A Time for Patriots

Two

“Holy crap … contact! Contact! Over here!” Brad shouted excitedly.

The boy, huddled in the embankment of the desert wash, made a sound that was a combination of a howl, scream, and moan, and he tried to scamper to his feet. Brad rushed over to him. “Easy, guy, easy,” he said. “I’m with the Civil Air Patrol. We’re here to take you home.”

“No! No! I don’t have a home! I don’t have anyone !” the boy shouted in a hoarse, cracking voice. Brad started brushing ants and beetles off the poor boy’s face and arms as Fitzgerald and Bellville rushed over. His head and face were covered with a combination of mud, sand, and blood, his lips and eyes were swollen and blistered, both feet were bare and badly cut up, and he appeared to have a broken right arm. “You’re here to arrest me! Get away from me!”

“No one’s going to arrest you,” Brad said. He pulled out a bottle of water and started pouring it over the boy’s head, trying to wash the horrific muck from his scratched, sunburned face. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

“Battle Mountain Base and CAP 2722, this is Hasty, we’ve located the third person, and he’s alive, ” Bellville radioed happily. He turned to Markham. “Great job, Ralph.” He pulled out his GPS receiver and started copying their location’s geographic coordinates to relay to responders, then said to the others, “C’mon, guys, you have a victim that needs first aid. Let’s get busy and help him until the medevac helicopter and sheriff arrive.”

“The cadets are doing an outstanding job — I think they can help this survivor just fine,” Fitzgerald said with a rare smile on his face. “Spivey, Markham, get busy and help McLanahan.”

The cadets donned rubber gloves and got out their first-aid kits. “Assessment first, guys,” Brad said. “What do we got?”

“He’s pretty messed up,” Ron said. “Looks like a drowned rat.”

“Real helpful, Ron,” Brad said. “Ralph?”

“Airway is open, he’s breathing, but he’s bleeding from somewhere,” Ralph said, going through the ABCs of first aid — airway, breathing, and circulation. Starting at the top, he examined the boy’s head. “What’s your name?” he asked. The boy didn’t answer, but looked at Ralph with relief. “Can you tell me your name?”

“J-Jeremy,” the boy said finally, allowing himself to trust the younger boy rather than the older ones. “Jeremy Post.”

“Hi, Jeremy. I’m Ralph.” He nodded over his shoulder toward the others as he worked. “That’s Brad, that’s Ron, and the adults are David and Michael. We’re with the Civil Air Patrol from Battle Mountain, and we’re here to help you. I’m going to look at your head. Tell me if it hurts.” Jeremy didn’t say anything, but winced as Ralph pressed. “Possible fractured skull in the forehead area,” he said. He pulled out a flashlight and checked Jeremy’s eyes. “Left pupil is blown and unresponsive. Possible concussion.” He smiled at Jeremy. “You’re hurt, Jeremy, but you must be a pretty tough kid to come all this way without your sneakers. We’re going to get you to a hospital and have the docs take a look at you.”

“I don’t want to go to a hospital.”

“I don’t blame you, Jeremy — I don’t like hospitals either,” Brad said, kneeling beside the boy. “But you’re hurt pretty bad. We’re going to make sure you get fixed up.” Jeremy started to sob. “Don’t worry, Jeremy. You’ll be okay.”

“But my folks… my mom and dad…”

Brad nodded and clasped the boy’s shoulder as Ralph continued his examination, thankful for the distracting conversation. “We’re going to make sure they’re taken good care of, Jeremy,” Brad said.

“They’re dead, aren’t they?” Jeremy whispered.

“Yeah,” Brad said. He remembered what Ralph had said when the search began and added, “But it’s not your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have been talking,” Jeremy said. “I should’ve kept quiet. My dad always told me not to talk at certain times in the flight, and I did, and we crashed. It’s my fault.”

“No, it wasn’t your fault,” Brad said. Ralph was right, Brad realized: Jeremy blamed himself for the crash, and he was so afraid of being punished that he ran off across the desert, hoping never to be found. “The weather was pretty bad in-flight, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“What were you trying to tell your dad?”

“That… that the compass was twirling and the ball was all the way to the right,” Jeremy said. “I could see the altitude indicator, and it was twisting around. We were in a spin, but my dad was too busy to notice it, so I tried to tell him.”

Brad smiled. “Are you a pilot?”

“I’m too young,” Jeremy said, “but I want to be a pilot. My dad lets me fly all the time, and I’ve watched a lot of his flying training videos and played his flight simulator on his computer.”

“That means you’re almost a pilot,” Brad said. “I’m almost a pilot too.”

“You are ? Have you soloed?”

“Not yet, but soon, I hope,” Brad said. “So you know what I think? I think your warning helped your dad spot the spin and correct it in time to make a controlled crash landing.”

“But my mom and dad are dead.”

“Yes,” Brad said in a soft but firm voice, “but he saved the plane in time to save you, didn’t he?” Jeremy lowered his head and nodded, then started to weep quietly. Brad thought there had been enough talking about his dead parents, so he looked over at Ralph. “All done with the assessment, Ralph?”

“Yes, sir,” Ralph replied. “Possible concussion, possible fractured forehead, broken right arm, multiple contusions and lacerations all over his body, dehydration, sunburn, and insect bites.” He smiled at Jeremy. “But he’s one tough kid, that’s for sure. He’d make a good CAP cadet.”

Bellville was writing all of it down. “Good work, Ralph,” he said. “I’ll call it in and update the medevac helicopter’s ETA.”

“Let’s get Jeremy out of the wash and protected from the sun,” Fitzgerald said. “Then we’ll have to pick out a landing zone for the chopper.”

Bellville keyed the mike on his portable FM repeater transceiver: “Battle Mountain Base, this is Hasty, I’ve got a medical report for the EMTs inbound,” he said. “Also requesting ETA for the medevac helicopter.”

“Stand by, Hasty,” Spara replied.

“Hasty, this is CAP 2722,” Patrick radioed. “We’ve just been ordered by the FAA to land immediately!”

“ Land? What for?”

“Guys, you won’t believe this, but they’re clearing out all the airspace over the U.S. — the FAA is ordering all planes to land!” Patrick exclaimed. “Every aircraft has to be on the ground within fifteen minutes or they risk being intercepted!”

“It sounds like freakin’ 9/11 again!” Fitzgerald said. The cadets wore blank expressions on their faces. They were young when the Islamist terror attacks of 9/11 had occurred. Even though they saw videos of the collapsing World Trade Center towers, the hole in the Pentagon, and the crash site of United Airlines Flight 93 in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, they had little appreciation for the true sense of horror that gripped the nation that day and for several months beyond.

