A Time for Patriots

Nine

Patrick’s desktop computer monitor showed the seal of the president of the United States. “Hold for the president, please,” the White House operator said after she had initiated the secure videoconference. A few moments later, Patrick saw President Ken Phoenix, seated at his desk in the private study next to the Oval Office. Beside him was Vice President Ann Page, smiling warmly. “Patrick, how are you, buddy?”

“Fine, Mr. President. Good to see you. You too, Madam Vice President.”

“It’s been too long, Patrick.” His expression turned serious. “I’ll get right down to it, Patrick: I received a very serious accusation from the Justice Department this morning, something dealing with the FBI agents leading the surveillance operation against the extremists near you.”

“The accusations are true, sir.”

Phoenix’s eyes widened in surprise. “You threatened three federal agents with death ?”

“Yes, sir.”

Phoenix sat back in his chair in complete shock. “The attorney general is screaming mad, Patrick. You used the CID robot and a Tin Man to threaten those agents with death? Why would you do something like that?”

“The agent from Homeland Security seduced Brad and lured him into a trap with the FBI,” Patrick explained, “and then the FBI agents set up Brad so they could get him to inform on me. I don’t suppose they mentioned any of that.”

The president rubbed his temples. “Has the entire damned world gone mad?” he murmured. “Why would the FBI want to spy on you?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“They said you’ve been uncooperative ever since violating no-fly airspace a while back.”

“My attorney advised me not to answer any questions.”

“Attorney General Horton told you that?”

“Yes, sir.”

The president leaned forward and looked directly into the camera on his desktop computer. “Listen to me carefully, General,” he said. “You will rescind this… this death threat immediately, and you will guarantee to me that those agents have nothing to fear from you, the CID, the Tin Man, or any technology or weapons you control.”

“As long as I’m still free to protect my family, my community, and myself…”

The president held up a finger. “No conditions, Patrick. None . Agree to this, or I’ll send the Marines to come get you, the CID, and the Tin Man. I’m not going to have anyone threaten a federal agent, even you.” Patrick still hesitated. “I’m serious about this, my friend. If you have evidence that these agents did something illegal, turn it over to me, and I’ll have the Justice Department’s internal affairs look into it. But you will not go around threatening federal agents as long as I’m president.” He paused, the anger level in his face slowly rising. “Well?”

“I guarantee no federal agents will be harmed, sir,” Patrick said finally.

The president sat back in his chair. “That’s better,” he said after a few moments. “Just wait until Gardner gets hold of this. It’ll be front-page news all around the world in no time. The only reason I don’t bust you now, Patrick, is because I believe you will send me clear and convincing evidence of what those agents did to Bradley, and that it was outside their legal authority. I was the attorney general, Patrick, remember ? I believe the FBI is the finest law enforcement and investigative agency in the world. I’m not going to let anyone threaten an FBI agent, even you.”

“I’ll have Darrow Horton send you the recordings, sir. I turned everything over to her.”

“You do that— soonest .”

“She’s requested an interview of Special Agent Renaldo of Homeland Security to verify the plan to entrap my son,” Patrick said. “Renaldo invoked the Fifth Amendment and refused to cooperate.”

“Let them handle it,” the president said. “Next: you left a message with Ann saying you wanted to ask me something?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been conducting surveillance of suspected extremist compounds in the Battle Mountain area, and—”

“You’ve been doing what ?” the president interrupted. “What kind of surveillance?”

“Exactly the same kind that Special Agent Chastain was supposed to be doing,” Patrick said, “but instead, he decided to trick my son into informing on me .”

“Has that desert heat fried your brain, Patrick?” the president asked. “Using what? The CID and Tin Man?”

“No, sir — Sky Masters sensors mounted on private aircraft.”

“First the Iranians, then the Turks, the Russians, and now Americans,” the president muttered. “Next you’ll be spying on me, I suppose? I regret putting you and Jonathan Masters in the same half of the country again — the trouble you two get into never ceases to aggravate me.” He thought for a moment; then: “I can think of a dozen different laws you’ve broken, but if anyone can keep you out of prison, it’ll be Darrow Horton.”

“At the risk of eating fruit from the forbidden tree,” Vice President Page asked off-camera, “what have you found, Patrick?”

“That the FBI was barking up the wrong tree, ma’am,” Patrick said. “I have a plan to try to fix the situation, Mr. President, and I need your permission to do a few things.”

“So the deal is: I teach you how to pilot the CID, and you teach me how to fly,” Charlie Turlock said. She, Jason Richter, and Brad were in the FBI hangar with the stowed Cybernetic Infantry Device. “Deal?”

“I’m not a licensed pilot yet,” Brad said, “let alone a flight instructor. But I’ll take you flying anytime as soon as I get my license, and as soon as I become a CFI, I’ll teach you.”

“Good enough,” Charlie said. “Okay, before we get started, we have some programming to do so the CID will respond to your—”

“Already did it this morning with Colonel Richter, just before I asked you if we could train together,” Brad said. “Voice prints and brain scans too. CID One, deploy.” To Charlie’s amazement, the CID unit began to unstow itself, and seconds later it had assumed its low crouching standby position.

“You did all that in just two hours?” Charlie remarked. “Usually it takes all day and a couple test runs to get it to respond properly.”

“We did it in less than an hour,” Brad said. Charlie turned to Jason in surprise, and Jason shrugged — he didn’t understand why either. “Colonel Richter said they need to study me at the BattleLab to figure out why I can program so fast.”

“I couldn’t believe it myself,” Jason said. “I thought we were just going to do a preliminary scan to get the input parameters set. We ended up running the entire routine.”

“Let’s see if it took. Keep going.”

“CID One, pilot up,” Brad spoke. The robot immediately assumed the boarding position, and the entry hatch opened on its back. Brad climbed up and slid inside as if he had been doing it all his life, as evidenced by the hatch closing on the robot’s back as the haptic interface connected Brad’s brain to the computers and sensors inside the robot. Moments later, the CID was up on its feet. Brad looked at his hands and body like a frog that had just been turned into a prince. “Man, this is incredible !”

“Not so loud, Brad,” Charlie said, smiling. “Well, this is a milestone. Savoy took two days to interface. Stand in the center of the hangar so you don’t go crashing into things.” Brad stepped forward, and Charlie saw no evidence of Brad’s feet or legs hitting each other, as was common in new CID pilots. “It takes a while for the haptic interface to adjust for the differences between where you think your hands are and where the robot’s hands are really—”

“Charlie, let’s see if it was a fluke or the real deal,” Jason said. He went over to the hangar wall and retrieved a cart with four bowling balls on it. “This is my favorite demonstration of the CID, Brad. Care to give it a try?”

“You bet, sir.” Brad came over to him, and Jason tossed him one of the bowling balls. It landed on his right hand, but slipped out before he could close his composite armored fingers around it.

“Feet and legs are one thing, but fingers are another,” Charlie said. “We have an exercise routine that’ll help with programming the haptic interface to—”

“Wait a second… I call a do-over,” Brad said. He picked up the bowling ball on the hangar floor with his fingers.

“Not too tightly,” Charlie warned him. But Brad was definitely getting the hang of it. He tossed the bowling ball up in the air and caught it with one hand. “Not bad. Try…” But Brad began tossing the ball between two hands, then doing it faster, and then higher. Then he took another bowling ball and juggled the two in one hand, tossing one up while catching the other.

