A Time for Patriots (30 page)

Jon was starting to adopt the same faraway expression as Patrick. “But our sensor domes are much better for the job than the Predator's,” he said. “All we have to do is stick one on the Cessna . . . maybe one on each wing for better coverage and to even out the drag. Even with two, you'd have lower weight and better performance—”

“Jon, this is the Civil Air Patrol, not the U.S. Air Force or Space Defense Force,” Patrick said. “The whole idea of CAP was to have civilian volunteers helping their country by using their planes and skills. It defeats the purpose of the organization to start outfitting the planes like military aircraft. They're—” But Patrick stopped . . . because the idea was starting to make total sense to him. “But . . . it would take years to get approval to put those sensors on the CAP Cessnas.”

“Maybe so,” Jon said. “So . . . let's stick them on
your
Cessna. The CAP plane here with the bullet holes in it is out of commission, right? Let's use yours, and anyone else's plane who wants some toys to play with.”

“What?” But after a few moments, the idea made him smile. “You know, CAP once
only
used a member's plane—they switched to using CAP-owned planes about twenty years ago.” But then he shook his head as reality set in. “It would take months, maybe years, to get a field approval from the FAA for that kind of major modification. We'd have to do engineering drawings, do controllability and flutter tests, get authorization for—”

“Blah blah blah blah blah,” Jon Masters said, shaking his head. “Sheesh, maybe living way the hell out here
has
softened you up. So you decertify your plane and turn it into an ‘Experimental.' You're worried about the FAA? Have you ever
seen
the FAA out here at Battle Mountain? Do they even
have
field inspectors anymore? What are the odds of getting ramp-checked these days? Besides, if they do catch you, so what? They'll make you take the sensors off, so we'll take them off. There are lots of options, Patrick. It seems to me you're coming up with more excuses
not
to do it than ideas on
how
to do it.”

Patrick realized that was
exactly
what he was doing, and he nodded his head. “You're right,” he said. But he looked at Jon seriously and added, “But we're just going to grab a couple sensor balls from the company,
again,
like the Sparrowhawks? We can't do that.”

“You're right, we shouldn't,” Jon said. He held out his hand. “Got a credit card? We'll make it a straight-out purchase. The company will be happy.”

“But I don't have enough money to—”

“There you go again with the negative waves, Patrick,” Jon said with a laugh. “Always with the reasons
not
to do it. C'mon, it'll be fine. I just need the account number—I won't run anything against it. If it works, we'll work something out moneywise. I'll order up the parts and bring a mechanic up from Vegas, and we'll have you flying in no time.”

B
rad changed out of his flight suit and into civilian clothes, then sat by himself outdoors at a picnic table beside the hangar. My first flight as mission scanner—on an actual mission, no less—and I can't handle being a backseater, he lamented to himself. This really sucks.

He had reserved the entire day for flying, and now he had nothing to do. He pulled out his cell phone and was going to start calling his buddies to find out what they were up to when he found Cassandra Renaldo's business card.

Should I do it? he asked himself. She
was
an older woman, but she was still hot as hell. Was she just stringing him along, being a cockteaser or trying to make a fool out of him, or was she serious about wanting to see him again? He wished he knew more about women, like Ron Spivey did—he always seemed to have a different girl every week, and even when he treated them like crap, they always seemed to come back. How did guys learn how to do that?

I guess this is one way, Brad thought as he commenced dialing her number . . .

“R
enaldo.”

“It's me. Brad.”

Cassandra looked up at Special Agent Chastain and nodded. “Let me finish up here and go somewhere where I can talk. Hang on.” She put the call on hold.

“Who is that?” Chastain asked.

“Bradley McLanahan,” she said, smiling evilly. “I told you he'd call.”

Chastain smiled back. “Reel him in,” he said.

She took the call off hold a few moments later. “I'm so glad you called, Brad,” she said in her sweetest, most heartfelt voice. Chastain shook his head and smiled at her performance. “I've missed seeing you. How are you?”

