A Time for Patriots (21 page)

“Let's take a look at one of your robots, Colonel,” Chastain said, ignoring Jon's remarks. Jon went up inside the C-57, and a moment later the left cargo bay opened and a container was lowered outside. At the same time the landing-gear struts extended, allowing the container to be pulled directly out from underneath the plane.

Richter went over to the container and unlocked the door, and he and Charlie pulled out an odd-looking gray object a little larger than a refrigerator—although it was a very large object, Chastain noticed neither of them had any trouble carrying it. The object resembled several dozen boxes of different shapes and sizes haphazardly stuck and stacked together. “That's
it
?” Chastain asked. “It has to be assembled first?”

“Not exactly,” Charlie said. She turned to the box she had just helped unload. “CID One, deploy.”

All of a sudden the object seemed to come alive. Piece by piece, the boxes shifted, folded out more pieces, shifted again, refolded and shifted yet again, and quickly it reconstructed itself into a twelve-foot-tall robot. When it finished unfolding itself, it adopted a sort of low crouch, like a hunter warming himself before a fire.

“The Cybernetic Infantry Device, or CID, version five,” Richter said. “We made it a bit taller but made it ten percent lighter, made the armor both stronger and lighter, increased the pressure in the microhydraulic system to boost actuator strength and performance, and miniaturized and improved the sensor suite. Battery life is slightly improved, and—”

“I don't need to hear the sales pitch, Colonel,” Chastain interrupted. “Let's see it work.”

Richter nodded at Charlie, who almost giggled with excitement as she spoke, “CID One, pilot up.” At that command the robot stood, crouched forward with its right leg stuck out straight behind it, and extended its arms backward. At the same time a hatch opened on the robot's back. Charlie climbed up the extended leg, using the leg like a ramp and the arms like railings. She then knelt down on the robot's back just outside the hatch, then started to enter the robot, legs first, followed by arms, and finally her head. When she was fully inside, the hatch closed. Nothing happened for several moments . . .

. . . and then suddenly the robot stood up, and it started hopping up and down, shaking its shoulders, and shadow-boxing with its immense arms and knotted fists like a boxer warming up and getting ready to step into a boxing ring. Chastain couldn't believe how fluid and humanlike it moved—it was nothing like any other robot he had ever seen in his life.

“Pretty cool, huh?” an electronically synthesized voice said. It had Turlock's phraseology, but definitely not her voice. “How do you like me now, Agent Chastain?”

“Amazing,” Chastain said. “How does she . . . er,
it
move like that?”

“Thousands of microhydraulic actuators being operated at increased pressure, acting like muscles and ligaments on multiaxis joints, responding to haptic commands using advanced processors,” Richter said. Chastain scowled at Richter, who was obviously trying to show up the FBI special agent. “A conventional robot might use one or two large hydraulic actuators to move a limb in one axis—up or down, left or right, in or out. The limbs on the CID are mounted on joints connected with powerful microhydraulic actuators that work completely different from human muscles. The CID has so many of these microactuators that some of its limbs can move in unhuman ways.” To demonstrate, Charlie rotated the lower part of the CID's left leg around in a complete circle.

“How strong is it?” one of the other agents asked.

“Let's find out,” Charlie said. She walked over to the C-57 Skytrain and carefully placed the CID's hands under the center of the left wing.

“Don't break my plane, Charlie,” Jon Masters warned.

“I'm doing it on the jack point, Jon, don't worry,” Charlie said. Moments later, they could all see the left strut begin to extend. Charlie moved the plane about four inches up before carefully letting it back down. “It registered about twenty thousand pounds before I got a limit warning.”

“It just lifted
ten tons
?” the agent exclaimed.

Charlie climbed out from under the wing. “How about I direct some of that power downward this time?” The CID crouched a bit, then flew upward about fifty feet, grasping onto the steel trusses overhead. “Hey, I think I can see my house from up here!” she deadpanned before dropping back to the concrete floor.

“The CID has survived drops from an aircraft exceeding two hundred feet in altitude and two hundred knots airspeed,” Richter said. “The previous version has survived RPG rounds and even thirty-millimeter cannon hits. It can operate underwater up to a hundred feet, and in a chemical, biological, and even radioactive environment for short periods. We can increase its effectiveness with packs that contain different weapons, sensors, even unmanned aircraft. It can—”

“Absolutely no weapons,” Chastain said firmly. “Director Fuller made that exceptionally clear, and I concur with his directive: the robot is not to be armed with any weapons. In fact, I don't even want it out in the open unless involved in an actual operation against armed extremists or terrorists and it's been determined that our capabilities might not be superior to theirs. As far as I'm concerned, it's for heavy lifting, and that's all.”

