by Dale Brown
“Because the press likes controversy, and no one wants to take on an ex-president,” Patrick said. “Listen, I’ve been looking over the sensor images, and I see a bunch of flags that I think we need to take a look at.”
“Where?”
“One of the Andorsen mines down near Mount Callahan.”
“Freedom-7,” David said. “Me and Fid go hunting down near there every year. I’ve got work all day tomorrow, but I’ll ask Leif if he wants to go—he knows that area better than I do. I’ll have him take Fid along if he’s available. The guy’s been asking all over town about a job—maybe a ride will cheer him up.”
“Thanks, David. I’ll e-mail the images of the area the computer flagged to Leif. Let me know what he finds.”
“Will do. Sorry about your trailer. If you need anything at all, just holler.”
“Thank you. I will.”
Patrick felt as if he had only gotten a couple minutes’ sleep when he heard a loud pounding on his office door. When he opened the door, he found FBI special agent Chastain and two other agents with jackets emblazoned with FBI. “Executing the warrant to search your office, McLanahan,” he said, pushing past Patrick into the room.
“You searched it yesterday.”
“I’m searching it again.” He stepped past Brad and went right over to the desk. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the laptop computer.
“I want my attorney before I’ll answer any questions,” Patrick said.
“You’ll need one, mister,” Chastain said. He found the collection of flash drives and stared at Patrick angrily. “Withholding evidence? Putting you away will be a slam dunk, McLanahan.” He and the other agents collected the laptop and flash drives, quickly searched the desk, then departed.
“What did he mean, ‘withholding evidence,’ Dad?” Brad asked.
“We didn’t withhold anything, big guy,” Patrick said. “The flash drives are just backups—they have the same data as the laptops they seized. And the laptop is new—we just bought it yesterday. He’s trying to intimidate us, Brad—that’s how he operates. He makes people feel afraid so they’ll either talk when they’re not supposed to, or start to lie, and then he’s got you.” Patrick had a troubled look on his face; he shook it off a few moments later, then clapped his hands. “Well, we’re up, so we might as well get moving.”
After breakfast at the nearly deserted base-exchange cafeteria, they went past the front gate back out to the housing area. J. Andorsen Construction crews were busy repairing the highway from the deadly bomb blast that seemed like an eternity ago but in fact was only two days. A security-forces cruiser was parked just in back of the entrance, and Patrick noticed an unmanned Avenger parked behind the former data-processing center about a quarter of a mile away.
At the taped-off investigation-scene boundary, which was a couple blocks away from where his trailer used to be, Patrick found the deputy fire chief. “Any information on the explosive, Chief?” he asked.
“Preliminarily, they’re saying it was RDX, General,” the fire chief said after checking around to see who might be in earshot—obviously he wasn’t supposed to be sharing information with anyone. “Pretty common explosive in the military and industry, fairly easy to handle, easy to mix with plasticizing materials, easy to store—a favorite with terrorists. They say it was about three pounds, based on the blast radius. They haven’t found the trigger device but it’s a good bet it was a remote detonator, probably using a cell phone. It was probably tossed out of a vehicle—they’re checking surveillance videos. It looks like they weren’t sure which trailer was yours, because the trailers near yours were vacant where the blast occurred; since you were away also, they might’ve been confused.” He looked at Patrick, concern evident on his face. “Looks like you have some pretty serious enemies, General.”
“The list is pretty long, Chief,” Patrick said. “By the way: you haven’t seen that woman I was with yesterday around here, have you?”
“Sorry, General.”
Patrick nodded his thanks and departed.
They drove the ten miles to town, checking the bus terminal, casinos, motels, and hospital, hoping to see Gia somewhere, but still no luck, so they headed back to the base. After they arrived at his office, he took a phone call: “Hi, Patrick, Darrow here,” Darrow Horton said. “I’m on my way to Reno to talk with the U.S. attorney in person, and I should be in Battle Mountain by seven P.M. I’m bringing a couple of associates. Can you get us rooms somewhere?”
“Sure—I’ll put you up right here on base at the transient lodging facility. It’s just as nice as the casino hotels in town, and the all-ranks club has great food and is begging for business,” Patrick said. “It’ll be nice to see you. What’s going on?”