“The wing is talking with the FAA and the National Operations Center,” Spara radioed. “They can make an exception for CAP flights and medical emergencies.” But several minutes later, the news was not good: “No exceptions until the airspace is cleared, and then FAA will clear flights only on IFR flight plans,” Spara said. “It’s chaos out there. We’d better do what they say before the fighters start launching. RTB right away, Patrick.”

“To hell with that, sir,” Patrick said. “We’ve got a survivor and a Hasty strike team out in the middle of nowhere, and it’ll be dark in a couple hours.” He thought for a moment; then: “I’ll land at the Andorsens’ dirt strip and get help from them.”

“We tried calling Andorsen to get permission for us to drive onto his property — there was no answer.”

“Then I’ll land, find a vehicle, and do it myself.”

“You can’t do that, Patrick,” Spara said. “The Hasty team will be fine until the sheriff and an ambulance makes it out there. RTB, now .”

“I can go back to the van, cut off the lock on the gate, and drive the van back,” Fitzgerald radioed.

“Everybody, just shut up for a minute,” Spara said. “I’m not going to split up a ground team, especially with a survivor with them. Dave, prepare to keep the survivor comfortable until help arrives. Keep your team together . Patrick, RTB right now .”

“I won’t make it back to Battle Mountain in time to meet the deadline, Rob,” Patrick said. “The closest landing strip is the Andorsen ranch. I’m heading that way now.”

“Negative, McLanahan,” Spara said. “Return to base. We’ll advise ATC of your destination and ETA.”

Patrick reached up and shut off the FM radio. “Damn FM,” he said on intercom. “It’s so old, it goes out all the time, just when you really need it.” He looked around at John and Leo. “Doesn’t it?”

John looked back at Leo, then turned at Patrick and shrugged. “It seemed to be working fine, and all of a sudden — poof, it went out,” he said.

“And that’s not all,” Leo said. “I distinctly heard that engine running a little rough all of a sudden.”

“I was going to mention that too,” John said with a smile.

“Well then, we’d better get this thing on the ground and check it out,” Patrick said. He looked around outside for his landmarks, then made a turn to the right. “I have the Andorsen ranch strip in sight. I think we should land there immediately. And while we’re waiting for further assistance, we can help the ground team.”

“Sounds like a good plan, sir,” Leo said.

John patted Patrick on the shoulder, smiled, and nodded. “That’s the Patrick S. McLanahan I’ve always heard about,” he said. “Looks like the Mac is back.”

After making a low pass over the strip to check for any hazards — it was by far the nicest dirt strip any of them had ever seen, as clean, flat, and straight as an asphalt runway — Patrick landed the Cessna. Being careful to keep the power up and the control yoke back without braking, all to avoid digging the nose tire into the dirt, he taxied over to the parking area next to two fuel tanks and a storage-and-pump building. Beside the fuel farm was a half-mile-long asphalt road leading to what looked like the main house; on the other side of the asphalt road was an aircraft hangar.

“Nice little airport Andorsen’s got here,” John commented.

“Andorsen owns a large percentage of the land in northern Nevada not owned by the government,” Leo said. “He’s probably got a half dozen of these private airstrips scattered all over the state. They may be dirt, but they’re built to handle a bizjet. Ever meet him? Great guy. Throws parties and fund-raisers for law enforcement all the time.”

After climbing out of the plane, Patrick searched around and found a bicycle propped up next to the pump building. “I’ll be back as quick as I can,” he said, and he pedaled toward the main house.

The main house was a large, attractive, single-story building with a comfortable-looking wraparound porch, surrounded by desert landscaping. A three-car garage was adjacent, and a pickup truck was parked beside it. The place was deserted except for a couple dogs that came up to him, sniffed, decided he was no threat, and went back to search for some shade. Patrick knocked on the door and waited for an answer — nothing. He went over and looked through a window into the garage and saw one Hummer SUV inside, along with a dressed-out Harley-Davidson Road King and Harley Softail Deluxe motorcycle, all in immaculate condition considering they were in the middle of the desert. The garage was locked. Patrick then went to the pickup and found it unlocked and the keys tucked in the driver’s-side sun visor — perfect. He pulled his Form 104 mission briefing card out of a flight-suit pocket, wrote the phone number of the Battle Mountain squadron on it, stuck it in the front door of the house, then started up the pickup and drove back to the airstrip.

“No one home?” Leo asked.

“No,” Patrick said, “but I’ll bet he’s got security cameras all over the place, so I’d expect someone will be along shortly. I left my Form 104 in his door. Grab the survival kit and your flight bags and let’s go.” They pulled the twenty-five-pound orange survival kit and their personal flight bags from the plane, along with all the bottles of water they had in the cockpit. Patrick found tie-downs and secured the plane, and they clambered into the pickup, with Patrick driving. All three crewmembers had small portable GPS receivers in their flight bags, so it was simple for them to punch in the coordinates of the ground team to get a bearing and distance, and they headed off across the desert.

The long, bumpy, dusty drive was less than fifteen miles but lasted almost an hour. It was getting dark and decidedly cooler by the time they reached the ground team. Patrick was surprised when Bradley ran over to the truck and wrapped his arms around his father as soon as he stepped out of the pickup. “Dad!” he exclaimed. “You’re here!”

Patrick hugged him tightly in return — it had been a long, long time since they had embraced like that. “I’m glad you’re okay, Brad,” he said in a low voice. He took a look at his son’s sunburned, dust-streaked face and smiled, remarking to himself how much taller and more mature he looked just since they spoke back at the base a few hours ago. “You’ve had a really big day, haven’t you, big guy? Congratulations on finding the survivor.”

“Colonel Spara is really pissed at you,” Brad said with a wide grin. “I don’t think he stopped yelling on the radio until a few minutes ago.”

“I wasn’t going to leave my son out here in the desert,” Patrick said in a whisper. “The colonel is wacky if he thought I’d just fly back to base and leave you behind.” They walked back to Bellville and Fitzgerald. The cadets had set up two dome-shaped tents. They had been eating from self-heating bags of military MREs when they arrived, but now they excitedly ran over to the newcomers. The survivor was resting on a stretcher, covered with a silver space blanket, his head and face bandaged. “Is that the survivor, Dave?” Patrick said to David Bellville with surprise after shaking hands. “The sheriff hasn’t shown up yet?”

“No, and we don’t know what the delay is,” Bellville said. “I can’t believe you landed out here, sir.”