“That's a big mistake, Agent Chastain, but it's your call,” Richter said. He nodded to the robot, and in a few minutes Charlie had dismounted and stowed the robot back into its self-molded container. “The CID has thousands of advanced capabilities that can easily—”

“Richter, do me and yourself a big favor and shut the hell up,” Chastain interrupted. “I don't need your robot or its ‘thousands of advanced capabilities.' The FBI uses its own resources to investigate crime and make arrests, and if we use any outside agencies at all, they are directly controlled and supervised by the FBI, and function in a support role only.”

He looked at Whack. “You Macomber?” Whack nodded and scowled at Chastain. “You're here with the other setup, that electronic armor or whatever it is?”

“We call it ‘Tin Man,' ” Jon said. “Armor made of a special material that—”

“Masters, you just can't shut it off, can you?” Chastain interrupted. He looked at Whack dismissively. “I don't think we'll be needing it at all, if the robots work as advertised.” He looked at the folded-up robot. “Normally I wouldn't even accept military hardware, but with loose radioactive materials around, I will.” He motioned to one of the agents behind him. “That's why you will train Special Agent Brady in how to operate the CID.”

Both Richter and Turlock looked at Brady. “He's a little big for the CID,” Charlie said, looking directly at Brady's waistline. “It'll be a tight squeeze.” She motioned toward Renaldo. “She'll fit much better.”

“She's Homeland Security, not FBI,” Chastain said. He looked back at the other agents. “Savoy, front and center.” An agent stepped up beside Brady. He was much more trim, about a head shorter, and ten years younger than Brady, wearing rimless spectacles that made him look like a middle schooler. “You're going to train to operate the robot.”

“I'm C-Four-I, sir,” Savoy said, looking apprehensively at the folded-up robot. “I'm in charge of communications and computers—I don't know anything about robots.”

“You're the gadget geek, so you're going to learn. Besides, you get to work with Miss Turlock here.” Savoy gave Charlie a nod and a toothy grin. Chastain turned to Jon. “Now, what about the drones, Masters?”

“We're unloading them now and we can have them airborne tonight,” Jon said. “The Sparrowhawk series of unmanned aircraft are small, lightweight, but very capable—”

“ ‘Sparrowhawks'? What in hell are they?” Chastain asked derisively. “I thought I was getting Predators. I've been trained in Predator deployments for years.”

“Predators? Are you kidding me?” Jon responded with an incredulous roll of his eyes. “Predators were hot
five years
ago. True, they set the stage. But the technology has advanced way beyond Predators.” Chastain's expression told Jon he obviously didn't believe him. “Sky Masters, Inc., manufactures the next generation of unmanned aerial vehicles—smaller, lighter, easier to deploy, easier to manage, more autonomous—”

“I'm not interested in your sales pitch or the sweetheart deal you obviously got from your buddies in the White House or the Pentagon,” Chastain said. “Tell me what I have to work with here, or get them out of my face and away from me so I can do my job.”

“With pleasure, Special Agent,” Jon said. “The Sparrowhawk is designed for medium-altitude, high-resolution, long-range, long-endurance surveillance. It is small, easy to deploy, easy to program and flight-plan, and all-weather capable. You'll love it.”

“All I want is for it to be where I want, when I want, and look at what I want to look at,” Chastain said. “Let me know when they're ready to fly.”

“They'll be ready for a test flight tonight and should be ready to start patrolling tomorrow morning.”

Chastain blinked at this information, obviously not expecting them to be ready so soon—and not sure if he should believe Masters. “We'll see. Keep me informed.” He spun on a heel and walked away, followed by the others except for Savoy, who stayed with Charlie.

“So . . .” Savoy said uncomfortably. “I'm . . . ready to get started, I guess. Do you have a manual or training video I can use?”

“First things first,” Charlie said, “I need to know your first name.”

The FBI agent looked rather uncomfortable for a moment, then responded, “Randolph.”

“Randolph?” Jon asked.

“What do your friends call you, Randolph?” Charlie asked.

“Randolph.” He looked at the growing smiles of those around him and scowled, which made Jon's chuckling even more pronounced. “Is there a problem?”

“Not at all,” Charlie said, choking down her own snickering. “Randolph it is. Are you married? Single?”