“Based on my discussions with the U.S. attorney, I think he’s reluctant to indict you,” Darrow said. “I’m pushing for probation and a fine in exchange for a misdemeanor plea, but he’s getting pressure from guys like former president Gardner to push for a felony prosecution. So I’m going to apply a little pressure of my own:
“Jon Masters has arranged to fly in to Battle Mountain to surrender his equipment to the FBI tomorrow morning,” she went on. “I’ve called a news conference with you, me, Jon, Brad, the robot, and the Tin Man, and we’re going to explain our side of the story and tell what crazy, irresponsible, and probably illegal foolishness the FBI has been doing out there. I want to tell the whole story, right from the very beginning—how the FBI was supposed to be going after extremists and ended up going after you instead, through Brad. I’m hoping the U.S. attorney will drop the case today after I tell him what I’m going to do, but if he doesn’t, we’ll smear Chastain and his goons all over the breaking-news segment on every TV channel in the country. All the networks and cable news channels will be there.”
“Sounds good to me,” Patrick said. “I’m ready and anxious to tell my side of the story to a judge, but I’m more than happy to tell it in front of news cameras too.”
“You bet we will,” Darrow said. “We’ll be in their face every week polluting the jury pool until the trial starts. We’ll make everyone in America thinks Gardner has a vendetta against you—which he probably does.
“Now, I probably can’t protect you from what the Tin Man and CID did to those agents, and we might even be facing a felony plea, but I think we can avoid confinement,” Darrow went on. “My plan is to have you admit that the Tin Man and CID were operating under your orders—I’m not even referring to the operators as persons. The U.S. attorney would rather focus on you than Macomber and Turlock, although they might get misdemeanor charges as well.”
“I agree,” Patrick said. “They were definitely following my orders.”
“But you were protecting yourself and protecting your son from Chastain and Brady, the best way you knew how. Good. It’ll be easy to make them the bad guys and the robot and Tin Man the defenders. So, how’s Gia? Am I finally going to meet this woman?”
“She left sometime yesterday morning, after we got back from Scottsdale. I think seeing the trailer destroyed was too much for her.”
“I’m sorry. Try not to let her distract you too much. Tomorrow will be a big day.”
“Okay. Give me a call when you get close and I’ll meet you at the front gate.”
“Can’t wait to see you again, Patrick,” Darrow said, and she sounded very sincere about that.
Toiyabe Range near Mount Callahan, Central Nevada
That same time
“Well, I can’t see anything from here,” Leif Delamar said. Leif was a retired mail carrier and avid hunter, and his rugged six-foot-five frame, creased face, and weathered hands were living portraits of his longtime love for the outdoors. He was looking through a pair of binoculars at the base of Judah Andorsen’s Freedom-7 mine. He and Michael Fitzgerald were in Leif’s Land Rover about a half mile from the mine at a barbed-wire fence that marked the edge of Andorsen’s land. He handed the binoculars to Michael. “What do yo
u see, Fid?”
Michael searched for a few minutes, then lowered the binoculars and gave them back. “Nothing. Looks like business as usual.”
Leif studied the printout he made of the computer image, rotating the page so it was oriented the same way they were facing, then started tracing the different roads snaking up and down the face of the open-pit mine. “Okay, I see the two main truck roads going in,” he said, “and the west terraces here.”
“They’re called ‘benches,’ ” Michael said.
“Well, aren’t we the mining expert today?” Leif quipped. “Anyway, I see the haul roads, and the benches, and . . .” He picked up the binoculars and looked again. “I see a couple tunnels built into the sides of the pit. Do you know what they’re for?”
“Usually they’re just relief bores to keep water from loosening the rock,” Michael said. “They sometimes reinforce the walls with cables or shotcrete from inside the bores. If this mine ends up becoming a landfill in the future—most of them do—they also have to dig drainage tunnels to keep the pit from becoming a lake.”
“You are just a veritable font of fascinating information this morning, Fid,” Leif said. He focused in on one of the bores indicated as an activity spot on the printout. “Well, those bores look pretty big—almost like tunnels. I do see a lot of water coming out, and . . . hey, I think I see a couple cars lined up near one of those bores.” He looked more carefully. “Why, I think one of those cars is a sheriff’s cruiser.”
