A Time for Patriots

Epilogue

Patrick emerged from the hotel hand in hand with Darrow Horton and walked to the hotel’s parking lot. “Are you sure you can’t stay one more night?” he asked. “I can fly you to Reno in the Centurion so you can catch your flight.”

“When you get a real airplane, Patrick, then I’ll fly with you,” Darrow quipped. “Anyway, the U.S. attorney has dropped all the charges, and they said they’d talk with the FAA about those sensor things you put on the airplanes. It looks like Civil Air Patrol is interested in installing them on all their planes.”

“Excellent,” Patrick said. “That’d be a nice little piece of business for Sky Masters.”

They were silent for a few moments; then: “Are you sure about all this, Patrick?” she asked. “You’re giving up the appointment to be the vice president’s space policy adviser?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. “I’ve been to Washington and the White House already, and didn’t really care for it.”

“But… I’m in Washington,” she said. “You and Brad could come and stay with me, and we could… take it from there?” He said nothing, which was all the answer she needed. “So what are you going to do?” she asked. “Go to Sacramento? Arizona? Las Vegas?”

“No — I’m going to stay right here,” Patrick said.

“Here? And do what? The base is closed. With the base closed, Battle Mountain will practically be a ghost town!”

“I’ve accepted a job,” Patrick said. “I’m going to be vice president of Sky Masters, Inc., taking over Jon’s position. And my first order of business will be to move the company to Battle Mountain.”

“What?”

“I’ve always said that this place has a lot going for it — wide-open space, good people, isolated but central to a lot of big-city talent, fresh air, and low costs,” Patrick said. “All this place needed was a commitment . I tried it with the air base — now I’m going to try it with Sky Masters. I’m going to hire the best young minds in the country and build the next generation of bombers, space systems, weapons, satellites, or whatever the newest technology will be, right here in the ‘Armpit of the World.’ In ten years, this will be the space and technology capital of the world.”

“Unbelievable,” Darrow said. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Well, if anyone can pull it off, you can. Good-bye, Patrick. Call if you need me.” And she drove off without looking back.

Patrick drove the Wrangler to his rented trailer about a mile away, down a long dirt road and up a short rise. In the fading light of sunset, he looked at the excavation for the foundation of his new home. It would have a great view of the growing city and the soon-to-be bustling airport, and plenty of room for visiting sisters and their families, dogs, maybe horses — and grandkids, of course. He couldn’t wait to get started.

Patrick went inside and poured himself a Balvenie on the rocks. It was when he sat down and activated his intraocular monitor that he noticed he had an e-mail message… from Gia. It read: I heard you were going to Washington and would be in the White House. I can’t go to that place. I’ll get better and try to build a life here out west, and when you are ready to settle down, please call me. Love, Gia.

Patrick immediately hit reply and began to compose a message, telling her that he wasn’t going to Washington, that he loved her and wanted her back with him and was going to stay right here… but he erased the message. Gia needs to get better, and I’m not quite ready to help her do that, he thought. When we’re both ready, maybe. He answered e-mails — including irate ones from President Phoenix and Vice President Page — finished the drink, and went to bed early.

Later that night, a four-door crossover SUV drove up the dirt road toward the trailer, then backed up the rise so the car was pointed back down the road. All of its lights were extinguished. Two men silently got out of the vehicle and dashed for the trailer, guns drawn, wearing night-vision goggles and bulletproof vests; two more men stayed in the car, on guard. With expert ease the two assassins broke into Patrick’s trailer, made their way to the bedrooms, and began firing at the beds. They turned and dashed back out the front door, getting ready to arm an incendiary grenade to burn down the trailer…

… and ran headlong into a lone, dark figure standing at the base of the stairs.

“Hello, kiddies,” Wayne Macomber said, dressed in the Tin Man armor. “Fancy meeting you here.” When the assassins raised their weapons to fire, Whack reached out, grabbed their gun hands, and squeezed. The assassins screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching masses of bone, blood, and tissue mixed with crushed metal.

When they heard the screams, the two assassins in the car shoved the vehicle in gear and hit the gas…

… and ran headlong into a twelve-foot-high robot that had appeared out of nowhere right in front of them!

“Hello, kiddies,” Brad McLanahan said. “Fancy meeting you here.” On the robot’s radio, he asked, “How was that, Uncle Wayne?”

“Come up with your own taglines, kid,” Whack said.

“Okay. How about… I’ve got a crush on you guys.” Brad reached across the width of the SUV, putting a hand on the doors on either side, then brought his hands together. The SUV’s sides crushed together like a paper cup, pinning the screaming assassins inside.

“C’mon, you guys — now the cops have to clean all his stuff up,” CIA operative Timothy Dobson complained. “You guys were just showing off.”

“No, I like it,” Patrick said, emerging from his hiding place with another glass of Balvenie on the rocks in his hand. “Good job, boys — good job.”