“What does that have to do with training on the robot?”

“We're a small and pretty close-knit group here, Randolph,” Charlie said. “We like to know a lot about the folks that are assigned to work with us.”

“Do I get to know everything about you?”

“Of course. Ask away.”

Savoy looked skeptically at those around him, then said with a sigh of exasperation, “About those training manuals and videos, Miss Turlock?”

Charlie looked at Jon and Jason, shrugged, and put an arm around Savoy, turning him toward the folded-up CID unit. “We don't use no stinking books or videos like they did in the olden days, Randolph—we believe in on-the-job training around here. CID Four, pilot up,” she said. The robot immediately assumed the boarding stance. “If you're your unit's gadget guy, you should learn how the CID operates in . . . about a day.”

“A
day
?”

“Only if you're paying attention,” Charlie added with a smile. “Otherwise, it might take as long as two days. Now, if we were going into combat, everything might take an extra day or two to learn, but since you won't be using weapon packs, you should be fully checked out by this time tomorrow.” She motioned to the open hatch on the CID unit's back. “Hop on up there, Randolph, and let's get started.”

Five

There comes a moment when you have to stop revving up the car and shove it into gear.

—David J. Mahoney

Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

A few days later

R
on Spivey strode into the Civil Air Patrol hangar wearing a football jersey, shorts, running shoes, and carrying a backpack. He found Bradley McLanahan and Ralph Markham at a table. Ralph was in a CAP camouflage field uniform, but for the first time he saw Brad wearing a green Air Force–style Nomex flight suit. They had a stack of manuals on the table, along with sign-off forms. “Where the hell were you, McLanahan?” Ron shouted as he came over to the table. “You're the only guy on the defensive squad that didn't show for the workout.”

“I told you, Ron—I couldn't make it because I'm getting my first ride as mission scanner,” Brad replied. “With the current air emergency, we got an ‘A' mission number, so I get to go for real.” An “A” mission was one assigned and paid for by the Air Force for a specific task.

“Oh yeah—it's your birthday today. Happy birthday,” Ron said tonelessly. “You get to start training to fly as a scanner for real. So why aren't you flying?”

“I'm waiting to be briefed. I thought I'd help Ralph with his reading assignments for summer school.”

“Why doesn't Marky do his own reading?”

“You know he has a little trouble reading,” Brad said. “But if you read it to him first and then help him through it, he picks it up pretty quick.”

“We'd all like someone to spoon-feed us,” Ron said. “But you're still a cocaptain on the football team, so you've got to set a fucking example. You gotta do five miles every day plus wind sprints, and an hour in the weight room until football training-season starts. No excuses. And we train as a damned team. If you don't show up, other guys won't show, and pretty soon everyone is fucking around doing their own so-called training routine, which turns out to be nothing but
dick
.”

“I know,” Brad said. “I won't miss any more. But I didn't want to miss out on an ‘A' mission.”

“Well, get your fucking priorities straight,” Ron said acidly. “I was at practice, and now I'm here, and tonight I'll be on the FedEx ramp in Elko loading and unloading planes, and after that I'll be at the AM/PM out there in Elko hoping I won't get held up and the drunks won't set the gas pumps on fire.”

“You got a job at the AM/PM in Elko too? You have
two
night jobs?”

“My mom's boyfriend knows somebody,” Ron said. “It doesn't matter. If I can do it, you can fucking do it. Just get your rear in gear and do what you said you'd do, or get the hell out of the way.” And he stormed off.

“Wow, he was sure mad,” Ralph remarked.

“I didn't realize he was working so much,” Brad said. “He's probably beat, driving all the way out to Elko and back. He works part-time afternoons at the Walmart too, at least until school starts.”

“Why is he working so much?”

“Helping out at home, I guess,” Brad replied. “He doesn't talk about it much, after his Dad left and all. I know he likes to take his girlfriend out a lot too.”

“I'm never going to have a girlfriend,” Ralph announced.

“You say that now, but in a year it'll be totally different,” Brad said.

“
You
don't have a girlfriend. You're a pilot, and you're on the football team, but you don't have a girlfriend.”

“I have friends that happen to be girls,” Brad said, surprised at how uneasy he felt, “but . . . I don't know. Lots of reasons. Girls don't like special-team guys like they do quarterbacks and linebackers; I'm not a private pilot yet, so I can't take girls on rides; I'm fairly new in school, and . . . I don't know, dating is just not high on my list right now. I'm thinking about college, and scholarships.”

