A Time for Patriots (26 page)

Brad stood there, still frozen, until he heard Renaldo's car door slam and the engine start up . . . and when he was able to move, he found his legs as weak and rubbery as straws.

How in the world, he thought after a long breathless moment, am I going to get anything else done today . . . with no damned blood above my
waist
?

Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

Four days later

“I
'd say that was a very successful first deployment,” Jon Masters said. He had just ordered the first Sparrowhawk remotely piloted aircraft back to base, and the second was en route to take up the surveillance orbit. “Almost five straight days on station, and we gathered a ton of useful data on the routine in that compound.”

“But we don't know anything more than we did five days ago,” Special Agent Chastain grumbled.

“We know a
lot
more,” Jon said. “If there's any meaningful change in the routine, we'll know about it right away, and we can launch a Sparrowhawk to follow up. Any change in the number of residents, new vehicles, large meetings, new construction, any new fortifications, even changes in temperature of individual buildings—the computer will notify us.”

“I wish we could identify some of those individuals down there,” the agent named Brady said.

“We're working on face-recognition capabilities for some of our remotely piloted aircraft,” Jon said. “Ten thousand feet and overhead is not a good position to get a good shot of a face, but an unmanned plane at a lower altitude and standing off would have a better angle at a face. After that, it's just biometric comparison done by computer—we've been doing that for years.”

“You're always with the damned sales pitch, Masters,” Chastain snapped, “but we've been sitting here for four damned days and we haven't seen a thing that helps our investigation.” He studied the laptop monitors. “If we flew the drone lower, we'd get better resolution on these pictures, right?”

“The sensors are optimized for ten thousand feet aboveground,” Jon replied. “The resolution will always be better the lower you go, but usually we go for the best resolution at a higher altitude, not lower. The lower you go, the more likely it is for your target to spot the aircraft. We also have problems with data transmission and interference from local radio and TV broadcasts, not to mention having to think about terrain and obstacle avoidance. We usually—”

“I'm not interested in what you ‘usually' do, Masters,” Chastain said. “I'm only interested in results. Fly the drone at ten thousand feet.”

“But . . . that's less than a mile aboveground,” Jon said. “Most folks can see large aircraft quite easily if they're less than a mile up.”

“No, they can't.”

“And ten thousand is the minimum en route altitude for the Victor-113 airway,” Jeff the aircraft control technician chimed in. “Any small aircraft flying the airway heading southwest will pick ten thousand feet.”

“We've been flying the drone right on the damned airway for five days and we've had to move it . . . what, twice?” Chastain argued. “And even if we didn't move the drone, it would've missed the other traffic by miles. There's no traffic up there we need to worry about. Fly the drone at eleven thousand.”

“That puts it right at the altitude that northeast-bound traffic flies,” Jeff said.

“Then add five hundred feet, or six hundred, I don't care, just
do it
!” Chastain snapped. “I'm tired of you eggheads arguing with me. Change the altitude, and do it
now,
or I'll recommend to Washington that we get someone else to do the job.” Jon nodded to Jeff, who put in the commands on the laptop. “When does the first drone return to our airspace?”

“In about twenty minutes.”

“Make sure the airspace is closed down again, and fly the thing so it stays away from populated areas,” Chastain said. “We'll have it orbit inside protected airspace until dark, then land it.” Jeff selected North Peak, about fifteen miles west of Battle Mountain and clear of all airways, to orbit the Sparrowhawk, and he was careful to turn on its transponder beacon to help air traffic control steer other aircraft away from it. Jon contacted air traffic control and advised them of the orbiting unmanned aircraft.

Time passed much as it had done the previous four days. With both Sparrowhawks flying, Charlie Turlock was able to use the interior of the hangar during the daytime to help Agent Randolph Savoy train in the Cybernetic Infantry Device robots, and as she expected, he was a very fast learner; at night, they trained outdoors. Wayne Macomber watched, but kept to himself most of the time, using rubber cables to keep up with his rehabilitation exercises. “Any questions, Randolph?” Charlie asked after their last session ended.

