A Time for Patriots

Four

The president of the United States, Kenneth Phoenix, strode into the press briefing room, followed by the vice president, Ann Page, and the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Justin Fuller. The reporters assembled in the room shot to their feet, wearing surprised expressions — they had not been told that the president himself would be attending the daily press briefing.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” Phoenix began. “Please take your seats.” The president was just forty-nine years old, tall and ruggedly handsome, but the past year had taken a toll on him, and he looked much older. Ken Phoenix’s career — as a former Marine Corps attorney, U.S. attorney general, and vice president of the United States — had, to say the least, been a series of challenges. He was always able to overcome them, but the journey had never been easy for him and his family. His face told everyone that the hard journey was still under way.

“I know that you had been briefed that Vice President Page and I were at secret undisclosed locations until the full examination of the attack in Reno was concluded,” Phoenix began, “but that was not the case. Our responses had to be immediate, and although we have very good emergency facilities all across the country, Vice President Page and I, who as you know serves as both my chief of staff and my national security adviser and press officer, decided to stay in Washington.

“Let me give you the latest information that I was just given by FBI director Fuller. Based on his investigations and the fact that there haven’t been any more attacks, the FBI is recommending to the Department of Homeland Security, U.S. Northern Command, which is in charge of the defense of the continental United States, and the North American Aerospace Defense Command, which is in charge of the air defense of the United States and Canada, that the airspace around the United States be reopened, with strict limitations. All aircraft will be required to be on flight plans filed on the ground. Any aircraft not on a flight plan may be attacked by ground or airborne air-defense units without warning. These limitations will be relaxed as the investigations proceed, but I agree with the director that we exercise an abundance of caution.

“Next: The radioactive material detected at the Reno crash site was iridium-192, used in medical radiography as well as industrial nondestructive testing facilities,” the president went on. “It was not a nuclear bomb… I repeat, it was not a nuclear bomb . Iridium-192 is relatively widespread in industry and medicine and has a short half-life, which means its toxicity degrades in a matter of days, and decontamination procedures are common and well known.” He paused for a moment, then said, “The source of the material was positively identified as part of a shipment of radioactive materials stolen from the FBI by suspected domestic terrorists yesterday morning.”

The room erupted into sheer bedlam, with every reporter leaping to his or her feet trying to ask a question. Phoenix held up his hands and spoke in a soft voice, which forced the reporters to quiet themselves so they could hear the president’s remarks. “It was my decision not to reveal the theft, in order to prevent a panic,” Phoenix went on after the reporters took their seats again. “The materials were stolen in an FBI sting gone bad north of Sacramento, California. Several FBI agents and deputy sheriffs were killed.” A ripple of shock and disbelief swept through the room. “FBI director Fuller briefed me and outlined a plan for an investigation and arrest of known terrorist leaders, and I approved the plan. Unfortunately, no arrests could be made that could have stopped the attack on the federal building in Reno, Nevada.

“I want to assure the American people that I am in Washington and I’m in constant contact with the FBI and other law enforcement agencies across the country, and we are on the hunt for the terrorists who launched this horrible attack,” Phoenix went on. “I am personally overseeing the government response, and it is my highest priority. We have no way of knowing if there will be more attacks, but since the other stolen materials haven’t been recovered yet, we are operating on the assumption that the terrorists intend to use them. We will do everything in our powers to stop them from doing so.”

The president paused, then waved a hand as reporters started to raise their hands with questions. “I’m not going to take questions right now. I’m going to say one more thing before I get back to work. At first, I was concerned about creating a panic, so I didn’t want any information released until we were further along in the investigation. I realize now that was a mistake. Instead of worrying about the American people panicking, I should have enlisted your help in tracking down the terrorists.

“So this is what I’m charging all Americans to do right now and well after the terrorists are captured: be vigilant, be safe, be wary, be suspicious. We possibly could have caught the terrorists if I had released the info on the theft sooner, so don’t make the same mistake I did. Call the police or the FBI if you suspect something — don’t be afraid of bias, discrimination, or paranoia. That’s all for now. Vice President Page and Director Fuller will take a few questions, but I have plenty of work for both of them as well, so it’ll be short. Thank you.” And the president left the dais and headed for the Oval Office.

Because of all the cutbacks in every level of government following the severe double-dip recession of 2012, the West Wing of the White House was a much quieter place these days than it was during the Martindale and Gardner administrations under which Phoenix previously served: no staffers constantly running in and out of the Oval Office, no ringing telephones, no queue of cabinet officials waiting for yet another meeting. The Oval Office was actually a haven again. Ken Phoenix took off his jacket, hung it up on the stand behind the door to his private study, poured himself a mug of coffee, and turned on the four hidden Oval Office high-def wall monitors — no one around to do all those little things for him anymore.

One satellite news channel was showing Vice President Page’s and FBI director Fuller’s press briefing — it looked to the president as if Ann was winding it up quickly, as they agreed to do beforehand — but another monitor was showing more coverage of the search for survivors in the wreckage of the Thompson Federal Building in Reno by the two Cybernetic Infantry Device manned robots. The president winced when he saw the video of the plane crashing to the ground with the one robot clinging to the front of it, and he breathed a sigh of relief — he had seen the replay a half-dozen times now, but he always had the same reaction — when he saw the second robot pull the first out, and they walked away apparently unharmed.

Minutes later there was a knock on the door to the Oval Office, and a moment after that Ann and Justin walked in. “I know you’d be willing to do a longer press conference, Director,” Ann was saying as they came in, “but believe me, less is more. Save the longer briefings for when you have something good to report.”

