious he wasn’t going to debate the issue. There wasn’t anything else to talk about, so the meeting soon broke up.

As the seniors were departing, Patrick caught up with John de Carteret. “Hey, John,” he said. “Got a few minutes?”

“After that last bit of news we got? Sure, I have lots of time now,” John said. He followed Patrick to his office, where he found Jon Masters and Gia Cazzotto seated at Patrick’s desk in front of two laptop computers.

“John, I don’t believe you know these folks,” Patrick said. “My good friends Gia and Jon. This is my favorite mission observer, John de Carteret.” They shook hands. “I worked with both of them in the Air Force. Gia is a former—”

“I remember you,” John said. “The one prosecuted by President Gardner for war cri—” He stopped when he saw Gia’s shoulders slump and she averted her eyes. “Sorry to upset you, miss. Jon, good to meet you.”

“Take a look at this, John,” Patrick said, motioning to the laptop. John studied the display. It showed an overhead view of the Knights of the True Republic’s compound, with all sorts of symbology inside the compound itself, and a side window with a legend explaining what the symbology stood for. The detail was astounding: it was easy to pick out individuals walking around the compound, and even easy to make out what they were carrying.

“Is that the extremists’ compound — the Knights of the True Republic, or whatever they call themselves?”

“It is.”

“Is it recorded?”

“No, it’s live,” Patrick said.

“Where are you getting this from?”

“This is being downlinked from my Cessna P210,” Patrick said. “Jon and I mounted a pair of sensitive all-weather-imaging infrared and millimeter-wave radar sensors on it, plus the hardware to send the images here. The P210 is orbiting about five miles away from the compound at four thousand feet AGL.”

“Who’s flying the plane?”

“Brad.”

“Brad? Cool. But why is he taking pictures of that compound?”

“Because these are the guys who supposedly organized the protests at the front gate, shot at our plane, and may have killed Leo,” Patrick said, not mentioning the fact that the ones who killed Leo may have been gunning for him . “The FBI is conducting visual surveillance of the compound, but they don’t seem to be getting anywhere.”

“The FBI? How do you know all this?”

“Jon here supplied some of the technology to the FBI to conduct aerial surveillance.”

“You mean, the drones that were shot down? The ones on the news?”

“Yes.”

“So the FBI asked you to put those sensors on your plane and start surveillance on that compound?” John asked.

“Not exactly,” Patrick said. “This is our project. We’re doing our own surveillance.”

“Why are you doing that? Why not let the FBI handle it?”

“Because like Fid said, this is our town and our base,” Patrick said. “We have the technology to do it, so I’m going to do it.”

John smiled. “I said it before, and I’ll say it again: that’s the Patrick S. McLanahan I’ve always heard and read about,” he said, chuckling. His expression turned serious again. “So why are you telling me all this, Patrick?”

“Because out of all the guys in the squadron except for Leo, I know and trust you the most,” Patrick said. “I’m going to start conducting surveillance of the entire area, not just of the Knights’ compound. I’m going to assist law enforcement in protecting our community, and if the cops won’t do it, I’ll organize our community to do it for ourselves.”

“You’re starting to sound like some of those Knights of the True Republic yourself, Patrick,” John said seriously, a look of concern on his face. “You sure that’s the smart thing to do?”

Patrick shook his head. “Honestly: no, I’m not sure,” he said. “It’s probably not legal, and it may not be ethical or my right as a citizen. But something is happening in this community and this entire country, John, and I want to do something about it. I thought the Civil Air Patrol was a good start, but now I don’t even have that. So I’m starting this.”

De Carteret thought for a moment, then nodded. “Sounds good to me, Patrick,” he said. “If you need help, I’m in.”

“Great. Who else do you think would be interested?”

“Well, I’m sure all the ex-military guys in the squadron: Rob; David; my wife, Janet; David Preston; Kevan; Bill and Nancy Barton; Rick; Mark; Debbie for sure,” John said. “Fid… no offense to him, but he’s strung a little too tight for my taste.”

“That’s a pretty good group to start with,” Patrick said. “You still fly your Skyhawk, don’t you?”

“Not so much these days,” he admitted, “but when I get a couple extra bucks saved up, you bet.”

“Feel like flying some of these surveillance missions?”

“In your P210? Sure!”

“The P210… and in your Skyhawk.”

“You mean, put those sensors on my Skyhawk? Are you kidding me?”

“No sweat, John,” Jon Masters said, not looking up from his laptops. “It’ll take me a couple days, plus a couple flight tests.”

“Wow, that would be cool,” John said, sounding more and more like a little kid. “You gonna get field approval from the FAA Flight Standards guys in Elko?”

“This mod… isn’t going in your logbooks, John,” Patrick said. “We’ve got some of the best mechanics and technicians in the country from Jon’s company installing them, and I’ll make sure your plane is put back together properly when we’re done.”

“Hot damn,” John said, sticking out his hand. “Can’t wait to get started.” His eyes were dancing with anticipation. “So tell me, Patrick — is this how it felt when you were getting ready to fly some of your supersecret missions with all the newest high-tech gear? Because I’m telling ya, it’s pretty damned exciting.”

“This is how it felt, John,” Patrick said, taking John’s hand and shaking it enthusiastically. “This is exactly how it felt.”

Later that evening

Brad orbited over the Knights of the True Republic’s compound for an hour more; cruised around the area about fifty miles around the town of Battle Mountain in a parallel tracklike pattern for another hour so they could record sensor scans of activity on the ground; then did three takeoffs and landings back at Battle Mountain to log some of his required night full-stop landings. Four hours of flying, three of it at night, and not one rumble whatsoever in his stomach — what a great day.

After putting the Centurion back in its hangar, he phoned his father. “Plane’s put up, fueled up, windshield’s clean, bugs wiped off,” he said. “How do the pictures look?”

“Excellent,” Patrick said. “Better than we expected. The other scans around the area will be stored by the computer, and we’ll compare them to scans we’ll take later to look for unusual activity.”

“Cool.”

“How’s your stomach feel?”

“Great. Not even a big burp.”

“I was a little concerned with you flying at night — I was afraid the loss of a horizon might bring back the nausea,” Patrick said. “But you seemed to do okay when we did our night landings the other night.”

“I’m fine, Dad.”

“Heading home?”

“I’m going to stop by the bowling alley.”

“Drinking age is—”

“I know, I know, no booze until I’m twenty-one. I don’t like the stuff anyway, and with Gia back, I don’t even want to deal with it. I just want to see if anything’s going on, maybe play some pinball.”

“I can’t believe pinball machines are making a comeback,” Patrick said. “We used to play those things for hours when we sat alert in the B-52s.” He was getting into reminiscing mode again, Brad thought — that was happening more and more the older he got. “Have fun. Be back by midnight.”

“It’ll be before then — I’ve got workouts in the morning, and then I want to fly the P210.”

“I’m flying Captain de Carteret and maybe Colonel Spara tomorrow, getting them checked out in the P210. It might have to wait.”

“They’re going to patrol with us?”

“Yes.”

“Cool. It’s like our own secret little Civil Air Patrol squadron.”

“ Secret being the key word here, Brad.”

“No problem. Okay. See ya.”

His next phone call was to Cassandra Renaldo. “It’s me,” he said when she answered.

“I’m so glad you called, baby,” she said. “It has been a long day. I’m still at work.”

“I’m at my dad’s hangar. I just got done flying.”

