A Time for Patriots

by Dale Brown

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

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

  “What’s going on?”

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

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

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

  “Who’s ‘they’?” Patrick asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You assumed incorrectly, Agent Chastain.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Darrow Horton.”

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

  “You’ve heard of her?”

  “You mean, former attorney general Darrow Horton?”

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

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

  “I want my lawyer,” Patrick repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “North-central Nevada.”

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

  “FBI.”

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

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

  “How’s Bradley doing?”

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

  “And Gia?”

  “MIA.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Agent Renaldo . . .”

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

  “I want my attorney first, Cassandra.”

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

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

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

  “I want to speak with my—”

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

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

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

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

  “I guess,” Patrick said noncommittally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Based on?”

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

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

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

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

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