A Time for Patriots

by Dale Brown

  “Cassandra wouldn’t give me cocaine,” Brad said, his voice strained and cracking.

  “So it’s got to be yours.”

  Brad lowered his head, then nodded. “It’s mine,” he lied.

  “We thought so,” Chastain said. “Possession, sale weight . . . you might be able to get a break if this is your first offense, but even so, with all the other charges, you’re looking at serious federal prison time.” Brad hung his head, and his shoulders started to shake. “And Agent Cassandra Renaldo is still in trouble . . .” He paused for effect, then added in a quiet voice, almost a whisper: “If anyone else ever finds out about any of this.”

  It took a moment for his words to sink in, but soon Brad raised his head. “Wha-what . . . ?”

  “I’m in a position to offer you a deal, Brad,” Chastain said. “It’s just for right now, tonight only. If I pick up the phone to my office and tell them I’m bringing in a prisoner, no more deals will be possible with me. It’ll be yes or no, right here, right now. Do you understand?”

  Brad nodded. “What’s the deal?” he asked.

  “First of all, you are going to sign a contract,” Chastain said in a firm, measured voice. “You’re going to admit to everything you’ve done, and agree to do everything I tell you to do in exchange for me not pressing any charges against you or Agent Renaldo—conditionally. It’s a federal contract, countersigned by the U.S. attorney and a federal judge.” Brad’s face brightened. “You’re going to do some tasks for me. You will do them precisely as I tell you, and give me exactly the information I tell you to give me, exactly when I want it, with no excuses. If you fail to do any of this, you will be rearrested, formally charged, and put in jail to await trial.” Brad’s eyes flared when he heard the word jail, and Chastain noticed that right away. The agent produced a typewritten piece of paper with the FBI shield at the top—Brad was too scared to realize that the contract had already been drawn up. “Sign at the bottom.”

  “What do you want me to do for you?”

  “First, sign the contract, Brad,” Chastain said. “If you don’t, you’ll be placed under arrest and taken to my office in San Francisco tonight, in-processed, jailed, then taken in front of a federal judge and formally charged. You’re not a minor anymore, so your father won’t know where you’ve been taken until after you’ve been arraigned, which could take a couple days.” Brad’s face turned pale, and his mouth dropped open in shock. “By the time you’re released on bail, Agent Renaldo will be out of a job, and I’ll charge her with conspiracy and aiding and abetting several felonies, and put her in jail too. I’m sure we’ll find that she helped you get in here so you could steal the computers and classified materials, and gave you the cocaine as well.”

  “No! She . . . she didn’t do anything . . .”

  “That’s for a judge and jury to decide, Brad,” Chastain said evenly. “Unless you sign this contract, I’ll have no choice in the matter. You’ll be in jail, I can’t do anything more, and your life will change forever. Your dad won’t be able to help you.” Brad hesitated, trying to clear the cobwebs out of his head enough to think. Chastain waited a few seconds, then shook his head and looked over his shoulder. “Brady, cuff him in back again and read him his rights,” he said with a dismissive sigh. “Then go arrest Renaldo, and alert the office that we’ll be bringing in two prisoners tonight—separately. I’ll need the—”

  “No, wait! I’ll sign it,” Brad said, and he snatched up the pen and scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page, with Agent Brady taking a photograph as he did it. “Okay, I agree. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t arrest Cassandra.”

  “Good choice, Brad,” Chastain said. “Your future, and Agent Renaldo’s career, are still intact . . . as long as you do exactly what I tell you to do.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Simple,” Chastain said. “You will tell me everything your father does, where he goes, and whom he meets and talks with. Whenever possible, you will accompany him and tell me whom he meets with, where, and when.”

  “My . . . my father . . . ?”

  “This is not open for debate or question, Brad,” Chastain said. “You do what I tell you to do, or you go to jail, period. Where he goes and whom he meets with; go with him whenever you can.” He gave Brad a card. “That’s my secure text-message and e-mail address. I expect a detailed report three times a day, or more. If I don’t get it, you’re going to jail, and all the evidence I have gets turned over to the U.S. attorney, along with Cassandra.” He motioned to Brady, who took his handcuffs off. “Now get out of here, don’t tell anyone about this, don’t ever see Renaldo again, and never come near this building again.”