“You did? Flying at night?”

“I need to log at least ten hours and ten night landings for my check ride.”

“How do you feel?”

“Excellent. No problems.”

“You didn’t have to take any of that medicine I gave you?”

“Nope. I’ve got it with me, but I didn’t need it.”

“You should keep it with you, in case you have to fly in the back of the plane again.”

“Okay. Can I see you tonight?”

“I would love to see you, but I’m still at work.” She hesitated, then said, “But I want to see you so badly… I think it’ll be all right — no one else is here. Do you know which hangar is ours?”

“I think so. One of the hangars on the east side of the field with the big fence around it, right?”

“Yes. You’ll see my car parked in front of one of the hangars, outside the fence. If there’s another car parked there, I won’t be alone, so I’ll see you another time. But if there are no other cars, I’ll be all alone. The gate will be closed, but I’ll leave it partially open so you’ll just need to nudge it a few times to get the gate open. Same with the hangar door — just pull, then push a couple times, and it’ll open. C’mon in. I might be in the comm room, but I’ll be waiting for you, lover. Maybe we’ll do it right here on the… well, we’ll see. Bye.”

Man, Brad thought as he hung up, she had that sexy X-rated phone-porn voice that never failed to make the blood run right out of my brain. He had to be extra careful not to exceed the base speed limit as he headed over to the east side of the field.

He found her car in the parking lot outside the row of security hangars, and yes, it was by itself. It took more than a little nudge to get the gate open, but he wasn’t going to let it stop him. Same with the hangar door, but after putting his shoulder in it a little, it finally came open.

The hangar was dark except for a desk with several laptops on it, illuminated by desk lights. “Cassandra?” he called out. No reply. He went over to the desk. This was definitely her desk — he could smell her fragrance… or was that just chronic horniness and the lack of blood in his brain making him imagine it? “Cassandra, where are you?”

Brad decided to wait. He checked out the images on the laptops. There were electronic charts, diagrams of what looked like the Knights of the True Republic’s compound, and still photographs of people, obviously taken from very long distance. Each image was marked SECRET, but as far as he could tell, he didn’t see anything SECRET about any of—

Suddenly his arms were yanked behind his back so hard he thought they were going to rip off his torso, and his head was slammed down onto the desk so hard that his vision exploded into a field of stars. “Freeze! FBI!” he heard through the sudden roaring in his ears. “Don’t you move!” His hands were being twisted so hard that he thought they were going to pop off his wrists. His legs were kicked out behind him so even more pressure was on his face and head. He felt cold steel handcuffs being snapped onto his wrists, and then rough hands patting him down from head to foot.

“Ow! You’re hurting me!” he protested.

“Shut up!” someone yelled. “Do you have any weapons in your pockets? Any knives or needles?”

“No! Stop twisting my—”

“I said, shut up !” He felt his shirt being pulled out of his pants, and then rough hands searching his body right down to the skin. The guy then started going through his pockets, turning them inside out. “Got something,” he called out, before resuming his search inside Brad’s pants, then right against his crotch. Brad was then spun around and thrust into a chair, and the desk light shined right in his face, blinding him. He felt blood trickling out of his nose, and his shoulder felt dislocated. “Why did you break in here, McLanahan?” the guy shouted.

“I didn’t break in!”

“We got it all on surveillance cameras, McLanahan,” the guy yelled. “You forced open the outside gate, then forced open the hangar door. It’s all on video. It’s called ‘breaking and entering,’ McLanahan, and in a federal facility, it’s a federal crime. You could get five years in prison just for that. What are you doing here?” Brad said nothing. The guy slapped him on the side of his head so hard he almost fell off the chair. “ Answer me, you punk! What are you doing here?” Brad couldn’t tell them the truth — Cassandra would get fired for sure.

“Did you come in here to steal our computers?” the guy shouted. “That’s burglary, McLanahan — that’s another ten years in prison. And you came in here and viewed classified material — that’s another ten to fifteen years, along with about a million dollars in fines. You’re looking at some hard time, bub, and not in minimum security either. There will be some very big, very bad men who will be anxious to get to meet you up close and personal.” The man held up a tiny bag of white powder. “What the hell is this?” he shouted.

“Nothing!”

“What do you mean, nothing?” He handed it back to someone behind him and shouted again, “What is it?”

“It’s nothing. It’s airsickness medicine.”

“Airsickness medicine, huh? That’s a new one.” A few minutes later, he held up a tiny tube filled with blue liquid that was passed over to him by someone in the darkness. “This is a cobalt-thiocyanate test, McLanahan, and you just flunked it. The stuff in the bag we found on you is cocaine. So you broke in here to steal equipment to buy more coke, is that it, McLanahan?”

“No!” Brad shouted.

“You gonna tell me the stuff isn’t yours?”

“No… no, it’s mine, but it’s not cocaine, it’s airsickness medicine!”

“Who told you that?” Brad didn’t answer. “You’re a burglar, a liar, and a doper, McLanahan,” the guy said. “You’re going to go to prison for a very, very long time. I hope you get some good drug treatment while you’re rotting in a cell, you miserable little—”

“That’s enough, Brady,” a different voice interrupted. The desk light was turned away from his face, and some of the hangar lights were turned on so he could see better. When his eyes adjusted, he could see the head FBI agent seated in front of him. “Good evening, Mr. McLanahan. I’m Special Agent Philip Chastain, FBI. We’ve already met briefly, if you recall.” He turned. “Wipe his face off, Brady, you gave him a bloody nose. I hope you didn’t break it. And put those cuffs in front and loosen them — you’re making his hands turn purple.” The first agent roughly wiped his face with a damp towel, then took off one of the cuffs, brought his hands in front of him, then snapped the loose one back on.

“You’re in some serious trouble, Mr. McLanahan,” Chastain said in a quiet voice. “Agent Brady wasn’t lying about any of this: we’ve got the video of you breaking through the gate and the hangar door; we’ve got video of you checking out the computers; and the stuff in your pocket really is cocaine. We’ve got the entire search and cobalt thiocyanate test on video, so you can’t claim it was planted.” He inched a bit closer to Brad and lowered his voice: “I even know about you and Agent Renaldo of the Department of Homeland Security.” Brad’s head snapped up in surprise. “Yep, I’m afraid she’s going to be in some trouble, but not nearly as much as you are right now.”

“Cassandra wouldn’t give me cocaine,” Brad said, his voice strained and cracking.

“So it’s got to be yours.”

Brad lowered his head, then nodded. “It’s mine,” he lied.

“We thought so,” Chastain said. “Possession, sale weight… you might be able to get a break if this is your first offense, but even so, with all the other charges, you’re looking at serious federal prison time.” Brad hung his head, and his shoulders started to shake. “And Agent Cassandra Renaldo is still in trouble…” He paused for effect, then added in a quiet voice, almost a whisper: “If anyone else ever finds out about any of this.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in, but soon Brad raised his head. “Wha-what… ?”

“I’m in a position to offer you a deal, Brad,” Chastain said. “It’s just for right now, tonight only. If I pick up the phone to my office and tell them I’m bringing in a prisoner, no more deals will be possible with me. It’ll be yes or no, right here, right now. Do you understand?”

Brad nodded. “What’s the deal?” he asked.