“I've been better.”

“What's wrong, baby?”

“It's an . . . an airsickness thing. I'm okay when I'm piloting, but not so good when I'm in back.”

“Oh no,” Renaldo said. “Are you all right now?”

“Oh yes, I'm good.”

“Then when can I see you?”

There was a bit of a pause; then: “Well, I was supposed to be flying all day, but that's been canceled . . .”

“I heard—someone shot at a Civil Air Patrol plane,” she said. “You mean,
you
were
on
that plane?”

“Yes.”

“My God, Brad! How awful!”

“So I'm . . . I'm not doing anything for the rest of the day.”

“That's perfect,” Renaldo said, giving Chastain a wink. “You're at the Civil Air Patrol hangar now?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. If you walk down Powell Avenue toward the base exchange, I'll pick you up in about ten minutes. We can go to my place. How does that sound?”

“Okay.”

“Great. I'll see you soon, baby.” She hung up. “He's on the line—now it's time to start landing him,” she said to Chastain. She thought for a moment, then asked, “How bad do you want the dad?”

“Badly.” Chastain picked up the latest report from Brady's reconnaissance of the suspected terrorist compound. “So far we've discovered that there are nineteen residents of the Knights' compound who are active members of the Civil Air Patrol Battle Mountain squadron. All but two are ex-military. Eight are Iraq and Afghanistan vets, including multiple deployments; four are Desert Storm vets; and two are Vietnam vets. All have combat experience. We're trying to obtain medical backgrounds on them, but I wouldn't be surprised to find some PTSD cases in there, or worse. McLanahan could have his own little strike force in that CAP outfit.”

“Then I've got an angle on the son that could really lock him in good,” Renaldo said. “I'm going to meet up with him. I'm going to borrow a little something from our drop stash, okay?”

Chastain looked at her seriously. “I definitely see why they call you the ‘Black Widow,' Renaldo.”

“Nothing evil, I assure you,” she said. “I'm not going to hurt him—well, maybe just a little. But if you want him, and the dad, I'll get them for you.”

Chastain thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Have fun,” was all he said.

“Oh, I intend to,” Renaldo said with a growing crocodile smile. “I intend to.”

Temporary Housing Area, Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

That same time

T
his was turning out to be a pretty sucky day, Patrick told himself as he headed to his trailer to change out of his flight suit—and it wasn't even half over yet. Like Jon, he felt sorry for Brad. But he was acting more like a ten-year-old than an eighteen-year-old. He would have to make some phone calls to the aerospace physiology folks in the Air Force—the ones who installed an electronic heart monitor in him when he started suffering from heart arrhythmias during space flight—and find out the best way to treat Brad. But whatever the outcome, he wanted to cure the boy of whining and feeling sorry for himself whenever . . .

. . . and it was then, just before he was going to pull into his hard-baked mud driveway beside the trailer, that he noticed the front door to his trailer partly open.

That was not unusual—these were not the best-constructed trailers in the world, not by a long shot—and he or Brad could have failed to close and lock it properly. But alarm bells were going off in his head, and he had learned many years ago that ignoring those bells was extremely unwise.

Patrick activated his intraocular computer monitor and called up the security-camera images from inside his trailer. The security system's readouts showed that the door had been opened by key just a few minutes ago. He could see a person wearing a cowboy hat, blue jeans, a white untucked shirt, and a long black-and-gray ponytail with his back to the camera, going through mail and articles on the dining-room table. The other cameras revealed no other intruders. Patrick then retrieved an object from under his Wrangler's seat that resembled a flashlight, but was actually a launcher that would fire a wireless projectile that would act like a Taser, embedding probes into a person's skin and incapacitating the person with a high-voltage but nonlethal shock.

He stepped quickly to the porch, skipped the steps, pushed open the door, and aimed the launcher at the intruder.
“Stop right there!”
he shouted.

The intruder jumped, a little cloud of mail flying from his hands, and whirled around to face him. “Patrick! You startled me!”