“I agree with her, Justin,” Phoenix said as he watched his monitors.

“And may I suggest, Mr. President,” Ann said, “that you not be quite so anxious to apologize for any executive decision you make. You made a tactical decision not to release any information about the FBI operation or stolen materials, and you had no way of knowing that the materials stolen would be used so soon after being stolen, or if public observation and reporting, however accurate or timely, could have helped stop the attack. You have nothing to apologize for, and you end up writing your critics’ copy for them.”

“I believe the American people want honesty and sincerity from their leaders in times like this,” Phoenix said. “My critics don’t seem to have any problem writing copy about me, with or without my help.” Nonetheless, he nodded to Ann that he understood her recommendations, which she silently acknowledged, then motioned to his monitors. “Man, I never get tired of watching that video of those robots in action,” he said. “Wish we could afford an entire brigade full of them.”

“What video is that, sir?” the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Justin Fuller, asked. Fuller was a twenty-five-year veteran of the FBI, with a very similar background to Phoenix’s: former U.S. Marine and law degree before joining the FBI. He looked at the flat-panel TV, which was normally hidden behind a painting on the Oval Office wall. “Oh, the CID robot units. Yes, sir, amazing technology.”

“They all but succeeded in stopping the Turks in Iraq, and just two of them destroyed that Russian base in Yemen,” Phoenix said. “But I think those two in Reno are the only ones left.” He stood and shook hands with Fuller. The FBI director was a few years older but looked considerably younger than the president. Phoenix motioned Fuller to a seat, muted the monitors, then took his place at the head of the conversation area, where Ann was already seated. “Okay, Justin, what’s the latest on the investigation of the attack in Reno?”

“Another HRT officer has died of his wounds,” Fuller replied somberly. “Fifteen-year FBI veteran. Father of two.”

“My God,” Vice President Page breathed. Ann Page was in her early sixties, a physicist and engineer, former two-term California senator, and a veteran astronaut; in the trimmed-down Phoenix White House, she acted as chief of staff and national security adviser as well as performing her duties as vice president. “What an incredibly brazen and violent attack. Any suspects, Director?”

“We’re looking at a number of extremist groups in the West, ma’am,” Fuller said. “The pilot of that King Air made a radio call to the Reno Airport control tower and used the phrases ‘live free or die’ and ‘the Lord has spoken.’ We’re back-checking those phrases to see if they’re associated with any particular groups. The use of the King Air, the direction of flight, and the target are all being factored in as well. The search teams we sent to the crash site also found a homemade flag belonging to a well-known extremist group.”

“Who are they?” the president asked.

“They call themselves the Knights of the True Republic, sir,” Fuller said. “They’re based in a fairly isolated part of northwestern Nevada near the town of Gerlach. They’re led by a minister named Reverend Jeremiah Paulson. It’s a collection of old-timers, military veterans, bikers, ranchers, outdoorsmen, miners, and even Native Americans. They claim to be a community of like-minded so-called sovereign citizens that oppose federal, state, and county government interference in local affairs. We’ve made some arrests and are conducting searches of members’ properties — nothing yet. Paulson was questioned, but the community is compartmentalized enough that they know very little about the terrorist side of the organization. But eventually someone who lost a loved one in Reno or is fearful of the leadership will drop a dime.”

“You don’t sound very hopeful, Director,” Phoenix observed.

“It takes time to infiltrate one of these groups, sir,” Fuller said, “and there are hundreds of such groups in the western states alone. Most are very small and isolated and don’t resort to any sort of violence; this one obviously wants to prove they have the will and the resources to take on the federal government. We’ve been after them for months. We got them on tape buying weapons and explosives and were about to take them down until they asked about large quantities of radioactive material. We decided to delay the arrests. We took a chance, hoping to nail more members or associates and uncover more plots. The plan backfired.”

“Can you round them up again?” Ann asked.

“We may be able to, ma’am, but they’ve scattered,” Fuller said.

“When do you hope to take this group down, Director?” Ann asked.

Fuller spread his hands. “We’re almost at square one with the Knights, ma’am,” he replied. “It took several months to get a confidential informant close enough to make a buy for the radioactive materials, and now he’s dead. Local law enforcement is plainly scared because of the group’s power and reach — the sheriff’s department lost more men than the FBI that morning. They destroyed four helicopters and killed twelve officers.”

“God,” Phoenix said under his breath. The president paused, then rubbed his temples in frustration. “And all this because of my economic austerity programs. People are out of work, and there is very little or no government to help them, so they resort to banding together to share whatever little they have. And if they feel they’re not getting enough protection from the government, they turn to violence.”

Ann looked to the FBI director, giving him a silent order. Fuller caught the glance and said to the president, “If there’s nothing else, sir, I’ll get back to work.”

“Of course, Justin, of course,” Phoenix said. He stood and shook hands with Fuller. “Let me know when the funerals for your agents will be — I’d like to attend.”

“Of course, sir,” Fuller said, then turned and left the Oval Office.

“What a loss he’s suffered,” Phoenix said somberly after the FBI director departed. “It’s got to be crushing him.”

“I’m more worried about you, Ken,” Ann said directly. “You’re blaming yourself for what this nut-job group did yesterday? Are you insane?”

Phoenix’s eyes flared at his vice president’s words. “These extremist groups didn’t exist before my austerity programs went into effect, Ann…”

“Of course they did, Ken,” Ann snapped. “But law enforcement went after them more than they do today. How? By borrowing trillions of dollars, raising taxes, or printing money, that’s how. Your programs, your decisions, your leadership stopped the destructive financial practices that were driving local, state, and the federal government into the ground . Less government. Across-the-board spending cuts. Across-the-board tax cuts. No bailouts for failed institutions or irresponsible actions. All of that has been good for the country. Right-minded folks can see real hope out there.