“What?” Fid took the glasses and looked. “It sure does. What in heck is the sheriff doing down in an open-pit mine?”
“Doing his job, I hope,” Leif said. “That’s the first sheriff’s car I’ve seen in days. Very weird.” He took the glasses back. “I don’t see anything else all that unusual. Maybe the sheriff is investigating something they found inside the bore, or they’re . . . holy shit!”
“What?”
“There’s a panel truck coming out of that bore!” Leif said. He studied the scene carefully for a few moments, tracking the newcomer, then exclaimed, “It’s a blue Air Force maintenance truck!”
“A what?” Michael said.
“It’s one of those big blue Air Force ‘bread trucks’ we see all the time on the flight line,” Leif said. “The ones usually driven by the maintenance supervisor. Now what in heck would . . . ?” At that moment Leif was interrupted by the sound of a vehicle driving up the dirt road behind them. It was a two-door Jeep Wrangler, with two men aboard.
“Looks like a couple of Andorsen’s guys,” Michael said. “No sweat—we’re not on Andorsen’s property here.”
Leif lowered the binoculars, folded up the image printout, stuffed it in a pocket, and watched the Jeep approach. It roared to a stop a few yards away, and the passenger got out while the driver started talking on the radio. “Hey, guys,” Leif said. “We’re just out here checking deer trails. What’s going on?”
The passenger walked up to Leif and Michael, pulled a .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol from a hidden holster, and fired two shots.
Joint Air Base Battle Mountain
The next morning
The cameras were rolling and the media crews were ready as the C-57 Skytrain II glided in for a landing and taxied over to where the podium was set up outside the Civil Air Patrol hangar. It shut down engines, the landing gear extended to make room underneath the plane to unload cargo, and the cargo-bay doors opened. Meanwhile Jon Masters walked out of the belly hatch and came over to the podium, followed by Wayne Macomber, wearing the Tin Man armor but carrying his helmet in the crook of an arm. Behind them, Jason Richter and Charlie Turlock retrieved the folded Cybernetic Infantry Device and carried it over to the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Dr. Jonathan Masters of Sky Masters, Inc., a major American defense contractor and aerospace engineering firm,” Darrow Horton said into the microphones. Beside her were Patrick and Brad McLanahan, already at the podium. “He is here complying with an order from a federal judge in Reno to surrender this aircraft, various electronic components, computers and storage media, and these two pieces of technology: the Tin Man armor system, being worn by Mr. Wayne Macomber of Sky Masters, Inc., and this: the Cybernetic Infantry Device manned robot, of which I think you’re aware after one was attacked by extremists several days ago while on an FBI assignment.”
Darrow nodded to Charlie, who then began to speak: “CID One, deploy.” The large case began to move, and in seconds it had unfolded itself into the crouching robot. The reporters gasped in astonishment as Charlie spoke again: “CID One, pilot up,” and it assumed the boarding position.
“This is Miss Charlie Turlock, an engineer who works at Sky Masters, Inc., who was piloting the robot when it came to General McLanahan’s assistance against Agents Chastain, Brady, and Renaldo,” Darrow went on. “They are all here to cooperate with the FBI investigations into the bombing outside this base, as well as the allegations made against General McLanahan that he was conducting illegal spying operations against local citizens, and the even further heinous allegation by former president Gardner that the president of the United States ordered General McLanahan to undertake these flight missions.
“But make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen: we are not here to be bullied into submitting to frivolous and intimidating activities by the FBI or by inflammatory accusations and outright lies by Mr. Gardner,” Darrow went on. “First, we completely reject the idea that Special Agent Chastain return to Battle Mountain to conduct these investigations, in light of what happened here when General McLanahan defended himself and his son, Bradley, against the malicious actions of Agents Chastain, Brady, and Renaldo. He’s here because he wants revenge on General McLanahan, and that is unacceptable. We call on the FBI to immediately assign another lead investigator.”