“None,” Savoy said. “You were right: it's pretty intuitive and straightforward to learn how to pilot these things.” The other agents looked over and shook their heads at the sight of the two massive mechanical humanoids conversing in electronic voices, as if they were acquaintances who had just met on the street.

“The whole idea was to issue CID robots to young, qualified soldiers right out of basic training, so it had to be easy to learn,” Charlie said. “Combat training is a whole different story: the basic combat course is two months, and each weapon backpack is another two weeks, plus range time. But if we had the funding, we could field an army of CIDs.” She stepped over to the storage container, climbed out, then initiated the refolding and stowage sequences, and Savoy did likewise. “Now I guess we wait to see what they find at that Knight compound.”

The images from the second Sparrowhawk orbiting at the lower altitude were indeed much better, and now the federal agents crowded around the wide-screen laptop, studying the compound carefully. “Look at the heavy weapons those guys have in there,” the agent named Brady said, pointing at the screen. “There's at least four machine-gun squads right there.”

“Looks like they're getting ready for something,” Chastain said. “Looks like we might need the robots after . . .” Just then, the image went blank. “What happened?”

“I told you that might happen,” Jon Masters said. “The lower altitude means more interference.” They waited, but the image did not reappear.

“Jon, we might have a problem—I'm not getting flight data from Sparrowhawk Two,” Jeff said. “We might have lost satellite contact.”

“What the hell does that mean, Masters?” Chastain asked impatiently.

“It's no big deal,” Jon said. “It'll orbit the area until satellite contact is restored. If it's not restored within two hours, it's programmed to return to the airport.”

“Send the other drone back over the compound,” Chastain said. “The Knights looked like they're getting ready for something—I need to know what's going on.”

“It'll have to fly higher than ten thousand.”

“But we were getting great shots at ten thousand,” Chastain said.

“We don't know where the second Sparrowhawk is,” Jon said. “We can't fly it at the same altitude as the first.”

“Then fly it at nine thousand.”

“That's only four thousand feet aboveground!”

“I don't care. Just do it.”

“It can't stay on station for very long,” Jeff reminded them. “It's already been airborne four days.”

“How long can it stay?”

Jeff turned to the first Sparrowhawk's flight-data screen . . . and his mouth dropped open in surprise. “Uh, Jon . . .” Jon looked . . . and found the flight data on the first Sparrowhawk blank as well!

“What the hell happened?”

“Not now, Chastain,” Jon said, pushing Jeff out of the way and frantically typing instructions into the laptop. He waited for a few moments, then pounded the desk in frustration. “Get Bidwell and Henderson out there to check the satellite uplink and network connectivity,
now,
” he shouted, jabbing a finger at Jeff. “If they don't find anything wrong, have them hardwire the computer interfaces with the uplink and antenna instead of using the wireless routers. Reboot the computers and run the network and I-O diagnostics before reinitializing the software. Call Las Vegas and have the entire staff stand by—no, better yet, have them send the entire Sparrowhawk team up here.”

“Masters, what's going on?”

“We've lost contact with both Sparrowhawks,” Jon said, staring at the blank data readouts in complete bewilderment. “Losing one is bad, but it happens—losing both at the same time is a freakin' disaster.” He looked at his watch. “We've got two hours until they start heading back to base. Make sure the airspace is clear. I'll talk to air traffic control and see if they have primary radar hits on either one of them.”

The next two hours was a flurry of activity inside and outside the hangar. As they got closer to the arrival time, Patrick drove Jon and Special Agent Chastain in the airfield operations truck to the taxiway intersection closest to the approach end of the arrival runway and started scanning the sky for the Sparrowhawks. It was not yet sunset, but the eastern sky was dark enough to prevent seeing any aircraft unless its position and landing lights were on. “What did air traffic control say, Jon?” Patrick asked.