“But there will always be whack-jobs and extremists who see the continued unemployment and the disparities between the haves and the have-nots and conclude that government isn’t working and they need to take the law into their own hands,” Ann went on. “You can’t reason with them or try to understand them, and you certainly can’t look at their murderous actions and blame yourself. The only thing you can do is use every resource at your command to stop them.”

She went over to Phoenix and softly put a hand on his shoulder — an unexpectedly gentle gesture, Phoenix immediately thought suspiciously. As if verifying his doubts, she then said sharply, “So snap out of this funk, Ken. I know you well enough to know this is unlike you. I know as former attorney general that you’re close to law enforcement in general and the FBI in particular, but you can’t let those cops’ deaths keep you from forgetting to lead . I don’t want to see you wallowing in self-pity, Mr. President — I want to see you act .”

He looked directly into her eyes and recognized exactly how serious she was, then nodded and said, “Sometimes I regret giving you permission to always respond openly, honestly, and directly to me, Ann… but this is not one of those times.” She slapped him on the side of the shoulder, pleased with his response and with the return of his positive attitude. Phoenix returned to his desk. “We need to give the FBI all the resources they need,” he said. “If Fuller’s got hundreds of extremist groups spread out over the West, he’s going to need unmanned aircraft, surveillance equipment, sensor operators… all the stuff we were using in Iraq to monitor the borders.”

“I’m sure the Air Force and Army would love to assist the FBI,” Ann said. “I’ll call a meeting and get it set up.”

“I remember that defense contractor Dr. Jon Masters had the equipment to be able to provide precise surveillance of several hundred thousand square miles of varying terrain in Iraq from one aircraft,” Phoenix said. “Find out if he can assist. I’m not sure if there’s any money in the budget to pay him anything, but maybe he’d be willing to make a donation.” Ann smiled, nodded, and made notes to herself on her PDA. While she did this, the president’s attention was drawn back to his computer monitors, one of which was still playing a replay of the Cybernetic Infantry Devices’ incredible activities at the crash site in Reno.

“Ann, I need you to contact the Justice Department and the solicitor general and get a ruling on something,” Phoenix said.

“Regarding what, Mr. President?” When he didn’t reply right away, Ann turned toward him, then followed his gaze to the computer monitors. “The robots? What about them?”

“I know they’ve been in action in the Middle East and Africa, but do you remember the last time they were used inside the United States?”

“Of course I do: San Diego, during the implementation of the guest-worker identification program. They were afraid of mass riots and violence on both sides of the border against the Nanotransponder Identification System, so the robots were deployed around the city.”

“And?”

“It was a nightmare , that’s what,” Ann said. “People were more afraid of the robots than of the rioters.” She paused in thought, then said, “I’m not sure if the president issued an executive order banning their use within the United States, but I remember the hue and cry against them was pretty intense after that. Why?”

“The FBI needs help in taking on these extremist groups,” Phoenix said. “The FBI’s budget has been cut by fifty percent, just like everyone else’s budget, and that Knights group seems much more heavily armed and just as connected as the FBI. Maybe it’s time for the FBI to get some additional firepower. Why stop at UAVs and sensors?”

“Give the robots to the FBI?” Ann asked incredulously. She thought about it, her expression seeming to indicate a firm rejection of the idea… and then after a few moments, she nodded. “Send them out west, into more isolated parts of Northern California and Nevada…”

“If they go into the cities, they can do humanitarian assistance stuff like they’re doing on TV,” Phoenix said. “I think most folks like to watch those things searching that building — I know I can’t stop watching that replay. I’m so amazed that one robot got up out of that wreckage and walked away as easily as if he had jumped into a haystack. But we keep them operating in the countryside, far from population centers, unless they’re needed. They have excellent speed and maneuverability.”

“But no weapons,” Ann said. “I think the thing that freaked people out most in that San Diego deployment were those weapon packs they wore — once people realized they were carrying enough machine guns and missile launchers to take on a squadron of tanks, they were scared. The FBI has plenty of firepower — the robots can be their equalizers.”

Phoenix wore a pained expression. “I hate tying their hands, Ann,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “I think it would best left as a judgment call by the task force commander. If he’s faced with threats like advanced weapons or dirty bombs, the robots should be armed appropriately.”

“That might be a hard sell to Congress or the American people,” Ann observed. “But after the attack in Reno, maybe they’ll be open to giving the FBI and Homeland Security more gadgets.”

“Agreed. I think the robots would have a much smaller footprint than the Army or Air Force.”

“I’ll put together a proposal and send it up to the leadership in Congress,” Ann said. “Of course, they’ll tweak it to make it sound like their idea.”

“Fine with me.”

“Speaking of Reno and reopening the airspace: Director Fuller passed on an interesting tidbit of information to me,” Ann said with a sly smile. “There was an airspace violation east of Reno the morning after the attack.”

“There was ?” the president asked incredulously. “Does he think it was connected to the attack in Reno?”

“No, although they are still investigating,” Ann said. “But guess who was involved?” Phoenix shook his head — he knew Ann Page hated guessing games, and now that she was indulging in one with him, it got his attention. “Patrick McLanahan.”

“ Patrick? You’re kidding ! What in hell happened?”