“Know how to juggle three balls, Brad?” Jason asked.

“No… but I can do hacky sack,” Brad said… and to Jason and Charlie’s amazement, he dropped one of the bowling balls on the instep of his right armored foot, held it there for a moment, then began flipping it up and down. In moments he was using every portion of his foot to kick the ball back in the air. Still carrying the second bowling ball, he then kicked the ball back and forth between his feet, bounced it off his chest and back onto his feet, kicked it up onto his head and balanced it there for a moment, then even kicked it back over his head, spun around, and caught it with a foot again. Before long Brad was prancing around the hangar, bouncing the bowling ball off his feet, his thighs, his chest, and his head as he moved.

“A- mazing, ” Jason breathed. “The guy’s a natural.”

“What else can you say: he’s a McLanahan,” Charlie said. “Definitely his father’s son. He can fly, and he’s a gadget nut.”

“Let’s bring it in, Brad,” Jason said.

“Can we do some outdoor training tonight?” Brad asked in his electronically synthesized voice. “I can’t wait to really open this baby up!”

“We’re going to use it tonight,” Charlie said. “And you have some studying to do on the electronics, electrical system, microhydraulics, sensors, and communications gear.”

“Okay,” Brad said. He stopped at the place where the CID was going to be stowed, flipped the bowling ball up into the air one last time, held his arms out straight with the second bowling ball in his left hand, then caught the first in his right hand without even looking. “Ta- daaa !” he cried out… then crushed both bowling balls in his armored hands, the balls exploding into clouds of dust with a loud BAANG!

“Definitely a McLanahan,” Jason said.

“Intruder inbound! Intruder inbound!” the loudspeakers throughout the compound blared. Men, women, and even children ran to preplanned response positions inside and outside the fenced interior part of the compound. Men, women, and older boys carried weapons of all kinds, from small revolvers to heavy machine guns; children helped by carrying ammunition, lights, radios, and even water buckets in case they had to fight fires.

A lone four-door three-ton crew-cab pickup truck moved up the dirt road leading to the main entrance to the compound, stopped outside the cattle guard at the outer perimeter, and Patrick McLanahan got out of the driver’s side. Several spotlights were trained on him. “You’re on private property,” a man with a bullhorn spoke. “You are trespassing. Turn around and go back to the main highway immediately.”

“My name is Patrick McLanahan. I want to speak with Reverend Paulson.”

“The reverend doesn’t speak with strangers in the middle of the night. Go away.”

“Tell the reverend that I was responsible for the FBI pulling out of the surveillance of your property,” Patrick said. “Tell him I want to talk and make an offer to the residents of this compound to terminate the hostilities between you and the government.”

There was silence for several minutes; then a different voice on the bullhorn said, “Say your name again, stranger.”

“McLanahan. Patrick McLanahan.”

There was another long pause; then the first voice said, “Is there anyone in the car with you?”

“Yes.” Patrick turned toward the pickup. Brigadier-General Kurt Givens emerged from the right-rear passenger seat… and Wayne Macomber, dressed in the Tin Man battle armor, got out of the front passenger side.

“Raise your hands, all of you!” the first man shouted. Patrick, Kurt, and Whack complied. “Is this your idea of talk, mister — sending in another robot after us?”

“Wayne insisted on coming along, as my bodyguard,” Patrick said. “There is a Cybernetic Infantry Device, a manned robot, out there as well. Her job is to destroy the technicals and machine-gun emplacements if fighting breaks out. This is General Givens, the commander of Joint Air Base Battle Mountain.”

“You want to start a war, mister, you’ve come to the right place! Now go away!”

“The general and I want to talk with Reverend Paulson,” Patrick said. “Face-to-face. No one wants to start a war. I want to talk to Reverend Paulson about uniting our two communities.”

There was another long pause; then the second voice said, “Bring out the robot and have it join you at the entrance.” A few moments later they heard car horns beeping and floodlights illuminate all around the north side of the compound, and Charlie Turlock aboard the CID ran around the perimeter fence and joined Patrick and Whack.

“Is this how the government deals with fellow Americans?” the first voice blared angrily over the bullhorn. “Is this how—” And the voice abruptly cut off.

A few minutes later, Patrick saw a technical — a pickup truck with a heavy-gauge machine gun mounted in back, manned by a standing gunner — drive to the compound entrance, and a man emerged from the passenger side. He was tall and very thin, with long silver hair, wearing a black suit, white shirt, bolo tie — and, Patrick noticed, what appeared to be an Uzi slung on his shoulder. “Mr. McLanahan?” he asked.

Patrick stepped forward. Wayne moved forward with him. Patrick could feel dozens of gun muzzles swing in his direction, and he could see the technical on the pickup truck nervously switching aim between him, the CID, and the Tin Man. He held out a hand. “It’s okay, Whack.”

“That wasn’t the deal, General,” Wayne said, his electronically synthesized voice booming. “We agreed I was going to come with you at all times or we weren’t going to do this.”

“ ‘General’?” the newcomer called out. “General Patrick McLanahan?”

“Yes.”

The newcomer moved away from the compound entrance, stepped over to the Wrangler, and held out a hand. “I’m happy to meet you, General,” the man said. “I am Reverend Jeremiah Paulson.”

Patrick shook his hand. “Nice to meet you too, sir.”

“Your reputation precedes you, sir.” Paulson extended a hand to Givens. “We met many years ago, General, when you first took command of the base,” he said. “You held many community forums every year to address issues between the local area and the base, and you’ve hosted many open-house and other events for the community.”

“I think an important part of being base commander is open and frequent dialogue between the base and the community, Reverend,” Givens said, shaking hands. “Unfortunately, those kinds of activities had to be curtailed as our funding was cut, our operations were reduced, and the people lost interest in the base. But I intend to reverse that.”

“That is long overdue, General Givens.” Paulson looked up at the CID and shook his head. “Such incredible technology,” he said in a low voice. “Too bad it’s being used against innocent American citizens.”

“That was the FBI’s idea, sir,” Patrick said. “The White House authorized their use because of the radiological attacks in Reno. The FBI is gone now.”

“But the robot and this man remain?”

“Yes, under my command.”

“And what is your ‘command,’ General?” Paulson asked. “Why were you sent to Nevada to talk to me?”

“I wasn’t sent, sir — I live here,” Patrick said. “I’ve lived on the air base since January. I previously commanded the air wing here.”

“Indeed? I was not aware of it. A man such as yourself, living out here in obscurity… interesting. What is it you do at the base?”

“I’m retired,” Patrick said. “I fly volunteer missions for the Civil Air Patrol, mostly search-and-rescue missions; I fly volunteer charity medical missions for Angel Flight West; and I raise an eighteen-year-old son.”

“Very good,” Paulson said. “Being a responsible, God-fearing parent and serving your community are two of the most noble things a man can do. But why is a retired military officer given devices such as these? Under what authority do you use them?”

“At first I wasn’t given any authority to use them, Reverend Paulson,” Patrick replied. “They’re here; my community and friends are in danger; I know how to employ them — so I acted. I’ve recently been given limited authority to use them by the president of the United States.”

“Against the residents of this community?”

“Against threats to our community, sir,” Patrick said. “The FBI believes you are a threat. I don’t. I have to prove to the president that I’m right.”

“Otherwise the war between us will continue.”