“ I can believe it,” Fitzgerald said, striding up and pumping Patrick’s hand enthusiastically. “Damn commanders always kowtowing to the regs and ignoring the real situation on the ground. But not this guy!” He thumped Patrick on the shoulder hard enough to tilt him onto one foot. “This is Patrick freakin’ McLanahan, the guy who kicked the Russians’ butts after the American Holocaust. He wasn’t about to leave his mates behind. About time someone said to hell with the damn book and looked out for his troops.” He turned to Spivey and Markham and jabbed a thumb toward Patrick. “He’s a real war hero, you guys, and don’t you forget it.”

“Thanks, Fid,” Patrick said. “Dave, how’s the survivor?”

Bellville turned to Markham. “Ralph?”

“His name is Jeremy, sir,” Ralph said. “Same condition as previously reported. We’re letting him sleep but waking him every hour or so as a precaution because of his possible concussion. He’s alert and responsive. He hasn’t eaten but has had a little water.”

Patrick was very impressed, and now he wished he spent more time with the cadets than he normally did: this cadet was extraordinarily bright. “Thank you, Ralph,” he said. “Good report.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ralph said. “I’ll go back and watch over him.” Again, Patrick was impressed.

Bellville held up his portable FM transceiver. “Colonel wants to talk to you, sir.”

Patrick nodded, then walked away from the group before keying the mike: “McLanahan here.”

“McLanahan, I am going to kick your ass when you get back here — I don’t care if you are a retired three-star general,” Spara said angrily. “Did you deliberately shut off the repeater?”

“Something happened to it, Rob. We can discuss it when I get back.”

“You violated your flight release and landed at another airport without permission.”

“Leo and John both said they thought they heard the engine running rough. I made a precautionary landing at the first available airport. Besides, I’m allowed to land at different airports as long as I don’t alter the crew composition.”

“Not on an actual mission you can’t,” Spara shouted. “And was the engine running rough? You’re the damned mission pilot, not Leo!”

“We can discuss that face-to-face too, Rob.”

“Jesus,” Spara breathed. “You know you were on the hook for that plane and the lives of your crew the minute you touched down on Andorsen’s ranch, don’t you? Except in an emergency, if you’re off the flight release during an actual mission, you might as well have stolen the plane.”

“We were ordered by the FAA to land immediately,” Patrick said. “If I didn’t and tried to return to Battle Mountain, I would have risked being intercepted and shot down. I think I made the better decision, don’t you?”

“It won’t be up to me — it’ll be up to the regional commander, maybe the national commander or even the Air Force,” Spara said. “They’re likely to boot us all out of CAP.”

“I’m fine, the crew is fine, the ground team is fine, Jeremy the survivor is fine, and the plane is fine, thanks for asking, Rob,” Patrick deadpanned.

“Why, you son of a b—” Spara began… but then he started to chuckle. A moment later: “All right, hotshot, I’m glad you’re all fine,” he said.

“Thank you. What’s going on with the sheriff’s department?”

“No idea yet,” Spara said wearily. “They keep telling me someone’s been dispatched, but that’s all they’ll tell me.”

“I have one of Andorsen’s trucks.”

“So you stole a vehicle too? Great,” Spara said even more wearily than before. “Oh well, might as well go out with a bang. How long did it take you to drive out to the ground team?”

“About an hour.”

“It’ll be dark soon. We’ll stick with the original plan: camp out tonight and await the sheriff and ambulance or medevac helicopter.”

“What’s happened? Why is the FAA shutting down airspace?”

“It’s unbelievable, Patrick: it looks like a terrorist flew a plane filled with nuclear material into the federal building in Reno.”

“Nuclear material!”

“They’re ordering the evacuation of one hundred thousand residents of Reno,” Spara went on. “The downtown part of the city is completely empty.”

“Was it a bomb?”

“They’re starting to report now that it might have been just a large amount of low-grade medical radioactive waste,” Spara replied. “But no one is believing that yet. They’re showing video of thousands of people madly running or driving like crazy in a full-throttle panic, as far away as Las Vegas and Sacramento. Same all across the country: people are fleeing any cities that have federal office buildings.”

“My God…” Patrick thought of his family in Sacramento, friends in Las Vegas and Houston, and colleagues in Washington — and, selfishly he realized, he was thankful he and Bradley were out in the middle of nowhere in north-central Nevada.

“I expect the panic to subside quickly as long as there’s not any more attacks,” Spara said. “As soon as the airspace is reopened, I imagine CAP will be tasked with surveillance, transport, and SAR missions around Reno. But for now, you guys sit tight and wait for help. Let me know when the sheriff arrives, and try not to violate any more regulations tonight, okay, General? Battle Mountain Base, out.”

Patrick returned to the group and gave the transceiver back to Bellville. “Pretty incredible, eh?” Bellville remarked. “I filled John and Leo in. Anything more?”

“They’re saying it was a large quantity of radioactive medical waste, not a bomb,” Patrick said to the entire group, especially the cadets, “but the airspace is still closed. Folks are panicking all around the country.”

“That’s exactly what the attackers want: get the people good and scared,” Fitzgerald said acidly.

“Well, it’s working,” Bellville said. “Our plans change?”

“Not before the sheriff arrives,” Patrick said. “We have ourselves a campout until daybreak.”

Bellville nodded. “If an ambulance or medevac helicopter doesn’t arrive by then, we’ll take Jeremy to the nearest hospital in Andorsen’s truck,” he said. “We should make contact with Andorsen by then, and we’ll ask him to help us get our van so we can take the ground team back to base. You can take the 182 back to Battle Mountain as soon as the airspace is reopened.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

“So you get to camp out with us tonight, Dad?” Brad asked excitedly. “It’s the first time camping out with the CAP, isn’t it?”

“First time camping out ever except for Air Force survival school and maybe once or twice in the backyard when I was a kid,” Patrick said. “I’ll just sleep in the truck.”

“Nah, Dad, you gotta sleep out under the stars with us,” Brad said happily. “You’ll love it. You can tell us war stories.”

“Okay, okay,” Patrick said. “But it better not rain on us.”

There were thunderstorms in the area, with tremendous flashes of lightning brightly illuminating the horizon and an occasional rumble of thunder rolling across the desert, but the group had clear skies and unusually gentle breezes that evening. Patrick told stories until almost midnight while the rest of them ate MREs and drank water, with hardly a word uttered by anyone. Even Jeremy, occasionally awakened on the stretcher, listened intently.

