A Time for Patriots

One

The recent thunderstorms had turned the yard — if you could call their little patch of dirt, grass, and rocks a yard — into a brown crumbly paste, like soggy half-baked green-colored brownies. The unpaved streets were in a little better shape, having been compacted by automobile and construction traffic, but it was still a wet, sloppy mess that sunshine hadn’t yet been able to ameliorate.

This could have been war-torn Iraq or Afghanistan, or some remote Chinese village… instead, it was a relatively new subdivision in the community of Battle Mountain, in north-central Nevada.

Battle Mountain began life as a small railroad depot and mining camp in post — Civil War north-central Nevada, nothing more than a small collection of warehouses, shops, saloons, and brothels. Although it became the seat of Lander County, the community never got around to becoming an incorporated town, city, or even a village. Even when the interstate highway was built nearby and the U.S. Army set up a B-17 bomber crew training base outside of town, the community never really grew far from its mining-camp, bump-in-the-road past.

And that’s pretty much what Bradley James McLanahan thought of Battle Mountain: yet another bump in his road.

Just one month away from his eighteenth birthday, tallish like his deceased mother but husky and blue-eyed like his father, Brad — no one used his full first name except his dad unless they were looking for trouble — had had his share of moves and terrible postings, like all Air Force brats. Although he didn’t think so, he actually had it pretty good compared to the kids of some other officers, because he had moved just a few times in the eighteen years his father, retired Air Force Lieutenant-General Patrick McLanahan, had been in the service. But to his thinking, Battle Mountain was his penalty for having fewer moves and bad postings.

Brad had been cooped up most of the morning playing computer games and waiting for the hellish thunderstorms to blow through, and now that the rains had stopped and the sun was coming out, he wanted to get the heck out . He found his dad in his tiny bedroom/office. “Dad, can I borrow the car?” he asked from the doorway.

“Depends,” his father replied without turning. Patrick was seemingly staring out the window of his bedroom, one hand hovering in midair, his fingers moving as if he were typing on a keyboard. Brad knew — but wasn’t allowed to tell anyone — that his father didn’t need a screen because computer images were broadcast to tiny monitors built into special lenses of his eyes so the computer images appeared as big as if on a twenty-seven-inch high-def screen; he typed on a “virtual” keyboard that he could call up as well. His dad had been the guinea pig for many such high-tech gadgets in his years in the Air Force. “Kitchen?”

“Clean, dishwasher unloaded.”

“Bathroom?”

“Sunday is my usual day to do the bathroom. Okay if I do it tomorrow?”

“Okay. Bedroom?”

“Picked up, bed made.”

“Living room?”

“Presentable.”

His father looked at him, trying to discern exactly what that meant. “Maybe we should check.”

“Okay.” He watched his dad’s blue eyes dart back and forth as he made mouse-pointer movements by simply looking at log-off commands on his virtual screen. He followed his dad down the narrow hallway. Patrick peeked into Brad’s bedroom across the hall, checked, nodded approval, then proceeded past the hall closet with the stacked washer and dryer, the kitchen/dining area, and finally into the living room. The McLanahans lived in a double-wide trailer, about half the size of their last residence in Henderson, Nevada, near Las Vegas, but large and almost ostentatious compared to many of their neighbors’.

Patrick scowled at a stack of magazines and junk mail in a pile on the coffee table. “That stuff needs to be sorted, recycled, or put away,” he said.

“It’s Gia’s stuff, Dad,” Brad said. His dad nodded solemnly. Gia Cazzotto was his dad’s girlfriend — or former girlfriend, or wacko, or alkie, he didn’t know which. She had been medically retired from the Air Force after ejecting from an EB-1C Vampire bomber that had been attacked by Russian fighters over the Arabian Sea last year.

After recovering from her injuries, Gia was sent to Washington to face charges for her actions just prior to the shoot-down. She was charged with causing injuries and damage to a peaceful vessel and its crew in international waters, inciting an international incident, disobeying orders, and dereliction of duty. Patrick went with her to lend support and to testify on her behalf, but was barred from doing so because he faced his own charges. She was found guilty in a court-martial and sentenced to three years in prison, reduction in rank to second lieutenant — she had been a full colonel, in command of a high-tech bomber unit in Southern California — and a less-than-honorable discharge. Her sentence was commuted by President Kenneth Phoenix hours after he assumed office, but the less-than-honorable discharge remained.

Gia was never the same person after that, Brad remembered. She was angry, quick-tempered, restless, and quiet. The charges against his father were dismissed by the president, which only seemed to make her angrier. The president could have completely pardoned her, but he didn’t, saying that in good conscience he couldn’t overturn a jury verdict, even if he believed what she did was in the best interests of the United States of America. That made her even angrier.

When his father accepted this job in Battle Mountain, she accompanied them for a while, helping to set up the trailer and watch over Brad while his father worked, but she was definitely no fun to be around like she was in Henderson. She started drinking: good stuff at first, top-quality Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignons — Brad always got a little taste — then when the money ran low and she lost her job, it was whatever was cheapest. Soon after, she started disappearing, first for a couple days, then a couple weeks at a time. Who knew if she’d ever be back?

“Sorry. Don’t worry about it,” Patrick said, straightening his shoulders. He nodded toward the desk with the drawer with all the keys in it. “If it needs gas, you know what to do. Watch the speed limits. And no driving on the interstate. Got some cash?”

“Yes.”

Patrick nodded. Damn, he thought, his son was grown up, almost his own guy. What in hell would living in this trailer feel like without him? “Call if anything happens.”

“I know, I know, I will,” Brad said. “Thanks.” Like all of his friends, Brad got his learner’s permit at exactly age fifteen and a half on the dot because a car meant real freedom in an isolated place like Battle Mountain — the nearest town of any size was Elko, more than seventy miles away and accessible only by the interstate, unless you really liked serious off-roading. The cops knew that, and they liked to ticket kids who drove at night or used the interstate highway, which was not allowed for drivers with only learner’s permits.

The phone was ringing as Brad dashed out the door — no one he wanted to talk to right now used the home phone, so the quicker he could get away, the better. He had made it to the car and was just opening the driver’s door when he heard the front door to the trailer open and his dad shouted, “Brad!”

“Gotta go, Dad,” he shouted, not stopping. Sheesh, he thought, who calls the home number for him on a Saturday afternoon? All his friends used his cell number. “I’m meeting Ron and he needs—”

“Squadron recall,” Patrick said. “Actual. Everyone. Seventy-two hours.”

They did. All thoughts of freedom disappeared as he dashed back into the house. Hanging out with his friends, driving, playing computer games… all good, but they were all pretty lame compared to this .

Patrick and Brad raced back into the trailer, and within moments reemerged from their bedrooms dressed in completely different clothes. Patrick wore a sage-green flight suit and black leather flying boots. The black leather nameplate above his left pocket had a set of Civil Air Patrol wings, his name, the letters CAP in one lower corner and his Civil Air Patrol rank, COL , on the other (even though Patrick retired from the Air Force as a lieutenant-general, the highest rank he could attain in Civil Air Patrol without earning advancement points was colonel), along with Civil Air Patrol and Nevada Wing patches. Brad wore a camouflaged battle-dress uniform with blue-and-white cloth name tapes with MCLANAHAN on one side and CIVIL AIR PATROL on the other, along with a green camouflage cap, an orange safety vest, and black leather combat boots. Both carried backpacks with extra gear; Brad carried a smaller pack on his web belt. “Ready to go, big guy?” Patrick asked.

“Ready.” Like the costumed heroes Batman and Robin heading to the Batmobile, the two raced to Patrick’s four-door Jeep Wrangler and drove off.

The roads in the trailer subdivision were muddy from the recent thunderstorms, but the Wrangler handled them with ease. The subdivision was a temporary trailer housing settlement built during the expansion of the air base located nearby — at least it was meant to be temporary, until the sudden and dramatic downturn in the economy and the new president’s response to the crisis made the trailers permanent. The roads were still unpaved, and now half of the trailers were empty.

It took about five minutes to get back on paved surfaces, and then another ten minutes before reaching the outer perimeter of the airfield. The perimeter was a simple sign and chain-link fence, designed more to keep tumbleweeds and coyotes out, and an unmanned guard gate. But Patrick and Brad both knew that their identities were already being remotely determined and recorded, and their movements carefully tracked by the air base’s high-tech security sensors. Joint Air Base Battle Mountain didn’t look much different from the surrounding high desert, but at this place, looks were deceiving.

What was now Joint Air Base Battle Mountain had a colorful past, most of which the public was unaware of, or at best indifferent to. It started life as Tuscarora Army Air Corps Field in 1942 to train bomber and pursuit crews for service in World War II. After the war, the airfield was turned over to Lander County, and some of the government land south of the field sold to mining companies. A few businesses and an air museum tried to make a go of it at the isolated airfield, but there simply wasn’t that much business in remote north-central Nevada, and the airfield seemed to languish.

But the underground elevators, buildings, rail lines, power distributors, and ventilation systems that popped up around the airfield were never meant for miners: the U.S. government secretly constructed a vast underground cave network beneath Tuscarora Army Air Corps Base. The facility was designed to be a government reconstitution command center, a base far from population centers to which the heads of the U.S. government and military would escape and ride out a Soviet or Chinese nuclear-missile attack. After the attack was over, the officials at Battle Mountain would broadcast instructions to the survivors and begin rescue and regeneration efforts for the people of the western United States.

The facility was the ultimate in 1950s technology: it made its own power, air, and water; it was built to withstand anything but a direct hit with a one-megaton nuclear warhead; it even boasted an underground hangar with elevators that would take aircraft as large as a B-52 bomber belowground to safety. The base was so isolated that most miners and ranchers never realized the facility existed.

But when the Cold War ended, Battle Mountain was shuttered… until it was reactivated in the early twenty-first century by General Patrick McLanahan as the headquarters for a new high-tech aerial attack unit called the Air Battle Force. The Air Battle Force contained some of the most secret and amazing air-combat machines ever built: two-hundred-ton bombers with the radar cross section of a flea; bombers fitted with lasers that could shoot down ballistic missiles and satellites in low Earth orbit; even multiple flights of unmanned bombers that could fly supersonic combat missions halfway around the world. Still, the little community and its mysterious underground base went almost completely unnoticed by the rest of the world…

… until the American Holocaust, when the United States was attacked by waves of Russian bombers launching hypersonic nuclear-tipped missiles. Almost the entire fleet of American long-range bombers and more than half of America’s intercontinental-ballistic-missile arsenal was wiped out in a matter of hours. But Battle Mountain’s little fleet of high-tech bombers, led by Patrick McLanahan, survived and formed the spearhead of the American counterattack that destroyed most of Russia’s ground-launched intercontinental nuclear missiles and restored a tenuous sort of parity in nuclear forces between the two nations.

