A Time for Patriots

Three

“Are they crazy ?” Leo said. “They’re drawing down on a sheriff’s deputy!”

During this time, the Cadillac had pulled up to the scene, and a lone, short, balding man in a gray business suit got out and walked toward the helicopter, unbuttoning and then removing his jacket. “Freeze!” the deputy shouted.

The newcomer dropped his jacket to the ground and raised his hands. “I’m not armed, Deputy,” he said in a remarkably calm voice. “My name is Harold Cunningham, and I am Mr. Andorsen’s attorney and counsel.” He looked up into his right hand, in which he was holding a cell phone. “I’m expecting a call from Sheriff Martinez, District Attorney Cauldwell, and County Commissioner Blane any minute now, Deputy, and you’ll be receiving a call from the sheriff explaining what this is all about.”

“You just stay where you are and keep your hands where I can see them!” the deputy shouted back.

“Unit Five,” came the message from the deputy’s portable radio.

The deputy keyed the mike button on his left shoulder: “Dispatch, Unit Five, three in custody, holding seven at gunpoint, repeat, seven, multiple weapons visible, request immediate backup, covers Code Three.” His voice was clearly fearful.

“Five, this is Sheriff Martinez,” came a different voice on the channel. “Mark, relax. This is all a big fat mix-up by the feds. That’s Judah Andorsen you got there.”

“Sir, I’ve got four guys with rifles and two with handguns aimed at me,” the deputy radioed back to the obviously known person on the radio.

“They’re Mr. Andorsen’s security guys,” Martinez replied. “The feds have got everybody believing we’ve got terrorists running amok in Humboldt County. Just relax.”

“I’ll relax as soon as these motherfuckers lower their guns, sir,” the deputy named Mark radioed.

“I’m on my way out there now, son,” Martinez radioed. “Just don’t do anything until I get there.”

In the next ninety minutes, as the day grew hotter and hotter and thunderstorms began to build around them like sand monsters rising from the high desert, more and more cars arrived. After each new vehicle arrived, the man named Cunningham dialed another number, and more cars arrived. Before long, two FBI special agents showed up and took charge of the scene. By then, Andorsen’s men had gotten back to their feet and had joined their boss around the helicopter, with their weapons in holsters or slung on their shoulders. The FBI agents stood by their car with sidearms leveled. “This is the FBI,” one of the agents shouted. “All of you men, drop your weapons and raise your hands.”

“I’m sorry, Special Agent Chastain,” the man named Cunningham said, “but I’m expecting a call from the deputy attorney general and the U.S. attorney in Reno. He’ll straighten all this out for you.”

“How did Cunningham know his name?” Patrick asked in a low voice. He and Leo were still handcuffed in the back of the now-sweltering-hot sheriff’s cruiser. “Neither FBI agent identified himself yet, right?”

“This is bizarro,” Leo said. “They’ve got everybody except the governor of Nevada and vice president of the United States out here.”

“I said, drop your weapons and raise your hands!” the special agent repeated. It was a surreal scene to Patrick: the Humboldt County sheriff and several deputies, the district attorney, a county commissioner, a high-ranking official from the Nevada Highway Patrol, and someone from the state of Nevada Attorney General’s office, along with Andorsen’s armed employees, were all standing around Andorsen’s helicopter, being confronted by two FBI agents! The officials with Andorsen, Patrick noted with shock, were not only not arresting anyone, but were openly protecting and shielding him from federal law enforcement officers!

“You should be getting a call from Washington or the Nevada U.S. District Court any minute now, Special Agent Chastain,” Cunningham called out. “It should straighten this whole ugly incident out right away.”

“I’m warning all of you, drop your weapons and raise your hands!” the agent named Chastain repeated. But it was obvious that he was distracted by something.