Bellville finally called the storytelling to a halt and organized the camp for the night, setting up sleeping areas, a latrine, the camp perimeter, and night watches; all their food and anything that might attract animals was stored inside the truck. The cadets took the first hour-long watches, patrolling the area around the camp with their headlights and flashlights to ward off curious coyotes and warmth-seeking snakes. Everyone else slept outside except Jeremy, who was placed in one of the tents, with Ralph steadfastly refusing to leave his patient’s side.

Bradley had taken the first perimeter patrol. When his shift was done he went over to Ron. “Wake up, Ron,” he whispered.

“I’m not asleep.”

“Then get up, jerk-off. Perimeter patrol. You wake up Mr. de Carteret at zero-two-hundred.”

“I know, I know,” Ron said. He shook off his sleeping bag, found his boots and headlamp, and struggled to his feet.

“Don’t leave your sleeping bag open like that, Ron,” Brad said. “You’ll have half the bugs and lizards in the desert inside by the time you go back in.”

“I know, I know,” Ron repeated irritably. “I was going to zip it up. Just go to sleep, A-hole.” He zipped the sleeping bag closed, turned on his headlamp and flashlight, and took the portable FM radio from Brad.

“Don’t forget check-ins at fifteen and forty-five past…”

“Jeez, McLanahan, I’m not a goober like Marky,” Ron hissed. “Lay off, all right?” and he stomped off.

Brad went back to where his father was sleeping under his unzipped and folded-out sleeping bag. He took off his boots, being careful to stuff spare socks inside to keep bugs and snakes from crawling in, then knelt on the ground. He was surprised to feel his sleeping pad beneath his knees. “You asleep, Dad?” he whispered.

“No,” Patrick whispered back.

Brad lay down, then sat up again. “Why aren’t you sleeping on the pad, Dad?” he asked.

“I saved it for you. It’s too small for both of us.”

Brad chuckled. “But you’re old,” he said, “and the ground is very rocky.”

“I’m not old, you young fart, and the ground is just fine.”

Brad snickered and settled back down under the sleeping bag. After a few minutes, he whispered, “Is this what it felt like after 9/11, Dad? Scared, but you’re not sure why?”

“Yes,” Patrick replied solemnly. “And the American Holocaust. No one knew what was going to happen next, or where or when the next attack would be. The Holocaust was far worse. Everyone slept in basements and air-raid shelters for weeks afterward, even after… after the counterattacks.” He paused, then said, “Lots of sleepless nights.”

Brad didn’t say it aloud, but he thought it: Your counterattacks, the ones you planned and led, Dad. But all he said was, “Good night, Dad.”

“Good night, big guy.”

Because Patrick was flying the Cessna and was the highest-ranking officer, he was the last to take a patrol shift so he could get the most sleep. David Bellville touched his shoulder. “Time, sir,” he said. “You get any sleep?”

“An hour or so altogether, maybe.”

“That’s an hour or so more than me,” Bellville said. “I have relatives that live near Reno.”

“I know,” Patrick said. “I’m sure Rob is checking. Anything?”

“Poor Jeremy crying in his sleep every now and then, and Fid snoring away like an old hound dog,” Bellville whispered. He handed Patrick the portable FM radio. “Otherwise good. We’ll get everyone up at six.”

“Roger.” Patrick donned his headlamp, used the latrine pit, then started his patrol. He pretended he was flying an expanding-square search: First he started at the center of the camp, checked every cadet, then checked on Ralph and Jeremy — both were thankfully asleep. Then he checked every senior, checked the ration cache in the pickup’s cab with John, then started walking the perimeter, shining a flashlight on every bush, hole, rock, and crevice, trying to scare away any critters.

The shift went by quickly. The stars were amazing, and Patrick had never seen so many shooting stars before. He checked in ops-normal with Battle Mountain Base at fifteen minutes and forty-five minutes after the hour, just as he did on every mission or exercise. As the end of the shift approached, dawn was quickly approaching, and the eastern sky was ablaze with red and orange. Yes, he was here because of a disaster, but the opportunity to see this incredibly beautiful vista was…

… and as the light on the horizon brightened, he saw it: a Jeep Wrangler, top down and doors off, with two men sitting in the front seat — both armed with what looked like military rifles! It was no more than forty yards to their campsite — how in the world could these guys get so close without being heard by anyone?

Patrick decided to find out, and he walked over to them. The two men never looked over toward him as he approached, but straight ahead, even when Patrick pointed his flashlight in their faces. “Who are you guys?” he asked. No reply. Patrick saw the words ANDORSEN AND SONS painted on the side of the hood. “You work for Andorsen?”

“Mr. Andorsen will be by shortly to speak with you,” the man in the passenger seat said, still not looking at Patrick. Patrick could see several radios in the Jeep, including a police-band scanner and VHF aviation-band radio; he could also see that the scopes on their AR-15 rifles were low-light telescopic sniperscopes, able to intensify starlight enough to see in the dark. “We don’t talk to trespassers and thieves.”

Patrick decided these guys weren’t going to answer any questions, so he walked back to the camp and woke up the adults. “We have visitors,” he told the senior members.

“What?” Fitzgerald thundered. He followed Patrick’s outstretched hand. “Those guys have been watchin’ us, and they got guns ? I’ll straighten them out!”

“Negative, Fid,” Bellville said. “Stay put; get the cadets up and the camp packed up.” Fid turned, glaring at the newcomers.

“They said Andorsen will be out shortly,” Patrick said.

“What else?”

“Nothing. They weren’t very chatty — or friendly.”

“Another Jeep to the south,” Leo said, lowering a pair of binoculars. “A little better hidden than the others.”

“Looks like Judah has had us under surveillance all night,” John said.

“Judah?”

“Judah Andorsen,” John explained. “Fourth-generation rancher out here. Good customer of mine at the store. I’ve known him for years.” He fell silent; then: “I wonder why he didn’t come in.”

“Or why he didn’t report us to the sheriff, and why the sheriff isn’t here,” Patrick said. “You think Andorsen wants to handle this situation by himself?”

“We’ll find out pretty soon,” Bellville said, “because I hear a chopper.” Sure enough, a minute later a Bell JetRanger helicopter approached, flying low. It stirred up a cloud of dust as it settled a few yards away from the Jeep to the east. Through the swirling sand, a tall, broad-shouldered man emerged and strode purposefully toward the camp, flanked by one of the men from the Jeep, carrying the rifle at port arms.

When he was a few paces away from the CAP members, the man shouted over the subsiding roar of the helicopter’s turbine engine, “Who the hell is McLanahan? I want to know which one of you is McLanahan!”