“Apparently our friend is a pilot in the Civil Air Patrol out of Battle Mountain, Nevada, and he was involved in a search for a missing plane when the attack in Reno occurred,” Ann explained. “Patrick’s son is also a member, and he was actually part of the ground team that found the missing plane and rescued a passenger. It was all over the national news this morning.”

“Unbelievable! Good for little Bradley — although I’ll bet he’s not so little anymore. But how did Patrick violate the airspace?”

“The owner of the land where the rescue took place flew the survivor to the hospital, and afterward they were cruising around the local area close to the military air base out there.”

“That doesn’t sound like something Patrick would do.”

“It wasn’t. The pilot of the helicopter is a big-time mucky-muck rancher that I guess owns half of Nevada.”

“Doesn’t matter. Homeland Security and maybe even the Justice Department should put the fear of God into that guy.”

“Fuller said they tried, but the rancher has more friends in high places than Billy Graham,” Ann said. “He said even Attorney General Caffery got a call. Fuller said that because they were involved in a Civil Air Patrol rescue, everyone decided to back off, but they’re continuing their investigation deep in the background.”

Phoenix nodded, then shook his head in amusement. “I thought Patrick would just retire and take it easy out there,” he said. “I should have known he’d be doing something , keeping his hand in the flying game. He’ll never change.”

“I could sure use him here in Washington, sir,” Ann said. “He’s the only guy still advocating for the Space Defense Force, and there’s that rumor of a bill before Congress to ramp up defense spending again.”

“Do that,” the president said. “If he’s working for living expenses only out in Nevada, I’m sure he’d be willing to do the same in Washington. Besides, Battle Mountain is closing next year, if I’m not mistaken — they’re moving everything to Fallon Naval Air Station.”

“Is that… situation of his still an issue?” Ann asked.

“Unfortunately, yes, and it’ll probably stay like that until President Truznyev of Russia is out of office,” the president said. Patrick McLanahan was the head of a secret nongovernmental military operation that had attacked Russian commando and space operation forces in Africa and the Middle East, and since then the Central Intelligence Agency and Federal Bureau of Investigation counterespionage units had intercepted hit squads, supposedly sent by Truznyev, that were intent on assassinating him. “CIA and FBI still say they can spot a hit squad easier if he’s isolated rather than in Washington.”

“Maybe so, but I’d like him back in Washington,” the president said. “We can protect him. I just wish we could pay him what he’s worth, but there’s just no money in the budget.”

“I’ll find a place for him, sir,” Ann said. “He’ll probably want to stay until Bradley graduates from high school, so next summer.”

“Put him to work in the meantime. I want a ten-year plan for space forces and long-range strike ready by the time this economy turns around, and he’s the guy I want to work on them.”

“Will do.” She looked at the president, studying him carefully, then said, “I admire you for sticking to this severe austerity plan, Mr. President. But to be totally honest with you, sir, it looks like the pressure is grinding on you. Are you sleeping at all?”

“A few hours a night is all I’ve ever needed, ever since my years in the Corps,” Phoenix said.

“Try not to let the pressure get to you, sir,” Ann said. “The programs you put in place are working. Unemployment is still high, but it’s going down. There’s talk that Moody’s will restore the U.S.’s triple-A credit rating soon, and the balance-of-trade numbers look very good.”

“That’s because the dollar is as low as it’s ever been in history, commodities are dirt cheap, and no one is buying anything from China and Russia as long as they’re continuing their military buildup,” the president said. He waved a hand at his vice president. “I know our plan will work, Ann, and I know the folks expect results unreasonably fast. But I see all the suffering out there, and I think if I just loosen the purse strings a little more, I can alleviate some of it. Reduce the cuts we made in Medicare and Social Security by a few percentage points; raise the income level of Medicaid applicants by a little bit; give the states a few more dollars to hire a few more cops and teachers—”

“And we both know what will happen then, sir: they’ll scream for more, we’ll be forced to borrow and print more money, and the downward spiral will happen all over again,” Ann said. “We’re moving in the right direction, sir. There’s hardship now, but your plans will help everyone in the long run. We need to stay the course.”

“Even if we create more of these Knights of the True Republic extremist groups?”

“I would say that the recession helped to create the conditions for these extremists to grow, yes, sir,” Ann said, “but they already existed and will always exist, whether we’re in prosperity or recession. We need to show the American people that we’re not going to tolerate extremism in any form, for whatever reason. I’ll get busy right now, draft the legislative proposal for the Army, Air Force, and Sky Masters law enforcement assistance package in the next day or two, we’ll go over it, and I’ll take it to the congressional leadership right away. So soon after the attack in Reno, I don’t think we’ll get very much opposition, even from Gardner and his sycophants.”

“Joseph Gardner,” Phoenix said with an exasperated sigh. “Whatever happened to the rule that former presidents aren’t allowed to criticize the current president?”

“That went out with compact discs and free television, Mr. President,” Ann said with a wry smile. She turned serious; the smile disappeared, and she then said, “What we’re going to propose is a major counterterrorist offensive against fellow American citizens, sir. We’re talking about sending American-manned robots and unmanned aircraft against our own.”

“I know that, Ann—”

“I just want to be clear, sir,” Ann Page interjected. “We have to stay tough and united on this. It’s not going to be popular, not in the least . We’re laying ourselves open to a lot of criticism — some of it legitimate — that we’re creating a state in which the military is used to control and monitor the public. That’s not going to sit well with a lot of folks. But in order to guard against more Renos happening, I believe it has to be done.” She paused, looking carefully into Phoenix’s eyes, then added, “If you don’t believe that is true, Mr. President, you should say so now, and tell me to knock it off. We’ll quash this, and think of something else to do.”