Battle Mountain emerged from the horrific tragedy of the American Holocaust to become the center of American air-breathing strategic combat operations. All of America’s surviving heavy bombers, intelligence-gathering planes, and airborne command posts were relocated to Battle Mountain, and a fleet of long-range unmanned combat aircraft began to grow there. The base even became a staging area for America’s fleet of manned and unmanned spaceplanes — aircraft that could take off and land like conventional aircraft but boost themselves into low Earth orbit.

Even during the deep global economic recession that began in 2008, Battle Mountain grew, although the community around it barely noticed. Because of its isolation and dirt-low cost of living, many bases around the world were closed and relocated to Battle Mountain. Soon Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base became JAB (Joint Air Base) Battle Mountain, hosting air units from all the military services, the Air Reserve Forces, the Central Intelligence Agency, and even the Space Defense Force.

But then the economic crash of December 2012 happened, and everything changed.

Newly elected president Kenneth Phoenix, politically exhausted from a bruising and divisive election that saw yet another president being chosen in effect by the U.S. Supreme Court, ordered a series of massive tax cuts as well as cuts in all government services. Such government cuts had not been seen since the Thomas Thorn administration: entire cabinet-level departments, such as education, commerce, transportation, energy, and veterans affairs, were consolidated with other departments or closed outright; all entitlement-program outlays were cut in half or defunded completely; American military units and even entire bases around the world disappeared virtually overnight. Despite howls of protest from both the political left and right, Congress had no choice but to agree to the severe austerity measures.

Joint Air Base Battle Mountain was not spared. Every aircraft at the once-bustling base was in “hangar queen” status — available only for spare parts — reassigned to other bases, or mothballed. Most planes placed in “flyable storage” were not even properly mothballed, but just hoisted up on jacks and shrink-wrapped in place to protect them against sun and sandstorms. Construction at the base was halted, seemingly with nails half pounded, concrete footers half poured, and streets abruptly turning into dirt roads or littered with construction equipment that appeared to be just dropped or turned off and abandoned. There seemed to be no one on the base at all except for security patrols, and most of the visible ones were unmanned robotic vehicles responding to security breaches discovered by remote electronic sensors.

Patrick and Brad drove past the partially completed headquarters building of the Space Defense Force. They had passed just a handful of persons and vehicles since entering the base. “Man, this place looks… freakin’ lonely, Dad,” Brad said. “Aren’t they ever going to finish those buildings?”

“There’s no money in the budget right now,” Patrick said. He nodded toward several trailers set up nearby. “Those will do for now.” If the Space Defense Force survived the economic downturn, he silently added. President Phoenix was a big supporter, but like every other government program, it had been cut by at least 50 percent.

“Battle Mountain’s town flower: the trailer,” Brad said, reciting the oft-repeated joke.

The flight line was built up much more than the rest of the base because of all the flying activity before the 2012 crash, but now it appeared just as vacant as the rest of the base. Each large hangar had just one or two planes parked there — the rest were either in the hangars being cannibalized or on the south parking ramp encased in shrink-wrap. The most active flying units on the base were the RQ-4 Global Hawk reconnaissance planes, which had transferred here from Beale Air Force Base in Marysville, California; and the three surviving Air Force E-4B National Airborne Operations Center airborne command post planes, which along with the Navy’s Mercury sea-launched ballistic-missile airborne command posts resumed around-the-clock operations after the American Holocaust.

Patrick drove to the older western side of the flight line, parked in front of a large cube-shaped hangar, and he and Brad retrieved their gear and headed inside. The hangar was shared with several nonmilitary organizations, everyone from the Lander County Sheriff’s Department to the Nevada Department of Wildlife, so there was an assortment of fixed- and rotary-wing aircraft parked inside. They found two men at a large table inside the hangar, looking over topographic charts. One was wearing an Air Force — style green Nomex flight suit, similar to Patrick’s; the other was wearing a camouflaged battle-dress utility uniform with an orange vest over the jacket. They looked up when Patrick and Brad came over to them.

“The McLanahans: first to arrive, as usual,” the man in the flight suit, Civil Air Patrol Lieutenant Colonel Rob Spara, said. Spara was a retired Army Kiowa Scout helicopter pilot and commanded an Army helicopter training squadron before retiring; he held a variety of helicopter-related jobs now, doing everything from flying skiers to fresh powder on mountaintops, to air ambulance, to maintenance and repair. He shook hands with Patrick, then handed him a clipboard with a sign-in roster. “You’re the first pilot to arrive, sir.” Even though rank in the squadron was rarely observed, everyone called Patrick “General” or “sir.” “Feel like flying the 182 today?”

“Absolutely,” Patrick said immediately. He completed the sign-in, then had Brad sign in.

“Good,” the other man, CAP Captain David Bellville, said. Bellville was the vice commander of the squadron and the commander of cadets, a ten-year veteran of the Civil Air Patrol, a twenty-two-year veteran of the U.S. Air Force, and a physician’s assistant. “I’ll be your flight release officer. I’ll enter you into the ICU and give your crew a face-to-face when you’re done preflighting.” The ICU, or incident commander utility, was the computerized data-input system for the Civil Air Patrol, which did away with a lot of the paperwork required by the Air Force.

“I’d like to fly as scanner, sir,” Brad said.

“You know you’re not old enough, Brad,” Spara said.

“But I finished all the training, and—”

“And you know how I feel about father and son flying together: if there was an accident, it would be an even greater tragedy,” Spara interrupted.

“Then can I be on the DF on the ground team, sir?”

Spara had turned back to his incident planning and looked a little peeved at the question. “The initial mass briefing will be in thirty minutes, Brad.”

“I can start inspecting the L-Per.” Spara looked as if he hadn’t heard him. “I’m here early, and I did navigation on the last exercise. I can—”

“Brad, we’re trying to work here,” Spara said. He paused, then nodded. “We’ll put you on DF. Go start preflighting it. Briefing in thirty.” He gave Patrick a short glance, and Patrick nodded and followed Brad to the equipment room.

As Brad unlocked the door, Patrick said, “I know you’re anxious, big guy, but you shouldn’t badger the squadron commander like that. He’ll give out everyone’s assignment in the mass briefing. He doesn’t have time to address each individual in the unit.”

“He gave out your assignment,” Brad said.

“I think that was a courtesy, Brad,” Patrick said. “I didn’t ask him if I could fly as mission pilot.”

“Courtesy because you’re a retired general?”

“Probably.” Patrick detected a slightly angry expression. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Spill it.” Still silent. “You still don’t like that I joined the Civil Air Patrol, do you?” Patrick asked. Brad glared at him. “I told you, I didn’t do it just to keep an eye on you.”

“Then why?”

“Because I’m a flier, and I was Air Force, and when we got sent to Battle Mountain and you transferred to this squadron from the Henderson squadron, I thought it would be fun, and it is. Plus, I give back to the community by volunteering.”

“It was my hobby, not yours.”

“So I can’t have the same hobby as you?”

“It’s not just that you’re a general, it’s because you’re a flier,” Brad said. “The CO looks down his nose at cadets and ground ops.”

“That’s not true,” Patrick said. “He’s a pilot, but he’s also retired Army — he’s been supporting ground troops his whole career. But that’s not what’s eating you either, is it?” Silence. “Wish I wasn’t part of Civil Air Patrol? Get used to it — I’m not going to quit unless work really picks up, which seems unlikely for a while.” Still silent. Patrick scowled, then asked directly, “What’s eating you, Brad?”

Brad looked up, then around, then took a deep breath and said, “Nothing.”

“C’mon, Brad, what’s up?”

“It’s nothing, Dad,” Brad said. He retrieved the L-Per direction-finding device and turned. “I gotta go.”

“Okay,” Patrick said dejectedly. It wasn’t the first time they’d tried to have this conversation, he thought, and it ended the same way every time.

Brad finished checking the direction-finding device, then brought it and his equipment over near the four-wheel-drive van to get ready for inspection and boarding. More squadron members had arrived, and he had time to visit with his friends and watch the local news for any information while they waited for the mass briefing. There weren’t that many members yet in the hangar — folks who lived in Battle Mountain usually escaped on weekends, to Elko, Jackpot, Reno, Lake Tahoe, Salt Lake City, or to remote desert campsites scattered throughout the area. If they were available, more would show up later for follow-on or backup missions.

Ron Spivey was a bit younger than Brad and was going to be a senior in high school, like Brad. “Hey, Ron,” Brad greeted him when they saw each other. “Where were you when the call came in?”

“Just bought Marina a cone at the DQ and were on our way out to do some off-roading,” Ron said. He was the quarterback and captain of the football team with Brad, taller but not as beefy as Brad, with big hands, a thin face that looked even thinner because of a thick football player’s neck, and narrow eyes.

“Was she pissed?” Brad asked.

His initial expression told Brad that she was, but Ron shrugged it off. “Who cares?” he replied. “If she wanted to nag on me, she could do it in my rearview mirror. She knew better. I dropped her off and geared up. What do you know?”

“Plane went down northwest of here,” Brad said. “I’ll bet they’ll put us on a Hasty team.”

“Maybe we’ll get to see victims.”

“You’re a sicko.”

“Beats those stuffed scarecrow things they put out on SAREXs.”

A few moments later, another young boy came up to them, stood in front of Brad, and saluted. “Cadet Sergeant Markham reporting, sir,” he said. He was fifteen years old but looked about ten, with a round face and body, a nose way too small for his freckly face, and big green eyes.

Brad returned the salute. “You don’t have to salute indoors, Ralph,” he said, “and you don’t have to report to me — you report to the IC or whoever’s signing us in.”

“Sorry, sir,” Markham said.

“Don’t apologize either. Did you sign in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you don’t have to ‘sir’ me unless we’re in formation,” Brad said. But he knew that Ralph Markham liked the military formalities and wasn’t going to stop. “They’ll probably put us together on a Hasty team. Got all your Seventy-Two gear?”

“Yes, s — Brad,” Ralph said. “Out by the van ready for inspection.”

“Who’s closer to level one?” Brad asked the others. He turned to Ron. “Did you get your advanced first aid at the last SAREX?”

“No, I came in late, so they put me at the base on the radio.”

“Then make sure you ask Bellville or Fitzgerald to be lead medic so you can get a sign-off and take the practical exam,” Brad said. “That okay with you, Ralph?”

“I’ve already got my advanced done, sir,” he said proudly.

