A Time for Patriots

Prologue

“Severe thunderstorm activity along your route of flight,” the Federal Aviation Administration Flight Service Station weather briefer began. “Convective SIGMET Seven Charlie for Nevada, Idaho, California, and Utah, heavy-to-severe thunderstorms in a one-hundred-mile-long band fifty miles southeast of Battle Mountain, Nevada, moving from two-two-zero at fifteen knots, tops above flight-level three-niner-zero, with heavy rain, hail, and damaging winds with gusts over fifty knots.”

Cripes, the young pilot thought, it was one of the worst weather observations he had ever heard. Frank Post was a software engineer from Silicon Valley, an honor graduate of Stanford University, and a fairly new instrument-rated private pilot, with a bit less than two hundred hours of flying time, most in his used single-engine Cessna C-182R Skylane. He looked at his wife sitting beside him, still wearing that impatient expression he had been forced to put up with for the past day and a half.

“Where are the thunderstorms now?” Frank asked on the phone. His wife, Kara, rolled her eyes and looked at her watch for the umpteenth time that afternoon. Kara had been in real estate, but the real estate market had all but dried up in California in the current economic meltdown, so she did part-time fill-in work for other agents, mostly doing escrow paperwork and staging and showing homes. She never liked the idea of owning something as complex and extravagant as an airplane, and only agreed to go on this weeklong cross-country trip because she was assured of being able to see her parents in Kansas as well as Frank’s folks in Nevada.

“The northern edge of the band of thunderstorms is about fifty miles south of Battle Mountain,” the briefer repeated.

Frank’s face brightened, and he made a sausage-shaped drawing on the sectional chart he had on the desk in the flight planning room to indicate where the storm was, then drew an arrow representing the storm’s direction of movement. Kara looked at the circle and looked relieved as well. “So from Elko I can outrun the storms,” he said, “and if the controller tells me the weather is getting close, I can deviate farther north around them.”

“Do you have weather-avoidance or — detection equipment?”

“No,” Frank replied.

“How about NextGen?”

“No,” he repeated. NextGen, or Next Generation, was the new air traffic control system that used datalinks aboard an aircraft to broadcast its GPS satellite-derived position, ground speed, course, and altitude to air traffic control, rather than using ground-based radar. NextGen was designed to increase air traffic control coverage and efficiency and eliminate radar blind spots in higher terrain, but it was expensive and not required to be on small general aviation aircraft for several years.

“Radar coverage is spotty in that general area,” the briefer said. “Unless you’re up pretty high or right on the airway, you may be in and out of radar coverage.” Left unsaid was the fact that air traffic control radars were designed to track aircraft, not weather — although newer digital systems were better than the old analog ones, weather avoidance was not a major part of a controller’s skills.

“I’ll plan on being on the airway, and I have oxygen just in case I need to go higher.” Kara scowled at that comment. She hated wearing the little rubbery oxygen masks because they dried her nose and throat and made her claustrophobic.

“Roger,” the briefer said. He continued his briefing with terminal weather conditions and forecasts. Although their destination on this trip was Sparks, Nevada, where they planned to visit the in-laws, the planned overnight stop was Carson City because they had very inexpensive fuel there at the self-serve pump, almost two dollars per gallon less than Reno. The forecast was for cooler temperatures behind the front, but skies would be clear and winds were out of the west, right down the east — west runway at Carson — perfect. The briefer then read winds-aloft forecasts, which were not much better than the radar summary — strong south-to-southwesterly winds ahead of the front, switching to westerly winds behind the front, with light-to-moderate turbulence forecast above twelve thousand feet. He concluded his briefing with, “Anything else I can help you with today?”

“I’d like to go ahead and file,” Frank said. Kara smiled, silently clapped her hands, then turned to her son, Jeremy, and told him to start packing up his drawing pads and colored pencils, which he had scattered all over the flight-planning-room floor.

The briefer was silent for a long moment, obviously not expecting the guy to launch into such mean-looking weather. But it was not his job to tell a pilot to fly or not to fly, just to give him all the information he requests. “Stand by and I’ll call up the flight-plan page… Okay, I have IFR, Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, a Charlie-One-Eighty-Two slant Golf, departing at twenty hundred Zulu, route of flight Battle Mountain, Lovelock, Carson City direct at ten thousand feet. Go ahead with the rest.”

“Two-point-five hours en route, no remarks, five hours’ fuel on board, alternate is Reno International,” Frank replied. He gave his name, his San Carlos, California, address, his cell-phone number, three souls on board, and his aircraft’s colors of white with blue stripes.

“Your flight plan is on file,” the briefer said after entering all the information into his computer and waiting for an “ACCEPTED” message from the FAA’s computer servers. “PIREPS are strongly encouraged on one-two-two-point-zero. Have a safe… and very careful flight, sir.” The briefer was trying everything he could to get this pilot to cancel this trip short of just telling him, “Wise up, jerk, and keep your stupid ass on the ground.”