“I’m McLanahan,” Patrick replied.

“So you think you can steal one of my trucks and leave this as some kind of IOU?” the man said. He was waving the CAP Form 104 Patrick had stuck in the ranch house’s door. The man was wearing a leather flying jacket, jeans, cowboy boots, and leather ranch hand’s gloves. “I’ve got news for you, bub: we don’t do that out here in Nevada on my land. I think it’s time to teach you a little down-home respect for…” As he got closer to the group, he looked at the others and froze. “John? Is that you ?”

“Good morning, Judah,” John said with a smile. “You’re in quite a state this morning, aren’t you?”

“You’re with this group of thieves, John? Are you all right? What are you wearing?”

“A flight suit, Judah,” John said. “I’m a mission observer for the Civil Air Patrol. We’re out here on a mission.”

“A mission? Civil Air Patrol? Why, I don’t…” He continued to scan the group, and they could see his eyes widen in surprise again. “Trooper Slotnick?”

“Morning, Mr. Andorsen,” Leo said.

“What in hell is going on out here?” Andorsen asked. “Are you making an arrest, Trooper? Why didn’t you call and—”

“My mission base has been trying to contact you for the past eighteen hours, sir, but there’s been no answer,” Bellville said.

“Who are you ?”

“David Bellville, Civil Air Patrol ground-team leader. We’re on a search-and-rescue mission.”

Andorsen seemed to relax a bit. “Oh yeah… the crashed plane we saw coming out here,” he said, nodding. “You looking for that plane? It’s about three hundred yards back that way.”

“We found the plane,” Bellville said. “We were out here looking for a survivor.”

“A survivor? From that ? No way in hell.”

“Mind keeping your voice down, Andorsen?” Fitzgerald asked in a low growl. He jabbed a thumb back toward Jeremy’s tent. “The survivor is sleeping.”

Andorsen first scowled at Fitzgerald — obviously unaccustomed to being spoken to like that — but then nodded. He turned to McLanahan. “You fly that plane onto my airstrip?”

“Yes.”

“And steal my truck?”

“I didn’t steal your truck. I borrowed it to make contact and assist the ground-search team. I left that form so you could call our mission base and we could explain what was happening.”

“On my land with my property I prefer to get answers for myself,” Andorsen said, “and out here, I decide what is stealing and what’s not.” He looked more carefully at Patrick, then glanced at the Form 104. “What’d you say your name was?”

“McLanahan.”

“Unusual name,” he said. Andorsen read the name and information on the card, then Patrick’s leather name tag on his flight suit. “ Patrick McLanahan? The Patrick McLanahan? But you’re wearing colonel’s rank. The real Patrick McLanahan was a three-star Air Force general.”

“In the Civil Air Patrol, I’m a colonel,” Patrick said.

Andorsen’s eyes slowly grew wider and wider in sheer amazement. “You’re General Patrick McLanahan? No shit?” he exclaimed.

“The one and only, Judah,” John said proudly. “He’s a volunteer for the Battle Mountain squadron, just like us. That’s his boy over there.”

“I don’t believe it!” Andorsen said, mouth agape. He reached over and extended his hand. “It is an honor to have you on my ranch, sir, a real honor.” Patrick took his hand, and Andorsen pumped it enthusiastically. “I’m sorry about getting in your face there, sir, but we get a lot of trespassers and thieves these days, what with the economy going to shit and all. The sheriff is doing his best, but this is a big county and a big ranch, and his department’s been slashed to the bone…” He waved a hand in his own face, interrupting himself, then said, “I apologize, sir, but I’m babbling. You need someone flown to the hospital? If you can put him in the chopper, I’ll fly him myself. Otherwise I’ll have the boys at the house bring out the Hummer.”

“I think he’ll be better off in the chopper,” Bellville said. “John, Leo, get him ready.” They hustled off.

“So you’re out here doing a search-and-rescue, and you find the crash, and then you find a survivor who walked away from the crash,” Andorsen said. “Amazing work. I’m proud of you guys. And you’re volunteers . That’s even more amazing. I’ve always believed in the spirit of the volunteer, the person who doesn’t expect to be paid for service to his community and country. Real proud of you.” He shook his head as he looked at each one of them with a smile. “What else can I do for you?”

“Our van is parked next to your gate number twenty-three,” Fitzgerald said. “The gate was locked.”

“Like I said, we’ve had a lot of trespassers over the past couple years,” Andorsen said. “Even had some cattle rustlers a while back.”

“And you like to deal with them yourself, instead of calling the sheriff?” Fid asked. He nodded. “Sounds like the way it should be done.”

“Bet your ass,” Andorsen said. He looked Fid up and down. “Do I know you?”

“I’ve been on your ranch many times for open-range fire drills with the Department of Wildlife air and ground teams,” Fitzgerald said. “You’ve been extremely generous with your time and hands. You’ve donated help and land for CAP cadet campouts also. I have all of your gates mapped out.”

“Happy to do it,” Andorsen said, nodding approvingly. “You and your kids need a ride to your van?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take the pickup, and my boys will tag along and take anyone that doesn’t fit, then drive the pickup back,” Andorsen said. “You’ll probably need one adult to stay with your survivor when we drop him off at the hospital.” He turned to Patrick. “I’d be honored if you’d fly along with me, General. I’d like to chat and show you my ranch before you fly off.”

“We’re grounded for now,” Patrick said.

“Grounded? The plane not working?”

“The FAA has grounded all flights around the country,” Bellville said. “The plane crash in Reno?” Andorsen wore a blank stare. “The plane that crashed into the federal building in Reno carrying radioactive material?”

“ Radioactive ma… are you shitting me?” Andorsen retorted.

“You didn’t hear about that?”

“Son, my ranch is over fourteen thousand square miles across five Nevada counties,” Andorsen said. “I operate a thousand crop circles, fifty thousand head of cattle, eleven mines, and two thousand workers. I go eighteen hours a day, every day; I’m in the air at least three hours a day. I don’t have time to watch TV.” He looked concerned. “But I’ve got offices in Reno, and they should’ve alerted me. Same as that plane crash on my land — someone should have noticed that, and noticed you flying around out here. I’m gonna look into that too.” He saw John and Leo two-man carrying Jeremy toward the helicopter, followed closely by Ralph. “That the survivor? Damn lucky kid. Well, let’s get rolling.”

“I’ll stay with Jeremy until next of kin or child protective services show up,” Bellville said. “Fid, you head back to base with the cadets.”

“Can I stay with Jeremy, sir?” Ralph asked.