“Excellent,” Brad said. “The practical too?”

“Mr. Fitzgerald gave it to me last week.”

“So what do you need for your level one?”

“Tracking and DF, sir.”

“They said they’re getting an ELT signal,” Brad said, “so they put me on DF, and I’d like to stay on it to help out if they need me. But if we’re on foot, I’ll have you organize a line search and take us through some tracking procedures. Remember, verbalize what you see to the rest of the strike team and take lots of pictures or drawings. If you get a sign-off, we’ll do some tracking practice on our own and get you ready for your practical exam. The DF sign-off will have to wait for another actual or SAREX next month, unless you can go to the California Wing’s summer camp in two weeks.”

“I can’t,” Ralph said. “I have summer school.”

“Bummer,” Brad said. Ralph was an enthusiastic cadet and loved the challenges of the Civil Air Patrol, but his reading was several grade levels lower than his classmates’, and he needed a lot of extra time to do the simplest reading assignments. “No problem. You know your stuff — we just gotta get you some practice and a senior to observe you. You’ll get your first class before you know it, and I think you’ll skate through Urban DF too. You could be up for officer promotion.” Ralph looked as if he was going to explode with pride. Brad turned to Ron. “You gotta get busy on getting some sign-offs, Cap. You’ve been a second class for, what? A year?”

“Hey, BJ, I’m busy, okay?” Ron spat back irritably. Brad’s face turned stony. Ron Spivey was probably the only person who could get away with using that pejorative nickname, and only if he used it very sparingly. “I got two lousy part-time jobs that don’t pay shit—”

“Watch the language around the younger cadets and the seniors, bro.”

“—football practice twice a day,” Ron went on, ignoring Brad’s remark, “and a girlfriend who thinks I’m her personal chauffeur and cash machine. I’ll do the stuff when I can get the time.”

“I’ll help you, Ron, but you gotta make the time,” Brad said. “When this is over we’ll go online, I’ll take a look at your SQTR progress record, and we’ll figure out—”

“I said, I’ll do the stuff when I get the time, McLanahan,” Ron said, and turned on a heel and walked away.

A few minutes later, all of the senior and cadet members who had arrived took places around the conference table. “Thanks for coming so quickly, everyone,” Rob Spara began. He gave a time hack, then began: “This is an actual search-and-rescue mission. Approximately forty minutes ago, the Air Force Rescue Coordination Center was notified by Salt Lake Air Traffic Control Center that a Cessna 182 with three souls aboard was lost on radar and presumed crashed in heavy thunderstorms. A commercial airliner flying in the vicinity picked up an emergency locator transmitter beacon on VHF GUARD frequency about fifty-five miles northwest of here. The Air Force notified the Civil Air Patrol National Operations Center, who called Nevada Wing headquarters, and the colonel made me the incident commander.

“The storm system has blown through and clear skies with gusty winds are expected in the recovery area,” Spara went on. “Several airliners have picked up the ELT, and air traffic control actually put together a pretty good triangulation based on signal fade. The plan is to launch the 182 and begin a search grid at the approximate location given by the airliner. Unfortunately, the ELT is an old-style transmitter and isn’t picked up by satellite or doesn’t transmit its position, so we do a search the old-fashioned way. General McLanahan will be mission pilot, with de Carteret as observer and Slotnik as scanner.

“Because we got an ELT signal and we might have a mostly intact plane with survivors, I’m going to deploy a Hasty team immediately,” Spara went on. “Bellville will be the ground-team leader, with Fitzgerald as deputy team leader, driver, and comm, McLanahan as DF, and Spivey and Markham as medics. Repeater setup will be Romeo-17.” Everyone wrote that designation on their briefing cards. The repeater network — a series of FM radio towers on several mountain peaks throughout remote areas of Nevada, California, Oregon, Washington, Colorado, Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, and Utah — would allow the incident commander to communicate with air and ground units simultaneously, even if in a remote area or not in line of sight. “Be sure to carry medical equipment and supplies for three victims.

“Unfortunately the GA-8 ARCHER is undergoing its one-hundred-hour inspection, so it’s not available until Tuesday, but I’m hoping to find this objective before then.” ARCHER, which stood for airborne real-time cueing hyperspectral reconnaissance, was the most sophisticated nonmilitary airborne ground sensor in the world, capable of detecting fifty different wavelengths of electromagnetic energy in a single pass. It could detect tiny pieces of metal, disturbed earth, or even spilled fuel. ARCHER could not be operated at night and had difficulties seeing through dense trees or deep snow, but in the deserts of the western United States, it was an ideal sensor to help locate downed planes. Because of its capabilities, ARCHER, mounted aboard an Australian-made Gippsland GA-8 Airvan single-engine plane, was borrowed quite often by other CAP wings; it flew so often that it underwent a hundred-hour inspection about once every three months.

“Our Cessna 206 is on its way back from Las Vegas,” Spara went on, “and it should be available tomorrow if necessary. Elko and Reno squadrons are issuing alert notifications but I haven’t heard if they have backup planes available yet, so for right now, we’re it. Cell-phone signal forensics hasn’t picked up anything yet.” The Civil Air Patrol had the capability to triangulate a person’s cell-phone signals to help locate that person, even if the phone wasn’t in use — depending on the number of cell towers activated, the position could be determined within a few miles. “Questions?” He waited a few moments, then said, “Conduct your task-force and team briefings, then head on out. Good luck, good hunting.”

The air and ground teams got together for a joint briefing. “Based on approximate positions of aircraft flying overhead and relayed to us from air traffic control, the IC picked grid SFO 448 to search,” Bellville began, pointing to a topographic chart that had been overlaid with hundreds of numbered rectangles. “I suggest we start on the southwest corner of the grid. We’ll plan on driving west on the interstate to Exit 234, north on Grayson Highway, north on Andorsen Road, and go off-road at Andorsen ranch. Hopefully the 182 will have spotted the objective by the time we get there. Fid?”

“The Andorsen family has already given us permission to access their land at any time,” Michael Fitzgerald, the deputy team leader but a much more experienced Nevada high-desert outdoorsman, said. Fitzgerald, a Nevada Department of Wildlife field agent and firefighter, was a tall, imposing guy, with long hair and whiskers, definitely not military-looking — and he delighted in that. “I have my charts marked pretty well with gate locations. We’ve lucked out because the grid is relatively flat, with the east face of Adam Peak in the northwest corner the only high terrain to worry about. I just hope the ground isn’t too soggy.”

Patrick made some notes and checked his sectional chart, which had been marked with the same grid lines as on the topographic briefing chart, then nodded. “Sounds good, Fid,” he said. “We’ll enter the grid on the southwest and try to steer to the ELT — if we’re lucky, it’ll still be emitting. If not, we’ll contour-search Adam Peak, then do a parallel search course in the grid, half-mile tracks, at one thousand feet AGL. Based on sun angles, I’ll do a north-south track and hope we can pick up some good contrasting shadows. I know our target is a Cessna 182—any details about the three passengers?”

“The fixed base operator at Elko said it was two adults and one young boy on board that plane,” Bellville said. Patrick couldn’t help but look over at his own son, and Brad looked back at him with sorrow on his face. They had flown together for many years — Patrick was a flight instructor, but in these tough economic times, Brad was usually his only student — but the thought of losing Brad in a plane crash was almost too awful to think about.

“If the ELT is still on,” Patrick said, swallowing hard and shaking off the thought of Brad being in that situation, “they may have survived the crash, and they may be trying to signal us. I feel good about this one, gang.”

“Same here, sir,” Bellville said. He and Patrick exchanged more information, double-checking radio repeater channels and charts so they could communicate and have common references in case anything was spotted, then shook hands. “Good luck, sir.”

“Same to you, Dave,” Patrick said, and the air and ground teams broke up to do their own team briefings.

“A few more thoughts, and then we’ll mount up,” Fitzgerald said to the ground-team members. “Looking at the objective area, we might be able to stay on the wash, but the thunderstorms that moved through the area might make it impassable. Hopefully the ground will have had a chance to dry out by the time we get there. It’s fairly flat, but we might have a few deep gullies to traverse. In any case, our job is to move fast to help any survivors. We’ll try to drive in as far as we can, but be prepared to do some quick hiking.”

Bellville referenced a data card given to him by Spara. “We’re on the lookout for a Cessna 182, the same type of plane as Three-Double-Echo, which I know you’ve all flown on, white with blue stripes,” he went on. “Three souls on board. The flight originated from Elko en route to Carson City, so it might have lots of fuel still in its tanks, so be careful of spilled fuel and fire.”

Bellville paused, then looked at Spivey and Markham, the two youngest members of the ground team — Spivey was seventeen and a bit younger than Brad, and Markham was fifteen. “Guys, let me and Fid approach the scene first, okay? I know you guys have been on actual missions, but you’ve never seen accident victims before, right?” Both cadets shook their heads, their eyes wide. “I know you guys are fully qualified in emergency services, first aid, and field operations, but encountering victims of a plane crash is a whole ’nuther world. You’ve got to ready yourself for some pretty awful sights. I’m not going to push you away from the scene or keep you from doing your assignments, but I’m not going to shove that horror on you either. Let us seniors check out the scene first, okay?” Both of the younger cadets nodded silently; Brad did not. “Good. Get your packs ready for inspection outside the van and let’s move out.”

Brad wished he was old enough to fly as an observer or scanner, but as they prepared for inspection, he was starting to get revved up to go out and find these victims. Yes, the air-search guys got all the glory, but the ground teams were the ones to actually make contact and help the victims.

Each team member had a twenty-pound backpack on a support frame called a Seventy-Two Hour pack with a carefully prepared list of items for a three-night encampment, the longest authorized for CAP cadets, including sleeping bags and pads, another set of BDUs, Meals Ready to Eat kits for five meals, and other standard personal camping items. A two-gallon water bladder was attached to the back of each backpack, with a tube attached to the front of the uniform for drinking. They also carried a fanny pack with a personal first-aid kit and other essential items that they could access without having to dig through a backpack, such as gloves, goggles, a compass, maps, a headlamp, sunscreen, and other items. After checking their gear, they inventoried the other items they would take along in the van, including tents, packs of bottled water, more MREs, and cooking equipment. The medical team inventoried their kits and equipment, including splints, burn-treatment kits, stretchers, and bandages, and the senior members checked their radios, charts, and portable GPS receivers and spare batteries.