“Thank you,” Frank said, and hung up the phone. He turned to Kara. “There’s a line of thunderstorms south of our route of flight,” he told her as he quickly packed up his charts and flight plan, “but I think we can outrun it because it’s moving pretty slow. If it moves up quicker, we can fly farther north around it, and if we can’t, we’ll turn around and land back here at Elko.”

“No, we’re not, ” Kara said adamantly. “I’ve had enough of this little cow town. Two days stuck here because of thunderstorms — I’ve had enough.”

“I think it’s a cute little town.”

“All we’ve seen of it is the McDonald’s down the street,” she said.

“The hotel was nice, the people are nice, and the casino has a bowling alley and movie theater.”

“I’m not taking my son into any of those casinos — I don’t care if they offered free ice cream and movies for life.” She turned to her son. “Jeremy, I asked you to please pick up your stuff. We’re going… finally. ”

“I have to go cagada, ” the boy said, using the Spanish word for crap, and he hopped up and dashed off.

“Again?” his mother commented. “I hope you’re not coming down with something.”

“I’ll start untying the plane and do a preflight,” Frank said. “Be careful going outside on the ramp.”

Jeremy was gone for more than fifteen minutes. “What took you so long?” his mother asked. “Are you runny again?” The boy nodded, embarrassed. “I think that last sundae at McDonald’s was not a good idea. Maybe you should wear the you-know-what this time.”

“I am not wearing a diaper,” Jeremy said. “I’m ten.”

“It’s an adult diaper,” Kara said. “If you wear it, you don’t have to pee in the bag thing, and if you have an accident, it’ll be easier to clean up.”

“I am not wearing a diaper,” Jeremy insisted.

Frank came back into the flight planning room and looked at the pencils and drawing pads still on the floor. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you guys ready?”

“Jeremy spent a while in the bathroom.”

“Are you loosey-goosey again, buddy?” Frank asked.

“Daaad … !”

“Well, you should put on the personal hygienic undergarment, then, buddy,” his father said with a smile.

“You mean the diaper, Dad! I’m not wearing a diaper!”

“The astronauts wear them, and you want to be a Space Defense Force astronaut, right?”

“When I have to do a four-hour space walk, then I’ll wear it,” Jeremy said.

“All right, all right,” Kara said with growing impatience. “If you make a skid mark in your pants, let’s hope your grandparents don’t see it. Pick up your stuff and let’s go.”

It took another few minutes for Jeremy to collect his stuff. While he waited, Frank took his iPhone out of his pocket and punched up an app that downloaded NexRad radar images. He immediately saw the line of thunderstorms that had been forecast, and noted they were farther north than anticipated.

“How’s it look?” Kara asked.

“Mean and nasty — we’ll definitely have to deviate around them to the north,” her husband replied. He was suddenly very anxious to get going, so he skipped his intended bathroom visit. “C’mon, guys, we need to go,” he urged his family. Soon they were on their way to the plane, the boy’s hands filled with stray colored pencils.

Outside they were greeted with brilliant sunshine, a welcome change to the past two days of booming thunderstorms and swirling winds. Frank noted that the wind was from the southwest and breezy on occasion, which would mean a slight crosswind takeoff, but nothing he couldn’t handle. In minutes, he started the Cessna 182 Skylane’s engine, received his IFR clearance and taxi clearance from Elko Ground Control, and was soon on his way, splashing through a few large puddles, taxiing a little bit faster than he normally did in order to get airborne as quickly as possible.

There was no one else in the pattern or on the taxiways. Frank did a hurried run-up check of the magnetos, then hustled through the rest of the checklist. “Everyone ready to go?” he asked over the intercom.

“Ready, Dad!” Jeremy replied enthusiastically.

“I’m ready,” Kara replied, turning and checking to be sure her son’s seat belt was tight.

“Here we go.” He pressed the microphone button: “Elko Tower, Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, number one, runway two-three, ready to go,” he radioed.

“Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, Elko Tower, runway two-three, cleared for takeoff.”

“Three-Four Lima, cleared for takeoff, runway two-three.” Frank taxied onto Runway 23, and instead of locking the brakes, running the engine up to full power, and then releasing the brakes, he kept on rolling, then applied full power as he turned onto the runway centerline. The engine smoothly roared to full power, and the four-seat Cessna responded as spritely as ever, accelerating quickly…

… except there was a sharp banging sound on the left side of the plane, from the direction of the left main gear tire, getting louder and louder as he accelerated. “What the… something’s wrong,” Frank muttered, and he jerked the throttle lever to idle.

“What’s wrong?” Kara asked, the concern evident in her voice. “What’s going on, Frank?”

“Why are we stopping, Dad?” Jeremy asked.