“Boys, go ahead and put your guns down so Agent Chastain there can answer his phone,” Andorsen said with a wide grin. His men immediately laid their weapons on the ground so the FBI agents could clearly see them. “I’ll bet it’s a real important call. Don’t you worry none about any of us, son — we ain’t gonna move a muscle.”

With the other agent covering the odd group, Chastain pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket — and everyone could see his jaw drop in surprise when he read the caller ID. “Chastain,” he said. “Go ahead, sir… Yes, I’m in charge of this incident, the airspace violation and the… Excuse me, sir?… You’re saying there was no violation because the airspace in this area had been cleared because of the Civil Air Patrol search-and-rescue operation?” Patrick could see Andorsen’s grin become even wider. “But, sir, I was advised that the entire national airspace system is still shut down and… What, sir?… I see… All the airspace except for this particular area. So there never was any violation, even though the military controllers at Battle Mountain had… Yes, sir… Yes, yes… Yes, sir, right away.” The call ended abruptly. The agent named Chastain half turned to his partner and spoke in a low tone, and moments later he holstered his weapon.

“Sorry for the misunderstanding, sir,” Chastain said. “Have a nice day.” And just like that, both FBI agents climbed back into their car and drove off.

“Well, I’m glad that’s taken care of,” Andorsen said as his men picked up their weapons and headed back to their truck. “Deputy, mind takin’ those cuffs off my friends?” The deputy hustled to comply, and finally Patrick and Leo returned to the helicopter, rubbing sore wrists. “I apologize for the mix-up, guys, but it’s all good now,” Andorsen said. He turned to the officials behind him. “I’m going to fly these gents for a little meeting back at the ranch, Patrick, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to ask the deputy to drive you back to the ranch to get your plane. Don’t worry about the airspace — you shouldn’t have no more problems.” He stuck out a hand, and Patrick shook it. “It was a real honor meeting you, General, a real honor. I’ll see you soon.” He shook hands with Leo and offered seats in his helicopter to the county and state officials by his side.

Patrick and Leo retrieved their flight bags — they had been unceremoniously dumped out of the helicopter by one of Andorsen’s men — and walked in silent confusion back to the cruiser that they had been locked up in for the past two hours. Neither they nor the sheriff’s deputy said anything for the ninety-minute-long ride back to Andorsen’s airstrip. The helicopter was already there, as were a number of official-looking vehicles parked outside the ranch house.

“What just happened back there?” Patrick finally asked after they had been dropped off beside the CAP Cessna 182.

“I knew Andorsen was a big name around Nevada,” Leo said, “but I never realized how big. Call the sheriff? His man calls the district attorney. Call the Highway Patrol? He calls the Nevada attorney general. The FBI shows up? He’s got the U.S. attorney general on speed dial. It looked as if that special agent saw his entire career flash before his eyes back there.”

Patrick shook his head in confusion as he withdrew his cell phone and called the Battle Mountain CAP headquarters. Spara answered the phone. “Rob, sorry I couldn’t check in, but—”

“Just get back here, Patrick,” Spara interrupted. “No flight release, no pilot pro stuff, no special clearance — just get back here ASAP. The Class-C airspace is all yours — hell, just about all the airspace over northern Nevada belongs to you.”

“What’s going on?”

“The phone has been ringing off the hook all morning, and I’m expecting to hear from the frickin’ president next,” Spara said wearily. “Your new buddy Andorsen is one connected dude, and that’s putting it mildly . Get back here soonest.” And he hung up.

The oddities continued after Patrick took off from the dirt airstrip. The F-16C Fighting Falcon interceptor was gone, but it had been replaced with a Nevada Air National Guard HH-60 Pave Hawk helicopter, which moved into position on the Cessna’s left side. Its pilot did not respond to any calls on GUARD or approach control frequencies. Patrick was cleared for immediately landing at Battle Mountain when still fifty miles away from the airport, and was instructed not to change frequencies, even after he landed. Base security vehicles — including an AN/UWQ-1 unmanned Avenger air-defense and ground-security vehicle, and a driverless Humvee carrying eight Stinger heat-seeking missiles and a.50-caliber radar-guided machine gun — escorted the Cessna to the Civil Air Patrol hangar.