Brad was in charge of the DF, or direction-finding equipment, and he had to show Bellville that it was working properly. The DF, called an L-Per, was a VHF and UHF radio receiver with an oblong directional antenna mounted on a six-foot-high mast, which was attached to a vehicle or could be carried on a special harness if they had to go in on foot. The receiver would pick up the electronic beacon from a downed aircraft and, by monitoring the signal strength as the antenna was turned, point the way to the beacon. The device was powered by two nine-volt batteries, and Brad made sure he had plenty of fresh spares — there wasn’t anything worse than to lead a team miles and miles into the desert and run out of juice before reaching the objective.

Once Bellville had inspected everyone’s gear, it was all loaded into the back of the ten-passenger blue-and-white four-wheel-drive van, and the team piled in. The van had a special FM radio operating on the Civil Air Patrol repeater network that would tie in all of the teams on that channel, including, air, ground, and base units, along with a cellular amplifier that could pull in distant cellular signals to allow cell phones to be used farther from civilization.

The ground mission was under way.

At the same time Patrick was at the hangar entrance with the squadron’s blue-and-white Cessna 182R and the other members of his flight crew, Leo Slotnick and John de Carteret. Leo was in his midthirties, a former U.S. Air Force aerial refueling tanker pilot and currently a Nevada Highway Patrol sergeant and pilot from Battle Mountain, who had only been a member of the Battle Mountain squadron for five months. John de Carteret was just the opposite: he was in his early sixties, a retired captain in the U.S. Coast Guard, and was the co-owner of a gas station and convenience store in town just off the interstate with his wife, Janet, also retired Coast Guard and a CAP volunteer. He had been in the Civil Air Patrol since he first came to Battle Mountain eleven years earlier and was qualified in numerous emergency-services specialties, both ground and flying. Even though he was a pilot, he preferred to be a mission observer and act as copilot and mission commander. Slotnick could qualify for mission pilot after flying a few more actual or exercise sorties as a mission scanner and taking another flight check.

Rob Spara came over with several forms. “Flight release and weight and balance,” he said. To the entire crew he asked, “How’s everyone feeling today? No one popping open any brewskis early on a hot Saturday afternoon?”

“A couple hours later and I might have,” Leo admitted.

“No late nights last night, no allergy medications?”

“A late night for me is eight P. M., Rob,” John said.

“I’m right with you, John,” Spara said. The “IMSAFE” check, which stood for illness, medications, stress, alcohol, fatigue, and eating/hydration, was a required briefing element to be sure each crewmember was fit to fly. Since none of them was on alert and they all led normal lives, being suddenly thrust into a flying assignment meant that the aircraft commander and flight-release officer had to be sure everyone was ready to fly. “How about you, General?”

“I feel good, no meds, no alcohol, and things are so slow here on the base I can’t be stressed,” Patrick said.

“Good.” Spara tapped some instructions into a BlackBerry, waited a few moments; then: “You’re released. Good luck.” He wrote their release number on the flight-release form. “I’ll see you on the radio.”

Patrick opened up the airplane maintenance logs. “Okay, last crew reports they filled the plane to the tabs, so we have plenty of gas. Open discrepancies… loose copilot’s armrest… and left rearmost window is crazed. Let me know if you think it’s too bad to look out of, Leo.”

“Will do, sir.”

“No other glitches.” Patrick filled out log sheet from data on the flight-release form, closed it, then referred to a mission briefing card he had filled out after getting a mission briefing from the operations and planning officers. “Okay, guys, we’ll head on out directly to the southwest corner of grid SFO 448, and hopefully we’ll get a few ELT bearings. Altitude will be one thousand feet AGL, which will be around five thousand five hundred feet MSL in that area. Thirty minutes out and thirty back will give us three hours on station with an hour fuel reserve — hopefully we won’t need that long. We might have enough daylight when we get back to return, refuel, and relaunch if necessary. With the front blowing through, we might get some turbulence, so let me know if anyone feels queasy. Flat terrain except for Adam Peak, good visibility, and a half-mile track separation gives us a probability of detection of eighty-five percent, so let’s get this one. Questions?” Leo and John shook their heads. “Okay. I’ll do an airplane preflight. You guys preflight the radios, camera, and DF, copy the airplane hours into the logbook and the mission forms, and get a good radio check with the IC and ground team.”

Patrick put on a pair of Nomex fireproof gloves and began to work on preflighting the four-seat Cessna, working with a plastic-laminated checklist. John met up with him a few minutes later. “Comm is good,” he said, “and the DF self-tests okay.”

“Which means it’ll be almost useless?” Patrick deadpanned.

“If you talk badly about the DF, it will hear you and act badly,” John deadpanned back. “I thought 406 megahertz satellite ELTs were required on all planes.”

“They are,” Patrick said. “But everyone is cutting corners to cut costs these days, and ELTs are one of those things that you never think you’ll ever use. The owner was probably waiting until his ELT battery replacement was due before buying the new one.”

“Well, hopefully it’ll keep on working long enough to get a good steer,” John said. He nodded to Patrick. “I’m always amazed watching you work, Patrick.”

“Why?”

“You’re the guy who’s flown all sorts of heavy iron, from B-52s to spaceplanes,” John said, “and here you are, preflighting a plane that probably weighs less than one of the bomb-bay doors on a B-52, and you’re using a paper checklist. You can probably preflight a Cessna 182 blindfolded.”

“I probably could,” Patrick said, “but when I think I know it all, that’ll be the time to quit flying.”

“True enough,” John said. He paused for a moment, then commented, “I… I’m not sure if I’ve said this to you before, Patrick, and if I have, I apologize, but…”

“What?”

“I just can’t believe you are here,” John said, his eyes filled with unabashed wonder — one might even describe it as amazement. “I mean, you are Patrick McLanahan. The Patrick McLanahan. It seems like one day you’re leading a group of bombers against Russia to avenge America for the American Holocaust, then the next you’re on the space station, and then you’re in Iraq stopping a major war from breaking out between Turkey and America. The next day, you’re in little Battle Mountain, Nevada, flying Cessna 182s and 206s for the Civil Air Patrol. With all due respect, sir… what in hell are you doing here? I mean, here ?”

“I explained this to the squadron when I first joined, John,” Patrick began. “I retired from the Air Force—”

“You mean, you were forced to retire.”

“President Phoenix put his political life on the line during his campaign when he supported me and stood against President Gardner prosecuting me for the Aden and Socotra Island incidents,” Patrick said. “I felt I had no choice but to retire. President Gardner still decided to prosecute the others and myself. I was lucky: the case hadn’t gone to the jury by the time President Phoenix was sworn in, and he pardoned me.”

“The others weren’t so lucky.”

“I know,” Patrick said somberly. “A lot of good people had their lives turned inside out because of the orders I issued, even though no one spent any time in prison.” He straightened his shoulders. “Okay, let’s get our heads back in the game, John.”

“But wait, Patrick,” the retired Coast Guard officer said quietly. He put a hand on Patrick’s arm in earnest. “You still didn’t answer my question: Why here ?”

“I explained that,” Patrick said. “Battle Mountain is still a vital bomber, spaceport, UAV, and joint air facility. It’s been downgraded to part-time status, but there’s no money in anyone’s budget for a large support staff. I’m familiar with Battle Mountain and all the Air Force and Space Defense Force activities here; the high school has a good football program for my son, and he likes being part of the Civil Air Patrol. Probably most important: I can work for a dollar a year and live pretty well off my retirement, government housing, and expense reimbursements. I run a small caretaker staff, keep the networks and communications systems alive, and keep the lights minimally on and support the few missions we fly out of here until the economy recovers, and we can start rebuilding the force. It’s that simple.”

John’s expression was skeptical, almost disbelieving, and he looked as if he was going to continue questioning him, but Patrick’s expression told him to back off. “Well, General,” he said, “I’m proud and pleased that you’re here.” He touched the silver eagle insignia on his left shoulder. “And I’m sorry you have to wear a bird instead of stars. It seems like an insult to me, given your service to our country.”

“They offered an honorary lieutenant-general’s rank and position — I declined,” Patrick said. “I’m a crew dog, John, plain and simple. I wanted to fly, not give speeches and have my picture taken with politicians who say they support our mission and us. I couldn’t fly for CAP wearing three stars. Enough already, Observer. There may be people on the ground who need us. Let’s stop chitchatting.” John gave him a pat on the arm and let him get back to his preflight.

A few minutes later, the crew climbed aboard. Patrick was in first in the left-front pilot’s seat, and then he rolled his seat forward so Leo could get in the left-rear seat. Leo carried a flight bag with charts, his own personal headset, and other gear, and another padded canvas bag with a digital telescopic camera for recording pictures for upload to the Civil Air Patrol National Operations Center after their mission was over. John got in last and strapped in. “Ready, John?” Patrick asked.

“Ready,” John said, retrieving a laminated checklist card from a pocket near his right leg. “Preflight, completed. Crew brief.”

“Seat belts and shoulder harnesses on all the time,” Patrick said, reciting from memory. “Fire extinguisher is up here between the front seats. Sterile cockpit in the terminal area and in the grid — no unnecessary conversations. Evacuation order will be Leo first out the left side, then John out the right, then myself, and I’ll grab the survival kit after exiting if the plane’s not on fire. Remember you can pop the windshield out as an emergency escape, and the rear baggage door is unlocked so you can climb over the backseat and get out that way if necessary. Questions?” He didn’t wait for a response — he knew his crew was experienced enough that they could give him the briefing. They continued with the checklist, got the plane’s engine started, the radios and navigation systems on, and minutes later they were taxiing for takeoff.

It was a long taxi to the run-up area, a wide portion of the taxiway where small planes could pull out of the way to make room for other planes while the pilot finished his preflight. Patrick ran through the final engine checks and pretakeoff items. He then ran the Cessna’s engine up to takeoff power, leaned the engine until it was just starting to run rough, enriched the mixture until the cylinder-head temperature was 125 degrees cooler, then pulled the power back. Meanwhile, John entered their grid entry coordinates into the plane’s satellite navigation system, which gave Patrick his direction of flight after takeoff.

“Takeoff briefing,” Patrick began. “John, back me up on engine instruments; Leo, watch for traffic. Engine failure during takeoff roll: throttle to idle, max braking as needed, flaps up, secure the engine. Engine failure after takeoff but less than one thousand feet aboveground: trim for seventy-five knots, full flaps, secure the engine, land straight ahead; if above one thousand feet, we’ll attempt a turn back to the runway, but we have lots of better options for an off-airport landing — if the airplane breaks, it belongs to the insurance company, not us. Any questions?” No reply. “Everyone ready?”

“Observer.”

“Scanner.”

“Here we go.” Patrick taxied to the runway hold line, got takeoff clearance from the Battle Mountain control tower — actually a series of cameras and sensors all around the airfield, with controllers indoors watching on monitors — taxied onto the long reinforced concrete runway, and made the takeoff. The runway was so long that he could have made two more takeoffs and landings and still not have been in any danger of running out of concrete.