“First of all, you are going to sign a contract,” Chastain said in a firm, measured voice. “You’re going to admit to everything you’ve done, and agree to do everything I tell you to do in exchange for me not pressing any charges against you or Agent Renaldo — conditionally. It’s a federal contract, countersigned by the U.S. attorney and a federal judge.” Brad’s face brightened. “You’re going to do some tasks for me. You will do them precisely as I tell you, and give me exactly the information I tell you to give me, exactly when I want it, with no excuses. If you fail to do any of this, you will be rearrested, formally charged, and put in jail to await trial.” Brad’s eyes flared when he heard the word jail, and Chastain noticed that right away. The agent produced a typewritten piece of paper with the FBI shield at the top — Brad was too scared to realize that the contract had already been drawn up. “Sign at the bottom.”

“What do you want me to do for you?”

“First, sign the contract, Brad,” Chastain said. “If you don’t, you’ll be placed under arrest and taken to my office in San Francisco tonight, in-processed, jailed, then taken in front of a federal judge and formally charged. You’re not a minor anymore, so your father won’t know where you’ve been taken until after you’ve been arraigned, which could take a couple days.” Brad’s face turned pale, and his mouth dropped open in shock. “By the time you’re released on bail, Agent Renaldo will be out of a job, and I’ll charge her with conspiracy and aiding and abetting several felonies, and put her in jail too. I’m sure we’ll find that she helped you get in here so you could steal the computers and classified materials, and gave you the cocaine as well.”

“No! She… she didn’t do anything …”

“That’s for a judge and jury to decide, Brad,” Chastain said evenly. “Unless you sign this contract, I’ll have no choice in the matter. You’ll be in jail, I can’t do anything more, and your life will change forever. Your dad won’t be able to help you.” Brad hesitated, trying to clear the cobwebs out of his head enough to think. Chastain waited a few seconds, then shook his head and looked over his shoulder. “Brady, cuff him in back again and read him his rights,” he said with a dismissive sigh. “Then go arrest Renaldo, and alert the office that we’ll be bringing in two prisoners tonight — separately. I’ll need the—”

“No, wait! I’ll sign it,” Brad said, and he snatched up the pen and scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page, with Agent Brady taking a photograph as he did it. “Okay, I agree. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t arrest Cassandra.”

“Good choice, Brad,” Chastain said. “Your future, and Agent Renaldo’s career, are still intact… as long as you do exactly what I tell you to do.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Simple,” Chastain said. “You will tell me everything your father does, where he goes, and whom he meets and talks with. Whenever possible, you will accompany him and tell me whom he meets with, where, and when.”

“My… my father…?”

“This is not open for debate or question, Brad,” Chastain said. “You do what I tell you to do, or you go to jail, period . Where he goes and whom he meets with; go with him whenever you can.” He gave Brad a card. “That’s my secure text-message and e-mail address. I expect a detailed report three times a day, or more. If I don’t get it, you’re going to jail, and all the evidence I have gets turned over to the U.S. attorney, along with Cassandra.” He motioned to Brady, who took his handcuffs off. “Now get out of here, don’t tell anyone about this, don’t ever see Renaldo again, and never come near this building again.”

Brad leaped out of the chair, stumbled, then started crawling for the hangar door, his legs unable to support his weight. Brady grabbed him by the back of his neck, carried him to the door, and tossed him outside. “So much for the tough football player,” he said when he returned, laughing. He theatrically sniffed near the desk. “Why, I think I smell a hint of scared-shitless piss over here.”

“He may be eighteen, but he’s just a kid,” Chastain said. “He’s been babied and pampered by his war-hero father his entire life.”

“He may be a boy, but he’s a very big boy,” Cassandra Renaldo said as she walked over to the others.

“Good job, Renaldo,” Chastain said. “Sorry to take away your new plaything, but it’s the best way to see if there’s any connection between the general, the Knights, and the Civil Air Patrol.”

“He was fun,” Renaldo said dismissively, lighting a cigarette, “but business is business. I still don’t think the general is up to anything, but young stud muffin Bradley will tell us.”

“What if he tells his father what’s happened?” Brady asked. “The general has some pretty powerful friends.”

“If he did, what’s he doing in Battle Mountain, Nevada?” Chastain said. “That’s only one of many questions I want answered, and I think the boy will get them for us.”

Thankfully no one was there when Brad got up. He dressed in workout clothes, had a light breakfast, then picked up his cell phone. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, big guy.”

“I’m going to practice. What are you doing?”

“I’m going to take Captain de Carteret up in the P210 this morning, fly some patrols and take more sensor images, then take Colonel Spara up later,” Patrick replied. “There’re thunderstorms forecast for this evening, so I don’t think we’ll be flying tonight. What time did you get in last night?”

“Ten-thirty.” Brad swallowed, then said, “I… I got into a little fight last night outside the bowling alley.”

“ What? A fight?”

“No big deal, just an argument over a stupid game,” Brad lied. “The guy claimed he put money in the machine I was playing on, but he didn’t, and I guess him and a friend waited for me outside.”

“Are you okay?”

“Just a few bruises. I’m still going to practice.”

“Did you report it to base security?”

“No. I… I kinda started it.”

“ ‘Started it’?”

“Look, Dad, it was dumb, and I got what I deserved. I’d rather forget about it.”

“Do you know the guys? Were they military?”

“I guess.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes.”

“Was alcohol involved, Brad?”

“No, Dad. I told you, I’m not drinking.”

“Stop by the office when you get done with practice and let me take a look.”

“I’m okay, Dad. I’m going to practice, and then I’m going to work.”

“I’ll come over and give you the Wrangler,” Patrick said. “I’ll take the scooter.”

“I’ll be fine, Dad. If I don’t feel well enough to ride to town, I’ll come over and switch. But I’m gonna be late.”

There was a long pause; then: “All right, I’ll see you tonight. Call if you don’t feel good. Be careful driving.”

“Okay.” Brad hung up, then composed a text message: FLT INSTRUCTING DECARTERET AND SPARA UNTIL DINNER to Chastain’s number. Then he put on a jacket, helmet, gloves, and reflective safety vest, looped his equipment bag over his aching shoulders, painfully got on his Genuine Buddy scooter, and headed off to the senior high school for football workout.

“What the heck happened to you?” Ron Spivey asked when Brad jogged over to the team. Brad’s face was badly bruised, his eyes were swollen, and he could hardly move his arms. “You get into a fight or something?”

“Couple of guys at the bowling alley,” Brad said.

“No shit,” Ron said. “You tell your dad?”

“Yeah.”

“I hope the other guys look worse than you do,” Ron said. “You okay to work out? We were going to do light pads today.”

“Red-shirt me,” Brad said.

Ron threw him a red pinnie from the equipment bag, indicating that none of the other players were allowed to block or tackle him during practice. “First time I’ve ever seen you red-shirted,” he said.

“First time I ever got beat up like that.”

“Do you know who they were?”

“GIs, Marines I think, but I never saw them before.”

“We should get a bunch of the guys and lay in wait for them .”

“Let’s just drop it,” Brad said, and they started their workout. Brad thought the ride over in the scooter was painful, but now he thought his arms were going to fall off as he started running. But soon the double dose of aspirin he took was kicking in, and he forgot about the pain.

