A Time for Patriots (16 page)

Patrick could easily sense what was going to happen next: Andorsen whirled, his hands knotted into fists, and he hit the deputy on the side of his head. The deputy must have sensed it also, because he almost managed to dodge away from the swing and received a glancing blow only.

“I told you, boy, I can't hold my arms up like that!” Andorsen shouted.

The deputy's SIG Sauer P226 semiautomatic sidearm was in his hands in the blink of an eye.
“Don't move!”
he shouted, the gun leveled at Andorsen's chest.
“Turn and get down on the ground!”

“I told you, son, I can't get down like that—it hurts too much,” Andorsen said, holding his hands out in plain sight but not raising them. “My name is Judah Andorsen. Get on your damned radio and tell your boss that—”

The deputy grabbed Andorsen by the front of his jacket and tugged backward, and as soon as Andorsen resisted by pulling away, the deputy put one leg between Andorsen's legs, shoved forward, and placed a toe behind Andorsen's heel, tripping him. As the deputy fell on top of Andorsen, he made sure one knee was in Andorsen's groin when they hit the ground. With Andorsen doubled up in pain and clutching his groin, it was easy for the deputy to holster his sidearm, grab a wrist, spin the man over on his stomach, wrestle the other wrist around, and snap handcuffs in place.

“Dispatch, Unit Five,” he radioed using his portable radio, breathing heavily, but more from excitement and adrenaline rush than exertion, “three in custody, Valmy Airport, notify FBI—”

And at that moment a black six-pack dually pickup truck raced up the dirt road toward the deputy, tires kicking up dirt and stones. It was followed by a Cadillac sedan. The dually screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust beside the police cruiser, the doors flew open, and six men jumped out and ran toward the deputy.

“Freeze!”
the deputy shouted. He knelt next to Andorsen and again put a hand on his sidearm. “Humboldt County Sheriff's Department making an arrest! All you men, get back in your truck,
now
!”

The six men stopped but did not retreat. “We're right here, Mr. Andorsen,” one of the men said. “What do you want us to do?”

“Tell these men to raise their hands and back away,” the deputy ordered.

“Back on up, Teddy,” Andorsen said into the dust. The six men immediately stepped backward to their pickup, their eyes on the sheriff's deputy and their boss the whole time.

“Dispatch, Unit Five, requesting backup, Valmy Airport,” the deputy radioed.

“Damn it, what do those guys think they're doing?” Leo asked from the backseat of the deputy's cruiser. “Were they trying to—”

“Holy shit!” Patrick said between clenched teeth. He looked over to the pickup . . . and noticed AR-15 assault rifles with sniperscopes being passed out from within the pickup, shielded from view. “Those guys have
guns
!”

“This is not good,” Leo whispered.

Patrick thought for a second, then shouted, “Judah, this is General Patrick McLanahan. Tell your men to put down their rifles.”

The sheriff's deputy leaped to his feet, dashed around the nose of the helicopter, drew his sidearm, pointed it toward the six men, and shouted,
“Show me your hands! Now!”

In a flash, the six men spread out about six yards apart from one another and dropped to the ground. Patrick counted four AR-15 rifles pointed at the deputy. These guys looked professional all the way, he thought. “I think it's your turn to drop your weapon and show us your hands, Deputy,” the man named Teddy shouted.

Three

If you will just start with the idea that this is a hard world, it will all be much simpler.

—Louis D. Brandeis, U.S. Supreme Court justice

Valmy, Nevada

“A
re they
crazy
?” Leo said. “They're drawing down on a sheriff's deputy!”

During this time, the Cadillac had pulled up to the scene, and a lone, short, balding man in a gray business suit got out and walked toward the helicopter, unbuttoning and then removing his jacket.
“Freeze!”
the deputy shouted.

The newcomer dropped his jacket to the ground and raised his hands. “I'm not armed, Deputy,” he said in a remarkably calm voice. “My name is Harold Cunningham, and I am Mr. Andorsen's attorney and counsel.” He looked up into his right hand, in which he was holding a cell phone. “I'm expecting a call from Sheriff Martinez, District Attorney Cauldwell, and County Commissioner Blane any minute now, Deputy, and you'll be receiving a call from the sheriff explaining what this is all about.”

“You just stay where you are and keep your hands where I can see them!” the deputy shouted back.

“Unit Five,” came the message from the deputy's portable radio.

The deputy keyed the mike button on his left shoulder: “Dispatch, Unit Five, three in custody, holding seven at gunpoint, repeat,
seven,
multiple weapons visible, request immediate backup, covers Code Three.” His voice was clearly fearful.

“Five, this is Sheriff Martinez,” came a different voice on the channel. “Mark, relax. This is all a big fat mix-up by the feds. That's Judah Andorsen you got there.”

“Sir, I've got four guys with rifles and two with handguns aimed at me,” the deputy radioed back to the obviously known person on the radio.

“They're Mr. Andorsen's security guys,” Martinez replied. “The feds have got everybody believing we've got terrorists running amok in Humboldt County. Just relax.”