“CAP 2722, airborne,” John reported on the FM radio.

“Battle Mountain Base, roger,” Spara replied.

The landing on the hard alkali desert surface was one of the worst the workers had ever seen, and they were sure they’d see the big twin-engine plane flip upside down or spin out of control across the playa. But the pilot managed to keep it under control, and soon the King Air was taxiing across the three-inch-deep alkali dust toward the drop-off point.

“Thought you’d ground-loop her for sure, Carl,” one of them said after boarding the King Air and making his way to the cockpit. The engines were still running at idle power, and a cloud of white dust swirled inside the plane. “You still got the touch, though. I shoulda warned you that the winds were squirrelly, but I didn’t want to—”

The man stopped, and a chill ran up and down his spine. The pilot named Carl was slumped over the control wheel, still strapped in his seat, which was covered in bloody diarrhea, urine, and vomit. At first he thought Carl was dead… but a few moments later he saw him raise his head and look back. “Carl?” the man asked. “You look like shit, man.”

“Funny,” Carl breathed. He coughed up more bloody substances, smiled, and sat up. “I feel like hell, not shit.”

“You gonna make it, Carl?” the man asked. “The commander said to unload all the casks if you don’t think you’ll make it.”

“I’ll be okay,” Carl breathed. He wiped his mouth, looked at the bloody mess covering his legs, floor, seat, and most of his instrument panel, then shook his head. “Just great. A perfectly good breakfast, wasted.”

“You want me to clean all that up, Carl?”

“Screw it,” Carl said. “Won’t matter anyway.” He seemed to doze off, then reawaken with a start, look around as if regaining his bearings, then turn back toward his comrade. “You got any whiskey, Joe?” he asked.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to fly and drink,” Joe said even as he thought, What a stupid thing to say, quoting FAA regulations at a time like this. But before Carl could repeat his request, he nodded. “You got it, Carl. Sit tight and relax.”

About ten minutes later, the worker named Joe returned to the cockpit with a plastic canteen. Another worker was maneuvering one of the casks behind him. “Here ya go, Carl,” Joe said. “A little Black Jack for ya.” Carl took the canteen and drank — most of it dribbled out of his mouth, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. “We got the payload up here for ya too.” Joe dropped a ratcheting wrench onto the copilot’s seat, then said apprehensively, “I… I can loosen a few of the bolts if you need.”

Carl looked at Joe’s taut face, smiled, and shook his head. “No reason for both of us to get zapped, Joe,” he said. “I can handle it.” He held out an emesis-stained hand. “Thanks, brother. For the True Republic.”

Joe hesitated for a heartbeat, but swallowed his fear and took Carl’s hand. “Good luck, Carl. For the True Republic. See you in Asgard, brother.” He turned and made his way out of the aircraft and closed and dogged the door shut.

For several minutes, Carl sat in the cockpit, staring at the floor, trying to remember what he was supposed to do. But one look at the large steel-and-concrete cask sitting beside him reminded him of the task before him.

On the handheld GPS navigation system attached to the control yoke, he called up Flight Plan Nine, the flight plan he had developed and tweaked over the past several weeks for this mission. He had rehearsed it several times on a desktop-computer flight simulator, even using real-world satellite and three-dimensional street-level photographic images to get the most detailed preview of the final moments of the flight. But that was before the diseases ravaging his body began destroying his vision, lungs, and nervous system, and he wondered if he had the strength to do it after all his hard work. It would be so easy, he thought, so peaceful, to just let go of his sense of duty and responsibility, accept the horrible death that had been imposed on him, and let the inevitable happen.

But then, just as his spirit was waning to the point of surrender, he looked out the cockpit window. One of the soldiers had brought an American flag out onto the playa so Carl could see the wind direction and strength. He reached behind the copilot’s seat and withdrew his own flag: the flag of the Knights of the True Republic of America. It was a Stars and Stripes flag but with the coiled snake from the Gadsden flag, the original flag conceived by South Carolina army officer Christopher Gadsden and adopted by the colonial American Navy and Marine Corps, in the stripes field. But instead of a coiled timber rattlesnake shaking its rattle and warning others to stay away as on the Gadsden flag, the flag of the True Republic of America showed the rattlesnake striking. The symbology was plain: those who carried this flag would no longer be warning our enemies not to oppose us, but its followers were ready to attack.

The persons he was working for weren’t members of the Knights of the True Republic, but it was clear that they shared the same ideas and vision, and he was happy to contribute his flying skills for them. There were armies of men, women, and even children throughout the West, willing to risk their liberty and even their lives to stand under the Knights’ flag, willing to do whatever it took to wake up a comatose American public, warn them of the danger of those bureaucrats and politicians who wanted more government and more taxation, and call on others to follow them into battle against those who were driving the nation into the ground. But it was not enough to rally around the flag — someone had to carry it into battle.

This flag was special: he had fashioned it out of material from old uniforms. He hated to soil it with his own blood and vomit, but a flag carried into battle would naturally be soiled with the stain of battle. The important thing was not to make sure the flag stayed clean, but make sure that the world, and especially the enemy, saw the flag at the front of an advancing and angry army. That was his mission: to carry the flag in the Knights of the True Republic of America’s next and greatest offensive.

He started the right engine of the King Air, manipulating the controls more by rote memory and feel than by sight, then taxied forward onto the playa. It even seemed as if the winds cooperated and died down right at that moment so he had his choice of which way to go, so he decided to head directly northwest toward his objective. Making sure he didn’t apply any brakes so he wouldn’t drive the nosewheel into the sand, Carl smoothly advanced the throttles and pulled the yoke all the way back to his stomach with trembling muscles. The nosewheel popped off the playa, helping the big turboprop accelerate. As soon as the King Air left the ground at best-angle-of-climb airspeed, Carl pushed the nose forward, flying just a few feet above the playa in ground effect, being buoyed by the plane’s wingtip vortices reflecting off the ground. He retracted the landing gear, staying in ground effect until reaching normal climb speed, then raised the nose, incrementally retracted flaps, and performed a normal climb.

His mission was finally under way. It might be his final mission, but, he reminded himself, it was the first for the Knights of the True Republic of America.

“We lucked out — I’m still getting an ELT,” John de Carteret said on intercom. He had set the L-Tronics emergency beacon locator to search for both VHF and UHF beacon signals and was monitoring a tiny needle mounted atop the glare shield. The GPS navigator — an older model, not updated for several years, but with the essential CAP info still valid — showed a series of rectangles with numbers designating their grid identification. “Ten miles to the grid entry point.”

“Good deal,” Patrick said. He pressed the radio transmit button on his control yoke and spoke: “Battle Mountain Base, CAP 2722 on Romeo-Seventeen, five minutes to grid entry, still receiving an ELT. Do you want us to start homing or continue to the entry point? Over.”

“CAP 2722, Battle Mountain Base, start homing right away,” Rob Spara radioed back. “I’d hate to lose the signal and not get a good bearing to it. We’ll log you in the grid at this time and turning onto an ELT bearing.”

“CAP 2722, roger,” Patrick said. On intercom: “I’m descending to fifty-five hundred, crew, flaps ten, fifteen inches,” reciting the power settings and flight-control settings aloud for everyone’s information. “Let’s go get ’em, John.”

“Roger that,” John said. “Right fifteen degrees.” He copied the latitude and longitude readouts from the GPS receiver, marked the coordinates on her sectional chart, took the magnetic heading from the compass once Patrick rolled out, matched the magnetic heading to a nearby radio navaid compass rose, and drew a line on his chart. That was the first search bearing — their target was somewhere along that line on the chart.

Unfortunately, the ELT signal was not very strong, and the directional needle refused to stay steady. Patrick made a few course corrections, trying to average out the swings in the directional indications, but it still refused to stay in the center of the dial. He made a few adjustments in the signal gain and volume, trying to get the needle to stay steady, then shook his head in frustration. “I’m chasing that needle too much and not getting a true bearing,” he said. “Let’s try a wing shadow and see if we can get a bearing.” He made a slight right turn so Leo could clear for traffic on the left, then said, “Coming left.”

“Clear left,” Leo said.

Patrick began a fifteen-degree bank left turn, and they all listened to the emergency locator beacon’s PING!… PING!… PING! sound. Just before completing a circle, the signal stopped. As they continued the turn, the signal returned. The Cessna’s wing blocked the ELT’s signal from reaching the antenna atop the plane, which indicated that the ELT was somewhere off the right wing when the signal went dead. “Got it,” John said. “Bearing zero-five-zero.”

“Roger that,” Patrick said. “Zero-five-zero.” He turned to that heading, and both John and Leo searched out their windows. John punched up the GPS coordinates, marked the spot on his chart, then drew a line corresponding to the wing-shadow bearing to the ELT. “Let’s get this sucker, guys.”

But after ten minutes on that heading, nearing the edge of the grid, they hadn’t seen a thing. “I’ll go south and we’ll try another wing shadow before that ELT dies,” Patrick said. “Coming right.” He flew five minutes on a southerly heading, then set up another orbit.

The signal faded again — much quicker this time, indicating that the ELT’s battery was quickly dying — and John computed another bearing: “Now I have three-zero-zero bearing to the ELT, Patrick,” he said. He drew a large circle on his sectional chart where his two bearing lines crossed. “It’s there, plus or minus five miles.”

“Sounds like my early days in celestial navigation in the B-52,” Patrick said as he began a turn to the new bearing. “If I was within four miles of actual position after an hour of taking celestial sextant shots, I was ‘king of the wing.’ ”

“‘Celestial navigation’?” Leo remarked. “You mean, navigation using the sun, moon, and stars? Are you kidding me?”

“Long before the days of GPS, we flew bombers all over the world using nothing but a calibrated telescope shoved up a hole on top of a bomber or tanker, celestial precomputation tables, a watch, and a compass,” Patrick said. “Just two generations removed from Sir Francis Drake circumnavigating the globe, and one generation from Curtis LeMay in World War Two, leading hundreds of bombers across the Atlantic. The idea was to get close enough to your target to see it visually, or at least on radar, if you had it and it was working. We’re doing the very same thing now. Relay the coordinates of the center of that circle and we’ll have the Hasty team head that way.”

“Battle Mountain Hasty copies those coordinates,” Bellville radioed after John had transmitted the coordinates on the FM repeater channel. A moment later: “Looks like it’s at the southeastern edge of the Townsend ranch. Can you give them a call and get us permission to go on their land, Base?”

“Roger that,” Spara replied.