It was the most difficult practice Brad ever remembered since he started playing football, but he made it through it. He limped back to the scooter and loaded up. He seriously thought about skipping work, but he needed the money. A couple more aspirins would probably take the edge off enough for him to make it through work. He started up the scooter, readjusted the equipment bag on his shoulder one more time to find a more comfortable position, headed out of the parking spot toward the exit…

… and before he could react, a car screeched backward out of its parking spot and crashed into the front of his scooter, traveling about ten miles an hour. Brad was thrown backward off the scooter from the weight of his equipment bag. The car kept on going, backing right over the scooter.

“Hey, asshole!” Ron Spivey shouted, running up to Brad. The car was about fifteen feet away, revving its engine. He saw two guys in the front seat, both wearing sunglasses, both with baseball caps. The guy in the passenger side was yelling something that Ron couldn’t understand, gesturing with his right hand like a knife blade at the driver as if he was stabbing him. “Someone call the cops!” Ron shouted, and threw his football helmet at the car, cracking the windshield. More players ran toward them, shouting. The car suddenly shifted into gear and roared out of the parking lot. “ Jesus, Brad, are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Brad said, holding his left leg.

“Stay down, Brad,” Ron said. “I’m calling 911.” He pulled out his cell phone. “Man, that guy was haulin’ out of that parking space! What in hell was he doing? And he didn’t have any license plates either!”

Brad felt a creaking and grinding when he tried to move his left leg, and the pain shot through his entire body all the way to the top of his head. “Shit, I hope it’s not broken,” he grunted through clenched teeth.

“It’s just not your day, hombre,” Ron said. “First you get beat up, and then you get run over. What’s next for you, pal?”

Brad didn’t even want to think about that .

Timothy Dobson walked into the hospital room, noting that there were no other persons in the room except Patrick and Brad. Patrick was seated on Brad’s bed beside him; Brad had his left leg slightly elevated in a temporary cast, his left arm also in a temporary cast, and his torso wrapped. Patrick saw Dobson enter, and his face immediately filled with concern. “Hello, General,” Dobson said. “Hi, Brad.”

“Tim? What’s going on?”

Dobson turned and locked the door. “How are you, Brad?” he asked.

“Okay.”

“He’s lucky — no broken bones, just sprains, bruises, and scrapes,” Patrick said. “They’re keeping him overnight for observation. We’re waiting for X-rays on internal injuries.” Dobson nodded. “What’s up, Tim? Do you have information on who hit Brad?”

“Not yet,” Dobson said. “We’ve got a good description of the car from witnesses, and we’re checking freeway, intersection, and security cameras. We’ll know something soon.” He looked at Brad. “Any idea who might have done this, Brad? Ever seen the car before?”

“No.”

Dobson nodded, a very somber look on his face. “While you were getting X-rays, Brad, your dad told me about getting beat up at the bowling alley last night.” Brad looked down at his hands. “I asked around, thinking the same guys that ran you over might have beat you up… but no one saw you at the bowling alley last night.”

“Brad?” Patrick asked. “Why the story? Where were you last night?” Brad said nothing. “I said: Where were you?” He was getting angrier by the moment. “Damn it, Brad answer me! What the hell is going on?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why the hell not?” But Brad only kept his eyes averted. Patrick turned to Dobson. “Well?”

“Maybe this is between you two, sir.”

“Where was he, Dobson?”

The agent hesitated for a moment, then said, “We tracked his cell-phone signals from your hangar… to the hangar the FBI is using on the base.”

“What?” Patrick exclaimed. He whirled back to stare in astonishment at his son. “Why in hell would you go there?” Still no answer. “Damn it, Brad, I’d rather hear it from you than from Mr. Dobson, but I am going to hear what happened, one way or another. Were you arrested? What were you doing there?” No answer. Patrick jumped to his feet and yelled, “Answer me, damn it!”

“I was told not to tell you,” Brad said. “They told me I’d be arrested and taken to jail in San Francisco if I told you.”

“ Jail? What are you talking about? Told me what?”

Brad sniffed away a silent sob. Patrick knotted his fists, fighting to keep his anger in check. He whirled back to Dobson. “Well?”

“His cell-phone records have a call last night to Special Agent Cassandra Renaldo from Homeland Security.”

“ Renaldo? You were going to meet Renaldo? What for?” Brad didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to — the whole thing was becoming clear to Patrick now. “Jesus, Brad, you were seeing Renaldo?” Brad nodded. “But you didn’t see her last night, did you?” Brad started to cry, his shoulders shaking. “Chastain and Brady? They did this to you?” His son was sobbing, and Patrick’s heart broke, spilling red-hot acidic fury through his veins. “What did they do to you?”

“They thought I broke into the hangar and was going to steal their computers,” Brad said through the sobs. “They handcuffed me and searched me. Then they found the airsickness medicine Cassandra gave me and told me it was cocaine.” Patrick’s hands flew up to his eyes in horror. “They told me if I didn’t do as they said, they were going to arrest me and take me to jail in San Francisco, and you wouldn’t know where I was for days. They said I’d go to prison for a long time.”

Patrick sat back down on the bed and hugged his son, letting him weep for several long moments. “What did they tell you to do, Brad?” he finally asked.

“They… they told me to tell them what you were doing,” Brad said. “I was supposed to spy on you. I didn’t want to, Dad, but I didn’t want to go to prison, and I didn’t want Cassandra to get into trouble.”

“It’s okay, Brad, it’s okay,” Patrick said. “You’re not going to prison.”

“I didn’t break into the hangar,” Brad said. “I didn’t try to burglarize the hangar. And it wasn’t cocaine, I swear!”

“I said don’t worry, Brad,” Patrick said. “Don’t worry about Chastain, Renaldo, or Brady. They’re going to be gone from here shortly, and you won’t have to worry about them again.”

“Cassandra?” Brad looked up at his father. “She… she was in on it, wasn’t she? She didn’t like me — it was all a setup to get me to spy on you.” He started to cry again. “Why am I such a dork, Dad?” he said, burying his face into Patrick’s chest. “I don’t know crap about anything !”

“It’s not your fault, big guy,” Patrick said, holding his son closely again. “Brad, there are people out there who just victimize other people, take advantage of them for their own purposes, no matter how badly it hurts others. We have to learn to watch out for people like that and stop them whenever we can.” He took a deep breath, then said, “I know I wasn’t around for you much when I was in the Air Force and working outside, Brad, and even after we moved here, I wasn’t here for you as much as I should have been. I was pretending I was still in the Air Force, flying Civil Air Patrol and Angel Flight West missions, when what I should have been doing is being your dad and teaching you about scumbags like Chastain, Brady, and Renaldo. All that is going to change.”

He stood up, touched Brad’s face, then laid him back on his pillow. To Dobson, he said, “Can you arrange protection for Brad, Tim?”

“U.S. Marshals should be arriving in a few hours,” Dobson said. “I can stay with him until they get here. The vice president wants to move him to—”

“We’re not leaving,” Patrick said. “We’re going hunting.” He pulled out his cell phone and started making calls.

Brady and Renaldo were seated at the desk in the FBI hangar, watching the latest images on their laptops being transmitted from the FBI agents conducting video and photographic surveillance of the Knights of the True Republic’s compound; Chastain was in the communications room taking a nap. Brady heard a rattle on the main hangar door. “What was that?” he asked.

“Sounds like the thunderstorms are kicking up,” Renaldo said. “We’re supposed to get some big ones tonight.”