“Sterile cockpit, guys, remember — no talking until level-off except for an emergency,” Frank said. He pressed the mike button: “Elko Tower, Three-Four Lima is aborting the takeoff, possible flat tire.”

“Roger, Three-Four Lima,” the tower controller said. “Cancel takeoff clearance, turn right at the next taxiway, and contact Ground.”

“Three-Four Lima, wilco.”

“Hey, Dad?”

“I said no talking, Jeremy.”

“But, Dad…?”

“This better be important, Jeremy!”

“I think it’s your seat belt, Dad. Something’s hanging out of the plane.” The pilot looked out his left side window, and sure enough, there it was: in his haste to depart, he forgot to fasten his seat belt, and the buckle end had started banging on the side of the plane. How in hell could he miss that?

“Thank you, buddy,” Frank said in a low, contrite monotone. “Good call.” He taxied off the runway, contacted Ground Control, and received a clearance back to takeoff position. In the run-up area, he pulled power to idle, pulled the parking-brake handle, had Kara hold the toe brakes on her set of rudder pedals just in case — her husband was usually admonishing her to keep her feet off the pedals, and now he wanted her feet on them — unlatched the door, and pushed it open. With the propeller turning, it required a lot more strength than he thought to open it, and the noise was a lot louder than he expected.

“Hopefully I’ll never do that again,” Frank said after he had everything retrieved and reconnected. He took a moment to catch his breath — he noticed his heart pumping rapidly just from the excitement of being in all that noise and windblast. “I’m sure the guys in the tower got a big laugh out of that.” He made sure he fastened his seat belt this time, then looked around at everyone else’s belts. “Okay, everyone ready to go?”

“Dad, I need to use the bathroom,” Jeremy said.

“What?” Frank thundered, then immediately felt bad for shouting. “But you just went!”

“I just gotta go, Dad.”

“If we go back, will we miss those thunderstorms?” Kara asked. “Will we have to spend another night here?”

“We might.”

“Then we’ll have to skip seeing my parents in Reno,” Kara said cross-cockpit. “We can’t stay in Reno — we have to go straight home from Carson City. Jeremy can’t miss any school, and I have no more vacation days off left on the books.”

Frank didn’t reply to her, but instead asked, “Is it number one or number two?”

“Number one,” the boy said, but if the father had turned back to look at his son, he would’ve noticed the little anxious expression that meant that number two might be stirring as well.

“Then you’ll have to do it in the piddle pack,” Frank said. “We’re leaving. Hold it as long as you can.”

“Okay, Dad,” Jeremy responded meekly. Frank called Elko Tower, received another takeoff clearance, and in moments they were rolling down the runway again. This time there was no banging or anything else gone wrong, and they were airborne.

The skies were bright and sunny until thirty minutes into the flight, but soon Frank saw it — a dark white, gray, and brown mass of clouds on the horizon. He could see the northern edge of the squall line, but it was far to the right of course, not to the left as he had hoped. The thunderheads were towering skyward, and as he flew closer he swore he could see them rolling up even higher, driven by enough heat and raw energy to light up a city.

“Salt Lake Center, Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima.”

“Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake Center, go ahead.”

“I’d like to deviate twenty degrees north for weather.”

“Deviation right approved, report when direct Winnemucca again.”

“Three-Four Lima, wilco.”

“Why are we turning?” Kara asked.

“To get as far away from those buildups as we can,” Frank said. “If we start turning now, we won’t be as far off course when we pass them, and we won’t have to make as big turns. It’s a fairly slow-moving system — we should miss it easily.”

“Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake Center… uh, verify that you do not have weather-avoidance or — detection equipment?” the air traffic control controller radioed.

“That’s affirmative, Three-Four Lima does not have weather equipment,” Frank admitted. Several times this summer, which seemed to be particularly thunderstorm-active in the West, he wished he had spent the extra money on the portable navigation unit that also downloaded weather and NexRad radar images via XM satellite radio. But it wasn’t required equipment, he rarely flew in bad weather or at night, it was a lot more money than the unit he had purchased, and the monthly subscription costs were astronomical — the wife was already pissed about how much all the airplane stuff cost already.

“Roger,” the controller responded. “On your new heading off the airway, I’m going to need you higher to stay in radar coverage. Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, climb and maintain one-two thousand.”

“Leaving one-zero thousand, climbing to one-two thousand, Three-Four Lima,” Frank responded. He pushed in the mixture and propeller controls, fed in power, and started a shallow climb.

“Do we have to go on oxygen now?” Kara asked.

“Only if you feel you need to,” Frank replied. “Go ahead and get the masks out.” The portable oxygen bottle and the three masks were in a canvas bag behind the pilot’s seat, so it was easy to open it up and get the masks out. Kara swabbed the inside of each mask with an alcohol pad, making sure to wipe hers twice — she always thought it was a veritable germ breeding ground.