“I'll relax as soon as these motherfuckers lower their guns, sir,” the deputy named Mark radioed.

“I'm on my way out there now, son,” Martinez radioed. “Just don't do anything until I get there.”

In the next ninety minutes, as the day grew hotter and hotter and thunderstorms began to build around them like sand monsters rising from the high desert, more and more cars arrived. After each new vehicle arrived, the man named Cunningham dialed another number, and more cars arrived. Before long, two FBI special agents showed up and took charge of the scene. By then, Andorsen's men had gotten back to their feet and had joined their boss around the helicopter, with their weapons in holsters or slung on their shoulders. The FBI agents stood by their car with sidearms leveled. “This is the FBI,” one of the agents shouted. “All of you men, drop your weapons and raise your hands.”

“I'm sorry, Special Agent Chastain,” the man named Cunningham said, “but I'm expecting a call from the deputy attorney general and the U.S. attorney in Reno. He'll straighten all this out for you.”

“How did Cunningham know his name?” Patrick asked in a low voice. He and Leo were still handcuffed in the back of the now-sweltering-hot sheriff's cruiser. “Neither FBI agent identified himself yet, right?”

“This is bizarro,” Leo said. “They've got everybody except the governor of Nevada and vice president of the United States out here.”

“I said, drop your weapons and raise your hands!” the special agent repeated. It was a surreal scene to Patrick: the Humboldt County sheriff and several deputies, the district attorney, a county commissioner, a high-ranking official from the Nevada Highway Patrol, and someone from the state of Nevada Attorney General's office, along with Andorsen's armed employees, were all standing around Andorsen's helicopter, being confronted by two FBI agents! The officials with Andorsen, Patrick noted with shock, were not only
not
arresting anyone, but were openly protecting and shielding him from federal law enforcement officers!

“You should be getting a call from Washington or the Nevada U.S. District Court any minute now, Special Agent Chastain,” Cunningham called out. “It should straighten this whole ugly incident out right away.”

“I'm warning all of you, drop your weapons and raise your hands!” the agent named Chastain repeated. But it was obvious that he was distracted by something.

“Boys, go ahead and put your guns down so Agent Chastain there can answer his phone,” Andorsen said with a wide grin. His men immediately laid their weapons on the ground so the FBI agents could clearly see them. “I'll bet it's a real important call. Don't you worry none about any of us, son—we ain't gonna move a muscle.”

With the other agent covering the odd group, Chastain pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket—and everyone could see his jaw drop in surprise when he read the caller ID. “Chastain,” he said. “Go ahead, sir . . . Yes, I'm in charge of this incident, the airspace violation and the . . . Excuse me, sir? . . . You're saying there was no violation because the airspace in this area had been cleared because of the Civil Air Patrol search-and-rescue operation?” Patrick could see Andorsen's grin become even wider. “But, sir, I was advised that the entire national airspace system is still shut down and . . . What, sir? . . . I see . . . All the airspace
except
for this particular area. So there
never
was any violation, even though the military controllers at Battle Mountain had . . . Yes, sir . . . Yes, yes . . . Yes, sir, right away.” The call ended abruptly. The agent named Chastain half turned to his partner and spoke in a low tone, and moments later he holstered his weapon.

“Sorry for the misunderstanding, sir,” Chastain said. “Have a nice day.” And just like that, both FBI agents climbed back into their car and drove off.

“Well, I'm glad that's taken care of,” Andorsen said as his men picked up their weapons and headed back to their truck. “Deputy, mind takin' those cuffs off my friends?” The deputy hustled to comply, and finally Patrick and Leo returned to the helicopter, rubbing sore wrists. “I apologize for the mix-up, guys, but it's all good now,” Andorsen said. He turned to the officials behind him. “I'm going to fly these gents for a little meeting back at the ranch, Patrick, so if you don't mind, I'm going to ask the deputy to drive you back to the ranch to get your plane. Don't worry about the airspace—you shouldn't have no more problems.” He stuck out a hand, and Patrick shook it. “It was a real honor meeting you, General, a real honor. I'll see you soon.” He shook hands with Leo and offered seats in his helicopter to the county and state officials by his side.

Patrick and Leo retrieved their flight bags—they had been unceremoniously dumped out of the helicopter by one of Andorsen's men—and walked in silent confusion back to the cruiser that they had been locked up in for the past two hours. Neither they nor the sheriff's deputy said anything for the ninety-minute-long ride back to Andorsen's airstrip. The helicopter was already there, as were a number of official-looking vehicles parked outside the ranch house.

“What just happened back there?” Patrick finally asked after they had been dropped off beside the CAP Cessna 182.

“I knew Andorsen was a big name around Nevada,” Leo said, “but I never realized
how
big. Call the sheriff? His man calls the district attorney. Call the Highway Patrol? He calls the Nevada attorney general. The FBI shows up? He's got the U.S. attorney general on speed dial. It looked as if that special agent saw his entire career flash before his eyes back there.”

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.”