  Brad leaped out of the chair, stumbled, then started crawling for the hangar door, his legs unable to support his weight. Brady grabbed him by the back of his neck, carried him to the door, and tossed him outside. “So much for the tough football player,” he said when he returned, laughing. He theatrically sniffed near the desk. “Why, I think I smell a hint of scared-shitless piss over here.”

  “He may be eighteen, but he’s just a kid,” Chastain said. “He’s been babied and pampered by his war-hero father his entire life.”

  “He may be a boy, but he’s a very big boy,” Cassandra Renaldo said as she walked over to the others.

  “Good job, Renaldo,” Chastain said. “Sorry to take away your new plaything, but it’s the best way to see if there’s any connection between the general, the Knights, and the Civil Air Patrol.”

  “He was fun,” Renaldo said dismissively, lighting a cigarette, “but business is business. I still don’t think the general is up to anything, but young stud muffin Bradley will tell us.”

  “What if he tells his father what’s happened?” Brady asked. “The general has some pretty powerful friends.”

  “If he did, what’s he doing in Battle Mountain, Nevada?” Chastain said. “That’s only one of many questions I want answered, and I think the boy will get them for us.”

  Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

  The next morning

  Thankfully no one was there when Brad got up. He dressed in workout clothes, had a light breakfast, then picked up his cell phone. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hey, big guy.”

  “I’m going to practice. What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to take Captain de Carteret up in the P210 this morning, fly some patrols and take more sensor images, then take Colonel Spara up later,” Patrick replied. “There’re thunderstorms forecast for this evening, so I don’t think we’ll be flying tonight. What time did you get in last night?”

  “Ten-thirty.” Brad swallowed, then said, “I . . . I got into a little fight last night outside the bowling alley.”

  “What? A fight?”

  “No big deal, just an argument over a stupid game,” Brad lied. “The guy claimed he put money in the machine I was playing on, but he didn’t, and I guess him and a friend waited for me outside.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Just a few bruises. I’m still going to practice.”

  “Did you report it to base security?”

  “No. I . . . I kinda started it.”

  “ ‘Started it’?”

  “Look, Dad, it was dumb, and I got what I deserved. I’d rather forget about it.”

  “Do you know the guys? Were they military?”

  “I guess.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was alcohol involved, Brad?”

  “No, Dad. I told you, I’m not drinking.”

  “Stop by the office when you get done with practice and let me take a look.”

  “I’m okay, Dad. I’m going to practice, and then I’m going to work.”

  “I’ll come over and give you the Wrangler,” Patrick said. “I’ll take the scooter.”

  “I’ll be fine, Dad. If I don’t feel well enough to ride to town, I’ll come over and switch. But I�
�m gonna be late.”

  There was a long pause; then: “All right, I’ll see you tonight. Call if you don’t feel good. Be careful driving.”

  “Okay.” Brad hung up, then composed a text message: FLT INSTRUCTING DECARTERET AND SPARA UNTIL DINNER to Chastain’s number. Then he put on a jacket, helmet, gloves, and reflective safety vest, looped his equipment bag over his aching shoulders, painfully got on his Genuine Buddy scooter, and headed off to the senior high school for football workout.

  “What the heck happened to you?” Ron Spivey asked when Brad jogged over to the team. Brad’s face was badly bruised, his eyes were swollen, and he could hardly move his arms. “You get into a fight or something?”

  “Couple of guys at the bowling alley,” Brad said.

  “No shit,” Ron said. “You tell your dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I hope the other guys look worse than you do,” Ron said. “You okay to work out? We were going to do light pads today.”

  “Red-shirt me,” Brad said.

  Ron threw him a red pinnie from the equipment bag, indicating that none of the other players were allowed to block or tackle him during practice. “First time I’ve ever seen you red-shirted,” he said.