“These are nothing,” Brady said. “When I was assigned to the Dallas office, we’d get every possible kind of storm — snow, hurricanes, tornadoes, and these huge towering thunderstorms that would hang around for—”

Suddenly they heard the screeching ear-shattering sound of ripping metal, and the two flew to their feet and turned toward the hangar door. A huge twenty-foot-high seam of torn metal opened up right in the center of the hangar door, and like a pair of curtains being opened, the metal seam burst apart… and the Cybernetic Infantry Device robot stepped through the newly created opening as easily as a child walking through the curtain onto the stage at a kindergarten recital.

“What the hell are you doing?” Brady shouted. “Who is that in there?”

The robot rushed forward with incredible speed. As Brady and Renaldo scrambled to get out of its way, it reached out, put its armored hands on either side of the desk, and brought its hands together. The desk and computers were squished together into one lump in a shower of sparks and flying wood and metal. It then grabbed Brady and Renaldo by the throat and lifted them off their feet.

“What’s going on in here?” Philip Chastain thundered, running from the comm room. “What’s that thing doing in here? It’s tearing the place apart!”

At that instant the side hangar door flew off its hinges and sailed across the hangar like a leaf tossed about in a hurricane, and a man in a gray outfit whom Chastain had never seen before, with a multifaceted helmet and devices on his waist, stepped through the opening. He walked toward Chastain. The special agent drew a semiautomatic pistol and fired three times at him, but the man kept on coming. Chastain kept on firing until the pistol was empty, but the figure still advanced. It appeared as if it was going to walk right past him, but instead it reached around behind Chastain’s neck, picked him up, and carried him over to the CID, suspending him two feet off the hangar floor. Both figures stood with their struggling prisoners, facing the destroyed hangar door…

… as Patrick McLanahan stepped through the newly created opening.

“McLanahan!” Chastain grunted through the pressure on his neck. The others were desperately trying to chin themselves up the best they could to keep from being strangled. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Issuing you a warning, Chastain,” Patrick said. He walked up to Chastain, and the armored figure lowered him down so they were face-to-face. “Your operation here is at an end. You are going to leave this state, or you’re going to die.”

“ Die? You’re threatening to kill me ? Are you crazy ? I’ll see you’re put in prison for the rest of your life!”

“I don’t think so, folks,” Patrick said. The Tin Man commando squeezed Chastain’s neck a little tighter, which made his mouth open and his tongue protrude like a drowning victim gasping for air. Patrick shoved a tiny capsule into his mouth, and when the Tin Man relaxed his hold on his neck, Chastain involuntarily swallowed the capsule when he took a gulp of air. Patrick did the same with Brady and Renaldo.

“What the hell was that, McLanahan?” Chastain shouted. “Are you poisoning us?”

“I gave you each a nanotransponder,” Patrick said. “It’s the same capsule given to legal U.S. guest workers. I can track your position at any time, and you can’t stop it, because your body will be filled with microscopic electronic transmitters that will report your position as long as you’re alive.” He stepped closer to Chastain. “You are going to leave Nevada and terminate your surveillance of the Knights’ compound.”

“Like hell I will!” Chastain shouted. “I have an operation under way—”

“And you will cancel it as of tonight,” Patrick said. “All of your agents will move out of Nevada. If anyone asks, you will tell them that the Knights are not a threat and you will conduct your surveillance elsewhere.”

“Like hell I will!”

“If you don’t, Agent Chastain, I will kill you, and I will kill Brady and Renaldo too,” Patrick said simply. “They will eventually find your decomposing bodies in the desert, perhaps months, maybe years from now, or maybe never. The FBI may eventually trace the murders to me, but by then you will be long dead.”

Patrick moved to within a breath’s distance from Chastain. “You touched my son, you son of a bitch, and you threatened him, and you hit him,” he said, his eyes wide with rage, a vein in his temple pulsing with fury. “I should kill you right now, just for that. I’m within a red cunt hair’s breadth of ordering the Tin Man to scrunch you up into a tiny round red ball of goo and drop-kick you across to the other side of the base. I’ll gladly trade ten years in prison for the privilege of watching him do that — and, I assure you, he’s done it before, with great enthusiasm, for a lot less motivation than this. Or, I could just take the videos of you and my son you claim to have to the U.S. attorney, and see what would happen to you. I’d put enough pressure on him and the attorney general to fire you, maybe even bring you up on criminal charges.

“But I’m not going to do any of that, Chastain,” Patrick went on. “I prefer to deal with you three directly. It’s simple: you leave the state and leave me and my son alone, forever, or we’ll be back — and it won’t be as pleasant for you as it is right now.”

Patrick nodded to the CID and the Tin Man, and the three agents were dropped to the floor. “You wouldn’t kill anyone,” Chastain croaked hoarsely, rubbing his neck. “You don’t have the guts.”

“I wouldn’t kill you tonight, Chastain,” Patrick said. “But if you three aren’t out of the state immediately, or if you do anything whatsoever to me or my son, I will track you down. You’ll go to sleep one night and wake up just long enough to realize I’m standing over you, and then that’ll be that. I promise you.”

“You’re full of shit, McLanahan,” Brady said.

The Tin Man reached out and tapped Brady on the shoulder with two fingers, but Brady’s body reacted as if he had been hit by a sledgehammer. “Aaaughh!” he screamed. “What the… shit, I think you broke my damned shoulder !”

The Tin Man picked up Brady by the neck, shook him, and watched as he cringed in pain. “The general has killed his enemies face-to-face many times before, I assure you,” the Tin Man said in his electronically synthesized voice. “But if he ever hesitated to do it, even for a split second, I’d gladly do it for him — and not with this getup on either.” He dropped the agent back to the hangar floor, where he writhed and whimpered in pain.

“What’s it going to be, Chastain?” Patrick asked.

“You cowardly bastard,” Chastain cried. “You bring your high-tech goons in here to torture and threaten us — you don’t have the balls to do it yourself.” He jabbed a finger at Patrick. “I’m not done with you, mister. I’ll find a way to come after you, and I’m not going to be behind a badge either.” He turned and walked toward the side door, leaving Renaldo to help Brady.

“You had me convinced,” Brigadier-General Kurt Givens said after he watched the three agents leave. Jason Richter and Jon Masters were beside him. “But I think you’ve made yourself a pretty powerful enemy. I’ve got security forces escorting them off the base. What do you intend to do now?”

“Make sure Chastain and the FBI leave,” Patrick said, “then resume our searches of the area. There are other extremist groups out there, and I want to get images and movement history on as many as I can.”

“You must be made out of money, my friend,” Kurt said.

“I’m borrowing it from a friend,” Patrick admitted, nodding to Jon, “and I’ll figure out a way to repay him — eventually.” To Jon, he said, “Can you bring some weapon packs and electromagnetic rifles in for the CID and Tin Man?”

“How many do you want, Patrick?” Jon asked.

“I didn’t hear any of that, boys,” Kurt said. “Try not to rip up any more of my hangars tonight, okay?” He looked up at the Cybernetic Infantry Device towering over him. “Put the doors back together, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” the CID replied in its electronic voice. The CID and the Tin Man got to work repairing the hangar doors, pinching and squeezing the metal back into a sort of solid surface and using their fingers like rivet guns to hang the side door back on its hinges. The CID unit assumed its dismount position, and Charlie Turlock climbed out. “Man, that was fun!” she exclaimed.

“Beating FBI agents up for personal reasons is not what the CID is made for, Charlie,” Jason Richter said. “It belongs to the U.S. Army and is loaned to the FBI.”