“We’ll get him this time,” Slotnick said as they rolled out on the new heading. Leo began a series of visual scans, starting at the top of the window he was looking out of, then traveling down toward the bottom of the window in a series of stop-look-scan, stop-look-scan segments, then starting at the top again but shifted slightly in the direction of flight. Stopping and looking at the ground for brief moments was the best way to spot a target, because in continuous scanning, the human brain would fill in fine details of the terrain, so important details such as debris could be missed.

But after thirty minutes of searching both bearings they had computed, Patrick could tell Slotnick was getting frustrated. “How’s it looking, Leo?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Leo said. “It’s clear as a bell, there’s no vegetation or anything blocking the view, but I don’t see anything — no smoke, no signs of disturbed ground, nothing.”

“We’re losing the ELT,” John said. “The needle on the DF is just flopping around. Maybe we should go to the center of the grid and search from there.”

“I’m not ready to give up on it just yet, John,” Patrick said. “I think we had a good position. It’s the best clue we’ve got. How are you doing back there, Leo? Need a break yet?”

“Five minutes would be good,” Slotnick replied, rubbing his eyes.

“I’ll start a right-expanding box search around the intersection of those two bearings,” Patrick said. “You got it, John.” John programmed the GPS receiver with the starting coordinates and a right-expanding-box-search pattern, then started his own search scan out the right window as Patrick reversed course and began flying the box-search pattern with shallow right-hand turns — Patrick had to make shallower turns because otherwise the lowered right wing would block John’s view out the window.

Meanwhile, the ground team was approaching the original search reference point. The ground was muddy but drivable using four-wheel drive. “Okay, guys, we’re coming up on the original intersection spot,” David Bellville said to the others in the van. “The air team reports that the ELT signal is fading and might not be reliable, so we’re going to proceed to the intersection spot and get ready to respond if the air team makes contact. While we’re waiting, we’ll search for any signs of a crash. Let’s get sunscreened up and ready to go fast and hard.”

Just then, they heard on the repeater radio: “Battle Mountain Hasty Team, this is CAP 2722, we’re starting an orbit over a possible objective sighting, stand by.” A moment later, John read off the geographic coordinates from the plane’s GPS navigation device.

Bellville quickly plotted the coordinates on his county map. “About seven miles northeast,” he said. “The Andorsen ranch. Do we have standing permission to go on their property, or do we need to give them a call first?”

“We have standing authorization,” Fitzgerald said. “He’s offered to lend us some of his ranch hands in the past — a stand-up guy. Want to head that way?”

“A-firm,” Bellville said. He checked his portable GPS receiver. “Need a steer to the nearest gate, Fid?”

“I know every inch of this desert, Dave — I don’t need no stinkin’ GPS.”

Bellville just shrugged and shook his head — he could never tell when Fitzgerald was kidding or not.

Several minutes later they reached the gate plotted on Fitzgerald’s chart, only to find it padlocked. “It’s locked!” Fitzgerald exclaimed. “Since when does Andorsen lock his remote gates?”

Bellville read the large sign mounted next to the gate. “It’s not just a ‘No Trespassing’ sign — he’s warning intruders of the use of deadly force! What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, but the CAP are not freakin’ trespassers,” Fitzgerald said. “We have standing permission to enter his property. Let’s just cut the lock off and get going.”

“We can’t cut locks, Fid, and you know it,” Bellville said. “But we do have standing permission, so I think we’ll be okay if we climb the gate and go in on foot. Meanwhile we can have Battle Mountain Base call the Andorsens and have one of their hands drive us to the crash site.”

“I’d rather just buy Mr. Andorsen a new padlock,” Fitzgerald grumbled. But he turned to the cadets in the back: “Looks like we’re going in on foot, guys. Let’s hustle.”

“Shallow up the bank angle a tad, Patrick… good, right there,” John said. He had drawn a circle on the window with a grease pencil and was directing Patrick’s orbit over his sighting so the object he was looking at stayed in the circle. Meanwhile, Leo had a pair of binoculars out and was scanning the area out the right-rear window in short cycles, being careful not to give himself vertigo. “Still can’t make it out, but it’s definitely not natural.”

“I’ll set up an orbit,” Patrick said. “If it’s a good target, your eyes will come back to it in the scan. Pick out details around it in case we have trouble picking it out.”

“Roger.”

“CAP 2722, this is Battle Mountain Hasty, we’re inside the gate and en route to the contact,” Fitzgerald radioed. “We had to go in on foot because the gate was locked, so we’re about thirty minutes out. What do you got?”

“Still trying to make it out, Hasty,” Patrick radioed back.

“Tell Slotnick to stop trying to superanalyze it and just report,” Fitzgerald radioed impatiently. “First impression is always the best. Is it a crash or not?”

“Leo?”

“It looks like an abandoned pickup or some farm equipment, not a plane,” Leo said, lowering the binoculars, clearing his eyes, then focusing again. “It’s too small to be a plane.” But his voice implied he still wasn’t sure. “Can you go lower, Patrick?”

“Sure. I’ll switch to a left orbit. John, eyes off the target, back me up on altitude and airspeed, and you got the radios. Report we’re going to five hundred AGL for a closer look.”

“Roger,” John said. On the repeater, he radioed, “Battle Mountain Base, CAP 2722 leaving one thousand AGL for five hundred for a closer look at a target.”

“Roger, 2722,” Spara radioed back. “Advise when you’re climbing back to patrol altitude.”

“Wilco.”

Patrick started a shallow descent while reversing the direction of orbit. He took a peek at what he was orbiting over every now and then while continuing to monitor his bank angle, altitude, and airspeed. “Still hard to tell,” he said, “but I think you might be right, Leo — I don’t think it’s a plane.”

“I’d expect our objective to not be busted up so bad if the ELT is still working,” Leo said.

“Try not to create any expectations,” Patrick offered. “We’re looking for evidence of a downed plane, not a downed plane. Don’t decide ahead of time what it’s going to look like. Crashed airplanes almost never look like airplanes.”

“Roger.” Leo used his telescopic digital camera to study the scene. “Nah, looks like an old hay baler or something, with pieces of tarps lying around,” he said. “We can go back up to patrol altitude, Patrick.”

“Roger,” Patrick said. “John, report that we’re—”

“Stand by!” Leo suddenly shouted. “I saw a glint of a reflection, like off a windscreen! Possible target contact, eight o’clock!”

“Keep it in sight, Leo,” Patrick said, forcing himself to not get too excited and forget about flying the plane — every mission had dozens of false sightings. “I’ll do a shallow left turn and stay at five hundred.”

Leo was straining to keep the target in sight out of the left-rear window. “It’s about fifty yards south of the hay baler — I fixated on the hay baler and stopped scanning,” he said. “It’s lying on its left side. No wings, but the cockpit and cabin look in pretty good shape. Hot damn, I think we got it!”

“Everybody calm down and relax,” Patrick said. “Let’s stay heads-up and keep on doing our jobs until we set up an orbit around it. John…”

“Got it,” John said. On the repeater, he radioed, “Battle Mountain Base, CAP 2722, maneuvering to investigate a possible target contact, remaining at five hundred AGL.”

“Roger, 2722.”

“Battle Mountain Hasty copies, and we have 2722 in sight on the horizon,” Bellville radioed. “We’re about twenty minutes away.”

A few minutes later, Patrick had set up his orbit around a blue-and-white light aircraft. The belly was badly crumpled, as if it had pancaked in at a high rate of descent; the landing gear and wings were gone, and soon they saw that the engine and propeller were ripped off the fuselage too. “Call it in, John,” Patrick said. “Good job, Leo.”

“With pleasure, sir.” On the repeater, John radioed, “Battle Mountain Base, CAP 2722 has made target contact, fuselage of a white-and-blue light plane, undercarriage, engine, propeller, and wings missing, no evidence of fire, no sign of any persons yet.”

“I got one,” Leo said as he snapped pictures. He saw the grisly sight of a body half protruding from the right side of the windshield, bent backward along the right side of the fuselage at a very unnatural angle. “I see one victim sticking out through the windshield.” John called it in.

“Base, this is Hasty, we found a section of wing,” Fitzgerald radioed a few minutes later. They passed by the crumpled piece of aluminum without stopping. “Marking the position. We’re ten minutes out. We copy the report of a victim.”

“Okay, guys, you heard it,” David Bellville said, stopping to address his cadets and let them rest. Each member of the team was carrying his Seventy-Two Hour pack; Brad and Ron were carrying the canvas bag with the medical equipment, while Ralph and Michael were carrying the water and camping equipment. They all immediately doused their heads with water while David spoke: “We have at least one victim. Fid and I will check the scene first for survivors. If there are any, we’ll have you come in, and you’ll have to do your best to work around the victims. If there are no survivors, we’ll photograph the scene, then talk about what we see until the rescue helicopter and sheriff arrive. No one has to go near the victims if you don’t want to—”

“But doing so will teach you a lot and help you do your jobs in the future,” Fitzgerald cut in. “We’re not going to force you, but do a gut check right now and stay part of the team.” Bellville looked at Fitzgerald, silently telling him to shut up, but he said nothing. Fitzgerald noticed the expression. “They’re level twos, and McLanahan is a level one — they’re expected to go on in and stay as a team.” Again, Bellville said nothing. He actually agreed with Fitzgerald, but Civil Air Patrol regulations never required anyone to go near a crash scene with victims, especially cadets. After a few minutes, they continued on toward the circling Cessna in the distance.

Soon enough they arrived at the scene. Brad was surprised at how clean it looked — no postimpact fire, no billowing smoke, no big crater in the ground — just a white-and-blue piece of battered aluminum lying in the desert, as if someone had dragged it out there and discarded it rather than its falling from the sky. But soon they could also make out the person sticking through the windscreen.

“Oh, man …” Ralph whispered.

“Looks like it shot through the windshield, then got caught in the slipstream and bent all the way backward, still stuck in the glass,” Ron said. “Wicked. Looks like a chick, too — all her clothes ripped off.”

“Button it, Ron,” Brad said quietly after he noticed Ralph’s wide eyes and face almost drained of color. “Make yourself useful and take pictures of the scene.” When Ron left, he turned to Ralph. “You can wait back here, Ralph.”

“N-no, I want to help,” the younger cadet said. “I’ll get the medic gear ready just in case.”

“Good idea,” Brad said. “Keep hydrated and listen up on the radios.”

“Yes, sir.”

Brad grabbed his camera and approached the aircraft. It was indeed a woman protruding from the windscreen, he noticed, but she was so badly mangled by the crash and so completely covered with dirt and sand that she was hardly recognizable as human.