“Reverend Paulson, I’m willing and ready to do whatever it takes to safeguard my home,” Patrick said, “and I’m willing to battle anyone who wants to take away our freedom. So far, I haven’t seen any evidence that you are an enemy. You have weapons, you have a stronghold, you have followers ready to take up arms and defend their home… well, so do we at Joint Air Base Battle Mountain, and we’re not an enemy to the community either. We need to join together to find the common enemy and eliminate it.”

“I am a minister, a spiritual leader only,” Paulson said. “The people of this community came to this place and built their homes around my original church because they felt safer living together. We are all sovereign citizens, followers of the original U.S. Constitution and the laws of God. I don’t give orders.”

“I have no followers, Reverend,” Patrick said. “As I said, I’m retired. I have no command or hold any office. But I am going to use the tools available to me to protect my family, my home, and my community. We share that goal. We should work together to accomplish that mission.”

Paulson looked Patrick up and down, then nodded. “What do you propose, General McLanahan?”

Patrick turned to Givens. “Kurt?”

“Come live with us,” Givens said to Paulson.

“Live with you? On the air base?”

“There’s plenty of room for everyone,” Givens said. “The base used to house almost six thousand, and we were in the process of expanding it to seven thousand — we have fewer than one thousand now. We have medical facilities, shopping, fitness, and recreation venues that are hardly used.”

“I think that is a very generous offer, General Givens,” Paulson said, “but most of the members of this community are distrustful of the government already — they won’t want to move right into its lap by moving onto a military base.”

“For those who don’t want to move, they can stay out here,” Buzz said. “But for those who are living in tents or those with young children, the base facilities might be better, at least temporarily. And even if you don’t choose to move, the base’s facilities will be open for everyone.”

“But… how can this be possible?” Paulson said. “We have no money for any of this.”

“President Kenneth Phoenix has issued a presidential order, directing the commanders of military installations all over the world to help struggling people in their local area however they can, consistent with the military mission and security, until the economic crisis is over,” Patrick said. “Joint Air Base Battle Mountain will be one of the first to implement the policy.”

“All persons who are able to work will be asked to work,” Givens went on. “If paid jobs are available, they’ll be paid, and some of the money used to defray expenses; otherwise, everyone able to work will be asked to contribute their skills and abilities to do jobs around the base that need to be done. The Department of Defense will provide subsidized food, shelter, utilities, education, job training, and health care.”

“We have to start thinking about one community rather than separate civilian and military ones,” Patrick said. “The separate communities only cause distrust and resentment.”

“Won’t some soldiers resent having outsiders on their base, eating their food and using their facilities without having to swear an oath, put on a uniform, or pick up a gun?” Paulson asked.

“Perhaps,” Patrick said. “But I don’t see the people in your community as malingerers — they seem ready to work if a task is needed. The military respects hard work and dedication. If everyone pulls together, this can work.”

Paulson half turned toward the technical behind him. “I assume things such as that won’t be allowed.”

“You’ll be treated like every other soldier and civilian employee on base,” Givens said. “Legal firearms on base must be registered and stored in our armory, and will be fitted with an identification and tracking tag that assures they’re not kept or carried on base; illegal or unregistered weapons won’t be allowed. You will be allowed access to your firearms at any time as long as they are immediately taken off the base, and the ID tag will monitor that.”

“What other limitations to personal freedoms will be imposed on us by the government?” Paulson asked.

“I don’t know, Reverend — we’re just starting this thing tonight,” Givens said honestly. “We’re starting from the standpoint that civilian residents on base will be given all the responsibilities and freedoms afforded to military residents. Our military members do give up a lot of their constitutional freedoms in the interest of base security and accomplishing the mission.”

“This will be a work in progress, Reverend,” Patrick said. “But the idea is not to limit your freedom, but to support you during tough economic times. You are free to leave at any time if you feel the loss of your rights outweighs the benefits extended to you by the government.”

“I don’t think this will be of much interest to the members of this community, General,” Paulson said. “Living out here means freedom for these people, even if the conditions are sometimes harsh.”

“We think they might be worse than harsh, Reverend,” Patrick said. “We’ve noticed that two of your crop circles are dying.”

“How would you know this, General?”

“I have been conducting aerial surveillance of about three thousand square miles around the air base, including this compound,” Patrick replied. “My sensors detected the dying crops and the malfunctioning irrigation sprinklers.”

“More of using whatever devices are at hand for your own purposes, General McLanahan?” Paulson asked suspiciously. He straightened his shoulders. “I do not approve of this, sir, and I do not approve of you,” he said acidly. “General Givens, I thank you and the president for your offer, and I will present the idea to the people of this community tomorrow morning at community breakfast. If anyone wishes to move, they will be allowed to do so at any time. I will place them in contact with you and arrange a time for the transfer.

“But I will also advise them of General McLanahan’s use of this combat technology and surveillance operations,” Paulson went on, “and I will be candid with them: I believe General McLanahan to be as much an extremist as the others who roam this state and harm law-abiding citizens, and placing yourselves under his protection is the moral equivalent of endorsing his anticonstitutional actions. He is violating his oath to serve and defend the Constitution, and as such is a criminal in the eyes of the people and of God almighty.

“If anyone wants to leave this place, they are welcome, but I believe you, General McLanahan, to be an affront to the United States Constitution and the laws of God, and those who leave us and join you will be considered traitors to our community and faith. Never come back here, General McLanahan — you are hereby declared an enemy of the Knights of the True Republic. You have fifteen minutes to get off of our property or you will be considered criminal trespassers and dealt with accordingly.” And he spun on a heel and walked back to the technical.

“Well, I think that went swimmingly,” Charlie Turlock deadpanned in her electronically synthesized voice from inside the Cybernetic Infantry Device. After Paulson and the technical departed, the CID assumed the dismount position, and Charlie climbed out and ordered the CID to fold itself up for transport. “Think anyone will take us up on the offer?”

“And be excommunicated from Paulson’s church? I don’t think so,” Whack said. He helped Charlie stow the CID in the back of the pickup. “Are you sure the FBI was wrong about these people, Patrick? Paulson’s definitely got a one-track mind — and it’s not a very peaceful track.”

“I’m not a cop — I could be completely wrong about them,” Patrick said. “Paulson may be a zealot and even an extremist, but a homicidal maniac using planes and radiological dirty bombs? I don’t know.”

“He could have an entire faction within his community doing the attacks, with Paulson’s blessing,” Whack said.

“I suggest we get out of here before we find out Paulson’s watch is running fast,” Buzz said. They climbed into the pickup and headed off back to Battle Mountain.

Ron Spivey made liberal use of his employee discount to buy energy drinks to help stay awake during these graveyard shifts working at the convenience store outside of town. Well, he thought, only a couple more months of this, and then I’ll concentrate on the new path. He was anxious to get started on it.

The night-shift manager, a woman named Matilda, was behind the counter. Ron took a broom and dustpan and headed out the door. “I’m going on parking-lot patrol, Matilda,” he said.

“Bathrooms must be next, Ron,” she said.

“Okay.” Matilda insisted on spotless bathrooms, so he was sent back to do them after almost every customer used them. Another good reason to get the heck out and start a real career, he thought. He had a lot of newfound respect for persons who cleaned johns for a living.

