by Dale Brown
Patrick thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I appreciate the concern, Madam Vice President,” Patrick said, “but Brad is right: if they couldn’t get to me through Brad, they’d try it with someone else. And if we moved to Washington, they’d just start the whole hunt over again, and the FBI and CIA would have to start looking all over again. The whole reason to send me to Battle Mountain in the first place was not just to hide out, but to draw the assassins in to a place where it would be easier to detect their presence. And with all due respect, ma’am, I’m not running out on my friends to save my own neck — especially Gia. She’s in the greatest danger of all next to Brad, and she’s the most vulnerable.”
“You’re insane, General,” Ann said. “You actually think you’re safer in Battle Mountain than in Washington?” She shook her head, then looked at him directly. “I could order you to leave, in the interest of national security.”
“You wouldn’t do that, Ann,” Patrick said. “Besides, you know I’m right.” She didn’t answer him. He smiled at her, which only made her scowl darken. “But I appreciate the try.”
“You’re wrong — I would do that, Patrick, and you know it,” Ann said. She leaned forward toward him. “Let me ask you a direct question, Patrick: this woman, the one that left you many times, the one who shacked up with some guy, the one who is probably leading another hit squad up here to target you — you still care about her?”
“I not only care for her, Ann — I love her,” Patrick replied. “When she first told me about the other guy, I was furious. But she still came back to me. I wasn’t sure if she would stay, but I decided that if she left I’d carry on, and maybe she’d be happier. But now that you’ve told me this guy might be a sleeper, I know he doesn’t really care about her. That just makes me want to help her even more. And if she leaves again anyway… well, Brad and I will deal with that later.”
Ann Page nodded. “You’re a good guy, Patrick,” she said. “You are. Sometimes you’re dumber than a bag of doorknobs and sappier than a maple tree in the fall, but you’re a good guy.”
“Thank you, Madam Vice President.”
“Bite me, McLanahan,” she said with a faint smile. “And you’re still coming to Washington — the president has already ordered it. You’re working for me, in the White House, to spearhead the charge to get the Space Defense Force fully funded, set up, and running. President Phoenix agreed to wait until next summer, after Brad was on his way to college.”
“That sounds fine, Madam Vice President,” Patrick said. “I think I’d enjoy working for you.”
“You’re damned right, you will,” Ann said. “You’re damned right.”
Eight
Be good and you will be lonesome.
— Samuel Clemens
Joint Air Base Battle Mountain
The next evening
“I’m sorry to have to tell you, folks,” Squadron Commander Rob Spara said at the Civil Air Patrol seniors’ squadron meeting, “but the CAP national headquarters is suspending our squadron’s activities until further notice.”
There was a rumble of disbelief and surprise around the conference room. “Why in the hell are they doin’ that, Rob?” Michael Fitzgerald boomed.
“They feel it’s too dangerous to come on the base anymore,” Rob said. “The protesters, the shootings — frankly, I can’t argue with them. The planes have already been scheduled to depart: as soon as the 182 is flyable, it’ll go to Winnemucca; the ARCHER is already in Minden; and the 206 will go to Elko. The comm trailer will probably go to Winnemucca too.”
“Well, that blows,” Fitzgerald grumbled. “What about the cadets? Are we just going to shut down emergency services and all the cadet programs just like that ?”
“All emergency services are suspended,” Rob said, “but cadet aerospace, military, and PT programs can continue away from the base, as long as the cadets don’t wear utility or Air Force — style uniforms and aren’t seen doing drill-team or marching exercises outdoors. PT and Class-B clothing are okay.”
“Don’t wear uniforms?”
“National HQ is afraid that extremists that see the cadets in uniform off base will think the military is moving into their communities,” Rob said, “and if any of the extremist violence is directed at CAP, they may try to harm the cadets too. I want you and David to get those organized, maybe at the church or at your place, Fid.”
“Nothing but spineless wussies,” Fitzgerald grumbled again. “You know, this is our town and our base too — it doesn’t belong just to the nut jobs. Why don’t the cops do something to protect us ?”
“When was the last time you saw a sheriff’s deputy on the street, Fid?” David Bellville asked. “It seems they’re all on vacation or something. Ever since Leo was killed, it’s as if all the cops are staying out of sight.”
“Screw ’em anyway,” Fitzgerald said. He patted his right hip. “I’m takin’ care of business myself right here.”
“Not around the cadets you’re not, Fid,” Rob said.
“I won’t — as far as you know,” Fitzgerald said, and it was obvious he wasn’t going to debate the issue. There wasn’t anything else to talk about, so the meeting soon broke up.
As the seniors were departing, Patrick caught up with John de Carteret. “Hey, John,” he said. “Got a few minutes?”
“After that last bit of news we got? Sure, I have lots of time now,” John said. He followed Patrick to his office, where he found Jon Masters and Gia Cazzotto seated at Patrick’s desk in front of two laptop computers.