It seemed as if the entire squadron was there to greet Patrick and Leo after they climbed out of the Cessna. Rob Spara was standing at the left entry door when Patrick got out. “Don’t worry about putting the plane away, Patrick,” he said. “They want to do a debrief. Now.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Patrick asked.

“Hell, General, dip your spoon into the alphabet-soup bowl ten times and you’ll come up with a dozen different answers,” Spara said. “We’ve got every agency in the book out here, and several I’ve never heard of — and I expect those are the ones you created.”

Base Air Force Security Forces airmen were there to control the crowd around Patrick and Leo, but Bradley was able to break free of the squadron members being corralled away from the arrival and meet up with his father. For the second time in a day, Patrick enjoyed an unexpected hug from his son. “Hey, big guy,” he said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say except, “You made it back okay.”

“I’m glad you’re back, Dad,” Brad said, hugging his father tightly. He held his father for several precious seconds, then released him and said breathlessly, “They put us in the break room and wouldn’t let us talk to anyone. Then they let us out, but we had to stay in the hangar. Then we had to go back to the break room, and they took away our cell phones. There are weird guys talking into their sleeves everywhere. Man, everyone is freaking out around here!”

“Things are tense, big guy,” Patrick said. “A major terrorist incident just happened.”

“But what do we got to do with it?” Brad asked. “They’re acting as if we had something to do with it!”

“It’s just a coincidence,” Patrick said. “Reno is nearby; we had a violation of restricted airspace; we didn’t respond the way they wanted—”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Patrick said. “You’re home, I’m home, no one got hurt, you got a find and a save — those are the important things. Let me talk to these guys real quick and then we’ll go home.”

There were six men and a woman in the small break room when Patrick, Leo, and Rob entered. They had laptop computers set up on the countertops. As soon as they entered the room, one of the men began frisking them, and not gently either. To Patrick’s surprise, the lead agent was the same one who had confronted them at the abandoned airport at Valmy! There was also a very attractive female agent whom Patrick had not seen before.

“I’m Special Agent Philip Chastain, FBI,” the lead agent said, still working on his laptop while the inspection continued. He was tall and young-looking with thick dark hair and a square jaw — Patrick thought he looked like a Hollywood actor portraying a federal agent. Chastain gestured over his shoulder with a pen at the others. “That’s Special Agent Brady and Agent Renaldo of the Department of Homeland Security. Empty your pockets on the counter here.” Patrick and Leo did as they were told. Chastain examined Patrick’s documents first and typed more instructions into his laptop; Patrick could see a small flare of surprise when some information came in. “General Patrick McLanahan.” The jaws of the others in the room dropped and their eyes widened in surprise.

Chastain quickly shook away his initial reaction and assumed a very serious expression. “Both of you are being video- and audio-recorded. What were you doing flying in that helicopter toward the base?”

“Aren’t you going to read me my rights first, Agent Chastain?” Patrick asked.

“Considering what happened yesterday in Reno and the seriousness of your violation, I assumed you’d waive your right to an attorney, cooperate fully with this investigation, and agree to answer my questions.”

“You assumed incorrectly, Agent Chastain.”

“Everyone else has been answering questions, including your son and the other ground-team members.”

“I’ll warn my son against talking to law enforcement officials without his father present,” Patrick said, his voice low and his eyes boring directly into Chastain’s, “and I’m warning you against speaking with him again unless I’m present. He’s still a minor.”

“You’re in serious trouble, General,” Chastain said, matching Patrick’s warning gaze. “If I were you, I’d do less warning and more cooperating.”

“Bring my attorney here and let me talk with her, and then I will cooperate,” Patrick said. “I want my attorney.”