It was a perfect summer evening — clear as a bell, not too hot, not too cold, no thunderstorms, and gentle breezes. The store was pretty quiet, but the truck stop about a quarter of a mile down the frontage road seemed busier than usual. Another sign that the economy was turning around? You wouldn’t know it by business at the convenience store, but more truckers seemed to be on the road these days. The express shipping business was definitely hiring, so maybe things were starting to look up?

Ron laughed at himself. Sheesh, when did he ever think about stuff like the economy before? Maybe having a baby and a future wife changes a guy’s perspective — even a brainless skirt-chasing jock’s.

Finally, a customer. The car pulled up to the gas pump island farthest from the store, the one with the burned-out overhead fluorescents — he would have to get the big ladder out to change those. One guy got out, while the other guy stayed in the car. They were talking to each other through the windows, but Ron couldn’t make out what they were saying. The parking lot was in pretty good shape, no broken beer bottles or the puddles of vomit that were more common on the weekends. The two guys’ voices over on the far island were getting a bit louder. Uh-oh, he thought, boyfriends having a little late-night to-do? At last, some entertainment…

… and just then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it — the gesture made by the guy pumping gas, his hand like a knife, jabbing at the guy in the car… exactly like the guy he saw in the car that hit Brad had been doing! Holy shit, he thought, could it be them, the same car…?

Sweeping as he moved, Ron casually moved across the front of the store, trying to take his time but anxious to get a look before these guys drove off. It took him almost two minutes to move around, and it was a little hard to see because of the burned-out lights, but he finally saw it — the cracks in the windshield where he had hit it with his football helmet! Jesus Christ, they’re here ! He quickly headed back toward the store entrance, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.

“Hello?”

“Brad, it’s me.”

“Ron? It’s almost three A. M., you dork. What’s—”

“Shut up, dude. Those guys that hit you after practice? They’re here, man.”

Brad was now fully awake. “They are? Are you sure?”

“I saw the cracked windshield where I hit it with my helmet!”

“Holy crap! Did you call the cops?”

“No, not yet. I’ll do it right… oh, shit, oh, shit, Brad, they’re coming into the store !”

“What?”

“They’re wearing hats and sunglasses, and they—” Now Ron was screaming, in a tone of voice Brad had never heard before: “Wait a minute, wait, no, no, no …!” And just then, Brad heard two gunshots, the clattering of the phone hitting the floor, a woman’s scream, and two more gunshots. He then heard footsteps, murmured voices in an unintelligible language, and then a loud crunching sound, followed by chilling silence.

“Dozens of families a day from all over northern Nevada, California, Utah, and southern Oregon are making their way to Joint Air Base Battle Mountain here in the high desert of north-central Nevada to take part in a new government program to provide shelter, food, medical care, and jobs to the neediest among us,” the television reporter was saying. Viewers could see three school buses approaching the base’s main gate. “This is day three of President Phoenix’s controversial new executive order that opens the gates, and the purses, of military bases around the world to civilians desperately in need of help.”

Patrick was watching the television in his office, with Brad beside him. He didn’t want his son out of sight for more than a couple minutes. The funeral for Ron Spivey, yet another Civil Air Patrol member gunned down by shadowy unknown assassins in just the past few weeks, was hard on everyone, but especially on Brad. His son rarely spoke and, as now, mostly sat staring off into space. His appetite was nonexistent, and he stayed mostly in his bedroom in their trailer, lying in bed but not sleeping.

There was a knock on the office door, and Timothy Dobson entered. He stood in front of Patrick’s desk. “I’m so very sorry, Brad,” he said in a quiet voice. “I wish I could’ve stopped them.” Brad did not move a muscle.

“Were you able to identify them, Tim?” Patrick asked.

Dobson nodded. “Officially they are security officers assigned to the Russian consulate in Vancouver, British Columbia,” he replied, “but Interpol says they are direct-action operatives of the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye, or GRU, the Russian military foreign-intelligence service. The Russian foreign ministry denies all this. When asked of their current whereabouts, the ministry claims the men are on their way back to Russia as scheduled.” Patrick nodded, his eyes filled with hate. “They are on all the no-fly and most-wanted lists. But they’ve been very successful so far in slipping away in plain sight.” He looked at Brad. “You two are not safe outside the base, and with all these civilians coming in now, you may not even be safe here. The vice president is urging you—”

“I’m not leaving,” Patrick said. “That’s final. I’m not running. I’ll find a way to locate these guys, and I’ll hunt them down and eliminate them myself.”

“They’re professional killers, General,” Dobson said. “They can move and blend in almost at will—”

“They may be professionals, but they made an amateurish mistake by being caught on a half-dozen security cameras that night,” Patrick said. “They’ve got their faces on thousands of computer screens and wanted posters all over North America. They’re under pressure to perform instead of missing their target, which will make them sloppy and vulnerable.”

“Maybe so, sir,” Dobson said, “but all the Russians have to do is bring in a different team. The chase starts all over again, with different faces.”

“That would happen if we were in Washington too,” Patrick said. “No, I’ll find a way to stop them.” He went back to watching the television; Dobson had nothing further to say, so he departed. A few minutes later, Patrick stood. “I’m going to meet the new group and help them get settled,” he said to Brad. “Come along with me.” After a moment’s hesitation, Brad stood, his head still lowered. But just then, there was a knock on the door. “Come.” Patrick was surprised to see Judah Andorsen come through the door, and he shot to his feet. “Mr. Andorsen! This is a surprise.”

“Hope I’m not botherin’ you, General,” Andorsen said in his big, booming voice. He was wearing his usual outfit, the only one Patrick had ever seen him in: leather flying jacket, jeans, boots, cowboy hat, and leather work gloves. He shook hands with Patrick, then looked over at Brad. “This is your son, right? The one that found that crash survivor?”

“I don’t believe you’ve met him, sir,” Patrick said. “Mr. Andorsen, this is my son, Brad. Brad, this is Mr. Judah Andorsen.” Brad raised his eyes just long enough to shake Andorsen’s hand.

“Hey, I’m sorry about your friend, son,” Andorsen said. “The news said it was an attempted robbery, and when your friend tried to call the cops, they went crazy.” Dobson had somehow managed to get control of the security-camera tapes, so no one knew that it was really an assassination rather than a botched robbery. “You doin’ okay, son?”

“Yes, sir,” Brad said.

“We were just on our way out to meet the new arrivals, Mr. Andorsen,” Patrick said.

“I don’t want to keep you, General,” Andorsen said. “I just wanted to stop in and say how proud I am to know you. Word has it that this whole program openin’ up the base to folks from these camps was your idea.”

“The base commander, Kurt Givens, and I came up with it,” Patrick said. “The White House and Department of Defense signed on quickly.”

“That’s fine work, General, fine work,” Andorsen said. “I want to help by hirin’ some of the men who will be staying here. Miners, ranch hands, drivers, general laborers — I’m sure I can find at least temporary work for a good many of the men.”

“That would be incredible, sir,” Patrick said. “Thank you.”

“It ain’t nuthin’, General,” Andorsen said. “Now, I know a lot of these men lived in religious-like camps and communities, and — nothin’ against God and religion and all — I don’t have much use for the real hard-core holy rollers, if you get my meanin’. I don’t want no illegals either. Nothin’ against Mexicans or other hardworkin’ folks from Guatemala or wherever, but if they sneaked across the border without botherin’ to register like you’re supposed to, they can starve, for all I care.”