“ ’Fraid not, Ralph,” Bellville said. Ralph looked dejected, but nodded assent. Bellville turned to Andorsen and explained, “Cadet Markham here led the ground-search team right to the survivor, and he’s been the survivor’s medical attendant since moment one.”

“So why can’t he ride along?” Andosen asked. “I got plenty of room.”

“Because we need at least two adults together with at least two cadets, unless it’s an emergency,” Bellville explained. “Liability and child protection regulations.” Andorsen nodded, saying nothing but wearing a puzzled expression on his face. “Patrick, do you need John or Leo to fly the 182 back to Battle Mountain? I need one of them with Fid and the cadets.”

“I’ll take Leo and give him some stick time,” Patrick said. He saw Brad’s anxious expression, wanting some stick time too or at least a ride in the plane, but now was not the time.

“Then John will go back to base with Fid and the cadets in the van,” Bellville said. Patrick nodded. “I’ll call it all in.”

It was a half-hour flight to Battle Mountain, where Andorsen himself landed on a nearly empty parking lot next to Battle Mountain’s small hospital. He had already radioed ahead to report the situation, and a nurse and paramedic were waiting outside with a gurney. They carefully placed Jeremy on the gurney and strapped him in while Bellville got out. He shook hands with Patrick and Leo. “See you back at base, guys,” he said.

“Roger that,” Patrick said. He and Leo stayed by the helicopter while Andorsen went into the hospital with the nurse and paramedic. More hospital staff members came to the door to greet him. “Popular guy,” Patrick observed.

“Notice the name of the hospital?” Leo asked. Patrick searched and found the sign that read ANDERS G. ANDORSEN MEMORIAL HOSPITAL. “Judah’s grandfather,” Leo explained before Patrick could ask. “The Andorsens have their names on most of the public buildings all over north-central Nevada.”

“I’ve worked out here for years and never noticed,” Patrick said.

“Just like most folks out here had no idea what the military was doing out on the base for decades,” Leo said. “Even now, it’s the same: the greatest wartime general since Norman Schwarzkopf is living right here in our little town, and no one has a clue.” He looked at Patrick’s neutral, faraway expression and smiled. “I was referring to you, sir.”

“Thank you, Leo,” Patrick said. “I’m not feeling very heroic these days.”

Andorsen came out a few minutes later and climbed into the JetRanger, with Patrick and Leo scrambling to catch up with him. “Looks like the poor kid’s being taken good care of,” he said. “Let me give you a tour of the ranch, and then get some breakfast back at the house.”

“Aren’t all aircraft still grounded, sir?” Leo asked.

“I’m sure that don’t apply to local flights below one thousand feet aboveground, Trooper,” Andorsen said. “No interceptors will be flying around the boonies — they’ll be setting up over the big cities. We’ll be okay.” He started the engine and lifted off. “That Bellville guy really seems to have his shit together,” Andorsen remarked. “That Fitzgerald guy too. I’m gonna have to pay a visit to you guys someday and see what you’re all about.”

“That would be great, sir,” Patrick said.

“Please, call me Judah, General.”

“Only if you call me Patrick.”

“I’d be honored to, Patrick,” Andorsen said.

“Thank you.” Patrick noticed they were flying right toward Joint Air Base Battle Mountain, whose controlled airspace extended ten miles in all directions from the surface to five thousand feet above the surface. “Better be careful of the Class-C airspace, Judah,” Patrick said. “Do you have the approach control or tower frequency handy?”

“The guys in the tower know my chopper,” Andorsen said, “and as long as I stay away from the approach paths, we’re good.”

Both Patrick and Leo looked at the control tower in the distance, and they could clearly see alternating red and green laser light gun signals from the remote video-tower controllers, indicating “EXERCISE EXTREME CAUTION.” “I see red and green light gun signals from the tower, sir,” Leo said. “Better stay away from the base.”

“With all the shit happening in Reno, I’m not surprised,” Andorsen said nonchalantly. He turned slightly east but was still going to break the ten-mile limit. “I can’t believe I’m flying with the Patrick McLanahan. How long have you been in the area, Patrick?”

“Almost six months on this posting,” Patrick said, carefully scanning the sky for aircraft and taking another nervous look back at the warning lights from the base. He knew Battle Mountain had very sophisticated air-defense weapons, but he wasn’t familiar with their status and guessed they had probably been deactivated when the drawdown began. “I spent two years here commanding the base previously.”

“You know about the underground hangar at the base, of course.”

“Of course.”

“My grandfather started that project, you know,” Andorsen said proudly, “and my father finished it. We’ve always been a family of miners — everyone in my family can work and live just as easily belowground as we do above. I was taken through the complex many times when I was a kid — of course, I was sworn to secrecy, and the threat of commies and saboteurs was so great back then that I was too scared to even think about talking about it to my friends. It was considered one of the eight technical marvels of the modern world back then.”

“I couldn’t believe it when I was first taken through it,” Patrick said. “It still amazes me that we can park B-52 bombers down there.”

“And what do you do now, Patrick?” Andorsen asked.

“Officially I’m a reserve Air Force lieutenant-general in command of the Space Defense Force,” Patrick replied, “although there really is no Space Defense Force and the planned upgrades to the space-defense systems have been put on hold. In actuality, I’m a caretaker. If a contingency takes place, I’m there to make sure that the place is ready to support aircraft and spacecraft operations when a real commander and battle staff arrive.”

Andorsen scowled at him. “You’re a caretaker ? You? Why aren’t you out there on the lecture circuit, or a consultant for some defense contractor? You could be pulling in some big bucks.”

“I might just do that later on,” Patrick said, “but if the Space Defense Force languishes in this recession, it might not survive when things recover. Someone needs to be the advocate. I’m happy to do it for my retirement pay.”

“You don’t even get paid ?” Andorsen asked incredulously. He shook his head. “How screwed up is that? General Patrick McLanahan, working for nothing ? Unbelievable.”

Andorsen continued to chat about landmarks and features of his expansive ranch, flying this way and that. Patrick listened, but in reality he was looking at the VHF radios, itching to switch one to the Battle Mountain control-tower frequency, Battle Mountain Approach Control, or the GUARD emergency channel. Andorsen had the radio set to some personal frequency that Patrick didn’t recognize.

