A Time for Patriots

by Dale Brown

  . . . and then Carl noticed through his cataract-infested eyes the blinking yellow “AP” light on the instrument panel and realized that the autopilot had disconnected itself! He didn’t remember doing it. But how in the world could the plane have flown so precisely by itself? He was certainly in no condition to sit upright, let alone fly an airplane!

  It was as if God Himself were steering his weapon of war, he decided. This truly was a message that his was indeed a blessed mission, ordained by God. The war was on, and God was indeed on their side.

  One last task. He switched to the Reno control tower frequency, pressed the “XMIT” button, and spoke: “Live free or die. The Lord has spoken.”

  Northwest of Battle Mountain, Nevada

  That same time

  They had walked another two hundred yards or so in the new direction without any more signs. “Whaddaya say, Marky?” Ron Spivey shouted. “We got nothing. We should’ve stayed on that original track. Now we need to start over.”

  Brad looked at Ralph Markham. “Sergeant?”

  Ralph appeared indecisive, but only for a few moments: “Another hundred yards,” he said. Ron groaned. Ralph made some quick calculations in his head. “Then we’ll turn right to three-four-zero, go for . . . for forty paces, turn back to one-seven-zero, and search back toward the crash site.”

  “Where in heck did you come up with all that, Marky?” Ron asked. “Why do we have to do all that?”

  “He’s putting us back on the reciprocal of the original search bearing,” Brad explained with a smile. “The one-in-sixty rule. We go out six hundred feet and change heading ten degrees, so we’ve offset ourselves one hundred feet, or about forty paces. Ralph’s plan should put us right back to where we found the sneaker, on the original search bearing.”

  “So why don’t we just do that now?” Ron asked.

  “Because I want to search another hundred yards on this bearing,” Ralph said. “Line up and let’s go.”

  Ron rolled his eyes in exasperation but did as he was told.

  Brad was starting to get a little tired slogging through the damp, uneven ground, and he could feel the sunburn building on the back of his unprotected neck. The terrain was getting a bit more rolling, and now they came across a wide wash that had a thin rivulet of water flowing through it from the recent thunderstorms. This last hundred yards was going to be tougher than the previous two hundred.

  “I say we jog now, before we have to cross this wash,” Ron said.

  “It’s not so bad,” Ralph said. “Just sixty more yards.”

  Ron said something under his breath but pushed on.

  Every now and then Brad would glance up at the search plane overhead. He was so close to becoming a senior member and flying that plane, he could almost taste it. Ground-team work was okay, but where he really belonged was . . .

  Just as he descended from the wash’s embankment and started to look for the best place to cross the water, something made Brad turn around . . . and there, half buried in the embankment, covered in dust, mud, and insects, was a young boy!

  Reno, Nevada

  A short time later

  “We are at the scene of a horrible airplane crash here at the Bruce R. Thompson United States Courthouse and Federal Building in downtown Reno,” the female reporter began. “The crash happened about fifteen minutes ago and is the worst air accident in Reno’s history. My cameraman Jerry Fleck is with me and he’ll be providing you shots of this unfolding tragedy.”

  The camera panned to the southeast face of the building. Thick smoke and flames were still shooting out of the hole in the building, and the entire structure appeared to be tilting away from the camera. “As you can see, the plane hit almost directly in the center of the ten-story building here on the four-hundred block of South Virginia Street,” the reporter went on. “We do not know who the pilot was, how many passengers he had on board, or what kind of plane hit the building, although some observers say it is a medium-size turboprop used mostly by small companies. We have a call in to air traffic controllers at the Reno-Tahoe International Airport to find out if they were in contact with the pilot and what could have caused this terrible accident.

  “We have been told that the fire department has just upped the response to this accident with a fifth alarm. The plane did not appear to crash all the way through the building, but the force of its impact blew out its north and northwest sides, spreading fire and debris onto the Bank of America office complex across Virginia Street, the U.S. Bank office building across Liberty Street, and onto residents and visitors on the streets below. Fortunately, most workers were not in those buildings during the weekend. The police have cordoned off two blocks in all directions, and they ask that you should not try to come downtown for any reason and allow police, firefighters, medical personnel, and investigators to do their jobs.”

  The reporter touched her earpiece to listen closer, then said breathlessly, “I have just been given word by my producer, John Ramos, in the truck that, according to a spokesman for the FAA air traffic control facility at the Reno airport, an aircraft called a Beech King Air, which is a medium-size civilian turboprop aircraft, overflew the airport minutes ago at very high speed and very low altitude. We must conclude that it was the same airplane that hit the Thompson Federal Building. There is no speculation from the FAA as to whether the plane was trying to land at the airport and the pilot became disoriented, or if this was a deliberate act. It is simply too early to—”

  The reporter stopped and again listened into her earpiece while the camera moved away from her and zoomed in on the shattered building. Off-camera, she said in a whisper, “What do you mean, we’re getting out of here? We’re two blocks away—it’s safe! We’re . . . John? John?” A moment later, a man wearing headphones ran up to the reporter and pulled her away, briefly crossing in front of the camera. “John, what are you doing? I’m on the air!”

  “I know you are,” the man said. “We’re getting out of here, now! Jerry, pack it up!”

  “I’m not going anywhere!” the reporter whispered angrily. “This is the biggest story of my life! I’m staying with it for as long as—” The producer whispered something in the reporter’s ear as he dragged her toward the crew’s truck. “What? What did you say, John?”

  “Radioactivity!” he replied.

  “What . . . !”

  The producer grabbed the microphone. “U.S. Secret Service investigators have detected large levels of radioactivity at the crash site,” he said. “The plane that crashed into the Thompson Federal Building was carrying some sort of nuclear device or weapon. The entire downtown district of Reno is being evacuated.”

  Two

  Youth is wholly experimental.

  —Robert Louis Stevenson

  Northwest of Battle Mountain, Nevada

  That same time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I don’t want to go to a hospital.”

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

  “But my folks . . . my mom and dad . . .”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes.”

  “What were you trying to tell your dad?”

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

  Brad smiled. “Are you a pilot?”

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

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

  “You are? Have you soloed?”

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

  “But my mom and dad are dead.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Stand by, Hasty,” Spara replied.

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

  “Land? What for?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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