“McLanahan…” Bellville started.

“I’m okay, sir,” Brad said. “Spivey is taking pictures, and Markham is back in the van getting the medical kit out.”

Bellville nodded, giving silent approval to stay.

“Good on you, McLanahan,” Fitzgerald said. “It’s part of the job.” He continued his careful inspection of the aircraft. “I see the pilot underneath,” he said. “Looks like he’s been crushed.” He bent down for a closer look. “I’ve seen victims look worse than this who were still alive, but he has no head that I can see.”

Brad decided to stay on the right side of the fuselage — he wanted to participate, he told himself, but only if the victim needed help, which obviously that one did not — but in reality, he admitted finally, he just didn’t want to see a crushed human body. The dead woman sticking out through the windscreen was pretty horrible too, but he wasn’t afraid — he just felt sorry for her.

“Can you see an ELT shutoff switch in there, Brad?” Bellville asked.

“Stand by, sir.” Brad strained to look behind the front passenger seat, which had left its rails, and scan the instrument panel. Most newer planes had a manual-activation and shutoff switch for the emergency-locator transmitter. “I can’t see one, sir, but the left side of the panel is pretty busted up.” He apprehensively looked in the rear of the plane, expecting to see yet another horrific sight… but he didn’t see what he expected. “Sir?”

“Yeah, Brad?”

“The third soul is missing.”

“What?” Fitzgerald asked.

“The third passenger is missing, sir.”

Fitzgerald looked at Bellville, and Bellville turned to Brad. Brad immediately understood his silent command. “Sergeant Markham!” he shouted.

“Sir?” Markham replied immediately.

“Examine the area around the plane for a child’s tracks, then organize a line search immediately.”

There was a brief hesitation, but a few moments later he heard Markham reply, “Yes, sir!” and Markham trotted over. He was careful not to step any closer to the plane than he needed to, but now that he was there, he was frozen in place, uncertain as to what to do next.

“You know exactly what to do, Ralph,” Brad said quietly so the senior members couldn’t hear. “Think about it, then verbalize what you need to do.” Markham was still unsure. “Let’s get with it, Sergeant,” he said, a little louder this time. “We have a missing child. Tell me what you want to do.”

Ralph still seemed confused, but that slowly seemed to fade away. “Lieutenant Spivey!” he shouted.

“What do you want, Markham?” Ron shouted from across the crash scene.

“Pr-prepare a go-pack for a line search,” Ralph said rather weakly. “St-stand clear of the—”

“I can’t understand what the heck you’re saying, Marky.”

Ralph looked at Brad, silently imploring for help, but Brad said nothing — he just looked back at Ralph, telling him without words that he had to take charge, and do it quickly. “I… Lieutenant, I need you to—”

“I’m busy over here, Marky,” Spivey said. “Don’t bug me right now, okay?”

Brad looked at Bellville, who shook his head, silently telling Brad to take charge and get the search going. But just as Brad was going to speak, Ralph shook his head, looked over at Spivey, inflated his lungs to full volume, then shouted, “Lieutenant Spivey, get a go-pack and stretcher ready for a line search, right now ! And don’t you screw up any tracks in my crash scene!”

“What?”

“You heard him, Lieutenant,” Brad said. “This is an actual line search for a missing boy. Sergeant Markham is in charge.” Ron was still standing there, confused. Brad finally went over to him and said impatiently in a low voice, “Jeez, Ron, what’s your major malfunction? Ralph is trying to set up a line search to find the third victim and get his tracking sign-off. The seniors are waiting. Get with the program, would you? This is not an exercise.”

Ron finally seemed to catch on. He nodded at Brad, then said, “Well, why didn’t you say so, Sergeant? I’ll get the medical go-pack.”

“Okay, Sergeant, we’ve wasted enough time,” Brad said. “Sing out. What do you see?”

“Stand by, sir,” Ralph said. He quickly scanned the ground, starting at the right-side door. “The plane obviously slid quite a distance, judging by the smooth sand. I see your footprints right near the door… and I see a smaller set, soft-soled, not combat boots, and not as deeply set. Could be a child’s footprint.” He scanned the area. “They… they lead toward the victim in the windshield, close but perhaps not within touching distance, then…” He looked around, almost in a panic. “The prints are gone. I don’t see them anymore. I lost him.”

Ralph was obviously starting to panic a bit. “Easy, Ralph,” Brad said. “They couldn’t have just disappeared. What’s the boy thinking right now? Put yourself in his place.” He could see Ralph’s eyes grow large in horror and his lower lip tremble a bit. “Verbalize, Sergeant. We’re not mind readers.” The young cadet hesitated, his mind’s eye still filled with a horrific image of his own making. “You can do it, Ralph.”

“N-no, I can’t,” he said.

Brad nodded. “It’s okay, Ralph,” he said. “This is an actual, and it’s a bad one. We’ll wait for a SAREX or encampment to get your sign-off. No worries. Ron, take Ralph’s place and conduct the search.”

Just as Spivey started to move forward, the younger cadet said, “No… no, I’ll do it, sir.”

“You sure?” Brad asked.

Ralph looked at Brad warily, then nodded his head and looked off into the distance. “He’s… he’s just seen his dead mother,” he said in a low voice after a short silence. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, immersing himself again in the image of the crash scene coalescing in his mind. “He’s probably already seen his dead father. Maybe he tried to awaken him, then realized he was dead. He didn’t recognize his mom at first, but he can tell something awful has happened to her. He climbed out of the plane. Now he can see his mom, or what’s left of her. He’s scared and alone, surrounded by death. They were… were swatted out of the sky by the angel of death, but he somehow survived, and… and he’s wondering how? Why? Why was I allowed to survive—”

“For Christ’s sake, Ralph,” Ron said perturbedly, “let’s not get so Twilight here, okay?”

Brad held up a hand to silence his friend. “He’s doing it his way, Ron,” he said. He turned to Ralph. “What else do you see, Ralph? What’s happening?”

“He didn’t stay with the plane,” Markham said curiously. “Why wouldn’t he stay? The plane wasn’t on fire, and except for the farm equipment, there’s no sign of civilization within sight. His parents are dead, but they are still his parents. Why didn’t he stay? Why…?”

Ralph swallowed, and Brad saw a tear run down his cheek. “He thinks it’s his fault his parents are dead,” he said weakly. “He’s running because he’s scared and… and he doesn’t want to be found.”

“What?”

“He thinks it’s his fault,” Ralph repeated. “He thinks he’ll get in trouble, maybe be arrested and put in jail if he’s found, so he ran and now he’s… he’s hiding.”

“What a load of crap,” Ron sneered.

“We need a direction, Ralph,” Brad said after shooting Ron another “shut up” glance.

Ralph scanned the ground, his head darting back and forth — Brad thought he looked like a golden retriever hunting for a faint scent. Finally, Ralph looked toward the west, away from the hay baler, and held out his arms out to his sides. “This way, sir,” he said. “Away from the crash site and civilization.”

“Verbalize what you want, Sergeant,” Brad prompted him again.

“Line abreast, six paces between,” Ralph shouted. He got out his compass and took a bearing on a distant mountain peak. “Initial bearing will be two-six-zero.”

“Let’s go,” Bellville said. They lined up, with Brad in the middle.

“Make a report to the air team, sir,” Ralph said. “We may have a survivor that doesn’t want to be found — that’ll make it more difficult.”

“Good call,” Bellville said, impressed with the young cadet’s procedures and growing confidence. He pulled out his portable FM radio. “CAP 2722 and Battle Mountain Base, this is Battle Mountain Hasty, we’re beginning a line search for the third soul, a boy. We believe he’s running and may be hiding from searchers. Initial heading from the crash site will be two-six-zero.”

“How confident are you in that bearing, Hasty?” Rob Spara radioed from base.

Bellville looked at Ralph, then smiled and nodded. “Very confident,” he replied.

“Very well, proceed,” Spara radioed. “CAP 2722, suggest you begin an expanding-square search just in case that’s not a good bearing.”

“Two-seven-two-two copies,” Patrick radioed from the Cessna orbiting overhead. John programmed the GPS aboard the plane to begin the search from the crash site, which would describe a square-shaped pattern that started at the crash site and got larger after each leg was completed.

Meanwhile, on the ground, the team began to move westward, staying roughly in line and carefully scanning the ground. After about a hundred yards, Ron shouted, “I spot a sneaker, and it looks fairly clean. How about that? Marky guessed right.”

“Good call, Ralph,” Brad said.

“Is it a left or right sneaker?” Ralph asked.

“What the hell difference does that make?” Ron asked.

“He’ll be favoring the other foot, which means he might start turning in that same direction,” Ralph said. “He’ll be taking longer strides with his right foot, which means he’ll be turning left.”

“Where’d you learn that, Marky — on a cornflakes box, or from a comic book?” Ron sneered.

Ralph looked hurt and didn’t reply, which made Brad immediately come to his defense, although he had never heard of that theory either: “It makes sense,” Brad said. “Which is it, Ron?”

“The left one, O great white lucky-ass tracker,” Ron replied.

“Alter the track ten degrees to the left,” Ralph said. “New bearing two-five-zero. Sir, radio the search plane that we have found an artifact from a survivor, we are altering the search track to two-five-zero, and recommend they switch to a creeping-line search along that track.” The creeping-line search would fly one mile on either side of the track, going back and forth away from where the sneaker was found.

“Roger that, Sergeant,” Bellville said, after a slightly stunned nod of his head and an impressed smile.

“Way to kick butt, guys,” Patrick said cross-cockpit. On intercom he said: “We’re switching to a creeping-line search, one mile each side of track, quarter-mile spacing — the ground team found a sneaker along the track they predicted.” John reprogrammed the GPS for the new search pattern. A creeping-line search was a series of turns perpendicular to the search bearing, moving outward along the search bearing from a known point such as a crash site, road, or runway — useful when a target’s direction of movement or travel was known.

“Fitzgerald brought his A-game today,” Leo commented.

“It’s not Fid — Cadet Sergeant Markham is leading this search,” Patrick said.

“You mean ‘Little Marky’?”

“You bet,” Patrick said. “He may act a little mousy now, but he’s sharp as a freakin’ tack. I predict ‘Little Marky’ may be leading this squadron in a few years.”

“Cactus Two-Zero-Three-Three, Reno Approach, roger,” the air traffic controller radioed after receiving the check-in call from an inbound airliner. “Descend and maintain one-three-thousand feet, Reno altimeter three-zero-zero-one. There’s VFR traffic inbound to Reno at your eight o’clock, six miles, primary target only, and I’m not talking to him yet, so I’ll have to keep you a little high for now.”