Ralph sighed. “I wish I could go to college.”

“You can. We just need to work on your reading. You're a smart guy—you just don't learn like other kids.”

“I get tested every year in school. They say I'm like a fourth grader.”

“That's compared to other students in school,” Brad said. “But how many kids you know can do all the first aid, orienteering, and fieldwork you do? How many kids can pick up a complex adult video game and figure out how to ace it in just a couple hours? Heck, how many kids do you know that have any idea what the one-in-sixty rule is?”

“But that's easy.”

“It wasn't when you started. I remember when I first tried to teach you land navigation and how to read a map and compass—you just didn't have a clue. But you're a visual learner.”

“What's that?”

“You find it easier to learn by watching and doing rather than by reading a book or listening to a lecture,” Brad explained. “We tried to teach you map reading in a classroom for weeks and you never got it—you gave up several times. But once we took you out in the field, you learned to visualize the map with the actual terrain features, and once you got a compass in your hand and laid it on a map in the field, it all clicked. Same with video games or computers: you can read the instructions for a week and never get it, but we sit you down in front of one and just let you explore it, and soon you have it down cold.”

“But games and computers are easy,” Ralph repeated. “So why is school so hard?”

“Because traditional school is the same as it was in ancient Greece thousands of years ago—it's listening to lectures in a classroom and reading books,” Brad said. “But that's not always the best way to learn. You think the Paiute Indian boys learned how to hunt in a
classroom
? The braves took the young boys out in the hills and showed them how to hunt elk and bighorn sheep. If they failed, they didn't get an F—the tribe didn't eat. You have to find the best way to teach a person, and it's not always in a classroom. It depends on the student and the subject matter, I guess.”

Ralph nodded, then said, “I remember the land-navigation courses you taught. They were prerequisites for the fieldwork. I never passed any of the exams.”

“No, you didn't.”

“Then how did I get to go into the field?”

“Because I signed you off anyway.”

“You did? But why?”

“Because I had a feeling you could learn that stuff if we just got you out there and showed it to you,” Brad said. “I'm kind of a visual learner too. Take flying: I can muddle through the classroom stuff and squeak by on the exams, but I really don't learn anything about flying until I get behind the controls. Then all the classroom stuff makes sense. If you didn't pick it up in the field, I'd go to the squadron commander and explain what I did. But you did it.”

Ralph nodded and was silent for a few moments, then asked, “So if you're a visual learner like me, sir—why do you want to go to a traditional college?”

Brad opened his mouth to reply . . . then realized he didn't have an answer. But thankfully just then Jon Masters came up to the table. “Hey, there's the birthday boy!” he greeted him loudly. Brad stood and held out a hand. Jon shook it, then spun Brad around and spanked him eighteen times, plus a last hard one for good luck. “I'm not too old, and you're not yet so big, that I can't give you a proper birthday greeting!”

“Thanks, Uncle Jon,” Brad said. “Uncle Jon, this is Cadet Markham. Ralph, meet Dr. Jon Masters.”

“The one that led the search and treated the survivor of that plane crash? Very nice to meet you.” They shook hands. “They tell me you're quite the video-game expert.”

“I'm a visual learner, sir,” Ralph said proudly.

“I see,” Jon said. “Well, hopefully while I'm here I can show you some stuff that you might just find is right up your alley.”

“Like what, Uncle Jon?” Brad asked.

Jon put a finger to his lips and winked. “Hush-hush, need-to-know, super-duper secret, all that happy horseshi—well, you get the idea,” Jon said. “I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.”

“Really?”
Ralph gasped.

“Not really, Ralph, but I like saying that,” Jon said, smiling. “But, I am here to tell you that your sortie this afternoon has been canceled.” Brad's shoulders slumped. “I feel bad, because my stuff has something to do with it, and I know it was going to be your first mission as the guy who sits in back and looks out the window for stuff.”

“Mission scanner.”

“Right. So to make it up to you, I got you a present. I gave it to your dad.”

“Thank you!” Brad said excitedly. Jon Masters's gifts were always weird, highly unusual, and one-of-a-kind high-tech gadgets. “When do I get it?”

“As soon as your dad gets off the computer, which might not be until you're thirty,” Jon said with a smile. “In the meantime, if you guys are done here, why don't you show me your Civil Air Patrol plane.”