“Frankly, Ann,” Phoenix said, after several long moments of thought, “I’m not comfortable with this.”

Ann Page’s shoulders slumped disappointedly, but moments later she straightened them and said, “Fine, sir. So let’s—”

“No, I’m not saying we shouldn’t do this,” Phoenix said. “I don’t like it, but I want to shut down the violent extremist groups, and do it now . I’m going to hunt those bastards down with all the tools at my disposal — even the military. Draft that legislative proposal and let’s get on it right away… before those other stolen radioactive casks end up inside another federal building.”

“Freeze!” the U.S. Border Patrol agent shouted in Spanish through his van’s public-address loudspeakers. His partner shined a powerful searchlight into the faces of the migrants in front of them, instantly blinding them. “This is the United States Border Patrol. Drop all your belongings and raise your hands!”

The group of about twenty illegal immigrants — they were about eight miles north of the border here in the Yuma Desert, with the closest legal border crossing twenty-five miles away in San Luis — did as they were told slowly and carefully, without a sense of fear or anger. No one panicked or ran — obviously a group experienced in getting caught, the officer thought.

The economy might be in the tank, the U.S. Border Patrol agent thought, and a lot fewer Mexicans were illegally crossing the border because there were no jobs in the United States. But they were still coming, and although the Border Patrol’s budget had been cut and a lot of the technology they relied on was in disrepair or simply not deployed, they were still catching them. The Mexicans were all carrying several one-gallon jugs of water looped around their necks with rope, plus backpacks, trash bags, or whatever else they could find to carry their belongings. They ranged in age from the teens to sixties, both men and women, and most looked in fairly good health, which was necessary when making this dangerous border crossing in such hostile conditions, especially in summer.

“Yuma, Unit Eighteen, intercepted a group of twenty,” the officer radioed. “Requesting additional transportation.”

“Looks like we might finally be getting some decent intel again,” the second officer said. “They were exactly where we were briefed.”

“Yeah, and remember, they briefed us that we might run into more OTMs,” the first officer said. “Let’s see if this was the group they talked about.” They had been seeing a lot more OTMs — Other Than Mexicans — on these intercepts lately — some were from as far away as China and Africa.

With the van’s headlights and spotlight still shining in their faces, the agents had the migrants move away from their belongings except for one bottle of water each, then sit apart from one another. All complied silently. Since it was too dangerous for just two agents to try to handcuff and search twenty migrants, it was better if they just waited for their backup to arrive, so they took their shotguns and stood, walking up and down the line, keeping watch.

The first officer stopped in front of one migrant. Most of them made occasional eye contact with the officers, but this one seemed to purposely look away all the time. Something about him didn’t seem right. He was in his midthirties, with several days’ beard growth, but somehow he looked out of place. Many migrants wore knit caps even in summertime — at night temperatures in the desert could drop sixty degrees from daytime highs — and many wore layers of clothing so they wouldn’t have to carry them. But this one looked… different, like a guy trying to make himself look like a migrant.

“Jim, I’m going to have a chat with this one,” the first officer said.

“What’s up?”

“A feeling. Maybe an OTM.” He motioned to the man and said in Spanish, “Stand up, sir.” The man looked up and pointed at his chest, then did as he was told when he saw the officer nod his head. “Turn around, hands behind your back.”

“Wait for backup, Pete.”

“Just this one.” He was the more experienced officer, so the other agent demurred, but rattled the ammo bandolier on his shotgun to remind the others that he was covering them.

The officer named Pete pulled out a set of plastic handcuffs and locked the migrant’s wrists together in a control hold. “Just relax, sir,” he said in Spanish. “What’s your—”

All he saw was a blur of motion, and suddenly he felt a hand drive into his face just below his nose. He tried to yell, but it came out a bloody gurgle. He then felt a knife-edge hand slam into his throat, then nothing.

“Freeze!” the second officer shouted, and he whirled and leveled the shotgun at the migrant from his hip. But with amazing speed three other migrants shot to their feet, pulled the shotgun skyward, and knocked the officer to the ground. They quickly armed themselves with the officers’ sidearms and backup weapons…

… then, at a nod from the first migrant, began shooting the officers and the migrants on the ground, one shot each to the head.

“Twenty more miles to the pickup point,” the leader of the hit squad said in Russian. “I don’t know how far away the other Border Patrol vehicle is, but if they’re coming from Yuma, we should be good. At the pickup point we split up, then rendezvous as briefed. Let’s go.” The four assassins picked up their packs and piled into the Border Patrol vehicle. Before driving off, one of them activated a small device that would scramble the GPS tracking signal from the van.

It was truly an amazing thing to watch, Patrick thought: a five-hundred-thousand-pound aircraft that seemed to float through the air as gracefully as a blimp. The C-57 Skytrain II — named after the military version of the Douglas DC-3 from World War II fame — was a flying-wing transport plane, resembling the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber but with a thicker bulbous midsection and its three turbofan engines mounted on pylons atop the rear of the fuselage. Originally designed to be a stealthy cruise-missile launch aircraft and aerial refueling tanker, today it could be adapted to various missions by uploading different mission modules in its two large internal cargo bays.

The Skytrain floated across the numbers on Battle Mountain’s shortest runway, stopped within two thousand feet, and turned off at the first taxiway. Thanks to its advanced engines and mission-adaptive wing technology, with which tiny computer-controlled micro-actuators could make almost the entire fuselage and wing skin a lift or drag device, the huge aircraft could fly close to the speed of sound at gross weight, as well as half as slow as any other aircraft of its size. The massive plane taxied directly into an empty hangar, and the doors closed behind it as soon as the engines shut down. Patrick parked at his assigned spot on the ramp beside the hangar and waited inside at the Skytrain’s belly entry hatch.