As soon as they passed eleven thousand feet, the turbulence began. They felt an occasional light bump at ten thousand, but now it was a consistent light chop with an occasional moderate bump, and the higher they climbed, the worse it got.

“Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake Center, how’s your ride?” the controller asked as they leveled off at twelve thousand feet.

“Light, occasional moderate turbulence,” Frank reported. “When can I go back down to ten thousand?”

“Not until after Battle Mountain, sir,” the controller replied.

“Can I get VFR on top at ten-five?” “VFR on top” was an option for pilots on an IFR flight plan to fly at VFR altitudes — even-numbered altitudes plus five hundred feet flying westbound — if they were clear of clouds.

“Negative, Three-Four Lima, that’s below my minimum vectoring altitude in your present area,” the controller responded. “You’ll have to wait until you get into Battle Mountain Approach’s airspace. Maintain one-two thousand.”

“Maintain one-two thousand, wilco, Three-Four Lima,” Frank replied. His only other option to fly at a lower altitude out of the turbulence was to cancel his IFR flight plan, but he didn’t feel comfortable with that until he was around those thunderstorms — the mountain ranges in this area were pretty high, and if he lost contact with the ground, he’d be in a world of danger.

“Dad, I don’t feel so good,” Jeremy said. His wife immediately found an airsick bag, opened it, and gave it to her son. The turbulence was gradually increasing in intensity — it was now getting close to continuous moderate turbulence with an occasional jolt that made their bodies strain against their shoulder harnesses.

“Can we get out of this turbulence?” Kara asked.

“Not for another twenty minutes or so.”

“Twenty minutes?”

“ ’Fraid so.” He looked out his left window and was surprised to see how close he was to the thunderheads — probably less than twenty miles now, the minimum recommended spacing. The turbulence was undoubtedly being caused by the spillover from the tops of the thunderstorm anvil pounding at them from above — the spillover could toss hail and ice as far as twenty miles or more from the center of the storm. “Those thunderstorms are moving a lot faster than forecast.” He looked at his GPS navigation device — sure enough, they were fighting a fifty-knot crosswind. The storm was catching up to them.

For a moment Frank thought about turning back toward Elko. But that would really screw up their schedule. And if they had to spend more than one night in Elko — the forecast for tomorrow had the thunderstorms moving back in and staying for days — he could get reprimanded for missing that much work. He could take an airline flight from Elko to Oakland, but that meant more money wasted, and then he would have to take the airlines back to Elko to get his plane. Turning around was an option, but not a very good one.

“Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake, are you still VMC?” the controller asked.

“Affirmative, Three-Four Lima,” Frank responded. “We’re getting a little bit of rain.”

“How’s your ride?”

“Light, occasional moderate,” Frank lied. It was more like continuous moderate, with more frequent bumps hard enough to make the top of his headset hit the headliner.

“The closest cell is at your ten o’clock, fifteen miles,” the controller said. “You may need to turn southeast to avoid it.”

“Roger,” Frank replied. “Can you vector me around the cells? Can you keep me away from the cells?”

“Three-Four Lima, turn left heading one-seven-zero, vector for weather, maintain one-two thousand, clear to deviate as necessary to stay VMC if possible.”

“Heading one-seven-zero, Three-Four Lima.” Now they were paralleling the storm, actually flying away from their destination. If the controller was making a strong suggestion to the pilot to turn back toward Elko, this was it. But the storm seemed to know it. Now that they were on a clear avoidance track, the storm seemed to awaken, transforming into the snarling ugly beast it really was and turning to pursue. But the storm had one more trick up its sleeve first.

Frank was relieved to actually see breaks in the cloud wall and decided to steer right for them. “I can see blue skies on the other side,” he said. “We can get through this.” He tried to aim right for those breaks, but it seemed as if he was almost flying sideways. The severe turbulence was more persistent now. He heard a BEEP BEEP BEEP! and saw a yellow flashing light — the turbulence had caused the autopilot to disconnect. He grabbed the control yoke tighter and fought to maintain control. He knew enough to let the plane wander in altitude a bit and not try to fight the up- and downdrafts.

“Three-Four Lima, turn left heading one-five-zero, vectors for weather, cleared in the block one-two thousand to one-four thousand,” the controller radioed. Frank realized with shock that he was flying almost north in his vain attempt to fly through the break in the storm, but now he could see nothing but a mass of dark gray. The turbulence had eased up a bit, but now the plane was being pelted by heavy rain and gravel-size hailstones. He had no idea what his altitude was — it took every ounce of concentration to steer to the heading and keep the wings relatively level.

The storm had sucked him in with fleeting glimpses of clear skies, and now its jaws were closing fast . “Salt Lake, Three-Four Lima, this is not good,” Frank said. “I need to get out of this.”