“We have the chief counsel of the Civil Air Patrol on the line,” Chastain said, motioning to a phone with a flashing hold button. “He’s authorized everyone in your squadron to talk to us.”

“That’s fine, but I still want my attorney first.”

“I’m very surprised at this attitude of yours, General,” Chastain said, looking at Patrick suspiciously, then shaking his head in confusion. “I thought you’d want to do everything in your power to advance our investigation. Instead, you seem to be doing everything you can to hinder it.”

“I want my attorney,” was all Patrick said.

Chastain glanced at the woman beside him, then shook his head again as he went through Leo’s identification. “Fine,” he said resignedly after several minutes. “You and Trooper Slotnick will be placed under arrest until she arrives.” The agent named Brady who had frisked Patrick and Leo made them turn around and place their hands behind their backs, and for the second time that day they were in handcuffs. “You’re charged with violating Homeland Security executive directives and entering controlled airspace without permission.” Chastain’s fingers poised over his laptop. “What’s your attorney’s name?”

“Darrow Horton.”

Chastain looked up from the keyboard, and all of the agents began another round of surprised stares. “Darrow Horton?”

“You’ve heard of her?”

“You mean, former attorney general Darrow Horton?”

“That’s the one. Need her number? Her Washington office is just a couple blocks from the Justice Department.”

Chastain nodded at his agents to silently tell them to take the handcuffs off. “Of course,” he said. “She represented you when the Gardner administration indicted you for ordering attacks against noncombatants, disobeying lawful orders, and dereliction of duty, correct?”

“I want my lawyer,” Patrick repeated.

Chastain smiled. “Tough guy,” he said. “Too bad the tough-guy act is blinding you to how much shit you’re in.” He turned back to his laptop. “No phone calls are allowed for now, but we’ll contact Miss Horton for you. You can go.” He turned next to Leo. “Trooper Slotnick, I hope you’ll be much more cooperative than the general.”

“I want my lawyer,” Leo said, giving Patrick a wink as he walked past.

In the hangar, Patrick met up again with Rob Spara, who was with David Bellville and Michael Fitzgerald. “That was quick,” Rob said. “We were in there for a lot longer.”

“I refused to answer any questions and lawyered up,” Patrick said. “They couldn’t do much with me after that except arrest me.”

“Good on you, General,” Fitzgerald said. “I told them to kiss my ass too until I get a lawyer — they weren’t too interested in talkin’ to me after that. Which was good, because I have no friggin’ idea how to get a lawyer.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Patrick,” Spara said worriedly. “I spoke with the CAP attorney from headquarters, and he told everyone to cooperate fully.”

“That’s maybe good for CAP, but not necessarily for you,” Patrick said. “I’ll let my attorney straighten things out.”

“If they ever let us call anyone,” Bellville remarked. “How long can they keep us here incommunicado like this? They took our cell phones and even the squadron’s computers.”

“They said we couldn’t use cell phones,” Patrick said. “Let me see what I can do.” He motioned to Brad to follow him, then walked over to an isolated corner of the hangar as far from the break room as he could. “Keep an eye out for guys talking into their sleeves,” he told his son. He raised his right hand, then activated his personal satellite Internet portal, his artificial lens monitors, and his virtual keyboard.

His first VoIP phone call was to Darrow Horton in Washington. “Patrick!” Darrow said excitedly. Darrow — named after famed libertarian and criminal attorney Clarence Darrow, a distant relative — was a bit older than Patrick, tall and slender, with long dark hair and sparkling blue eyes, an avid outdoor-sports enthusiast as well as a brilliant attorney. At that moment she was outdoors on a video-enabled laptop — obviously not in her Washington office. “Things are a little busy since the attack in Reno, but it’s nice to hear from you. Wish I could see you. Your webcam not working?”

“Hi, Darrow,” Patrick said, pronouncing her name “Darra” in the proper North Carolina way, which was where she was originally from. “No, I’m on a… different machine right now. This is a business call.”