“Patrick! Hey, long time no see!” Jonathan Masters exclaimed as he climbed down the entry ladder and emerged from the plane. Jon Masters was chief engineer of Sky Masters, Inc., a high-tech military-systems design firm that invented much of the technology used in the C-57. Just a few years younger than Patrick, Jon Masters still looked like a punkish twenty-year-old whiz kid — tall, skinny, with unkempt hair and gangly features. He shook hands with Patrick with the same limp “cold fish” handshake that always made Patrick smile — it was as if Jon purposely used that weak handshake just to make the other person uneasy, even a longtime associate. “How have you been, my friend?”

“Not bad, not bad,” Patrick said. “How’s the biz?”

“Believe it or not, hanging in there,” Jon said. “Bunch of canceled contracts, like everyone else, but we’re in negotiations on a few that might keep the company afloat.” He patted the C-57 on its smooth, seamless composite carbon-fiber side. “They gave us funds to finish building the two ‘Losers’ we had half assembled on the floor, and they might give us money to build a few more if we can demonstrate full mission capability of a few more mission modules.”

“Then it’s not a ‘Loser’ anymore, is it?” Patrick said. Jon had called the C-57 the Loser because it had lost the Air Force’s Next Generation Bomber competition, which was eventually canceled anyway. “It survived because it’s a good multimission design.”

“We could still use you down in Vegas, my friend,” Jon said. “You’d be flying, not sitting around on your ass in this dust bowl. This place is closing down in less than a year. The Air Force is actually talking about building bombers again, and I know you’re more than a little interested in those things. And I might even give you something you’ve probably had very little of in the past few years: something called money .”

Before Patrick could respond, another person exited the C-57, and Patrick turned to greet him. “Welcome to Battle Mountain, Colonel,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” U.S. Army Lieutenant Colonel Jason Richter responded, shaking Patrick’s hand with a surprised look on his face. Richter was a full head taller and twenty years younger than Patrick, trim and athletic, with dark good looks and an air of supreme confidence… and an attitude to match. “I wasn’t told you would be part of this project.”

“I’m not part of your project,” Patrick said, “but I’m granted access to the flight line when certain special air-mission aircraft come in, and the arrival of one of Jon’s monstrosities qualifies. Besides, the doc here and I go way back.”

“Patrick!” a female voice shouted happily. A young, lithe, strawberry-blond woman sprang out of the Skytrain’s belly and fairly leaped into Patrick’s arms. “Oh my God, the pack is back! How lovely to see you again!”

“Same here, Charlie,” Patrick said. Charlie Turlock — her real first name, not a nickname — was Jason Richter’s longtime assistant design engineer in the Army’s Infantry Transformational Battlelab, designing high-tech infantry-soldier enhancements, mostly in the field of robotics. Charlie had left the Army to work with Jon Masters, but Jason had elected to stay in the Army. “Have a nice flight?”

“Very nice flight — until I wandered up to the cockpit and found no one flying the plane !” Charlie exclaimed. “A plane that size, with nobody flying it ? That’s insane! I need a little drinky-poo after that.”

“That’s the wave of the future, Charlie,” Patrick said. “Transport, reconnaissance, surveillance, air-defense suppression, resupply, long-range strategic strike — all unmanned. Half the planes that fly in and out of here these days are unmanned, and the military graduates more unmanned-aircraft pilots than manned-aircraft pilots these days. They can’t keep up with the demand for pilots and sensor operators, especially with all the military budget cutbacks. Jon has led the way in designing unmanned systems for years, but the pace is definitely accelerating. Any new ideas you come up with, get them into the system as fast as you can. If you don’t do it, someone else will.”

“Hey, we don’t need research or new-product counseling from some old retired guy,” Jon Masters quipped. “For some reason the great Patrick McLanahan has decided to check out of the real world and banish himself and his infinitely smarter son to the armpit of the world — which, I believe, used to be Battle Mountain’s unofficial designation, no?”

“Don’t be bad-mouthing my town, Jon,” Patrick said.

“Well, well, look who’s here,” another voice said, and Wayne “Whack” Macomber emerged from the Skytrain. “The famous disappearing general.” A former college football star and Air Force special-operations commando, Whack towered over the others. His face still bore the scars of being held captive and brutally interrogated by the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye, or GRU, the Russian military-intelligence bureau, the year before, and he walked with a bit of a limp.

They shook hands. “How are you feeling, Whack?” Patrick asked.

“Better,” Whack said. “Thanks for all the visits.” Whack had spent several months in a hospital recovering from his injuries, and Patrick had seen to it that he visited him at least once a week; his former private security firm paid for his hospital bills and rehabilitation. “Thought I’d tag along with Charlie and Richter on this deal — hangin’ around the house and doin’ nuthin’ but rehab was driving me batty.”

“You bring one of the Tin Man units?”

“Of course,” Whack said. “Masters still wants to sell a bunch of them to the government, so I’ll demo it if they want. Actually, I kinda like wearin’ the long undies these days — the exoskeleton is like a whole-body brace.”

“Glad to see you up and around,” Patrick said. He turned to Jason and Charlie. “You guys are all set in this hangar — everything you asked for is right here. If you need help with housing, just ask, but the trailers are the best we have right now. The base is shrinking every day. We once had over six thousand here — now we’re down to less than a thousand. But we’re still—”

“I think I can take it from here now, General,” a voice said behind Patrick. He turned and found FBI special agents Chastain, Renaldo, and the other federal agents walking up behind him. “Thank you for parking the plane.”