“Say again, Three-Four Lima?”

“Dad?”

“Not now, Jeremy.”

“Three-Four Lima, Battle Mountain Joint Air Base is at your six o’clock, fifty-five miles, turn right heading one-six-zero.”

“Dad?”

“Jeremy, what is it?”

“Ice on the pitot tube!” Frank looked and found the pitot tube and the leading edges of both wings covered in ice. It was July, and Elko had to be ninety degrees when they left… how could there be ice ? Frank turned on the pitot heat, then started a right turn…

… and then a gust of wind and turbulence lifted the left wing up so suddenly and so severely that they rolled completely inverted. Frank heard someone scream… and realized it might have been himself . He fought to roll wings-level again, but the artificial horizon was tumbling uncontrollably and the turn-and bank indicator seemed frozen in a full-scale right turn. The nose shot skyward — or it might have been earthward, he couldn’t tell for sure. Pulling and turning the yoke in any direction didn’t seem to do a thing.

“Dad?” Jeremy asked.

“Not now, Jeremy.”

“But, Dad, your heading indicator, your turn-and-bank… look at your—”

“I said not now, Jeremy, I’m trying to fly.” Suddenly more light seemed to come in through the windscreen. The pilot realized that a thin film of ice was obscuring the view outside, but he could see! They were out of the thunderstorm! “Okay, okay, I got it,” Frank said on intercom. “We made it. We…”

And just then he realized that the ground was rushing up to meet them — they were in a nearly vertical spinning dive heading straight for the ground. The pilot centered the controls and shoved in the left rudder, managed to somehow stop the spin, pulled back on the power, and raised the nose almost to level… just before the plane smashed into the ground.

“Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, radar contact lost, how do you hear Salt Lake Center?” the controller radioed. He waited a few moments, feeling his skin turn cold, his throat turn dry, and little hairs stand up on the back of his neck. “Three-Four Lima, how do you hear Salt Lake Center?” His supervisor was already standing beside him. “Shit, Bill,” he said, “I think I lost him.”

“Salt Lake Center, United Twelve-Seventeen.”

“United Twelve-Seventeen, Salt Lake Center, go ahead.”

“We’re picking up an ELT beacon on two-four-three-point-zero,” the airline pilot radioed.

The controller felt his lower lip start to tremble. That UHF frequency was the international emergency channel on which an airplane’s ELT, or emergency locator transmitter, broadcast — and ELTs automatically activated after a crash. A hand touched his shoulder — it was his replacement, come to relieve him so he could get away from the console, pull himself together, and start his grim report. “Copy, Twelve-Seventeen, thank you,” he said.

“I’ll get on the horn to the Air Force,” the supervisor said.

“No, I’ll do it,” the controller said. He threw off his headset, kicked himself out of the chair, picked up the phone between his seat and the assistant controller, and hit a red button marked AFRCC . He took a deep breath and waited for the direct line to activate.

“Rescue Coordination Center, Sergeant Goris,” came the reply from the duty controller at the Air Force Rescue Coordination Center at Tyndall Air Force Base in Florida, which directed all air and sea rescue missions in the United States. “Ready to copy, Salt Lake Center.”

“This is Adams, Salt Lake Center. Lost radar contact with a Cessna 182, five-five miles north-northwest of Battle Mountain, Nevada, in an area of heavy thunderstorms. Airliner at flight level three-five-zero reports picking up a VHF ELT overhead that vicinity.”

“We’re on it, Salt Lake,” the voice on the other end of the line said. The controller could hear an alarm sounding in the background. “Colors, fuel on board, pilot’s name, and souls on board?”

The controller picked up the flight-plan strip from its holder. “White with blue stripes, five hours, three… three souls on board,” he read, his voice catching when he read the grim number off the flight’s data strip.

“Roger, Salt Lake,” the voice said. “When do you estimate the weather will move out of the area?”

“It’s moving pretty fast and it’s not very big, just long,” the controller said. “About an hour.”

“Thanks, Mr. Adams,” the voice said. “I’m sorry. Tyndall is clear.”

“Okay, guys, this is it,” the Federal Bureau of Investigation special agent in charge, Gary Hardison, said. He was surrounded by two plainclothes agents, a team of four FBI Special Weapons and Tactics officers, and a squad of eight federal Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms agents, all in full body armor and tactical helmets and carrying submachine guns. “It’s the culmination of eighteen months of undercover work to get close to this gang. It all happens in about an hour.”

Hardison stepped over to a large presentation board with overhead satellite photographs of the objective and a hand-drawn diagram of their ingress plan. “Here’s the hangar where they want to make the exchange, in the middle of the first row nearest to the taxiway. Be on the lookout for planes and pilots on the airport, but the weather has been stormy, so the airport manager believes there won’t be any pilots on the airport. To be sure, he’s deactivated everyone’s gate access cards except ours so they won’t be able to get onto the airport until we’re done. We’ve verified that the other hangars are occupied, the identities of the owners have been checked, and the airport manager has deactivated their gate cards so they won’t be able to get in.