“And this here is our Freedom-3 mine,” Andorsen went on. The mine was an immense open-pit area encompassing several hundred acres and several hundred feet deep. “My great-great-grandfather opened it way back after the turn of the century. He found mostly copper back then, but over the years we’ve found a little bit of everything there: silver, lead, bauxite, even a tiny bit of gold. Look there and you can see—”

Patrick couldn’t stand it any longer: “Judah, if you don’t mind, I’m going to flip your number two comm to GUARD,” he said as he switched radio frequencies and selected the proper button on the audio panel to monitor the frequency. “With all the stuff going on, I want to monitor GUARD. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, no, go ahead, set it for anything you want,” Andorsen said a bit perturbedly. “Just leave me comm one so I can talk to my boys if I need to.”

“You got it.” Patrick switched frequencies and hit the COM2 button on the audio panel, and immediately they heard, “… fifteen miles south of Joint Air Base Battle Mountain, warning, warning, you have violated controlled airspace during an air-defense emergency. Repeat, unidentified helicopter nine miles north of Joint Air Base Battle Mountain, you have violated controlled airspace during a national air-defense emergency. You are instructed to depart Class-C airspace immediately and contact Battle Mountain Approach immediately on GUARD or on one-two-six-point-four. Be advised, you may be intercepted and fired upon without warning if you remain in Class-C airspace. Unidentified helicopter, if you hear this message, respond immediately on any channel.”

“They’re talking about us!” Leo exclaimed.

“What in Sam Hill are they getting so wrapped around the axle about?” Andorsen exclaimed. “They know it’s me.”

“That doesn’t matter in an air-defense emergency, Judah,” Patrick said. “They may have deployed interceptors to Battle Mountain in case of more attacks in the area. Let me talk to them.”

“Fine by me,” Andorsen said irritably. “Go ahead.”

Patrick quickly switched the audio panel to COM2, hit the mike button on his cyclic, and spoke: “Battle Mountain Approach, this is Sierra Alpha Seven aboard JetRanger One Juliet Alpha on GUARD, fifteen miles south of JAB Battle Mountain. I was previously mission pilot aboard CAP 2722 that launched yesterday. Requesting permission to land at the CAP hangar.”

“What’s that Sierra Alpha Seven nonsense?” Andorsen asked.

“My call sign at the base — I’m hoping that’ll turn down the tension here,” Patrick replied. Andorsen snorted and shook his head but said nothing.

“Negative, One Juliet Alpha, negative,” the controller replied angrily. He directed Patrick to switch to his regular VHF frequency to clear the emergency frequency, then said, “You are directed to keep clear of Class-C airspace and land immediately. Acknowledge.”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Andorsen said. He turned the helicopter to the northwest. “We’ll head back to the house.”

“That’s about twenty minutes away, Judah,” Patrick said. He quickly scanned outside, then pointed to the left. “That rest-area parking lot looks empty. You can set it down there.”

“I’m not landing on no parking lot!” Andorsen said. “I’m heading away from the base, we’ve made radio contact, and my ranch is less than twenty minutes away. I’m not threatening anyone.” He flipped over to COM2. “Listen, Approach, this is Judah Andorsen on One Juliet Alpha. We’re heading straight back to the ranch. I’ve been helpin’ out the Civil Air Patrol with a rescue, so don’t get all riled up about—”

At that instant they heard a tremendous screaming WHOOOSH! and the helicopter was tossed around the sky like a leaf in the wind. When Andorsen finally got the craft back under control, they all clearly saw what had caused the upset, because it had missed them by less than a hundred yards: an Air Force F-16C Fighting Falcon, banking steeply right in front of them. “What in the hell … ?”

“That was to get our attention,” Patrick said. He switched COM1 to the VHF GUARD channel and spoke: “Air Force F-16, this is JetRanger One Juliet Alpha on VHF GUARD, go ahead.”

“JetRanger One Juliet Alpha, this is Saber One-Seven, Air Force F-16, on GUARD,” came the reply. “Turn left heading two-six-zero. You are instructed to land at Valmy Municipal Airport.”

“I ain’t landin’ at Valmy — that place has been shut down for twenty years!” Andorsen said. “There isn’t anything out there!”

“Judah, you’d better turn to that heading,” Patrick said. “If we’re not responding, he’ll get permission to shoot.”

“ Shoot? You mean, shoot me down ?”

“I do, and after what happened in Reno yesterday, he’ll do it.” Andorsen shook his head but turned to the heading. Relieved, Patrick switched to COM1. “Saber One-Seven, this is JetRanger One Juliet Alpha, requesting permission to land at the owner’s private airstrip at our four o’clock, forty miles. We will remain clear of Class-C airspace.”

“Negative, One Juliet Alpha,” the fighter pilot replied. “You are instructed to land as directed and await law enforcement. Do not attempt to take off again. I will be circling overhead and I may be directed to fire upon you without warning if you attempt a takeoff. Remain on this frequency.”

“Why, this is the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard!” Andorsen thundered. “What does he mean, ‘law enforcement’? What in hell did I do?”

“We’re not supposed to be flying, Judah,” Patrick said. “Don’t worry — once they find out who we are, they’ll let us go once the emergency is over.”

“I’m not going to wait,” Andorsen said. He switched COM2 to his own discrete frequency. “Teddy, this is Judah.”

“Read you loud and clear, sir,” came a reply moments later, with a remarkably clear transmission, as if the responder was very close by.

“I’m in the JetRanger,” Andorsen said. “There’s an Air Force fighter jet forcing me to land at the old airport in Valmy. Send some boys out there. Then tell Cunningham to meet us out there too. They may try to arrest us. They may use the Highway Patrol or Humboldt County sheriff before the feds arrive.”

“Roger that, sir, I’ll tell him.”

Andorsen nodded. “They think they’re hot shit because they got a jet fighter?” he snapped cross-cockpit. “They ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.”

After overflying the deserted field and selecting the least weed-choked area he could find, Andorsen set the JetRanger down with an irritated thud and a swirl of tumbleweeds, shut the engine down, and exited the chopper. He scowled at the noise of the F-16 overhead. “Bastard,” he muttered. “Intercepted by the damned Air Force, and I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

Patrick pulled out his cellular phone. There was no cellular service out here in this remote area, miles from Battle Mountain. But he did have Internet access, thanks to the Space Defense Force’s network of mobile broadband satellites that provided high-speed Internet access to most of the Northern Hemisphere. “Brad, this is Patrick,” he said after he had connected via Voice-over IP to the Battle Mountain CAP Base.

“Where are you?” Spara replied. “You missed a check-in.”

“We’re with Judah Andorsen,” Patrick explained. “He was flying us back to his ranch in his helicopter after dropping the survivor and Dave off at the hospital in Battle Mountain.”

“He was flying ? The entire national airspace is still shut down except for medical and law enforcement. From whom did he get permission?”