“That’s my job,” Patrick said. To Jon and the others he said, “I’m just a phone call away if you need me, and if you’d like to explore the town later—”

“I think we may be very busy for the next few nights, General,” Chastain interjected. “Thanks for the offer.” His body language and tone definitely suggested that it was time for Patrick to depart, so he did. After he left, Chastain said to Masters and Richter, “He’s not to be hanging out around here except in his official capacity.”

“He’s a good friend, Agent Chastain, but I know how to protect classified programs,” Jon said. “I assure you, if the general wanted to be attached to this project, he could do it with one phone call.”

“I highly doubt that — at least, not with me in charge.”

“Same for me,” Richter muttered acidly.

“He would probably be the one in charge… if not your boss’s boss,” Jon said, giving Richter an exasperated expression. This was his first time working with the gifted Army engineer, who was all of his reputation and more: as irritating as he was brilliant. “How many times have you piloted a CID? Patrick’s been in combat inside one several times.”

“Let’s take a look at one of your robots, Colonel,” Chastain said, ignoring Jon’s remarks. Jon went up inside the C-57, and a moment later the left cargo bay opened and a container was lowered outside. At the same time the landing-gear struts extended, allowing the container to be pulled directly out from underneath the plane.

Richter went over to the container and unlocked the door, and he and Charlie pulled out an odd-looking gray object a little larger than a refrigerator — although it was a very large object, Chastain noticed neither of them had any trouble carrying it. The object resembled several dozen boxes of different shapes and sizes haphazardly stuck and stacked together. “That’s it ?” Chastain asked. “It has to be assembled first?”

“Not exactly,” Charlie said. She turned to the box she had just helped unload. “CID One, deploy.”

All of a sudden the object seemed to come alive. Piece by piece, the boxes shifted, folded out more pieces, shifted again, refolded and shifted yet again, and quickly it reconstructed itself into a twelve-foot-tall robot. When it finished unfolding itself, it adopted a sort of low crouch, like a hunter warming himself before a fire.

“The Cybernetic Infantry Device, or CID, version five,” Richter said. “We made it a bit taller but made it ten percent lighter, made the armor both stronger and lighter, increased the pressure in the microhydraulic system to boost actuator strength and performance, and miniaturized and improved the sensor suite. Battery life is slightly improved, and—”

“I don’t need to hear the sales pitch, Colonel,” Chastain interrupted. “Let’s see it work.”

Richter nodded at Charlie, who almost giggled with excitement as she spoke, “CID One, pilot up.” At that command the robot stood, crouched forward with its right leg stuck out straight behind it, and extended its arms backward. At the same time a hatch opened on the robot’s back. Charlie climbed up the extended leg, using the leg like a ramp and the arms like railings. She then knelt down on the robot’s back just outside the hatch, then started to enter the robot, legs first, followed by arms, and finally her head. When she was fully inside, the hatch closed. Nothing happened for several moments…

… and then suddenly the robot stood up, and it started hopping up and down, shaking its shoulders, and shadow-boxing with its immense arms and knotted fists like a boxer warming up and getting ready to step into a boxing ring. Chastain couldn’t believe how fluid and humanlike it moved — it was nothing like any other robot he had ever seen in his life.

“Pretty cool, huh?” an electronically synthesized voice said. It had Turlock’s phraseology, but definitely not her voice. “How do you like me now, Agent Chastain?”

“Amazing,” Chastain said. “How does she… er, it move like that?”

“Thousands of microhydraulic actuators being operated at increased pressure, acting like muscles and ligaments on multiaxis joints, responding to haptic commands using advanced processors,” Richter said. Chastain scowled at Richter, who was obviously trying to show up the FBI special agent. “A conventional robot might use one or two large hydraulic actuators to move a limb in one axis — up or down, left or right, in or out. The limbs on the CID are mounted on joints connected with powerful microhydraulic actuators that work completely different from human muscles. The CID has so many of these microactuators that some of its limbs can move in unhuman ways.” To demonstrate, Charlie rotated the lower part of the CID’s left leg around in a complete circle.

“How strong is it?” one of the other agents asked.

“Let’s find out,” Charlie said. She walked over to the C-57 Skytrain and carefully placed the CID’s hands under the center of the left wing.

“Don’t break my plane, Charlie,” Jon Masters warned.

“I’m doing it on the jack point, Jon, don’t worry,” Charlie said. Moments later, they could all see the left strut begin to extend. Charlie moved the plane about four inches up before carefully letting it back down. “It registered about twenty thousand pounds before I got a limit warning.”

“It just lifted ten tons ?” the agent exclaimed.

Charlie climbed out from under the wing. “How about I direct some of that power downward this time?” The CID crouched a bit, then flew upward about fifty feet, grasping onto the steel trusses overhead. “Hey, I think I can see my house from up here!” she deadpanned before dropping back to the concrete floor.

“The CID has survived drops from an aircraft exceeding two hundred feet in altitude and two hundred knots airspeed,” Richter said. “The previous version has survived RPG rounds and even thirty-millimeter cannon hits. It can operate underwater up to a hundred feet, and in a chemical, biological, and even radioactive environment for short periods. We can increase its effectiveness with packs that contain different weapons, sensors, even unmanned aircraft. It can—”

“Absolutely no weapons,” Chastain said firmly. “Director Fuller made that exceptionally clear, and I concur with his directive: the robot is not to be armed with any weapons. In fact, I don’t even want it out in the open unless involved in an actual operation against armed extremists or terrorists and it’s been determined that our capabilities might not be superior to theirs. As far as I’m concerned, it’s for heavy lifting, and that’s all.”