“You’re the boss, Mr. Andorsen,” Patrick said. “You hire anyone you wish. Any help you can extend would be great.”

“If I could get a list with the names and work experience from you, General, I might be able to line up work for them within a week or two. No promises, mind you, but I think I can lend a hand. We’ll provide transportation to and from and meals on the job site, of course, and we can probably kick in a little for some work clothing.”

“I’ll start compiling a list of those who want to work and get it to you as soon as I can, sir,” Patrick said. He shook hands. “Thank you again.”

“Don’t mention it, General. Happy to help.” Andorsen’s attention was drawn to the TV screen. “Looks like someone called an ambulance.” Patrick watched as an ambulance from Andorsen Memorial Hospital made its way on the wrong side of the highway toward the base, lights and siren running. It was followed by a Battle Mountain Fire Department fire chief’s car, which stopped about thirty yards behind the ambulance. The ambulance stopped beside the middle of the three school buses. Curious passengers exiting the buses stopped to watch out the windows.

Patrick picked up his telephone and pressed a button. “Command post, this is Sierra Alpha Seven,” he spoke. “Who called an ambulance? What happened?”

“Where in hell are those bozos runnin’ off to?” Andorsen asked. The TV cameras showed two paramedics rush out of the ambulance and run back to the fire chief’s car. “What, they gotta ask permission from the chief before they… hey, where’s he goin’?” They saw the fire chief’s car spin around and head away from the base. “What the hell is this? Why did they—”

And at that instant, a brilliant flash of light, a ball of fire, and a cloud of black smoke obscured the TV image. The middle school bus was blown apart almost instantly; the other two buses were tossed aside like toys and set ablaze.

Each gunner and driver manning the weaponized pickup trucks saw, heard, and felt the same thing before the lights went out: a hard thump beside the truck, a blur of motion, and a hard blow to the side of the head. “That’s the last technical,” Charlie Turlock radioed from within the Cybernetic Infantry Device after she neutralized both the gunner and the driver. She reached over and bent the barrel of the machine gun mounted on the technical in a right angle as easily as bending a straw.

“Machine-gun nests are neutralized as well,” Wayne Macomber, wearing the Tin Man armor, radioed. “They were only half manned, mostly by older guys.”

“We detected two less technicals than before,” Rob Spara, manning the bank of laptops at the squadron, radioed. John de Carteret was orbiting the Knights of the True Republic’s compound overhead at 9,500 feet, maintaining real-time surveillance and acting as a communications relay node for this operation. The sensor images were being beamed to Charlie and Whack as well as to Rob. “They must’ve lost more residents than we thought.”

“I’m moving in,” Patrick radioed. He was in the crew-cab pickup, with David Bellville driving, heading up the dirt road toward the compound. “Heads up, everyone.”

But it was soon apparent that the layers of defenses set up around the compound were gone, replaced by residents with little more than walkie-talkies and flashlights. Patrick and David were not challenged — in fact, some of the residents left their post and followed Patrick’s pickup toward the inner compound.

The gates to the inner compound were wide open, and David drove right up to the church and outdoor meeting area. There was several sheriffs’ patrol cars parked there as well. Patrick and David got out of the pickup and were met moments later by Whack. The meeting area was about half full. The residents seated there were silent, not moving — no one turned to look at them. “This is weird — kinda Jonestown-like,” Whack radioed.

The three walked up the main aisle toward the dais. Again, no one made a motion to stop them or even looked up. Reverend Jeremiah Paulson was standing at the lectern, dressed all in black, his head bowed, a Bible in one hand, his Uzi still slung on his shoulder.

“Come on out in sight, Charlie,” Patrick radioed. A few moments later, the CID approached the meeting area from the opposite side and walked right up to the last row of chairs, towering over the seated residents. Again, no one turned to look at it. They heard babies crying and a few sobs, but no one spoke or even moved.

Patrick stepped forward and stopped at the edge of the platform on which Paulson stood. “Reverend Paulson, what’s going on here?” he asked.

“This is a memorial service for our murdered family members,” Paulson said. “We are in deep mourning. We are observing a period of silent vigil that will last until daybreak.”

“ ‘Family members’?” Patrick asked. “They’re not traitors to your community anymore?”

“They were never traitors, General,” Paulson said. “They were always members of our family. They are now martyrs in the civil war that is tearing the Constitution and this nation apart.”

“How many did you lose, Reverend?”

“Twenty-seven killed or wounded, including eleven children,” Paulson said. “Whoever did such a thing is a monster and needs to be eliminated.”

“Reverend, the FBI thought you engineered the attacks in Reno and Pahrump and the missile attacks against the drones doing surveillance over your compound.” Paulson said nothing. “Many believe you were responsible for today’s bombing outside the base.” Still no response. “You weren’t involved in any of them, were you?”

“We are a peaceful community, General,” Paulson said. “Yes, we have weapons, but they are weapons for self-defense only. We would never attack innocents — only those who seek to do our community harm. We care nothing about being spied upon, as long as we are left alone to live our lives as God and the framers of the Constitution intended.”

“Then why didn’t you speak out against any of it, Reverend?” Patrick asked. “Why didn’t you cooperate with the FBI, allow them to search the compound? They could have refocused their resources on the real extremists.”

“I think you know exactly why I did not, General,” Paulson said, looking directly at Patrick for the first time. “The Fourth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America. The FBI had no warrants to search our homes — they wanted to search simply because they wanted it, and that is not permitted in the United States under the Constitution. Simply because a horrific disaster or crime occurs is no reason to suspend the Constitution. Do you agree, General?”

“I do, Reverend,” Patrick said. “I refused to talk with the FBI without my attorney present, even though a nationwide state of emergency existed and almost every other member of my squadron had already cooperated. They tried to blackmail my son to inform on me for them.”

“Then you understand completely,” Paulson said. “We have a right to be secure in our persons, houses, papers, and effects against unreasonable searches and seizures. There is no caveat, no exceptions, no provision that says, ‘Unless the FBI orders otherwise.’ ” He sighed. “But there is too much distrust in our community, and it is tearing us apart. We have decided to disband.”

“You’re breaking up the Knights of the True Republic?”

“I think the true believers will still push for true freedom, less government, and more personal responsibility,” Paulson said, “but the idea that we can live apart from our neighbors in our own purist society is not realistic. Rather than ensuring our own happiness and security, it has turned our neighbors against us. That was not our goal.”

“So what will happen?” Patrick asked.

“Most will go to your air base, look for work, and join with others to form a stronger, tighter community, with the help of the federal government and the military,” Paulson said. “Some will probably join other independent communities; a few will try to form their own cells of like-minded idealists. Everyone is free to do whatever he or she chooses. As for this community: some will stay and try to keep it alive, but in the end, it’s not separation and anonymity that guarantees success, but cooperation and community. We forgot that truth years ago, and it’s hurt us. It’s time to support the greater community once again.”

Paulson reached down from the dais and extended a hand. “It was a great privilege to meet you, General McLanahan,” he said. Patrick shook his hand. “You are indeed a patriot. I believed you wanted to use your technology to destroy our community. I see that I was mistaken. One word of advice, however: don’t rely too much on the technology. You have some fine people here that want to help you rid our community of extremists — rely on them instead.”