“Uh-oh,” Darrow said. “What did you do now?”

“I’m here in Battle Mountain, Nevada,” Patrick explained. “I was airborne during the nationwide airspace closure, and now I’m being detained.”

“Ouch,” Darrow said. “Homeland Security — that’s going to be tough until things calm down, if they ever do. Where’s Battle Mountain?”

“North-central Nevada.”

“Good. I’m up in Friday Harbor, Washington, on vacation, so it won’t take that long to get to you. Who’s got you? FAA? Homeland Security? Customs and Border Protection?”

“FBI.”

“Another ouch.” He could see her thinking, planning strategies; then: “Okay, I’ll get my staff on the case back in D.C., and I’ll get a car and start heading in your direction. I should be there in a couple days. What in the world is in Battle Mountain, Nevada?”

“What’s left of the Space Defense Force, and my son.”

“How’s Bradley doing?”

“He and his Civil Air Patrol strike team found an airplane-crash survivor yesterday,” Patrick said proudly. “He’s turning into a young man. You won’t recognize him when you see him.”

“And Gia?”

“MIA.”

“Again?” Patrick wasn’t sure, but he thought Darrow didn’t really sound concerned or empathetic. She spent as much time on canoeing trips and rock-climbing expeditions as she did in courtrooms — Patrick knew few men who had a chance in keeping up with her, including himself. Darrow did not like weakness, in herself or in others. She always felt that Gia Cazzotto had been too quick to blame others for her downfall, and it left a bad mark on all women. But men were a different issue. Patrick always felt that Darrow wasn’t looking for a man who could keep up with her, but one who was strong in other areas. “Sorry. We’ll have a chance to talk when I get there.”

“Thanks. I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

“Dad?” Brad touched his father’s shoulder. “Someone heading this way.”

“Gotta go, Darrow. Thank you.” He terminated the call and turned. It was the female FBI agent who’d been with Chastain in the break room. Patrick got to his feet as she approached. She was a bit taller than he was, probably about ten years younger, with long dark hair, dark eyes, and an athletic body. She wore a dark gray suit with a low-cut cream blouse under the jacket that accentuated her breasts very well. Her eyes were narrow and inquisitive as she crossed the hangar, but when she noticed Patrick standing, she immediately put on a friendly smile.

Patrick held out a hand to her as she approached. “We were never introduced,” he said. “Patrick.”

“Everyone knows who you are, sir,” she said. She took his hand and shook it with a very firm grip. “Special Agent Cassandra Renaldo, U.S. Department of Homeland Security, antiterrorist unit. Everyone calls me Cassie.”

Patrick smiled as she released his hand. “That must be your shooting hand,” he said with a smile, shaking his hand in mock pain.

“Sorry,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I spend too much time with guy agents who do that to me all the time.”

“My son, Brad,” Patrick said, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder.

They shook hands, and she saw it immediately: that adolescent smitten expression. Brad McLanahan was in love. She gave him a big smile and an appreciative glance. “You’re in the Civil Air Patrol too?” she asked, admiring his camouflage field uniform. “I think that is so exciting for a young man.” Brad didn’t answer, but continued to gaze at her, casting glances at her cleavage. Cassandra gave him another approving smile, then turned back to Patrick. “Both of you, working together. How cool is that?”

“Agent Renaldo…”

“Cassie, please,” she said. She gave him her best contrite expression, then said, “Honest, Patrick, I’m not trying to get you to talk to me…” She gave him a sly smile, then added, “Although I was sent over here to ask you again if you would talk to us.”

“I want my attorney first, Cassandra.”

“That’s what I told them you’d say, but I had to ask first.” She then shrugged and added, “And, I did want to meet you. I couldn’t believe it when Special Agent Chastain called up your info. We thought it was a mistake.” Patrick smiled and nodded but said nothing. Cassandra looked sheepishly at him and Brad, then said, “So. A little father-and-son talk over here?” No response. “Brad, I heard you found a survivor from a plane crash, alive . Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Brad said. He squared up his shoulders and added, “My team and I found him. I was the cadet strike-team leader.”