“John, I don’t believe you know these folks,” Patrick said. “My good friends Gia and Jon. This is my favorite mission observer, John de Carteret.” They shook hands. “I worked with both of them in the Air Force. Gia is a former—”
“I remember you,” John said. “The one prosecuted by President Gardner for war cri—” He stopped when he saw Gia’s shoulders slump and she averted her eyes. “Sorry to upset you, miss. Jon, good to meet you.”
“Take a look at this, John,” Patrick said, motioning to the laptop. John studied the display. It showed an overhead view of the Knights of the True Republic’s compound, with all sorts of symbology inside the compound itself, and a side window with a legend explaining what the symbology stood for. The detail was astounding: it was easy to pick out individuals walking around the compound, and even easy to make out what they were carrying.
“Is that the extremists’ compound — the Knights of the True Republic, or whatever they call themselves?”
“It is.”
“Is it recorded?”
“No, it’s live,” Patrick said.
“Where are you getting this from?”
“This is being downlinked from my Cessna P210,” Patrick said. “Jon and I mounted a pair of sensitive all-weather-imaging infrared and millimeter-wave radar sensors on it, plus the hardware to send the images here. The P210 is orbiting about five miles away from the compound at four thousand feet AGL.”
“Who’s flying the plane?”
“Brad.”
“Brad? Cool. But why is he taking pictures of that compound?”
“Because these are the guys who supposedly organized the protests at the front gate, shot at our plane, and may have killed Leo,” Patrick said, not mentioning the fact that the ones who killed Leo may have been gunning for him . “The FBI is conducting visual surveillance of the compound, but they don’t seem to be getting anywhere.”
“The FBI? How do you know all this?”
“Jon here supplied some of the technology to the FBI to conduct aerial surveillance.”
“You mean, the drones that were shot down? The ones on the news?”
“Yes.”
“So the FBI asked you to put those sensors on your plane and start surveillance on that compound?” John asked.
“Not exactly,” Patrick said. “This is our project. We’re doing our own surveillance.”
“Why are you doing that? Why not let the FBI
handle it?”
“Because like Fid said, this is our town and our base,” Patrick said. “We have the technology to do it, so I’m going to do it.”
John smiled. “I said it before, and I’ll say it again: that’s the Patrick S. McLanahan I’ve always heard and read about,” he said, chuckling. His expression turned serious again. “So why are you telling me all this, Patrick?”
“Because out of all the guys in the squadron except for Leo, I know and trust you the most,” Patrick said. “I’m going to start conducting surveillance of the entire area, not just of the Knights’ compound. I’m going to assist law enforcement in protecting our community, and if the cops won’t do it, I’ll organize our community to do it for ourselves.”
“You’re starting to sound like some of those Knights of the True Republic yourself, Patrick,” John said seriously, a look of concern on his face. “You sure that’s the smart thing to do?”
Patrick shook his head. “Honestly: no, I’m not sure,” he said. “It’s probably not legal, and it may not be ethical or my right as a citizen. But something is happening in this community and this entire country, John, and I want to do something about it. I thought the Civil Air Patrol was a good start, but now I don’t even have that. So I’m starting this.”
De Carteret thought for a moment, then nodded. “Sounds good to me, Patrick,” he said. “If you need help, I’m in.”
“Great. Who else do you think would be interested?”
“Well, I’m sure all the ex-military guys in the squadron: Rob; David; my wife, Janet; David Preston; Kevan; Bill and Nancy Barton; Rick; Mark; Debbie for sure,” John said. “Fid… no offense to him, but he’s strung a little too tight for my taste.”
“That’s a pretty good group to start with,” Patrick said. “You still fly your Skyhawk, don’t you?”
“Not so much these days,” he admitted, “but when I get a couple extra bucks saved up, you bet.”
“Feel like flying some of these surveillance missions?”
“In your P210? Sure!”
“The P210… and in your Skyhawk.”
“You mean, put those sensors on my Skyhawk? Are you kidding me?”
“No sweat, John,” Jon Masters said, not looking up from his laptops. “It’ll take me a couple days, plus a couple flight tests.”
“Wow, that would be cool,” John said, sounding more and more like a little kid. “You gonna get field approval from the FAA Flight Standards guys in Elko?”
“This mod… isn’t going in your logbooks, John,” Patrick said. “We’ve got some of the best mechanics and technicians in the country from Jon’s company installing them, and I’ll make sure your plane is put back together properly when we’re done.”
“Hot damn,” John said, sticking out his hand. “Can’t wait to get started.” His eyes were dancing with anticipation. “So tell me, Patrick — is this how it felt when you were getting ready to fly some of your supersecret missions with all the newest high-tech gear? Because I’m telling ya, it’s pretty damned exciting.”
“This is how it felt, John,” Patrick said, taking John’s hand and shaking it enthusiastically. “This is exactly how it felt.”
Later that evening
Brad orbited over the Knights of the True Republic’s compound for an hour more; cruised around the area about fifty miles around the town of Battle Mountain in a parallel tracklike pattern for another hour so they could record sensor scans of activity on the ground; then did three takeoffs and landings back at Battle Mountain to log some of his required night full-stop landings. Four hours of flying, three of it at night, and not one rumble whatsoever in his stomach — what a great day.