“I will, Reverend,” Patrick said. He turned and started to leave…

… when suddenly Whack rushed forward between Patrick and the dais and shouted, “General , get down!” Paulson had dropped the Bible, swung the Uzi up into his hands, and aimed…

… but not at Patrick… he aimed upward from the bottom of his jaw. He closed his eyes, shouted, “God bless the True Republic!” and pulled the trigger. Except for a few children who cried out at the gunshot, no one in the audience moved or said a word as the lifeless body hit the dais.

Patrick led the others into the FBI hangar, with Whack carrying the folded-up CID unit himself. Patrick was surprised to see Michael Fitzgerald there, examining the bullet-ridden wreckage of the second Cybernetic Infantry Device, which had been hit by gunners in the Knights of the True Republic’s compound. “Hey, Fid,” Patrick said.

Fitzgerald looked at amazement at the Tin Man as Whack set the stowed CID unit in its charging cradle. “Who in hell are you ?” he exclaimed. Whack didn’t answer him, but took off his helmet, then removed the battery packs on his waist and put them into their chargers.

“It’s kind of late to explain, Fid,” Patrick said wearily. “What’s going on?”

“I went over to the squadron to see if you needed any help with the surveillance,” Fitzgerald said, “and Rob said you’d be over here. What happened? Where were you guys?”

“Out at the Knights’ compound.”

“Did you fight it out with them? I heard they have all sorts of weapons out there.”

“No.”

“Did you get to talk with Reverend Paulson? That guy is a real piece of work. He’s definitely crazy enough to have loaded that ambulance up with explosives and killed all those people.”

Patrick dropped into a chair, emotionally drained. “Paulson is dead,” he said.

“Dead?” Fitzgerald immediately looked over at Whack. “Did you kill him?”

“Suicide,” Whack said in a low voice.

“No shit,” Fitzgerald said. “I’ll bet the Knights will be on the warpath tomorrow.”

“They’re coming onto the base,” Patrick said. “The Knights disbanded, and the compound is wide open, not guarded anymore.”

“Wow — the Knights, disbanded,” Fitzgerald breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Now I’ll bet the cops can go in there and search for any more of that radioactive shit they’ve been using against government buildings.”

“We searched,” Patrick said, rubbing his eyes. “We didn’t find anything. No explosives, no radioactive material, no shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles. Just lots of guns and a few old light antitank launchers.”

“No shit,” Fitzgerald said. “So… so what does that mean?”

“It means we keep searching,” Patrick said. “We start all over, first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Well, you may be onto something with the Kellerman place,” Fitzgerald said. “Somebody’s definitely been out there — it looks like some supplies have been brought in, food and water, and the power’s been turned back on. No sign of the place being broken into.”

“Thanks, Fid,” Patrick said. His brain was just too worn out to process this new information. “We’ll meet tomorrow to plan our next moves.”

“See you tomorrow, General.” Fitzgerald took one last look at the Tin Man, the stowed CID, and the broken-up CID as he headed out the door.

“One of your Civil Air Patrol guys?” Whack asked, watching Fitzgerald depart.

“Michael Fitzgerald,” Patrick said. “Lost his job with the Nevada Department of Wildlife just a few months from retirement, probably because of the FBI.”

“He sure doesn’t look ex-military.”

“You don’t need to be ex-military to join the Civil Air Patrol,” Patrick said. “He specializes in cadet ground-strike teams. He’s a good guy.” He got to his feet. “I’m going home, guys. I don’t want to leave Brad alone too long if I can help it. He’s pretty busted up about his friend Ron.”

“Why don’t you just stay home for a couple days with Brad, maybe fly on out to see your mom in Scottsdale?” Charlie Turlock suggested. “General Givens has got the incoming community members taken care of — if we get any more, because of that ambush today — and we’ll keep on helping with surveillance. If anything crops up, we’ll give you a call and we can decide how to handle it.”

Patrick said nothing for several long moments, then nodded. “That sounds really good, Charlie,” he said. “I’d hate to lose a surveillance plane, but the Bonanza should be ready soon, so we’ll be back to two planes. And it’d be good for Brad to see his grandma and aunts. I’ll see how he feels. We can make it his dual cross-country, and if he feels up to it, he can fly his solo cross-countries from Scottsdale. That’s all he needs for his check ride.”

“Then he can take me flying, right?” Charlie asked. “He promised, as soon as he got his private pilot’s license.”

“Sure. He’s a good stick, and the turbine Centurion is a nice ride.”

“Cool. Hey, speaking of piloting — did Jason tell you about Brad piloting the CID?” Charlie asked.

“What?” The weariness in Patrick’s face disappeared in a heartbeat, replaced by surprise and concern. “No! Brad was in the CID? When?”

“The afternoon before we first went to the Knights’ compound.” Charlie could see Patrick’s face turning dark, and she added quickly, “He told me he got permission from you to ask Jason and me to check him out in the CID. You gave him permission, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but… I don’t want him training to pilot the CID anymore.”

“Okay,” Charlie said, a bit of confusion in her face. “But he’s really good in it, a real natural. You should have seen him doing hacky sack with a—”

“No ‘buts,’ Charlie,” Patrick said. “The CID was designed as a one-man killing machine, and the last thing Brad needs to be exposed to now is more killing.” He remembered his close friend Hal Briggs, and how the normally cool, calm, collected Air Force security expert and Army Ranger literally went berserk when he entered combat aboard a Cybernetic Infantry Device — he eventually ran into a massed assault by Iranian Revolutionary Guards and was killed in battle while trying to destroy Iranian nuclear missiles. “No more CID training.”

“Okay, Patrick.”

Patrick spun on a heel without another word and departed.

“He looks totally stressed out,” Charlie said to Whack.

“He’s putting a lot of pressure on himself, and he’s going to burn himself out if he’s not careful,” Whack said. “Good suggestion, Charlie, him getting out of town with his son. I hope he’s smart enough to take it.”

It was an absolutely spectacular flight from Battle Mountain to Sacramento Executive Airport for Patrick, Gia, and Brad. Patrick planned the trip as a dual cross-country lesson: Brad had to make stops at three different airports spaced at least one hundred miles apart, at least one of which had to have a control tower, and he had to draw up a flight plan and annotate a sectional chart with the route of flight, visual checkpoints, and timing points. He also had to file a VFR flight plan, get a complete flight briefing by phone, talk to flight service to open and close his flight plan, and give and receive an in-flight weather observation to Flight Watch. Although Brad knew how to fly on instruments-only and was adept at using the advanced avionics in the P210 turbine Centurion, he had to demonstrate that he could navigate using “dead reckoning”—using time, the compass, and landmarks on the ground to determine where he was.

Patrick’s two sisters, Nancy and Margaret, still lived in Sacramento and still ran the little Irish pub downtown that had been in the McLanahan family for three generations. After Patrick, Gia, and Brad arrived and were settled in, the five made a visit to the historic family memorial complex at the Old City Cemetery, just six blocks south of the state capitol. So many McLanahans had been buried in the cemetery over the past 150 years that many called it the “McLanahan Cemetery.” For the past fifteen years, the cemetery no longer had room for any more burials, so Patrick’s father, a retired veteran city police sergeant with thirty years wearing a badge, was the last of the McLanahans to be interred there — Patrick’s wife Wendy’s and his brother Paul’s inurnment markers were in the historic family columbarium erected at the cemetery, as were vacant niches for the rest of the family.