“Wow. You’re a hero. Pretty cool. What a great story.” She turned to Patrick. “You must be very proud of him, sir.”

“I want to speak with my—”

Cassandra held up her hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Patrick — I don’t mean to pressure you or chat you up in hopes of getting you to talk to us,” she said. “I… I really did want to meet you. You’re a hero to a lot of us.” She held out a hand again, then said, “When this is over, I hope we have a chance to get together and get to know each other.” She gave him a slight smile when he shook her hand, then nodded respectfully. To Brad, she held out her hand. “Very nice to meet you, Cadet McLanahan.”

“Call me Brad,” he said quickly. Patrick blinked in surprise at that invitation but said nothing.

“Okay, I will, Brad. And you can call me Cassie.” She gave him one last smile, turned, and headed back to the break room.

“Hey, she was nice,” Brad said after Renaldo departed.

“I guess,” Patrick said noncommittally.

Brad looked at his Dad carefully. “You don’t think she’s nice? I think she’s great.”

“I really don’t know her, Brad,” Patrick said. “I’ve seen an awful lot of folks doing and saying strange things this morning, and I don’t feel like trusting anyone just yet.” He turned back toward the wall and logged back online once again, with his son guarding his back — so he didn’t notice Brad’s eyes following Cassandra Renaldo as she walked across the hangar.

Renaldo returned to the others in the break room. Chastain was finishing another cup of coffee. “Well?” he asked.

“Like I thought: he stayed lawyered up,” Renaldo said.

“Losing your touch, Renaldo?” one of the other agents quipped.

“My job is to track down extremists, Brady, not to bat my eyes and shake my ass at suspects,” Renaldo said acidly. The agent named Brady gave her a “yeah, right” expression. She turned back to Chastain. “I still don’t think he’s working with any extremist groups, sir,” she said.

“Based on?”

“Gut feeling right now,” Renaldo admitted. “Plus, he’s Patrick McLanahan. Everyone thought he was going to run for president last year.”

“David Duke ran for president too,” Chastain said. “There are plenty of extremist groups who would welcome McLanahan as their leader, even as a spiritual figurehead.”

“Like an American Osama bin Laden,” the agent named Brady interjected.

“You’re comparing Patrick McLanahan to Osama bin Laden, Brady? Are you insane?” Renaldo asked. “Sir, I don’t think we should abandon our investigation, but I just don’t feel it. He’s not the target.”

“Anyone who lawyers up right away like that sets my alarm bells off, Renaldo,” Chastain said. “The guy’s been through hell fighting off the Gardner indictment, and he could be angry at the government for sticking him in this shithole assignment. When a disaster like the attack in Reno happens, most everyone cooperates, but not McLanahan. And what in the world is he doing out in the middle of nowhere at Battle Mountain? There’s nothing out here — a few buildings, a skeleton staff, not many aircraft. Hell, the Space Defense Force doesn’t really exist. And what was McLanahan doing flying around when he knew the airspace was closed? Things aren’t adding up.”

“McLanahan wasn’t flying — Judah Andorsen was,” Renaldo said. “I can’t wait to have a chat with him .”

“The guy has been talking with investigators since he flew home,” Chastain said. “He’s giving statements to everyone, and so far he checks out. The guy is cooperating, which is more than I can say for McLanahan.”

“Well, I don’t think McLanahan is going to talk before his lawyer shows up.”

“We’ve already heard from his damned lawyer,” Chastain said. “I can’t figure out how a D.C. law firm found out we had one of their clients in Nevada, but Washington is already ordering us to charge McLanahan or release him.”

“I thought I saw McLanahan in a corner working on a laptop with his son, but I checked and he didn’t have one,” Renaldo said. She thought for a moment, then said, “McLanahan’s son.”