“The objective hangar has a single plane, a King Air 350 twin-engine plane that the suspects want to use to transport the materials. We’ve had a Predator unmanned aircraft overhead all evening, watching for any signs that the gang tries to put anyone up on the roof — if they do, we’ll be alerted, and we’ll call it off if we can’t take the shooter down. I’ll be watching the UAV’s video feed from here.

“Riley will go through the electric gate, which will be under observation by the gang,” Hardison continued. “Stricker will follow in the sedan. They’ll drive through, let the guards check them, the sedan, and the truck, then drive up to the hangar — I expect they’ll have at least one perp with you in the truck and sedan and at least one perp staying back at the gate. Once they’re cleared in and drive to the hangar, they’ll go in first with the cash, and then they’ll lead the smugglers out to the truck to let them test the materials. Once they approve the materials and we don’t get any warning beeps, you’ll take down the guys outside the hangar, and then we’ll signal the SWAT and ATF teams to fly in to clear the hangar.”

Hardison motioned to a lone uniformed officer. “Captain Derek Coulter from the Yuba County Sheriff’s Department is in charge of the SWAT team,” the FBI special agent went on. “After we take down the guys outside the hangar and the choppers are en route, he and his men will move in to close the airport and block the runway, taxiways, and exits. They’ll be out of sight here in the warehouse complex until the takedown. Captain?”

“We have six vehicles involved in blocking the runways and taxiways, with two deputies in each vehicle,” Coulter said. “Two will be near the hangar where the operation will take place, blocking the north end of the runway and the main taxiway. We’ll be monitoring the tactical freq, so if you need any help or if the situation changes, we’ll be standing by. We also have a chopper standing by at the fire department helipad, just a couple minutes away. My guys have worked with the FBI on numerous occasions. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Derek,” Hardison said. “To continue: The SWAT helicopters will touch down on the taxiway outside the hangar, which hopefully will be the first indication to those inside the hangar that something’s up. The hangar door should be closed; there’s a single walk-through door on the left side of the hangar door. The hangar has a twenty-foot-high roof with a lot of beams overhead, so, everyone, be sure to clear upward as well as around. It’s fairly cluttered in there with rolling tool chests, lights, jacks, and the like, so Hess, Scott, Edwards, and Caffery, be extra careful.

“The hangar has a bathroom in the southeast corner and a second-story studio apartment in the northeast corner — those are the important areas to cover,” Hardison went on. “The bathroom has no windows — Harris and Vasquez, you’ll have to make your way around the plane to cover the can. Be careful for air hoses and other trip machines on the floor, and the roof of the bathroom has a flat surface that they use to store shit, so cover that too. The apartment has a single window overlooking the hangar but no window on the door, so Carter and Meredith, you should be able to get up the stairs while McGinty and Cromwell cover the window from below.

“Hartman and Benz, you guys got the King Air 350. Entry door on the plane’s left side, and small opening window on the right and left sides of the cockpit that’s big enough to poke the muzzle of a gun out, so be on the lookout. There’s an emergency exit on the plane’s right side, but you should have lots of time to notice it if they try to pop it out to fire on you. Stay sharp. Once the hangar is clear, we’ll bring in forensics and hazmat and start scrubbing the place down.”

Hardison fielded questions, got an update on the weather and the status of the sheriff’s department personnel, did a time hack with everyone, then dismissed the teams to do their own briefings and check their weapons and equipment. At the prearranged time, the teams headed to their cars, and the operation was under way. Four Bell Jet Ranger helicopters were parked in the large loading area between two long rows of vacant warehouses, and the SWAT guys started to board.

Riley drove the windowless panel van to the proper airport entrance gate, followed by Stricker in a small sedan. Inside the gate, a lone car sat under a tree at an airport car-rental parking lot. When the FBI agent flashed his lights, a man with sunglasses, a plaid shirt with a white T-shirt underneath, and what looked like cowboy boots got out of the car inside the gate. He did not appear to be carrying a weapon, but the FBI agent knew a clever gunman could conceal a half-dozen weapons with that simple attire.

The man walked toward the gate until he recognized Stricker in the sedan, then nodded back to his car. It started up — Riley didn’t even see the other man in the car, which reminded him to stay sharp around these guys. The car drove toward the gate until the sensors in the pavement activated and started opening the gate, then backed up, turned around, and stopped just a few feet away. The van and sedan pulled in through the gate, and they waited until the gate began to close.