“They haven’t been doing a rip-roaring job with them so far, Jason,” Charlie pointed out.

“The general seems to feel the CID is his personal property,” Jason said, addressing Patrick indirectly. “I have to assure him, he’s wrong.”

Patrick ignored him. “Charlie’s right: we need a better approach to this Knights of the True Republic extremist situation than what the FBI has been pursuing,” he said. “We’re still going to find and track them, but we don’t have the authority to arrest or kill them, and there doesn’t seem to be any local law enforcement willing or able to help. And we have to organize our group to start going over all the sensor images we’ve collected so far. I suggest we get some rest, then meet tomorrow morning to discuss a plan of action.”

As they all turned to depart, Patrick said to Richter: “One moment, Colonel.” Jason went back, looking directly at Patrick, his hands behind his back in an attitude that was both respectful and dismissive. “Have I done something to tick you off, Colonel?” Patrick asked.

“With all due respect, sir: I object to the way you take things and personnel and act as you please, as if you answer to no other authority but your own,” Jason said as matter-of-factly as if he were describing a sunny day. “Dr. Masters’s sensors and computers; the CID and Tin Man; Charlie Turlock and Macomber; and all of those Civil Air Patrol people — you treat them as if they’ve been assigned to you, and you have an unlimited budget to direct them to do anything you wish. And you literally tortured and terrorized those federal agents with the CID and Tin Man, not to mention threatening their lives. I’m just trying to decide if I have a responsibility and duty to report you to someone so a proper authority can evaluate your actions — and stop you.”

Patrick thought for a moment, matching Jason’s direct glare; then: “Tell me, Colonel: Where do you live?”

“I’m currently assigned to the Army Infantry Transformational BattleLab at—”

“No, I mean, where’s your hometown?”

Richter blinked at the question. “I’m from western Pennsylvania, General.”

“Still no mention of a hometown,” Patrick observed. “I think that’s the key to why you don’t understand what I’m trying to do, Colonel: you don’t seem to have a hometown.”

“I’m in the U.S. Army, General,” Jason said. “I travel two hundred days a year to bases and laboratories all over the world; I visit a half-dozen defense contractors and engineering firms a month; and the rest of the time I’m working in my lab a minimum of twelve hours a day.”

“How about your folks?”

“They live near Wilmington, North Carolina, surrounded by kids and grandkids,” Jason said. “I’ve never been there.”

“Interesting. So you don’t really have a home, do you?” Jason didn’t respond. “But if Fort Polk was attacked by extremists, you’d certainly defend it, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course, sir. That’s obvious. What’s your point?”

“And if there were no military police when the attack began, you’d certainly pick up a gun and do your best to fight off the attackers, right?”

“Yes.”

“You’d even climb aboard a Cybernetic Infantry Device and use it to defend the base, correct? Maybe even put on a weapon backpack if you felt you needed it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Even if the Army didn’t order you to do anything?” Patrick asked. “Even if the military police were already responding?”

Jason thought for a moment; then: “If the CID could get the job done and prevent loss of life and property… yes, sir, I would. It would be crazy to have a weapon system like that and not use it in a crisis.”

“But the CID doesn’t belong to you,” Patrick pointed out. “You have access to it, but you don’t own it.” Again, Jason said nothing. “So what’s the difference between you and me, Colonel? Battle Mountain is my home. I live on this base, and my son goes to school in town, and my friends and Civil Air Patrol squadron mates live all throughout this area. I’d certainly do all I could to defend my home, same as you — even convince my neighbors to join me to do whatever we could to stop the bad guys.”

Jason still had not responded, so Patrick took a step toward him. “So get your head out of your ass and get with the program, Colonel,” he snapped. “The situation here is real, and it’s serious. It’s not someone else’s problem — it’s our problem.

“Now, if you want, you can call anyone you feel you need to call, and I’ll respond in the same way,” Patrick went on. “You can take the CID and leave, and I’ll find a way to get the job done without it. But if it’s here, I’m going to use it, because I can . And I’m not going to let you or anyone else short of the president of the United States stop me, and I might even argue with him over it. Is that clear?”

Jason stared back at Patrick, matching his determined glare — but after a few moments, he nodded. “Yes, General, it’s clear.”

“Good. Now, why don’t you meet with us in my office in the morning and suggest ways we can best utilize the CID. If you don’t care to do that, then load up the CID and get the hell out of my face so I can do the job.”

Patrick walked into the Civil Air Patrol squadron conference room after flying another sensor shift around the area. Six cadets were seated at the table, using laptop computers and trackballs, with cans of soda or energy drinks ready at hand. On the whiteboard at the head of the room there were drawings of various things to watch for: tire tracks, disturbed earth, days-old campfires, and patterns of debris or discarded objects.

Brad was also there, in front of his laptop, acting as the second senior required in any cadet formation. “How’s it going, big guy?” Patrick asked his son.

“Great,” Brad said. “I’ve got some interesting observations.”

“How do you feel?” Patrick asked.

“I feel fine — good enough to fly some scans.” The bruises on his face had all but gone away, but Patrick could see him still limping in the house when he thought his father wasn’t watching.

“It’s not my call, Brad — it’s the flight doc’s,” Patrick said. “We’ll get you flying again soonest. Until then, I appreciate you helping out here.”

“Uncle Jon’s sensors and analysis technology stuff is pretty cool,” Brad admitted, “but I want to fly, Dad. I’m a pilot. Maybe not a licensed pilot yet, but I want to fly.”

“And you will, big guy,” Patrick said, “when the doc says so.” But he was not encouraging a return to flying status one bit, and he’d told the doctor so.

“How was flying?”

“Good,” Patrick said. “We’ve got six pilots trained to fly the P21 °Centurion and C-172 Skyhawk. You’ll be number seven as soon as the flight doc clears you. Bill Barton’s C-182 Skylane is being fitted with Sky Masters, Inc.’s sensors, so we’ll have three planes. Dave Preston is interested in having his G36 Bonanza fitted too.” He motioned to the images on Brad’s laptop. “What are you looking at that’s so interesting?”

“I’ve been assigned to scan the Knights’ compound,” Brad said, “and there seems to be a lot of people congregating in the main compound — a lot more than usual, outside of their prayer sessions and meetings. Also, I think the irrigation system on a couple of their crop circles has gone out. Wonder what’s going on.”

“I don’t know,” Patrick said, “but that doesn’t sound good. Rob Spara and David Bellville have been trying to call the leaders of the group, but there’s been no answer. What are you up to the rest of the day?”

“Since you don’t want me to go to practice or work, and I can’t fly yet, I’m going to stay here if they need me,” Brad said. “Might as well make myself useful.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “Hey, Dad, mind if I ask Colonel Richter and Miss Turlock to check me out in the CID?”

“You want to pilot the robot?” Patrick asked. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Brad admitted. “It’s still here, right?” Patrick nodded. “And nobody’s using it. So I thought I’d give it a try. If I can’t fly the Centurion, I might as well learn how to pilot the robot.”

Patrick hesitated, but only for a moment. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “Sure. I’ll call Colonel Richter and ask him — it’s not my device, but his — and I’ll call Charlie to see if she’d be willing.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Have fun,” Patrick said. “I’m going to fly the Centurion tonight, if the weather holds. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He went over to an older gentleman who was walking around the table, ready to help when needed, and shook hands with him. “How’s it going, Todd?” he asked.