“No one.”

“So you’re at his ranch?”

“Not exactly. We were intercepted by an F-16 and ordered to land at Valmy Airport.”

“There’s an airport at Valmy?”

“Abandoned. We’re okay, but we were told to wait for law enforcement. The F-16 is orbiting overhead to make sure we don’t leave.”

“Great,” Spara said with a sigh. “I’ll report it to the National Operations Center. I’ll ask them to explain to the FBI that Andorsen was helping the Civil Air Patrol, but that might take some time. You might be in the pokey for a while. If they place you under arrest—”

“I know,” Patrick said. “Name, address, and Social Security number only, remain silent about everything else, and call the National Operations Center. Number’s on my ID card.”

“Correct. Remind Leo. Maybe he can pull some strings with the Highway Patrol.”

“I think they will want to cooperate in every way with the FBI,” Patrick guessed. “I’ll try to keep in touch.” He put the phone away. “Did you hear that, Leo? If they put us under arrest, we don’t answer questions unless we have a CAP-appointed lawyer present.”

“They wouldn’t dare, ” Andorsen growled.

“The FBI’s going to be on the warpath, Judah,” Patrick warned. “A suicide terrorist just attacked their offices in Reno with a dirty bomb. I wouldn’t mess with these guys until everybody has had a chance to calm down. Once they figure out we’re not terrorists, everyone will dial down the volume quickly, but at first things might be tense.”

About a half hour later, they saw and then heard a vehicle going Code Three down Interstate 80, and soon it turned off, raced down the frontage road, and headed south to the abandoned airport. It was a Humboldt County sheriff’s cruiser. It stopped about twenty yards from the chopper, and a lone deputy got out. “All three of you,” he shouted, “put your hands in the air and turn around!”

“Now just wait a damned minute, Deputy…!” Andorsen shouted, jabbing a finger at the deputy.

“Do it, now !” the sheriff’s deputy shouted, placing a hand on his sidearm.

Patrick and Leo did as they were ordered. “Do it, Mr. Andorsen,” Leo said. “Don’t argue.”

Andorsen puffed up his chest as if he was going to start shouting again, but he shook his head, raised his hands, and turned. Patrick noticed his arms trembling; Andorsen looked at Patrick and said, “Old shoulder injury from Vietnam.” He raised his voice and said loudly, “I can’t hold my arms up like this long, Deputy.”

The deputy ignored him. “Man closest to the nose of the helicopter, take five steps toward me, backward,” he shouted.

Leo did as he was told, then said, “I’m a Nevada Highway Patrol officer. My ID is in the lower right-leg pocket.”

“Are you armed?”

“I’m flying with the Civil Air Patrol today. CAP is never armed.”

“I said, are you armed?” the deputy repeated.

“No.”

“Hands behind your head, lace your fingers.” Leo complied. “Kneel down, cross your ankles.” Leo complied again, and the deputy put him in a pair of handcuffs, then took him to his patrol car. He did the same to Patrick, putting both men in the backseat.

“If you expect me to kneel down, buddy, you’re loco,” Andorsen said acidly when the deputy approached him. “My knees are so old, they will crack like kindling. And I can’t hold my arms up like this — the pain gets too much.”

“I’ll help you up, sir,” the deputy said. “Hands behind your head, lace your—”

Patrick could easily sense what was going to happen next: Andorsen whirled, his hands knotted into fists, and he hit the deputy on the side of his head. The deputy must have sensed it also, because he almost managed to dodge away from the swing and received a glancing blow only.

“I told you, boy, I can’t hold my arms up like that!” Andorsen shouted.

The deputy’s SIG Sauer P226 semiautomatic sidearm was in his hands in the blink of an eye. “Don’t move!” he shouted, the gun leveled at Andorsen’s chest. “Turn and get down on the ground!”

“I told you, son, I can’t get down like that — it hurts too much,” Andorsen said, holding his hands out in plain sight but not raising them. “My name is Judah Andorsen. Get on your damned radio and tell your boss that—”

The deputy grabbed Andorsen by the front of his jacket and tugged backward, and as soon as Andorsen resisted by pulling away, the deputy put one leg between Andorsen’s legs, shoved forward, and placed a toe behind Andorsen’s heel, tripping him. As the deputy fell on top of Andorsen, he made sure one knee was in Andorsen’s groin when they hit the ground. With Andorsen doubled up in pain and clutching his groin, it was easy for the deputy to holster his sidearm, grab a wrist, spin the man over on his stomach, wrestle the other wrist around, and snap handcuffs in place.

“Dispatch, Unit Five,” he radioed using his portable radio, breathing heavily, but more from excitement and adrenaline rush than exertion, “three in custody, Valmy Airport, notify FBI—”

And at that moment a black six-pack dually pickup truck raced up the dirt road toward the deputy, tires kicking up dirt and stones. It was followed by a Cadillac sedan. The dually screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust beside the police cruiser, the doors flew open, and six men jumped out and ran toward the deputy.

“Freeze!” the deputy shouted. He knelt next to Andorsen and again put a hand on his sidearm. “Humboldt County Sheriff’s Department making an arrest! All you men, get back in your truck, now !”

The six men stopped but did not retreat. “We’re right here, Mr. Andorsen,” one of the men said. “What do you want us to do?”

“Tell these men to raise their hands and back away,” the deputy ordered.

“Back on up, Teddy,” Andorsen said into the dust. The six men immediately stepped backward to their pickup, their eyes on the sheriff’s deputy and their boss the whole time.

“Dispatch, Unit Five, requesting backup, Valmy Airport,” the deputy radioed.

“Damn it, what do those guys think they’re doing?” Leo asked from the backseat of the deputy’s cruiser. “Were they trying to—”

“Holy shit!” Patrick said between clenched teeth. He looked over to the pickup… and noticed AR-15 assault rifles with sniperscopes being passed out from within the pickup, shielded from view. “Those guys have guns !”

“This is not good,” Leo whispered.

Patrick thought for a second, then shouted, “Judah, this is General Patrick McLanahan. Tell your men to put down their rifles.”

The sheriff’s deputy leaped to his feet, dashed around the nose of the helicopter, drew his sidearm, pointed it toward the six men, and shouted, “Show me your hands! Now!”

In a flash, the six men spread out about six yards apart from one another and dropped to the ground. Patrick counted four AR-15 rifles pointed at the deputy. These guys looked professional all the way, he thought. “I think it’s your turn to drop your weapon and show us your hands, Deputy,” the man named Teddy shouted.