“That’s a big mistake, Agent Chastain, but it’s your call,” Richter said. He nodded to the robot, and in a few minutes Charlie had dismounted and stowed the robot back into its self-molded container. “The CID has thousands of advanced capabilities that can easily—”

“Richter, do me and yourself a big favor and shut the hell up,” Chastain interrupted. “I don’t need your robot or its ‘thousands of advanced capabilities.’ The FBI uses its own resources to investigate crime and make arrests, and if we use any outside agencies at all, they are directly controlled and supervised by the FBI, and function in a support role only.”

He looked at Whack. “You Macomber?” Whack nodded and scowled at Chastain. “You’re here with the other setup, that electronic armor or whatever it is?”

“We call it ‘Tin Man,’ ” Jon said. “Armor made of a special material that—”

“Masters, you just can’t shut it off, can you?” Chastain interrupted. He looked at Whack dismissively. “I don’t think we’ll be needing it at all, if the robots work as advertised.” He looked at the folded-up robot. “Normally I wouldn’t even accept military hardware, but with loose radioactive materials around, I will.” He motioned to one of the agents behind him. “That’s why you will train Special Agent Brady in how to operate the CID.”

Both Richter and Turlock looked at Brady. “He’s a little big for the CID,” Charlie said, looking directly at Brady’s waistline. “It’ll be a tight squeeze.” She motioned toward Renaldo. “She’ll fit much better.”

“She’s Homeland Security, not FBI,” Chastain said. He looked back at the other agents. “Savoy, front and center.” An agent stepped up beside Brady. He was much more trim, about a head shorter, and ten years younger than Brady, wearing rimless spectacles that made him look like a middle schooler. “You’re going to train to operate the robot.”

“I’m C-Four-I, sir,” Savoy said, looking apprehensively at the folded-up robot. “I’m in charge of communications and computers — I don’t know anything about robots.”

“You’re the gadget geek, so you’re going to learn. Besides, you get to work with Miss Turlock here.” Savoy gave Charlie a nod and a toothy grin. Chastain turned to Jon. “Now, what about the drones, Masters?”

“We’re unloading them now and we can have them airborne tonight,” Jon said. “The Sparrowhawk series of unmanned aircraft are small, lightweight, but very capable—”

“ ‘Sparrowhawks’? What in hell are they?” Chastain asked derisively. “I thought I was getting Predators. I’ve been trained in Predator deployments for years.”

“Predators? Are you kidding me?” Jon responded with an incredulous roll of his eyes. “Predators were hot five years ago. True, they set the stage. But the technology has advanced way beyond Predators.” Chastain’s expression told Jon he obviously didn’t believe him. “Sky Masters, Inc., manufactures the next generation of unmanned aerial vehicles — smaller, lighter, easier to deploy, easier to manage, more autonomous—”

“I’m not interested in your sales pitch or the sweetheart deal you obviously got from your buddies in the White House or the Pentagon,” Chastain said. “Tell me what I have to work with here, or get them out of my face and away from me so I can do my job.”

“With pleasure, Special Agent,” Jon said. “The Sparrowhawk is designed for medium-altitude, high-resolution, long-range, long-endurance surveillance. It is small, easy to deploy, easy to program and flight-plan, and all-weather capable. You’ll love it.”

“All I want is for it to be where I want, when I want, and look at what I want to look at,” Chastain said. “Let me know when they’re ready to fly.”

“They’ll be ready for a test flight tonight and should be ready to start patrolling tomorrow morning.”

Chastain blinked at this information, obviously not expecting them to be ready so soon — and not sure if he should believe Masters. “We’ll see. Keep me informed.” He spun on a heel and walked away, followed by the others except for Savoy, who stayed with Charlie.

“So…” Savoy said uncomfortably. “I’m… ready to get started, I guess. Do you have a manual or training video I can use?”

“First things first,” Charlie said, “I need to know your first name.”

The FBI agent looked rather uncomfortable for a moment, then responded, “Randolph.”

“Randolph?” Jon asked.

“What do your friends call you, Randolph?” Charlie asked.

“Randolph.” He looked at the growing smiles of those around him and scowled, which made Jon’s chuckling even more pronounced. “Is there a problem?”

“Not at all,” Charlie said, choking down her own snickering. “Randolph it is. Are you married? Single?”

“What does that have to do with training on the robot?”

“We’re a small and pretty close-knit group here, Randolph,” Charlie said. “We like to know a lot about the folks that are assigned to work with us.”

“Do I get to know everything about you?”

“Of course. Ask away.”

Savoy looked skeptically at those around him, then said with a sigh of exasperation, “About those training manuals and videos, Miss Turlock?”

Charlie looked at Jon and Jason, shrugged, and put an arm around Savoy, turning him toward the folded-up CID unit. “We don’t use no stinking books or videos like they did in the olden days, Randolph — we believe in on-the-job training around here. CID Four, pilot up,” she said. The robot immediately assumed the boarding stance. “If you’re your unit’s gadget guy, you should learn how the CID operates in… about a day.”

“A day ?”

“Only if you’re paying attention,” Charlie added with a smile. “Otherwise, it might take as long as two days. Now, if we were going into combat, everything might take an extra day or two to learn, but since you won’t be using weapon packs, you should be fully checked out by this time tomorrow.” She motioned to the open hatch on the CID unit’s back. “Hop on up there, Randolph, and let’s get started.”