“Sure!” Brad said excitedly. He ran to the communications room and retrieved the airplane's keys, then escorted Jon and Ralph to the Cessna 182 parked outside. “This is a Cessna 182R Skylane, built in 1984,” he began proudly as they walked up to the red, white, and blue airplane. “It is a four-place, high-wing, single-engine monoplane, constructed mostly of aluminum with some fiberglass components. It is powered by a two-hundred-and-thirty-horsepower normally aspirated piston engine. It has a max gross weight of about three thousand pounds, cruises at about one hundred and forty knots, and has a maximum endurance of about four hours with an hour's fuel reserve.”

“ ‘Normally aspirated piston engine'? ‘One hundred and forty knots'?” Jon Masters asked incredulously. “Who uses piston engines anymore? It runs on avgas? I didn't think there were any planes that ran on avgas anymore! And I have unmanned aircraft I can carry in a backpack that can fly twice as fast!”

“The 182 is a good aircraft for the mission, Uncle Jon: good-weather, short-range, short-endurance, low-altitude, low-speed search-and-rescue, flown by civilian volunteers,” Brad said. “We have other planes that fly other missions. The Civil Air Patrol is the largest single operator of 182s in the world, with a fleet of more than five hundred.”

“A fleet of dinosaurs, if you ask me,” Jon said. “The plane is almost thirty years old!”

“They're introducing newer planes into the fleet as the older ones reach a certain airframe time limit,” Brad said. “We were slated to get a glass-cockpit turbo 182 this year. That was canceled because of the economy and all the cutbacks. Maybe we'll get it when the recession is over.”

“Or maybe get something better,” Jon mused.

“There's nothing better than a trusty 182—maybe a turbo 182 with a glass cockpit,” Brad said. He unlocked the pilot's-side door, then opened the passenger-side door from inside. “We still use the original instruments.”

“Holy cats—I'll say you do!” Jon exclaimed, his eyes wide in wonder as he scanned the faded Royalite plastic instrument panel. “I can't remember the last time I saw round steam gauges!” He pointed at the GPS device. “Jeez, that GPS manufacturer hasn't been in business in fifteen years! And . . . and is that an FM simplex radio?”

“The radio operates both in simplex and repeater functions,” Brad explained. “CAP operates about five hundred repeater stations around the country to provide communications over a wide area, hostile terrain, or when conventional communications like telephone and the Internet are knocked out.”

“Wow—I didn't realize you guys did what you do with such . . . outdated stuff,” Jon exclaimed. “I guess your major tool is the old Mark One eyeball, eh?”

“We have a Gippsland GA-8 with the ARCHER hyperspectral sensor—that's probably the most high-tech plane in the fleet,” Brad said. “Back in the Vegas squadron they were able to send digital photos from the planes via satellite, but we don't do that here.”

“It would be easy enough to do,” Jon mused again. Brad could always tell when his uncle's mind began working a problem, same as his dad: they got this faraway look, as if they were looking through the earth back onto their lab bench or computer, already experimenting and planning. “The transceiver weighs less than a sack lunch. You could even do two-way voice, data, and text.”

“That would be cool,” Ralph said.

“Look at that—vacuum-powered gyroscopic gauges . . . a wet compass . . . carburetor heat . . . my God, an L-Tronics Model LA direction finder,” Jon muttered in disbelief. “Those were built in Santa Barbara, California, by hand practically by one guy, years ago. He was my hero. The guy literally transformed the nation with his gadgets.”

“Most of the time the stuff works pretty well,” Brad said. “And the plane flies great.”

“You've flown it?”

“You bet I did,” Brad said. “Ralph too. Every CAP cadet gets five powered and five glider orientation rides. It's part of CAP's aerospace education program. We're not allowed to do takeoffs and landings in CAP airplanes, but I've done steep turns, stalls, and slow flight.”

“I didn't realize the Civil Air Patrol did all that stuff with these planes,” Jon said. “Actually, I never thought about it. So when do you get to pilot one of these hot rods, Brad?”

“Not for a while,” Brad said. “I'll train to be a mission scanner, get two supervised flights, then train to be a mission observer. Meanwhile, I have to get my private pilot's license and get a hundred and fifty hours of pilot-in-command time. Then I can train to take a CAP Form 5 check ride, which is like an annual flight review. Once I pass that, I get two supervised flights in the left seat with a crew, followed by a CAP Form 91 evaluation.”

“Sheesh, it sounds worse than the Air Force,” Jon remarked. “They really make you jump through some hoops, don't they?”