As soon as it did, the man in the plaid shirt got into the van on the passenger side and quickly checked the cargo area. At the same moment a second unseen man got into the passenger side of the sedan and ordered Stricker to open the trunk. When he did, yet another unseen man appeared, checked the trunk, flashed a thumbs-up, and disappeared.

“You guys are good — they came out of nowhere,” Riley remarked.

“Let’s go,” the first man said, ignoring the comment. “Speed limit is ten miles an hour.”

They drove past the self-serve aviation fueling station, across the transient parking ramp, and northward down an automobile access road along a row of hangars. No other cars or airplanes were in sight. They drove almost all the way down the row to the second-to-last hangar and stopped. The driver of the lead car pulled out a walkie-talkie and spoke, and a few minutes later a man came out of the hangar, carrying a suitcase.

“Right on time, Riley,” the man from inside the hangar said. “I like that.”

“Being late is a sign of disrespect, and it’s bad business, Sullivan,” Riley said. He nodded at the suitcase. “Is that all of it?”

“Half,” the man named Sullivan said.

Riley narrowed his eyes. “What is this shit, Sullivan? We didn’t agree to a split.”

“I want to check the packages outside first,” Sullivan said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small device that resembled a large garage-door opener. “If they pass, your friend there gets the cash. We’ll bring the van inside the hangar to check the packages with the larger device, and if they check out, you can leave with the rest.”

Riley hesitated, then shook his head. “Bring your larger device out here.”

“It’ll attract too much attention,” the man said. He nodded to the second undercover agent and tossed the suitcase to him. “Check it.” Stricker took the suitcase to his car and opened it. Inside were dozens of stacks of bills, mostly hundreds. He flipped through several stacks to be sure they weren’t padded with counterfeit currency, then quickly counted the stacks. Each stack was $10,000, for a total of about $150,000.

Stricker closed the suitcase and emerged from his car. “Half the total. One fifty K.”

“Now, that’s worth a peek, isn’t it?” Sullivan asked with a smile.

“That’s all you get for one fifty is a peek,” Riley said. “If you want to bring the van inside the hangar, it’ll cost you another one fifty. Larry will take the cash while you test the packages.”

Sullivan nodded at the second undercover agent. “You trust him with your three hundred thousand dollars?”

“Stricker knows his life won’t be worth spit if he screws me,” Riley said. “Let’s get on with it.”

Now it was Sullivan’s turn to hesitate, but he nodded. “Let’s do it.” He walked toward the van and opened the sliding side door. Inside were four large steel cylinders, about three feet high and twelve inches in diameter. He nodded. “The real deals, not homemade containers.”

“I’m not crazy enough to drive around with amateur-built containers,” Riley said. “Do you know how to operate it?”

“No, but my guy Carl does,” Sullivan said. He spoke into a walkie-talkie, and a few minutes later a man emerged from the hangar. He had trouble walking, his hair was thin and missing in several spots, and one eye looked clouded over. He took the detector from Sullivan’s hand and examined the casks. “Carl was a pilot for the Department of Energy for fifteen years,” Sullivan went on. “He flew that shit all over the United States in every kind of plane. One accident, and they fire him without benefits. Three years later, he finds out he’s got leukemia.”

The man named Carl turned the device on, waited for it to initialize, then looked at the display. “No leaks.”

“Every agency has got radiation detectors nowadays,” the undercover agent said. “I’m not driving around waiting to get popped by some local yokel.”

Carl examined the first cask, then punched commands into a small keypad on the side of the large steel container. A motor opened a thick steel shutter, revealing a tiny window on the side of the cask, and Carl held the detector up to the open window.

“Shouldn’t he stand away from that window?” Riley said.

“Carl knows a few more doses won’t kill him any quicker,” Sullivan said. “Carl?”

“Beta particles and gamma radiation… fairly high levels,” Carl said. He closed the window.

“That’s the iridium-192,” Riley said. “The stuff’s half-life is pretty short, but you said that was okay.” Sullivan nodded but kept on looking at Carl as he worked.

Carl checked another cask. “Gamma radiation only. Very high levels.”

“Cobalt-60,” Riley said.

Carl checked the third cask. “Neutrons, protons, beta particles, and gamma rays. Plutonium-239.” Lastly, he checked the fourth. “Alpha particles, beta particles, and uranium. Neptunium.” He closed the window, stumbled back to Sullivan, and gave him his detector back. “The tester inside will give us the exact amounts and levels, sir.”

“Thank you, Carl,” Sullivan said, clasping him on the shoulder as he walked by. “Get ready, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Neptunium-237, as ordered,” Riley said. “The rest of the cash, and you can take ’em inside your hangar. My man Stricker will count all the cash, drive out to our rendezvous point, and I’ll stay until you accept the packages.”

“Done,” Sullivan said. He radioed again, and another man brought out a second suitcase. Stricker counted all the bills, carefully this time, nodded in agreement, and drove off. Sullivan radioed for the hangar door to be opened.