“What about him?”

When Renaldo didn’t answer right away, the agent named Brady smiled and nodded. “You couldn’t get to the old man… so you got to his teenage son ?” He chuckled. “That’s the Renaldo I know and love!”

“I didn’t go after the son — he was after me .”

“Then he must like older women,” Brady said. Renaldo scratched the tip of her nose with an upraised middle finger. “But the boy wasn’t flying with the father.”

“If the old man is involved with any extremist groups, the boy may be able to tell us,” Chastain said. “There’s no way McLanahan is going to let you near his son in here, and if we arrest him he’ll tell his son to keep quiet. You’ll have to approach the son some other time.”

“No problem,” Renaldo said. “In the meantime, I still want a crack at hunky Trooper Slotnick. Give me the letters from his boss and his union, and maybe he’ll talk to me about what McLanahan was doing out there.” Chastain handed her a folder with several faxes from different agencies and courts, ordering all personnel to cooperate with the FBI and Homeland Security. “At least maybe I can chat him up and find out more about him that I can use later.”

“They don’t call you the ‘Black Widow’ for nothing, Renaldo — you have your way with your victims, then eat them,” Brady said. “It’s fun to watch a person who loves what they do.”

“The one thing I hate more than smart-ass FBI agents like you, Brady, is extremists and terrorists,” Cassandra Renaldo said. “There are extremists nearby in this stinking-hot desert — I can smell them. Even if it turns out to be a genuine national hero like Patrick McLanahan, I’m going to make it my business to throw his ass into a supermax prison as fast as I possibly can.”

Smoke still billowed out of the stricken Thompson Federal Building and in several other nearby buildings as well. Investigators and searchers wearing biohazard suits were still being kept three blocks away from the crash site, and other responders were being kept six blocks away because of lingering radioactivity.

In the early-morning stillness, a V-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft flew over the crash site in airplane mode, then transitioned to helicopter mode and cruised slower over the area. Minutes later, as it made a third pass over the building at one hundred feet aboveground and thirty knots, the rear cargo ramp opened and two figures dropped out.

The figures landed upright about a half block from each other in front of the federal building. Each humanoid figure was twelve feet high, medium gray in color. Its trunk and shoulders were large, but its arms and legs were little more than hydraulic pistons, and its head was a dark low-profile dome with sensor arrays behind protective dielectric windows arrayed all around it. They each carried two large bags.

“CID One, on the ground,” Lieutenant Colonel Jason Richter, piloting the first robot, radioed. The robot, called a CID, or Cybernetic Infantry Device, was a manned robot that used advanced materials and systems to enable its pilot to do functions and tasks equal to a large armored fighting vehicle. “Check.”

“Two,” Charlie Turlock, piloting the second CID, responded. She looked up at the gaping hole in the building where the King Air had entered. “My God.”

“Radiation levels are lower than reported,” Richter said. “Our time on station should be about an hour. Let’s go.”

They approached the rear entrance to the building, and Jason kicked the reinforced door open. The security area was still intact, but he could see that the floors above had collapsed and the hallway beyond security was impassable. “Can’t go this way,” he radioed.

“From the outside, then?” Turlock suggested.

“You want to climb the outside just to show off,” Richter said.

“Damn right,” Turlock said. “Follow me.” On the outside of the building, she examined the best route up to the hole. Looping one pack on her back by its carrying straps, she merely reached up and, floor by floor like a ladder, climbed up the outside of the shattered building, punching her armored hands and feet through cracked walls and windows. On the ninth floor, which was the lower edge of the hole, she smashed through the walls and windows as easily as brushing away cobwebs and climbed inside.

“Looks like the plane punched almost all the way through the building, then collapsed a bunch of floors down below,” Turlock radioed. “Radiation levels are much higher up here — I might only have another thirty minutes.”

“Roger, then we can switch.”

