A Time for Patriots

by Dale Brown

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

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

  “Yes, sir.”

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

  “McLanahan . . .” Bellville started.

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

  Bellville nodded, giving silent approval to stay.

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

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

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

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

  “Yeah, Brad?”

  “The third soul is missing.”

  “What?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “The third passenger is missing, sir.”

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

  “Sir?” Markham replied immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “N-no, I can’t,” he said.

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

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

  “You sure?” Brad asked.

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

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

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

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

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

  “What?”

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

  “What a load of crap,” Ron sneered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Good call, Ralph,” Brad said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You mean ‘Little Marky’?”

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

  Reno-Tahoe International Airport

  That same time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Everyone out of his way?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think he’ll do?”

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

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

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

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

  “Same up here.”

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

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

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

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

  Only seconds to go now . . .

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

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

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

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