While Darrow spoke, an Avenger security vehicle and a maintenance vehicle had arrived at the C-57, parking near the Skytrain’s tail, keeping a distance while the press conference was going on but ready to service the Skytrain if necessary. The arrival of both vehicles got Jon Masters’s attention—no one got near his planes unless he knew about it, especially ones with guns and missiles on it.
“Second, it is completely unclear why the FBI has ordered the seizure of Dr. Masters’s aircraft and these two defensive systems, the Tin Man and the Cybernetic Infantry Device,” Darrow went on. “They were not involved in either occurrence and are completely outside the purview of this investigation—Dr. Masters merely sold and installed the sensors that General McLanahan and his friends used on their private aircraft for personal reasons. Again, the FBI is using this opportunity to punish Dr. Masters, Mr. Macomber, and Miss Turlock for their previous actions, and that is completely unacceptable.
“I would like to invite General Patrick McLanahan to make a statement,” Darrow continued. “As you all very well know, Lieutenant-General McLanahan is a retired veteran with twenty years of service in the United States Air Force, rising to the rank of three-star general. He has long proved himself the champion of the American people and of the cause of justice in every corner of the globe. Even when faced with tremendous odds and strong opponents, General McLanahan has consistently and unerringly taken the challenge upon himself, and he has taken the fight to the enemy, protecting our country, our people, and our allies from certain destruction.
“In retirement, General McLanahan’s main job is raising his son, Bradley. But he also serves as a volunteer mission pilot for the Civil Air Patrol, the U.S. Air Force auxiliary, as does Bradley, and both were recently credited with a find and a rescue of an airplane crash victim. General McLanahan also performs charity medical flights for Angel Flight West, helping needy medical patients get lifesaving treatment free of charge. His is still serving his country and his community to this day. Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present my client and a genuine American hero, General Patrick McLanahan.”
As Patrick took the dais, the Avenger air-defense vehicle suddenly moved its gun and missi
le turret from a stowed position to unstowed, and it began to move toward the C-57 Skytrain. Jon Masters turned and walked toward the aircraft.
“Jon, where are you going?” Charlie whispered.
“Why is that thing heading toward my plane?” Jon asked. “Whoever’s driving that thing better be careful.”
“It can wait, Jon.”
“He should have a wing walker out there. I’ll be right—” Suddenly the Avenger roared off at high speed toward the Skytrain. “Hey!” Jon shouted. “Watch out!”
Patrick turned and saw a blue Air Force maintenance van racing down a taxiway at very high speed, heading right for them! “What the . . . ?” At that instant, the Avenger’s twenty-millimeter Gatling gun opened fire on the van. The audience screamed at the impossibly loud BRRZZZZZZZ! sound erupting from just a few yards away. Patrick waved at the audience. “Get back!” he shouted. “Back toward the hangar! Run!”
“Jon, get back here!” Charlie shouted, and she dashed off after him. Jon had run all the way to the Skytrain’s left wingtip, waving at the Avenger. “Jon!”
“What’s he trying to do—rip my airplane to shreds?” Jon shouted, pointing at the Avenger as heavy-caliber rounds continued to pour from the cannon. That’s when he noticed the maintenance van heading toward him, faster and faster. “Hey, what’s that van doing? Someone tell that jerk to steer away from—”
The heavy machine-gun rounds ripped into the van. Tires and glass exploded, and something inside the engine compartment detonated, blowing the hood completely off.
“Get down! Everybody get down!” Patrick shouted, and he grabbed Darrow and Brad and pulled them down to the tarmac . . .
. . . just as the van exploded in a gigantic fireball, less than a hundred yards away.
Base Medical Clinic, Joint Air Base Battle Mountain
Several hours later
David Bellville walked into the waiting room of the small base clinic, dressed in scrubs and removing a surgical mask, cap, and latex gloves. The room was packed with people: some looked seriously hurt, with bandaged faces and limbs, while others had less serious wounds. He came over to where Patrick, Brad, Whack, and Darrow were standing, along with Rob Spara and John de Carteret, who had arrived at the clinic shortly after the blast. Three of them had some cuts and scrapes, and their clothing was burned in places; Whack was still in the Tin Man armor, but had suffered some burns on his face. “Hey, Patrick,” David said.