When the inspection shutter on the first radioactive waste container had opened, the radiation dosimeter on board the Predator unmanned aircraft orbiting overhead detected the released radiation and transmitted an alarm to the command center in the warehouse complex near the airport. “The first cask was unsealed,” Hardison said to his assistant. “Spin ’em up.” The assistant went outside and signaled to the strike-team leader to prepare for takeoff, and the helicopter pilots began starting engines.

At that moment a Yuba County Sheriff’s Department cruiser turned into the entrance to the warehouse complex that concealed the four helicopters. The assistant looked at his watch, wondering what the deputy wanted. The cruiser parked about thirty yards away from the front row of helicopters, and a man in a suit, tie, and sunglasses emerged, taking his identification badge out and slipping it into his top jacket pocket with the seven-pointed sheriff’s star visible. The assistant hadn’t met the sheriff, but he thought he recognized him.

The newcomer gave the pilots a thumbs-up as he approached the assistant special agent in charge. “Sheriff Adamson?” the assistant asked.

“No,” the man said, and he withdrew an automatic pistol from under his jacket and shot the assistant in the chest three times. Immediately he withdrew a small device from his jacket, pressed a button, then walked inside the warehouse. Two seconds later, a three-hundred-pound homemade explosive device in the backseat of the police cruiser detonated. The first row of helicopters disappeared in a ball of fire and engulfed the second row, and in a fraction of a second all four choppers were destroyed and twelve SWAT officers perished.

The man trotted to the door to the office that was being used as the command post and dropped to one knee just as Hardison dashed out, weapon drawn, rushing to see what caused the horrific explosion outside. His bulletproof vest saved him, but the force of the three bullets hitting his chest dropped him. The man calmly looked down at the agent and shot him in the head twice, then turned and headed out.

The hangar door was almost open enough to drive the van inside when Riley noticed a Yuba County Sheriff’s Department SWAT armored Suburban roar down the taxiway toward them. Shit, he thought, they’re early ! Where in hell are the helicopters? The vehicle screeched to a halt in front of the hangar, and two officers in black battle-dress uniforms and Kevlar helmets dashed out and a third emerged from the back of the vehicle, carrying the two suitcases of money !

“Hey!” Riley shouted, holding up his hands in surrender. “What the hell is…?” At that moment he heard the explosion and the sounds of screeching and ripping metal from the direction of the warehouse complex, and he realized that the operation was blown — even before the driver of the Suburban pulled a pistol from his holster, aimed, and fired three rounds into the FBI agent’s face.

“Report,” the man named Sullivan said.

“The SWAT teams were eliminated, sir,” the driver said. “The sheriff’s department vehicles were placed to block ingress to the airport as much as possible, and the Bravo and Charlie strike teams are reporting to their postmission rally points. No casualties.”

“Very well,” Sullivan said. “Excellent work. Help the Alpha team get the casks on board the plane and secured, then report to your rally points.”

“Yes, sir .” The three men trotted inside the hangar, where the radioactive waste casks were already being unloaded by a forklift. Sullivan followed them inside, where he met up with Carl, who was looking over a sectional aviation chart. Sullivan noticed Carl’s pale, sweaty skin and trembling hand as he took a sip of water. “Are you okay, Carl?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine, sir,” Carl replied. “I took the last of the meds a few minutes ago — that’ll last me for several hours. Long enough.”

Sullivan nodded and clasped Carl on the shoulder again. “You’re a true patriot, Carl,” he said. “A real hero.”

“Thank you, sir,” Carl replied. He tapped the sectional chart. “I’ll be in constant radar contact in the valley at any altitude — no way to avoid that,” he said. “But once I get over the Sierra, they’ll lose me. I’ll ridge-hop to the south, change courses, stay away from population centers, and make my way to the airstrip to off-load the three casks and refuel.”

“Very well,” Sullivan said. “You’ve planned this operation well.”

“It was my honor and pleasure, sir,” Carl said, “as will be the last phase. The strike teams all performed brilliantly.”

“They did, thanks to your inspiration.”

“Thank you, sir.” Carl stood at attention and saluted. “It has been an honor to serve you, sir,” he said.

Sullivan returned his salute. “Not me, Carl — we serve the True Republic,” he said. He embraced the pilot, and he could feel the trembling throughout Carl’s thin body. The doctors had given him less than six months before the leukemia would consume him; the cataracts would blind him well before that. “Job well done, soldier. Carry on.”

“For the True Republic, sir,” Carl said, and he folded up his charts and headed for the King Air.

Long before the first FBI agents and police units arrived at the airport, the King Air was loaded up and airborne, heading east at low altitude. The men at the airport scattered via cars, motorcycles, and even boats, escaping to secure safe houses throughout the area to wait for nightfall and stay on the lookout for any sign of pursuit.