“Oh my God . . .
Gia
!” Patrick cried. He put down the launcher and rushed into her arms. Gia Cazzotto buried her face into his shoulder, sobbing. “You're back, you're finally back!”

“Oh, Patrick, I'm so sorry I left like I did,” Gia said after several long moments, “and for not keeping in touch, but . . . well, I wanted to get well before I came back to you.” She looked up at him, her brown eyes searching his for any signs of hostility or distrust. Her dark hair was much longer and streaked with a lot more gray than he remembered, and she looked thinner. He didn't smell any alcohol on her breath—that was a major change right there. “Do you . . . want me to go, or—”

“Of course not, Gia!” Patrick said, hugging her tightly again. “I've been waiting for you to come home! I knew you had a key, so I never changed the lock. Sit down, sit down, for God's sake!” He led her to the couch, sat on the ottoman before her, and took her hands in his. “Are you all right? Where have you been?”

“Southern California,” Gia said. “I went back to Palmdale to see if I could get work. But with the economy still in the tank, no one was hiring.” She lowered her eyes, then added, “Even for jobs that didn't require a security clearance.”

“I told you before: just wait another four years, and you can apply for a full pardon,” Patrick said. “The president has told me often he'll do that, as long as you don't have any other convictions.” He looked at her carefully. “Everything okay in that regard, Gia?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “No other convictions.” But her voice told him that this wasn't all. After a few moments, she looked up and said, “I met someone.”

Patrick felt his heart explode in his chest, and he had to choke down a surge of anger. “ ‘Met someone'?”

“In rehab,” Gia said. “He's an alcoholic, like me. He's a building contractor. He's been sober for a few years, and he was helping me, making sure I went to the meetings, making sure I was applying for work and benefits, giving me some part-time work here and there.”

There was still something in her voice that said there was much, much more to tell, Patrick thought. “What else?” he demanded, a lot harsher than he intended.

“That's all,” she insisted. He didn't believe her, and she could see that in his eyes, and she didn't try to defend herself. “I told him about you, and he said I had to choose, because he knew I still wasn't over you, and he said I had to go back and see you, and—”

“What? Choose between us?” Patrick snapped. “Compare notes?”

“Find out if you still loved me, Patrick,” Gia said. “I know I haven't been here for you, trying to deal with my own problems. I wanted to be with you, but I had to leave so I could figure out if I wanted to be sober or not.”

“You had to decide whether or not to be sober?”

“You don't understand being an alcoholic, Patrick,” Gia said. “I like drinking. I like being able to suppress the rage and the despair as easily as drinking a little Cabernet Sauvignon. I didn't care if I couldn't fully function, as long as I didn't have to feel the anger, the frustration, the helplessness.” She paused, then said, “But now I understand who I am, Patrick. I'm an alcoholic. I know now that I was wasting my life dealing with my anger with alcohol, and I want to change that . . . no, I'm
going
to change that.”

Patrick let go of her hands and stood. “And . . .
he
helped you realize that,” he said.

“The rehab program got me to stop drinking and start dealing with my anger in a positive way,” Gia said. “But he was there at the meetings, and he knew I was out of work, and he said he could help, and he did. Now he wants to . . . to take it to the next level, but he said I had to decide about you. But I didn't know how you felt about me.”

“How could you ever doubt that I love you, Gia?” Patrick asked, almost pleading. “Brad and I welcomed you back every time you left, without hesitation, without a word. I helped you find treatment programs here. You'd be good for a few weeks, and then you'd be gone again. But when you came back, we always welcomed you.”

“I know, I know,” she said. “I'm sorry. But you and Brad were . . . were always gone, and I was here alone in this trailer. I tried to make it a home for all of us, but then I didn't know how to suppress the anger any way else but with alcohol, and then I didn't want to be around you and especially Bradley when I was drunk, so I'd leave. And then I'd miss you so badly, and I'd get the courage to come back, and then the whole thing would start all over again.”