Patrick and Brad spent a long time touching Wendy’s marker, as did Margaret and Nancy with Paul’s, with Gia respectfully looking on. Finally, Patrick kissed his wife’s and brother’s markers and patted them reassuringly. “I think it’s so sweet that you decided to keep Wendy here, instead of bringing her to Arlington National Cemetery,” Margaret said as they left the cemetery. “What an honor, for you and her to be laid to rest at such a historic place as Arlington, if you chose.”

“It would be,” Patrick said, “but I wouldn’t be buried anywhere else but here, with the rest of the family. And this place is older and just as historic as Arlington.”

The next morning, Patrick loaded Gia, Brad, and his sisters into the P21 °Centurion, and they flew to Deer Valley Airport near Scottsdale, Arizona. Patrick’s mother, Maureen, lived in an assisted-living facility nearby. Patrick’s arrival became a major event, not only for his mother but also for every resident of the facility. They were invited for dinner with the residents, but Patrick hardly had a chance to eat because everyone wanted their picture taken with and an autograph from the famous aviator and general.

Patrick had registered them in the Scottsdale Princess Hotel using his middle name, Shane, instead of Patrick so they were able to enjoy a much greater level of anonymity as they sat out at the pool bar with drinks. Brad had gone upstairs to watch TV and chat with his friends back home, and Gia was on her way to a twelve-step meeting in Scottsdale. “This is very nice.” Patrick sighed as he settled in with his second Balvenie single-malt Scotch. “The air and the temperature are the same, but Battle Mountain doesn’t have anything as grand as this.”

“Why in the world would you leave Las Vegas for someplace like Battle Mountain?” his sister Nancy asked. “I looked it up: it’s a bump in the interstate, and always has been.”

“I’m there not because of what Battle Mountain is, but because of what it can be, ” Patrick replied. “The base is an incredible facility. It’s over seven thousand acres, with a hundred acres underground .”

“Underground? How is that possible?”

“It’s one of the most incredible engineering feats on the planet,” Patrick said. “We can park B-52 bombers sixty feet underground . But that’s not the best thing about Battle Mountain. It’s centrally located between Salt Lake City, Portland, Reno, Sacramento, Phoenix, San Diego, Las Vegas, Seattle, and Denver, so it has a huge pool of well-educated talent it can draw from for advanced research and development. It has almost unlimited airspace for flying, it has pretty good weather most of the year, and easy access to Air Force and Navy restricted airspace for flight testing. Land and housing are cheap.” He paused for a few moments, adopting his infamous “ten-thousand-yard stare” that even his sisters recognized. “It just needs someone to… to commit to it. It’s ready to contribute, if someone would just commit.”

“What the hell are you babbling about, big brother?” Margaret asked. She giggled. “Or is that just the second Balvenie talking?”

Patrick chuckled, then waved a hand. “I’m just babbling,” he said, taking another sip of whiskey. “It’s all moot anyway. The air base is closing down soon; they’ll probably close down the airfield because the county can’t afford the upkeep, and I’ve been asked to go back to Washington.”

“Really? Doing what?”

“I can’t talk about it yet,” Patrick said. “It’s not even a paid position. But we wanted to keep Brad in school in Battle Mountain to finish with his senior class. Once Brad is off to college, Gia and I will go to Washington.”

“You and Gia,” Nancy said. “Is there a ‘you and Gia,’ Patrick?”

He shrugged. “I hope so,” he said. “Gia’s working through some tough personal problems. By the time we get ready for the move, we should know.” He set his drink down and leaned forward, looking directly at both his sisters. “But I really love her, guys,” he said. “She strong, she’s smart, and—”

“Great in the sack, right?” Margaret interjected.

“I was going to say ‘caring,’ Mugs,” Patrick said. His subcutaneous transceiver beeped, and his intraocular monitor told him it was Brad. He picked up his drink and smiled slyly. “But yeah, she is,” then held up a finger to tell his sisters he was going to take a call. “Hey, big guy.”

“Are you watching TV, Dad?”

“No. I’m down here with—”

“The ex-president — Joseph Gardner — is on TV — and he’s talking about your surveillance operation at Battle Mountain!”

“ What? You’re kidding !”

“He just mentioned you, Dad!” Brad exclaimed. “Hold on… now he’s saying you were ordered by President Phoenix to spy on people around Battle Mountain so he could circumvent the law. That’s nutso!”

“President Phoenix has nothing to do with what we’re doing, Brad,” Patrick said.

“Wait…” He could hear Brad take a sharp increase of air; then: “Dad, he just mentioned those FBI agents ! He said you chased them out of Battle Mountain by threatening their lives!”

“Oh God,” Patrick moaned. “It’s begun…” His transceiver beeped again, and his intraocular monitor simply said “private.” “I have to go, Brad. Talk to you in a few minutes.” He took the second call. “McLanahan.”

“Gardner couldn’t even wait for the morning shows before dropping the next firebomb,” Vice President Ann Page said. “I’ve got a call in to the Justice Department, and they’ll tell us what’s going to happen next. Based on what they’ve already said, you’ll have to shut down your operation, and anyone who was flying those surveillance missions might get in trouble with the FAA. The FBI might confiscate your equipment to see if what you were looking at violated the law. The president will take some major political flak for this.” She paused. “And you’ll probably be indicted by a grand jury and asked to turn yourself in.”

“Fine with me — I’ll be happy to get in front of a judge and tell what happened,” Patrick said. “I’m sorry the president will take some heat, but it’s not his fault at all.” That sentence got Nancy and Margaret’s attention, and they stopped chatting with each other to listen.

“How did this get out, Patrick?” Ann asked.

“I’ve obviously got someone in my group who talked to the press or the FBI,” Patrick said.

“Where are you now?”

“Scottsdale, Arizona.”

“Get back to Battle Mountain right away,” Ann said. “We don’t want it to look like you’re trying to flee.”

“I’m with my sisters,” Patrick said irritably. “We’re visiting our mother. Why would anybody think I’m trying to flee?” Nancy and Margaret’s eyes widened in surprise when they heard that.

“How soon can you get back?”

“I can’t fly tonight,” Patrick said.

“Why not?”

“I’ve had a drink,” he said. “I can’t fly after taking a drink.”

“ Now you’re worried about breaking the law?” the vice president retorted.

“It’s not just the law, Madam Vice President, it’s safety of flight.”

“Madam Vice President?” Margaret exclaimed in a whisper. “You’re talking to the vice president of the United States …?”

Patrick put a finger to his lips to shush his sisters. “Tomorrow I need to drop my sisters off in Sacramento, then—”

“Put them on a plane in the morning and come directly back to Battle Mountain first thing,” the vice president said. “We’ve got to get out in front of this. Are you reading me, General?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Patrick said. The connection was terminated.

“Were you just talking to the vice —”

Patrick held up a hand. “Not so loud, guys,” he said. “I’ve got to go back to Battle Mountain first thing in the morning. I’ll put you guys on a flight back to Sacramento.”

“What’s going on, Patrick?” Nancy asked in a whisper. “Why did the vice president think you were trying to flee?”

“She didn’t, but other people might think I was.” He stood up and kissed both his sisters on the top of their heads. “I’m sure you’ll hear all about it on the news tomorrow morning.”

They saw it the next morning from about thirty miles out: several columns of thick black smoke issuing from the base. Patrick was advised to stay away from the smoke but was still cleared to land.