“Slicker’n goose snot, General,” Todd Bishop said happily. Even though he was age eighty-one, Todd was one of the more active seniors in the squadron, serving in the incident command center, the comm trailer, and as a glider-flight instructor and cadet-orientation pilot. “Those sensors are flippin’ amazing. I caught a glimpse of one of the cadets reading a newspaper through someone’s window! I nixed that right away, of course — you know he wasn’t just searchin’ for newspaper headlines — but I’m amazed we can do that.”

Patrick watched one of the fifteen-year-old female cadets named Roxanne study the images taken yesterday. She started with a wide-angle picture of an area about thirty miles southeast of the base, then punched a function key. Immediately there was a series of flashing red icons. She started at the upper-left corner of the screen, rolled the cursor over the icon, and pressed a button. The screen zoomed in to reveal a dirt road stretching from a ranch house westward until it intersected a paved road, which eventually led north to the town of Crescent Valley. “What have you got, Roxanne?” Patrick asked.

“A lot of new activity on this dirt road in the past few days, sir,” she explained, taking a sip of Red Bull. “This is the Kellerman ranch, except Mr. Fitzgerald says it’s been vacant for quite a while. I’ve looked at the house, and it doesn’t seem to be vandalized or anything.”

“Any patterns in the activity?” Patrick asked. “Types of vehicles, or when they come or go?”

“Not really, sir,” Roxanne replied. She hit another function key, and the image changed slightly. “This is real time. Most of the activity happens at night, but it’s everything from motorbikes to ATVs to pickups. No one seems to stay very long. It’s like they’re visiting or going out there to get something, but I don’t see any activity in the house otherwise. The corrals and barns are empty too.”

“So what do you think, Roxanne?” Patrick asked.

She thought for a moment, then replied, “They might be kids just joyriding, or maybe someone looking for the Kellermans — I don’t see any sign of a crime being committed. We should call the sheriff’s office to take a look on the ground. It’d be best if they were there between eleven P. M. and two A. M., but I don’t think the sheriff will put somebody out there for that long, on the off chance of catching someone out there.”

Patrick nodded, impressed with her analysis and recommendation. “I’ll keep on bugging the sheriff’s department,” he said, “but they don’t seem too interested in what we’re seeing.” He nodded at her energy drink. “How long have you been here today, Roxanne?”

“Since eight.”

“Five hours already?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when do you usually quit?”

“I have to be back home by four so I can finish feeding the animals and cleaning out the stables and pens by six,” she said. “Dad always wants dinner right at six.”

“What do your folks say about all this?”

“I don’t think they care much,” Roxanne said. “As long as I do my chores and stay out of trouble, they think it’s okay.”

“What do they think of you analyzing drone imagery?”

“I don’t think they know, or if they do, they don’t care,” she said. “I tell them I’m going to the squadron to work with you, and they just say, ‘Have fun.’ ”

“And how do you like it?”

“I think it’s neat,” Roxanne replied. “Mr. Bishop has made it a sort of contest: whoever turns in the most detailed analyses wins a Baskin-Robbins gift certificate. The boys think they can win just because they play more video games than girls, but their reports are nothing but junk — they’re just trying to turn in the most reports.”

That was interesting, Patrick thought: it wasn’t work, but a game. “Thanks for explaining all this, Roxanne,” he said. “Good work. Carry on.”

“Okay,” Roxanne replied, but she was already twirling the trackball and fixating on the next red blinking icon, ignoring the senior beside her.

He scanned around the room. “Hey, you got Ralph Markham here too?” he remarked to Brad.

“The kid’s a computer freak, Dad,” Brad said. “Uncle Jon hardly had to explain how to work anything — he just sat in front of the computer and started working. He’s been here since seven A. M. He actually found a crash site that hadn’t been found before. Mr. Fitzgerald went out there and found a victim that had been reported missing for six years . Do you believe it?”

“Ralph’s a natural Civil Air Patrol guy, that’s for sure,” Patrick said. He went over to the boy’s workstation. “Hi, Ralph.” Ralph immediately tried to shoot to his feet, but Patrick held up a hand to stop him. “Carry on, Ralph. This isn’t Civil Air Patrol, just us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are you looking at?”

“Las Vegas grids six and seven, sir,” Ralph replied. “Right on the border between central Lander and Eureka Counties.”

“About as far south as the patrols fly so far,” Patrick observed. “Anything happening?” He looked at Ralph’s screen. “A lot of flashing icons in this area.”

“Those are mines, sir,” Ralph said. “A lot of trucks going in and out.” He hit some function keys and the display changed. “We don’t have a plane in that area right now, so this isn’t real time, but less than an hour old, from your last patrol sortie.” It was a huge terraced strip mine, probably a mile in diameter and hundreds of feet deep.

“That’s one of Judah Andorsen’s mines,” a voice said next to him. It was Michael Fitzgerald, wearing what appeared to be deer-hunting clothing. “That might be Freedom-7. They all look alike to me.” He shook hands with Patrick. “How are you, sir?”

“Very good, Fid. What’s happening?”

“Still looking for work,” Fitzgerald said. “I was hoping there was something here on the base.”

“I heard you got laid off. Sorry. I can check with the base personnel office. I heard they were going to put a bunch of the trailers on foundations to make them more permanent. Sound good?”

“If it pays cash money, Patrick, I’ll pick up the trailers with my bare hands,” Fitzgerald said. “Thank you, General.” He nodded toward the screens. “How’s the surveillance going?”

“Pretty good. Congrats on making that find the other day.”

“The kids made the find — I just walked to where they told me,” Fitzgerald said. “Any more targets you need checked out? Roxanne mentioned the Kellerman ranch. You need that scoped out?”

“If the sheriff won’t send anyone, yes, I might have you go on out there,” Patrick said. “It certainly looks suspicious.” Just then he was alerted to an incoming phone call via his intraocular monitor, and he touched his left ear to answer the call. He spoke just a few words, then logged off. “Ralph’s mom is at the front gate, asking — no, demanding — she be let in. I’m going to escort her in.”

Several minutes later, Ralph’s mom, Amanda, was led into the squadron conference room. She went directly over to Ralph. “Hi, Mom,” Ralph greeted her. “I’m helping with—”

“Helping with what, Ralph?” she demanded. She looked at the images on the laptop, her eyes getting bigger and bigger by the second. “So it’s true — you are spying on people in Lander County?”

“I’m not spying, Mom,” Ralph said. “We’re conducting surveillance of the area around Battle Mountain, looking for—”

“I don’t care what the military propaganda says you’re doing, Ralph — what you are doing is spying on American citizens.” She whirled on Patrick. “I did not sign Ralph up for Civil Air Patrol to spy on fellow American citizens, General McLanahan,” she said angrily. “How can you ask children to do such a thing?”

“Mrs. Markham, first and foremost: this is not a Civil Air Patrol activity,” Patrick said. “We asked the cadets if they wanted to participate, but this is not authorized or sanctioned by the Civil Air Patrol. Secondly: this is not spying on anyone in particular, but performing surveillance over large areas of Lander, Humboldt, Pershing, Eureka, and Elko Counties, looking for evidence of terrorist and extremist activity. All we do is watch and report. Consider it a high-tech neighborhood watch program.”

“With all due respect, General… are you serious ?” Amanda asked. “This sounds like something out of Nazi Germany in the 1930s — asking kids to inform on their Jew neighbors and report them to the Gestapo so they could be rounded up for extermination.”