“Roger,” Turlock said. She started scanning the devastation around her. The right wingtip of the King Air had sliced an entire hallway wall open, and at a desk in one of the offices, Turlock found a young woman, half burned, still sitting at a reception desk. “One casualty found. I’ll set up the sling.” She withdrew a large sling, cable, and pulleys from her bag, rigged the pulley up on a support beam, looped the cable through the pulley, recovered the body of the young woman, put her in the sling, and lowered her to Richter on the ground. He carried the body over to the rescuers in hazmat suits outside the cordon while Turlock pulled the sling back up.

She found no one else as she carefully made her way down the ripped-apart hallway, then down one collapsed floor to where the burned hulk of the King Air rested. “I’m at the plane,” she radioed. “Radiation levels are very high here. I’m going to take a peek inside, and then I’ll probably have to get out.”

“Roger,” Richter said. He was watching a video feed from Turlock’s CID unit. “Be careful — that floor looks very unstable.”

“Yes, Dad,” Turlock responded. She was able to climb up the left side of the fuselage. The entry door was partially unhinged, most of the glass throughout the entire plane had shattered, and the cabin of the plane was charred and melted — but, surprisingly, the cockpit appeared to be in better condition. “Hey, we may have lucked out — I think the pilot is still in here, and mostly intact! I might be able to get him out… or pieces of him, at least. Stand by — I’m going to open the door.” Turlock grasped the air-stair hatch in her armored hands and pulled. The door broke free… and then the entire fuselage rolled left and fell about three feet. Turlock was able to twist away, narrowly missing being trapped between the fuselage and the crushed concrete floor.

“You okay, Charlie?” Richter asked.

“Yeah, but the entry door is blocked now,” Turlock replied. She checked forward. “Okay, I’m going to try one more thing, and then I’ll have to get out.” She moved forward and stood over the pilot’s windshield. The remains of the pilot were barely recognizable as human — the body was badly burned and half smashed against the control wheel and instrument panel. “The pilot is one crispy critter, but I think he was wearing a fireproof flight suit, because most of the torso is intact. Let’s see if I can yank him out.” Turlock first used her powerful armored fingers like the Jaws of Life to cut the control wheel free, then reached through the windshield, grasped the pilot’s seat and as much of what was strapped onto it as she could, and pulled…

… and as she did, the fuselage and the smashed building roared like an angry lion and the floors gave way. The plane dropped straight down two floors, then slid forward twenty feet, crashed through the front of the federal building, and fell the remaining six floors to the street.

“Charlie!” Richter shouted. He used every erg of energy in his CID unit to dash around to the front of the building. The plane was underneath a mass of rubble. Richter began furiously digging through the debris, appearing as if he were wading through waist-deep water, throwing chunks of concrete and steel in every direction until he reached the plane. The fuselage was upside down — he couldn’t see Turlock, and her video feed was dark.

Like a scrap-cutting machine gone berserk, Richter began plunging his superhydraulic hands and arms through the underside of the nose section of the King Air, ripping pieces of steel and aluminum away in large sheets and chunks. In seconds he had torn through the entire left side of the plane and, like a wrecking crane, ripped away the entire nose section. He finally found Turlock’s CID unit underneath what was left of the cockpit and instrument panel. “Jesus, Charlie, can you hear me? Charlie…? ”

“I’m… I’m okay,” Turlock responded several tense moments later. “Wow, what a ride!” She raised herself up to a sitting position and threw the pilot’s seat and pieces of the instrument panel away. Richter pulled more debris from her legs and tried to help her up, but she stopped him. “Wait… oh, yuk !”

“What the hell is it, Charlie?” he asked.

“It’s the pilot.”

“The pilot?” Richter looked around. “I don’t see anyone.”

Turlock motioned to the thick mass of charred debris covering the entire front of her CID unit. “ This is the evidence we were looking for,” she said. She pulled a piece of fireproof flight suit off her armored chest. “Looks like they’re going to have to swab me for his DNA.”