“It’s the housing area, Dad!” Brad said as they entered the traffic pattern. He looked carefully, and then his mouth dropped open. “I can’t see our trailer through the smoke, Dad. Wow, it looks like dozens of trailers caught on fire!”

Patrick made the landing, taxied to his hangar, put the P21 °Centurion away, then drove over to the Civil Air Patrol hangar. Several members of CAP were inside. “Hope you had a nice vacation, Patrick,” Rob Spara said. “You heard the news?”

“About our surveillance operation? Yes,” Patrick replied. “What about the fires?”

“They’re saying it was rival survivalist or fundamentalist groups — whatever they are,” David Bellville said. “No one really knows. It broke out early this morning. All of the civilians are being put up in shelters at the high school until they can be relocated.” He put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “I think your trailer was one of them, General.”

“I had a feeling it might be,” Patrick said. “That’s how my luck has been running lately. Has anyone heard from the Justice Department or the FBI?” Everyone shook their heads. “I spoke with the vice president last night. She thinks everything is going to be shut down and the equipment confiscated by the FBI. I’d like to get copies of all the latest sensor scans, as many as we can save.”

“Why don’t we just erase everything?”

“We don’t want to be accused of destroying evidence,” Patrick said. “Besides, I think the images will prove that we’re not violating anyone’s privacy. And there’s nothing illegal about making backups.”

“I’ll take care of it,” David Bellville said, and hurried off.

“Should we get Dr. Masters to pull those sensors off the planes?” John de Carteret asked.

“Let’s not panic,” Patrick said. “The more stuff we do that looks like a cover-up, the worse it will go for us. The cover-up is always worse than the crime. I’d be more than happy to stand in front of a judge and jury and explain what we were doing.”

Patrick put in a call to Jon Masters: “Where are you guys?” he asked over the secure voice connection.

“Ahhh… I think it might be better if you didn’t know, Patrick,” Jon said.

“Gotcha,” Patrick said. “Probably so, since I’m sure I’ll be questioned by the FBI soon. I’m surprised they’re not here already. What’s going on?”

“We were told early yesterday evening to gather our stuff and depart,” Jon said. “Not the downlinks or surveillance equipment, but… you know, the other stuff.”

“Gotcha. Who told you to take off?”

“Ahhh…”

“Gotcha. Talk to you soon.”

Patrick, Gia, and Brad drove over to the housing area. Sure enough, their trailer was one of dozens caught in the blaze. They were prevented from going near it by base firefighters. “How did it start?” Patrick asked the deputy fire chief at the checkpoint.

“Too early to tell, General,” the chief said. “The police were summoned out here last night because of some arguments between two or three groups, but everything broke up shortly after the police showed up. A few hours later, we got the call. It looks like the origin was very close to your trailer, sir.”

“ My trailer?”

“Good thing you weren’t home — whatever was used as the primary, it was hot and powerful — more powerful than dynamite, maybe PETN or RDX,” the fire chief said. “We’ll start the investigation shortly, along with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations and the FBI. Sorry, sir. We’ll let you know what happens.”

They drove back to Patrick’s office in silence. Patrick brought Gia and Brad something to drink and fixed himself coffee. “Everybody all right?” he said once they were settled.

“I’m cool,” Brad said. “It’s funny — all I have was the overnight stuff we brought on the trip, but I’m not bummed. I can’t think of anything important I lost except maybe my laptop. I guess it’s because I didn’t have that much to begin with.”

“Gia?” She had been completely silent since landing at Battle Mountain, and now she was staring blankly at some spot on Patrick’s desk. “You haven’t said much, sweetie.” Patrick reached out and touched her arm. “Are you—”

“Don’t touch me!” she cried out, jumping out of her seat so quickly that her drink and Patrick’s coffee went flying. Gia wrapped her arms around her waist and began to sob. “I could have been killed last night if we were at that trailer!” She looked at Patrick and Brad in amazement. “You two are acting as if nothing’s happened! First you say that we have to go back right away because you might have to talk with the FBI, and then your trailer is blown up — and neither of you seems to think it’s anything out of the ordinary! What is wrong with you two?” And she stormed out, pushing the door open so hard that it rebounded off the wall.

“Gia! Wait!” Patrick shouted. He started for the door…

… and ran headlong into none other than Special Agent Philip Chastain, accompanied by another man he didn’t recognize. “Just the man I want to see,” Chastain said, showing his badge. “Going somewhere, General?”

“My girlfriend—”

“I think she wants to be alone right now,” Chastain said. “I’m going to need a few things from you.”

“I’m not answering any questions without my—”

“Oh, that broken record again,” Chastain said. Patrick noticed that the agent was wearing a different kind of shirt, one with a much higher collar — obviously to hide the bruises on his neck caused by being manhandled by the Tin Man. “I wasn’t going to ask any questions. I just need some things.” Patrick glanced over Chastain’s shoulder and saw David Bellville walking quickly away from the conference room. He gave Patrick a wink.

Chastain held up a document. “Warrant to seize computers, other electronic communications equipment, hard drives, and other documents stored here and in your aircraft hangar. Mind handing over the keys? I’d hate to punch the locks on your pretty little plane.” Patrick nodded to Brad, who produced the hangar and aircraft keys. “Thank you, son. I have a warrant to search your trailer too, but I guess that’ll have to wait until the fire inspector and OSI are done. Any other locked safes I need keys for?”

“No.”

“Fine. Now, you’re not under arrest, General — yet — but I’m telling you not to go anywhere unless you notify me first. It might not look so good for you at the grand jury if we find you’ve disappeared.” He held up another document. “I have a warrant to search Jonathan Masters’s aircraft and seize certain pieces of equipment, including the robot and the armor you terrorized myself and my agents with. The plane is not in its hangar. Where is it?”

“I want to speak with a lawyer before I answer any questions.”

“You’re not under arrest, General,” Chastain said. He looked at Patrick carefully, studying every movement on his face. “Where did Masters go?” No answer. “When did he leave?” Still no reply. “I’ll just check the control tower’s records. But it’s another example of how uncooperative you are. I’m sure the grand jury will want to hear that also. I still have my suspicions about you, General. You’re not the Sir Lancelot in shining armor the rest of the world thinks you are.”

He stepped closer to Patrick so they were almost nose to nose. “Do you know, Agent Brady will never be able to raise his left arm above his shoulder again, thanks to you and your buddy? He’ll be driving a desk from now on, maybe get himself a medical retirement if they can’t get the pain under control. And you know what else, you bastard? You know that pill you made me swallow? I’m told whenever it’s interrogated and transmits a signal, it could cause cancer. I’ve got a wife and two young kids, you son of a bitch. Maybe you should have killed me, McLanahan… because I’m about to make your life a living hell.” And he turned and stormed out of the office.

“What are we going to do now, Dad?” Brad asked. “Where are we going to go?”

Patrick spent several long minutes feeling a mixture of puzzlement and suspicion, then turned back to his son. “First, I want to look for Gia,” he said. “She was pretty upset, and I didn’t notice it. Next, we should get some lunch. After that, we should go to the store so we can pick up some supplies. If we find Gia, we’ll go to transient billeting for the night; if we don’t, I think we’ll just camp out here in the office on cots, okay?”

“Sure. I can get some cots and sleeping bags out of the CAP storage locker.”

“Good. And while we’re at the store, I want to get a really good laptop. I’ve got some studying to do.”