After putting the Centurion back in its hangar, he phoned his father. “Plane’s put up, fueled up, windshield’s clean, bugs wiped off,” he said. “How do the pictures look?”
“Excellent,” Patrick said. “Better than we expected. The other scans around the area will be stored by the computer, and we’ll compare them to scans we’ll take later to look for unusual activity.”
“Cool.”
“How’s your stomach feel?”
“Great. Not even a big burp.”
“I was a little concerned with you flying at night — I was afraid the loss of a horizon might bring back the nausea,” Patrick said. “But you seemed to do okay when we did our night landings the other night.”
“I’m fine, Dad.”
“Heading home?”
“I’m going to stop by the bowling alley.”
“Drinking age is—”
“I know, I know, no booze until I’m twenty-one. I don’t like the stuff anyway, and with Gia back, I don’t even want to deal with it. I just want to see if anything’s going on, maybe play some pinball.”
“I can’t believe pinball machines are making a comeback,” Patrick said. “We used to play those things for hours when we sat alert in the B-52s.” He was getting into reminiscing mode again, Brad thought — that was happening more and more the older he got. “Have fun. Be back by midnight.”
“It’ll be before then — I’ve got workouts in the morning, and then I want to fly the P210.”
“I’m flying Captain de Carteret and maybe Colonel Spara tomorrow, getting them checked out in the P210. It might have to wait.”
“They’re going to patrol with us?”
“Yes.”
“Cool. It’s like our own secret little Civil Air Patrol squadron.”
“ Secret being the key word here, Brad.”
“No problem. Okay. See ya.”
His next phone call was to Cassandra Renaldo. “It’s me,” he said when she answered.
“I’m so glad you called, baby,” she said. “It has been a long day. I’m still at work.”
“I’m at my dad’s hangar. I just got done flying.”
“You did? Flying at night?”
“I need to log at least ten hours and ten night landings for my check ride.”
“How do you feel?”
“Excellent. No problems.”
“You didn’t have to take any of that medicine I gave you?”
“Nope. I’ve got it with me, but I didn’t need it.”
“You should keep it with you, in case you have to fly in the back of the plane again.”
“Okay. Can I see you tonight?”
“I would love to see you, but I’m still at work.” She hesitated, then said, “But I want to see you so badly… I think it’ll be all right — no one else is here. Do you know which hangar is ours?”
“I think so. One of the hangars on the east side of the field with the big fence around it, right?”
“Yes. You’ll see my car parked in front of one of the hangars, outside the fence. If there’s another car parked there, I won’t be alone, so I’ll see you another time. But if there are no other cars, I’ll be all alone. The gate will be closed, but I’ll leave it partially open so you’ll just need to nudge it a few times to get the gate open. Same with the hangar door — just pull, then push a couple times, and it’ll open. C’mon in. I might be in the comm room, but I’ll be waiting for you, lover. Maybe we’ll do it right here on the… well, we’ll see. Bye.”
Man, Brad thought as he hung up, she had that sexy X-rated phone-porn voice that never failed to make the blood run right out of my brain. He had to be extra careful not to exceed the base speed limit as he headed over to the east side of the field.
He found her car in the parking lot outside the row of security hangars, and yes, it was by itself. It took more than a little nudge to get the gate open, but he wasn’t going to let it stop him. Same with the hangar door, but after putting his shoulder in it a little, it finally came open.
The hangar was dark except for a desk with several laptops on it, illuminated by desk lights. “Cassandra?” he called out. No reply. He went over to the desk. This was definitely her desk — he could smell her fragrance… or was that just chronic horniness and the lack of blood in his brain making h
im imagine it? “Cassandra, where are you?”
Brad decided to wait. He checked out the images on the laptops. There were electronic charts, diagrams of what looked like the Knights of the True Republic’s compound, and still photographs of people, obviously taken from very long distance. Each image was marked SECRET, but as far as he could tell, he didn’t see anything SECRET about any of—
Suddenly his arms were yanked behind his back so hard he thought they were going to rip off his torso, and his head was slammed down onto the desk so hard that his vision exploded into a field of stars. “Freeze! FBI!” he heard through the sudden roaring in his ears. “Don’t you move!” His hands were being twisted so hard that he thought they were going to pop off his wrists. His legs were kicked out behind him so even more pressure was on his face and head. He felt cold steel handcuffs being snapped onto his wrists, and then rough hands patting him down from head to foot.
“Ow! You’re hurting me!” he protested.
“Shut up!” someone yelled. “Do you have any weapons in your pockets? Any knives or needles?”
“No! Stop twisting my—”
“I said, shut up !” He felt his shirt being pulled out of his pants, and then rough hands searching his body right down to the skin. The guy then started going through his pockets, turning them inside out. “Got something,” he called out, before resuming his search inside Brad’s pants, then right against his crotch. Brad was then spun around and thrust into a chair, and the desk light shined right in his face, blinding him. He felt blood trickling out of his nose, and his shoulder felt dislocated. “Why did you break in here, McLanahan?” the guy shouted.