  “First time I ever got beat up like that.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “GIs, Marines I think, but I never saw them before.”

  “We should get a bunch of the guys and lay in wait for them.”

  “Let’s just drop it,” Brad said, and they started their workout. Brad thought the ride over in the scooter was painful, but now he thought his arms were going to fall off as he started running. But soon the double dose of aspirin he took was kicking in, and he forgot about the pain.

  It was the most difficult practice Brad ever remembered since he started playing football, but he made it through it. He limped back to the scooter and loaded up. He seriously thought about skipping work, but he needed the money. A couple more aspirins would probably take the edge off enough for him to make it through work. He started up the scooter, readjusted the equipment bag on his shoulder one more time to find a more comfortable position, headed out of the parking spot toward the exit . . .

  . . . and before he could react, a car screeched backward out of its parking spot and crashed into the front of his scooter, traveling about ten miles an hour. Brad was thrown backward off the scooter from the weight of his equipment bag. The car kept on going, backing right over the scooter.

  “Hey, asshole!” Ron Spivey shouted, running up to Brad. The car was about fifteen feet away, revving its engine. He saw two guys in the front seat, both wearing sunglasses, both with baseball caps. The guy in the passenger side was yelling something that Ron couldn’t understand, gesturing with his right hand like a knife blade at the driver as if he was stabbing him. “Someone call the cops!” Ron shouted, and threw his football helmet at the car, cracking the windshield. More players ran toward them, shouting. The car suddenly shifted into gear and roared out of the parking lot. “Jesus, Brad, are you okay?”

  “I don’t know,” Brad said, holding his left leg.

  “Stay down, Brad,” Ron said. “I’m calling 911.” He pulled out his cell phone. “Man, that guy was haulin’ out of that parking space! What in hell was he doing? And he didn’t have any license plates either!”

  Brad felt a creaking and grinding when he tried to move his left leg, and the pain shot through his entire body all the way to the top of his head. “Shit, I hope it’s not broken,” he grunted through clenched teeth.

  “It’s just not your day, hombre,” Ron said. “First you get beat up, and then you get run over. What’s next for you, pal?”

  Brad didn’t even want to think about that.

  Andorsen Memorial Hospital, Battle Mountain, Nevada

  A short time later

  Timothy Dobson walked into the hospital room, noting that there were no other persons in the room except Patrick and Brad. Patrick was seated on Brad’s bed beside him; Brad had his left leg slightly elevated in a temporary cast, his left arm also in a temporary cast, and his torso wrapped. Patrick saw Dobson enter, and his face immediately filled with concern. “Hello, General,” Dobson said. “Hi, Brad.”

  “Tim? What’s going on?”

  Dobson turned and locked the door. “How are you, Brad?” he asked.

  “Okay.”

  “He’s lucky—no broken bones, just sprains, bruises, and scrapes,” Patrick said. “They’re keeping him overnight for observation. We’re waiting for X-rays on internal injuries.” Dobson nodded. “What’s up, Tim? Do you have information on who hit Brad?”

  “Not yet,” Dobson said. “We’ve got a good description of the car from witnesses, and we’re checking freeway, intersection, and security cameras. We’ll know something soon.” He looked at Brad. “Any idea who might have done this, Brad? Ever seen the car before?”

  “No.”

  Dobson nodded, a very somber look on his face. “While you were getting X-rays, Brad, your dad told me about getting beat up at the bowling alley last night.” Brad looked down at his hands. “I asked around, thinking the same guys that ran you over might have beat you up . . . but no one saw you at the bowling alley last night.”

  “Brad?” Patrick asked. “Why the story? Where were you last night?” Brad said nothing. “I said: Where were you?” He was getting angrier by the moment. “Damn it, Brad answer me! What the hell is going on?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why the hell not?” But Brad only kept his eyes averted. Patrick turned to Dobson. “Well?”

  “Maybe this is between you two, sir.”

  “Where was he, Dobson?”

  The agent hesitated for a moment, then said, “We tracked his cell-phone signals from your hangar . . . to the hangar the FBI is using on the base.”