“None of your business, McLanahan,” Chastain growled as he swept the sky with binoculars. Jon lowered his binoculars, looked at Patrick, and shook his head. “How much longer, Masters?” the FBI special agent asked.

“Any minute now.”

Chastain's cell phone rang. “Chastain.” He listened for a few moments, his eyes growing wider by the moment. “Oh,
shit
. I'll be right there . . . find a TV.”

“In my office,” Patrick said.

“What happened?” Jon asked.

At first Chastain wasn't going to say anything with Patrick there, but he decided Patrick was going to find out soon anyway: “There are news crews at the Knights' compound,” he said. “The drone crashed.”

“What
. . .
?”

“There are pieces of another plane out there too—they're saying there was a midair collision,” Chastain said. “It's all over the damned news.”

They raced back to Patrick's office and turned on the television. They expected to see pictures of the crashed drone, but instead they were looking at what appeared to be a large area of scorched desert just south of a multilane divided highway that appeared to be Interstate 80. “What is
this
? They're reporting on a brush fire?” Chastain asked.

They found out soon enough: the caption on the bottom of the screen read:
Scene of the second unmanned aircraft crash near Battle Mountain, Nevada.

“What in hell
. . .
!”

“
Both
Sparrowhawks crashed?” Jon Masters said in a low, stunned voice, almost a whimper. “My God . . .”

Chastain's cell phone was in his hands in a flash. “I want those crash sites cordoned off and all news helicopters kept away,” he said.

“I've got to get out there,” Jon said tonelessly, his eyes wide with disbelief and despair. “I've got to find out what happened.”

“You're not going anywhere, Masters,” Chastain said, putting a hand over his cell phone's microphone. “This is still a classified operation.” He turned back to his cell phone. “Jordan, Chastain here. I want . . .” He fell silent, listening, then veins started to pop out on his forehead. He jabbed a finger at Patrick, then at the door, silently ordering him to get out. After Patrick departed, Chastain yelled, “Get HRTs Four and Five loaded up and on their way out to that compound
now
. I'll get Los Angeles and Seattle to send their teams.”

“What happened?” Jon asked.

“The damned Knights are dragging pieces of the drone inside their compound,” Chastain said. “The news crews are going in with them. They say they're expecting the government to respond with force, and they say they're going to defend themselves and repel all attackers.”

“You mean
they're
stealing my Sparowhawk
?” Jon cried out.

“Shut up about your damned drones, Masters,” Chastain said. “They're evidence, and I'm going to get them all back, you can count on
that
.”

“Send in the Cybernetic Infantry Device robots,” Jon said. “The robots will get them back.”

Chastain thought for a moment, then redialed his cell phone. “Richter, I'm going to brief you and Savoy on a mission. Meet me at the drone control desk. We'll deploy by helicopter in fifteen minutes.”

They drove back to their hangar, where they met Jason Richter, Charlie Turlock, Wayne Macomber, and FBI agent Randolph Savoy at the Sparrowhawk control center. “Flip back to the last images of the compound,” Chastain ordered. He waited until the right images were displayed. “Okay, here's where the drone crashed, about two hundred yards outside the main fenced part of the compound, at the edge of one of their crop circles.” He pointed to the machine-gun squads. “Here's where the terrorists are setting up machine-gun nests, behind cover of these buildings outside the fence. It's been more than two hours since these pictures were taken, so we've got to assume they've moved some of these nests closer to the crash site.” He turned to Richter. “Can you pull the wreckage away from the compound?”

“I'm sure we can,” Jason said. “But if the terrorists are armed with machine guns, we'll be going into a combat zone. Randolph's not trained for that, and we have no defensive weapons. Charlie and I will do this mission.”

“You're not
supposed
to have
any
weapons, Richter,” Chastain said. “First of all, this is an FBI operation, so Savoy goes. That's what he's been training for.”