“Three-three passing seventeen descending to thirteen,” the airliner first officer responded. “Negative contact on the traffic.”

The controller hit a button on his panel that connected him instantly to Oakland Center controllers: “Oakland, Reno Approach, I’m looking at a primary target fifteen miles southeast of Mustang. He’s doing about two-sixty. Was he talking to you and missed a handoff?”

“Stand by, Reno,” the other controller responded. A moment later: “Negative, Reno, everybody’s checked in.”

“Copy, thanks, JT,” the Reno controller said. He punched a button for his supervisor, and a moment later the shift supervisor came over and plugged his headset into the console. The controller pointed to his screen: “Ted, this guy is blasting straight in for the runway and he’s not talking to anyone,” he said. “I’m going to have to send this Southwest flight into holding over Mustang and back up the other inbound GA flights until he’s clear.”

“Did you try raising him in the clear and on GUARD?” the supervisor asked.

“That was my next move.” The controller hit a button on his console that allowed him to talk both on his assigned frequency and on the UHF and VHF GUARD emergency frequencies. “Aircraft on the one-five-zero-degree radial and fifteen DME from Mustang, airspeed two-six-zero, heading two-eight-zero, this is Reno Approach Control on GUARD,” he radioed. “If you can hear me, turn to a heading of one-eight-zero to remain clear of Reno Class-C airspace and contact me on this channel or switch to one-one-niner-point-two. There is traffic at your two o’clock position, less than four miles.” No reply; he repeated the instructions several times, in between vectoring other traffic away from the unidentified airplane. “No answer, Ted,” the controller told his supervisor. “He’s going to bust right through the Class C.”

“Everyone out of his way?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think he’ll do?”

“He’s got to be NORDO or a pinch hitter,” the controller replied. NORDO meant “no radio,” meaning the pilot was unable to talk to anyone on the radios; a “pinch hitter” was someone other than a pilot at the controls. “I’m betting he’ll see the runways Reno or Stead and try to make a landing, or just circle and decide what to do.”

“This is not good,” the supervisor said. “He could close us down for hours.” He punched a button on the console: “Tower, TF, we’ve got a NORDO inbound, about eleven miles to the southeast.”

“We’ve got him on the scope,” the Reno Tower controller responded. “He’s at seven thousand eight hundred and level, just southeast of Dayton Valley.”

“We’ve got him at two-fifty knots airspeed now.”

“Same up here.”

“Okay, I’ve got the Southwest flight set up to orbit over Mustang, and I’ll keep all of the other inbounds outside of the Class C until this guy either calls or zooms through,” the approach controller said. “I’m hoping he’ll see a runway and go for it.”

“I’ll activate the crash net here and at Stead, just in case,” the tower controller said. “This could be a mess.”

Carl was relying on the King Air’s autopilot and his extensive rehearsals for the last few minutes of this mission, because his vision was all but gone and the cramps in his stomach and back were making it impossible to concentrate on flying. He had flown this route a hundred times in the past couple months, using desktop-PC flight simulators and Google Earth to study the terrain and obstructions.

Once clear of the mountains around Virginia City southeast of Reno, Carl started a slow descent to 4,600 feet, just a hundred feet above the Truckee Meadows. Letting the autopilot handle the flying tasks for now, he used the socket wrench to start loosening the bolts atop the large canister in the aisle beside him. The ground crew must have already loosened the bolts, because they were easier to turn than he anticipated, especially in his weakened state. There were a dozen bolts securing the top; he managed to remove half of them before he had to turn his full attention to flying.

Only seconds to go now…

“Holy shit!” the tower controller cried, and he involuntarily ducked his head as the King Air zoomed past, missing the control tower by less than two hundred yards, flying no higher than the tower cab itself. It was in a slight left turn and appeared to be maneuvering to stay away from both the control tower and the Grand Sierra Resort casino just north of the field. “Is that pilot insane ?” He picked up the telephone handset marked CRASH . “Aircraft is overflying the field at about a hundred feet AGL, heading northwest at two hundred knots, gear and flaps retracted. He missed the tower by less than a couple hundred feet! Somebody call the police and fire departments — if that guy doesn’t climb, he’s going to hit something right in downtown Reno.”

Once he was past the control tower, the Grand Sierra Resort, and the Peppermill Casino, there were no other tall buildings or obstacles around him until reaching his objective. The lid was loosened as much as he could loosen it on the canister, and he could feel something that felt like an exposed lightbulb being held close to the right side of his face.

The mission could not have gone better. All of his preflight preparation, study, and careful consideration of every possible problem ensured success. After the series of bad thunderstorms threatened to cancel the mission, the weather cooperated. Even the old autopilot on this bird worked. The Lord was indeed guiding him, endorsing this mission with great weather and working components, and allowing him to live long enough to see the mission’s end.

The target was in sight. It was the first high-rise structure he would encounter on this heading in the downtown Reno area, so he wouldn’t have to weave around other buildings, and its distinctive curved shape made it easy to spot. The coordinates he had programmed into the GPS — refined, remeasured, and triple-checked several times over the past few months — were dead on, but he still put his hands on the control yoke, not to correct for any errors but so he could feel the autopilot’s servos making tiny corrections in the plane’s heading…

… and then Carl noticed through his cataract-infested eyes the blinking yellow “AP” light on the instrument panel and realized that the autopilot had disconnected itself ! He didn’t remember doing it. But how in the world could the plane have flown so precisely by itself? He was certainly in no condition to sit upright, let alone fly an airplane!

It was as if God Himself were steering his weapon of war, he decided. This truly was a message that his was indeed a blessed mission, ordained by God. The war was on, and God was indeed on their side.

One last task. He switched to the Reno control tower frequency, pressed the “XMIT” button, and spoke: “Live free or die. The Lord has spoken.”

They had walked another two hundred yards or so in the new direction without any more signs. “Whaddaya say, Marky?” Ron Spivey shouted. “We got nothing. We should’ve stayed on that original track. Now we need to start over.”

Brad looked at Ralph Markham. “Sergeant?”

Ralph appeared indecisive, but only for a few moments: “Another hundred yards,” he said. Ron groaned. Ralph made some quick calculations in his head. “Then we’ll turn right to three-four-zero, go for… for forty paces, turn back to one-seven-zero, and search back toward the crash site.”

“Where in heck did you come up with all that, Marky?” Ron asked. “Why do we have to do all that?”

“He’s putting us back on the reciprocal of the original search bearing,” Brad explained with a smile. “The one-in-sixty rule. We go out six hundred feet and change heading ten degrees, so we’ve offset ourselves one hundred feet, or about forty paces. Ralph’s plan should put us right back to where we found the sneaker, on the original search bearing.”

“So why don’t we just do that now?” Ron asked.

“Because I want to search another hundred yards on this bearing,” Ralph said. “Line up and let’s go.”

Ron rolled his eyes in exasperation but did as he was told.

Brad was starting to get a little tired slogging through the damp, uneven ground, and he could feel the sunburn building on the back of his unprotected neck. The terrain was getting a bit more rolling, and now they came across a wide wash that had a thin rivulet of water flowing through it from the recent thunderstorms. This last hundred yards was going to be tougher than the previous two hundred.

“I say we jog now, before we have to cross this wash,” Ron said.

“It’s not so bad,” Ralph said. “Just sixty more yards.”

Ron said something under his breath but pushed on.

Every now and then Brad would glance up at the search plane overhead. He was so close to becoming a senior member and flying that plane, he could almost taste it. Ground-team work was okay, but where he really belonged was…

Just as he descended from the wash’s embankment and started to look for the best place to cross the water, something made Brad turn around… and there, half buried in the embankment, covered in dust, mud, and insects, was a young boy!

“We are at the scene of a horrible airplane crash here at the Bruce R. Thompson United States Courthouse and Federal Building in downtown Reno,” the female reporter began. “The crash happened about fifteen minutes ago and is the worst air accident in Reno’s history. My cameraman Jerry Fleck is with me and he’ll be providing you shots of this unfolding tragedy.”

The camera panned to the southeast face of the building. Thick smoke and flames were still shooting out of the hole in the building, and the entire structure appeared to be tilting away from the camera. “As you can see, the plane hit almost directly in the center of the ten-story building here on the four-hundred block of South Virginia Street,” the reporter went on. “We do not know who the pilot was, how many passengers he had on board, or what kind of plane hit the building, although some observers say it is a medium-size turboprop used mostly by small companies. We have a call in to air traffic controllers at the Reno-Tahoe International Airport to find out if they were in contact with the pilot and what could have caused this terrible accident.

“We have been told that the fire department has just upped the response to this accident with a fifth alarm. The plane did not appear to crash all the way through the building, but the force of its impact blew out its north and northwest sides, spreading fire and debris onto the Bank of America office complex across Virginia Street, the U.S. Bank office building across Liberty Street, and onto residents and visitors on the streets below. Fortunately, most workers were not in those buildings during the weekend. The police have cordoned off two blocks in all directions, and they ask that you should not try to come downtown for any reason and allow police, firefighters, medical personnel, and investigators to do their jobs.”

The reporter touched her earpiece to listen closer, then said breathlessly, “I have just been given word by my producer, John Ramos, in the truck that, according to a spokesman for the FAA air traffic control facility at the Reno airport, an aircraft called a Beech King Air, which is a medium-size civilian turboprop aircraft, overflew the airport minutes ago at very high speed and very low altitude. We must conclude that it was the same airplane that hit the Thompson Federal Building. There is no speculation from the FAA as to whether the plane was trying to land at the airport and the pilot became disoriented, or if this was a deliberate act. It is simply too early to—”

The reporter stopped and again listened into her earpiece while the camera moved away from her and zoomed in on the shattered building. Off-camera, she said in a whisper, “What do you mean, we’re getting out of here? We’re two blocks away — it’s safe! We’re… John? John?” A moment later, a man wearing headphones ran up to the reporter and pulled her away, briefly crossing in front of the camera. “John, what are you doing ? I’m on the air!”

“I know you are,” the man said. “We’re getting out of here, now ! Jerry, pack it up!”

“I’m not going anywhere!” the reporter whispered angrily. “This is the biggest story of my life! I’m staying with it for as long as—” The producer whispered something in the reporter’s ear as he dragged her toward the crew’s truck. “What? What did you say, John?”

“Radioactivity!” he replied.

“What…!”

The producer grabbed the microphone. “U.S. Secret Service investigators have detected large levels of radioactivity at the crash site,” he said. “The plane that crashed into the Thompson Federal Building was carrying some sort of nuclear device or weapon. The entire downtown district of Reno is being evacuated.”