  “What?” Patrick exclaimed. He whirled back to stare in astonishment at his son. “Why in hell would you go there?” Still no answer. “Damn it, Brad, I’d rather hear it from you than from Mr. Dobson, but I am going to hear what happened, one way or another. Were you arrested? What were you doing there?” No answer. Patrick jumped to his feet and yelled, “Answer me, damn it!”

  “I was told not to tell you,” Brad said. “They told me I’d be arrested and taken to jail in San Francisco if I told you.”

  “Jail? What are you talking about? Told me what?”

  Brad sniffed away a silent sob. Patrick knotted his fists, fighting to keep his anger in check. He whirled back to Dobson. “Well?”

  “His cell-phone records have a call last night to Special Agent Cassandra Renaldo from Homeland Security.”

  “Renaldo? You were going to meet Renaldo? What for?” Brad didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to—the whole thing was becoming clear to Patrick now. “Jesus, Brad, you were seeing Renaldo?” Brad nodded. “But you didn’t see her last night, did you?” Brad started to cry, his shoulders shaking. “Chastain and Brady? They did this to you?” His son was sobbing, and Patrick’s heart broke, spilling red-hot acidic fury through his veins. “What did they do to you?”

  “They thought I broke into the hangar and was going to steal their computers,” Brad said through the sobs. “They handcuffed me and searched me. Then they found the airsickness medicine Cassandra gave me and told me it was cocaine.” Patrick’s hands flew up to his eyes in horror. “They told me if I didn’t do as they said, they were going to arrest me and take me to jail in San Francisco, and you wouldn’t know where I was for days. They said I’d go to prison for a long time.”

  Patrick sat back down on the bed and hugged his son, letting him weep for several long moments. “What did they tell you to do, Brad?” he finally asked.

  “They . . . they told me to tell them what you were doing,” Brad said. “I was supposed to spy on you. I didn’t want to, Dad, but I didn’t want to go to prison, and I didn’t want Cassandra to get into trouble.”

  “It’s okay, Brad, it’s okay,”
Patrick said. “You’re not going to prison.”

  “I didn’t break into the hangar,” Brad said. “I didn’t try to burglarize the hangar. And it wasn’t cocaine, I swear!”

  “I said don’t worry, Brad,” Patrick said. “Don’t worry about Chastain, Renaldo, or Brady. They’re going to be gone from here shortly, and you won’t have to worry about them again.”

  “Cassandra?” Brad looked up at his father. “She . . . she was in on it, wasn’t she? She didn’t like me—it was all a setup to get me to spy on you.” He started to cry again. “Why am I such a dork, Dad?” he said, burying his face into Patrick’s chest. “I don’t know crap about anything!”

  “It’s not your fault, big guy,” Patrick said, holding his son closely again. “Brad, there are people out there who just victimize other people, take advantage of them for their own purposes, no matter how badly it hurts others. We have to learn to watch out for people like that and stop them whenever we can.” He took a deep breath, then said, “I know I wasn’t around for you much when I was in the Air Force and working outside, Brad, and even after we moved here, I wasn’t here for you as much as I should have been. I was pretending I was still in the Air Force, flying Civil Air Patrol and Angel Flight West missions, when what I should have been doing is being your dad and teaching you about scumbags like Chastain, Brady, and Renaldo. All that is going to change.”

  He stood up, touched Brad’s face, then laid him back on his pillow. To Dobson, he said, “Can you arrange protection for Brad, Tim?”

  “U.S. Marshals should be arriving in a few hours,” Dobson said. “I can stay with him until they get here. The vice president wants to move him to—”

  “We’re not leaving,” Patrick said. “We’re going hunting.” He pulled out his cell phone and started making calls.

  Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

  That night

  Brady and Renaldo were seated at the desk in the FBI hangar, watching the latest images on their laptops being transmitted from the FBI agents conducting video and photographic surveillance of the Knights of the True Republic’s compound; Chastain was in the communications room taking a nap. Brady heard a rattle on the main hangar door. “What was that?” he asked.