“Ma’am, it’s nothing like that at all,” Fitzgerald said. “These are private individuals helping their community by staying on watch. You should be thanking them.”

“ Thanking them?” the woman asked incredulously. “This… this is espionage, against fellow Americans! This is an invasion of privacy! My son will have absolutely no part of this! Ralph, we’re leaving .”

“But, Mom, I still have two grids to analyze before—”

“Ralph, we’re leaving, now .” And with that, Amanda Markham towed her son out of the conference room.

Patrick escorted Amanda back to the front gate, then returned to the squadron. “Well, that’s the second parent to pull their kid out just this morning,” he said, “and the tenth since we started. The word’s definitely getting around, and it’s not good. I wonder how these folks are finding out about what we’re doing? We’re certainly not advertising it, especially since we’re using improperly modified airplanes.”

“We’ll do the best we can with what we got, General,” Todd Bishop said. “But Ralph was one of our best. The kid’s got a sixth sense.”

“Some folks just got no clue,” Fitzgerald grumbled. “They expect the government to wet-nurse them, and the citizens should do nothing but roll over and play dead. Well, she’s in for a rude awakening.” He shook hands with Patrick. “Thanks again for checking on jobs for me, General. Much appreciated. Let me know about the Kellerman ranch — I’ve been there many times before.” And he lumbered off.

Patrick thought for a few moments, then returned to Brad’s workstation. “Wow, was Mrs. Markham mad,” Brad said. “I can call Ron and see if he can take over.”

“Okay,” Patrick said. He studied Brad’s monitor. “So do you have the Knights’ defensive positions mapped out?”

“Sure — they’re updated on every flight,” Brad replied. “Couple guys in each nest, four-hour rotating shifts, and they change nests on every shift. We’ve even seen kids man those nests. But the big problem is not the machine-gun nests but those guys on the pickups with the heavier machine guns. They’re mobile, they’re fast, and they do roving patrols that change constantly—”

“And they’re deadly,” Patrick said. He thought for another moment, then spoke into his subcutaneous transceiver: “Whack? Charlie? Patrick here. Got a few minutes?… Yes, over at the squadron, where we set up the surveillance workstations. Thanks, guys.” To Brad, he said, “I’m going to have Mr. Macomber and Miss Turlock look at what you have. Would you mind explaining your observations to them when they get here?”

“Sure, Dad. Why?”

“I think it’s time to have a talk with the Knights of the True Republic,” Patrick said. “The FBI set a confrontational tone with the Knights from day one, and we blindly followed along when we set up our own surveillance. I think it’s time for that to change.”

A few hours later, Ron Spivey walked into the squadron conference room. Brad was the only one using the laptops. “Hey, bro,” Brad greeted him. “Where have you been? I only see you at practice these days. We could use some help around here.”

“Working,” Ron said wearily. “I gotta leave for the convenience store in Elko in a few minutes. I’m doing a twelve-hour shift there tonight.”

“You sure are busting your hump these days.”

“Yeah. I’m kinda glad they suspended the squadron’s activities — gives me a little time for some rest.” He sat beside Brad, but he didn’t look at the laptop’s screen. After several long moments he said, “Brad?”

“Yeah?”

Ron was silent until Brad looked at him, then said, “Marina’s pregnant.”

“What?”

Ron nodded. “We… actually found out a couple months ago,” he said in a quiet voice, “but I wanted a paternity test done. We just found out today: chances are, it’s mine. They can’t tell you positively, only give you a percentage, but it’s a pretty high percentage.” He sighed, then said, “I guess I knew it was mine all along. Marina’s been faithful. Me, not so much.”

“Is this why you’ve been working your ass off on a dozen different jobs?”

Ron nodded, then looked up at Brad. “Marina wants to keep it,” he said, the fear evident in his voice. “She told her parents — they noticed her morning sickness — and they freaked, and now my mom knows. I haven’t spoken to her yet, but she calls me every ten minutes. What the hell am I going to do, Brad?”

“Sounds to me like you’ve already got a plan of action, bro — you’re working your butt off, saving money for when the baby comes.” He looked at his friend carefully. “That is what you’re doing, right?”

“Well, of course it is, ass-wipe,” Ron shot back. “What’d you think I was going to do — skip town?”

“It had crossed my mind,” Brad said. He saw the hurt and disbelief on Ron’s face. “Oh, give me a break, jerk-off. I see you with a different girl almost every day. You may be with Marina most of the time, but you can’t say you’re exclusive.”

Ron’s face turned crestfallen, then he lowered his head in shame. “I guess I have been a jerk,” he said. “Marina didn’t sleep around — that was me.”

“Well, maybe the fickle finger of fate pointed you in the right direction after all.”

“The what?”

“Forget it — old TV-show bit. What I’m saying is: maybe out of all the chicks you aimed your shotgun at, the right one got bagged.”

That seemed to brighten Ron’s entire demeanor for the first time in many days. “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” he said. He actually smiled. “Did you know Marina is half Greek and half Apache Indian? Can you imagine a Greek woman going at it with an Apache? She sure is a wildcat in the sack, that’s for sure. And she can actually cook — not just reheat takeout, but make meals out of just random stuff in the cabinets. She wants to go to nursing school.” He fell silent. “Shit, I guess a football college scholarship is out the window.”

“You never know,” Brad said. “Like they say: when one door closes, another opens.”

Ron looked at him in mock disgust. “You been beating off while watching some chick flick again?” Brad laughed. Ron shrugged, still smiling. “Yeah, maybe that’s true. I always thought Marina was just another lay — you know, date the high school football captain, trading sex for cash. But she actually saved the money I gave her, and she used some of it to pay for her doctor’s bills — she didn’t blow it on clothes and stuff. All this time I thought she was just this moody, clingy bitch, when it turns out she was nesting, trying to straighten me out.” He was silent for a moment, then looked at his watch. “I gotta hit the road.”

Brad smacked his friend on the back as hard as he dared. “Congrats, you SOB. You’re going to be a dad. And you’ve actually got a plan.”

“I wouldn’t go giving me too much credit,” Ron said, shrugging off the sting in his back. “My dad ran out on my mom a long time ago, and I know how tough it’s been for her to raise two sons alone. I’d hate to do that to some little kid of mine.” He shook hands with Brad. “Thanks for listening, bro.”

“Sure. See you at practice.”

He watched Ron’s face fall. “I… I’m not so sure,” he said. “I got a chance for a full-time job at the overnight delivery company warehouse in Elko. I might drop out of high school after I turn eighteen in a couple months.”

Brad was thunderstruck. “Are you sure you want to do that, Ron?”

Ron shrugged. “I hate school, Brad, you know that — the only reason I’m there is for football and girls,” he said. “At the company I’ll get a decent salary, medical and dental, a pension, and they’ll help with getting a GED and an online bachelor’s degree. After a year I could become a manager. And I actually like working there. I won’t just be loading and unloading short-haul planes, but working toward a real career in the express shipping industry.” He fell silent, then nodded. “I think it’s the right thing to do.”

Brad shook his head. “Man, you’re freaking me out here, dude,” he said. “You’re turning into… like, a regular guy, right before my very eyes.”

“Yeah, I know — it’s hard for guys like me to be seen as anything else but an Adonis to you mere mortals.” They both laughed at that one. “I’ll see you soon, bro.”

“Congrats again… Dad.”

Ron nodded his thanks and left.