A Time for Patriots (32 page)

“Yes, I have, ma'am,” Patrick said. “In fact, she's at my trailer right now.”

Ann turned a horrified expression to Tim, who had a look of concern on his face that made Patrick's fingertips tingle. “The FBI has had her under observation ever since she started applying for work at defense contractors in Southern California, General,” Dobson said. “With her felony conviction she can't get a security clearance, and with the bad economy few firms are hiring anyway.”

“That's what she told me,” Patrick said.

“High-profile individual, highly skilled and intelligent, formerly had a top-secret security clearance but out of work with a federal felony conviction, angry at the government, an alcohol problem, possibly emotional problems—the textbook example of a disgruntled worker,” Ann said. “And a woman to boot. A perfect target for recruitment by a foreign or enemy power.”

“What?”
Patrick exclaimed.

“She met a guy in one of her twelve-step meetings that was helping her out, befriending her, hiring her part-time, maybe . . . maybe something more intimate,” Dobson said hesitantly.

“She said all that too,” Patrick said perturbedly. Dobson paused. “Spit it out, Tim,” he said.

“We're having . . . trouble, difficulties, identifying the guy, sir,” Dobson said uncomfortably. “His neighbors and acquaintances have the same story about him: he's a building contractor, he's been in the area for years, he's dependable, he's a good guy. His license is real. But when we dig one or two levels lower, we start to lose continuity. His Social Security number and his previous addresses on his contractor's license application don't correlate.”

“So what are you saying, Tim?” Patrick asked.

“Agent more-than-polite Dobson here is trying to say that your girlfriend's new boyfriend doesn't check out, and he thinks he's a sleeper agent working for the Russian Federal Security Bureau, targeting Cazzotto to get close to you to set you up for a hit,” Vice President Page interjected impatiently. “C'mon, Patrick, wake up and smell the damned coffee. Someone got to your alkie girlfriend for the express purpose of getting close to
you
. Get with the program, will you? You're a former Air Force intelligence chief, for Christ's sake.” She saw Patrick's eyes flare in indignation, which only egged her on: “Don't give me that ‘I'm shocked! Shocked!' expression, McLanahan,” Ann retorted before he could speak. She stuck a finger directly into Patrick's face. “Don't try to tell me you didn't have some suspicions when this woman suddenly turns up on your doorstep after being gone for seven weeks.”

“I thought she was just returning home,” Patrick said. “This is her home, ever since she left the service . . .”

“Yeah, right—and you thought she was going to come back to the armpit of the world and sit on the porch of your little double-wide trailer in one-hundred-degree desert heat and wait for you to come back from your heroic Civil Air Patrol and Angel Flight West flying missions and snuggle close to her,” Ann retorted. “Can you possibly be that blind or galactically stupid, Patrick? In her mind, Phoenix screwed
her,
but saved
you
. That means
you
screwed
her
in her twisted crazy fevered head. With that mind-set, she'll shack up with anyone who wants to get close to you, for whatever reason imaginable. Wake up, damn it. This is serious. Are you paying attention to me, General?”

Patrick didn't answer, which to Vice President Page meant that he was certainly paying attention. “I invited you to ride with me because, in essence, this is a kidnapping—for both of you gentlemen,” she said. “Battle Mountain is getting too dangerous for you and Brad. I think you'll both be safer in Washington. The entire District of Columbia is all about counterintelligence and counter-counterintelligence. I think you'd be safer there, no matter how many hoods the Russian Federal Security Bureau sends over. Besides, the president wants to start ramping up the Space Defense Force program again, and he wants you to head that program, be the out-front guy, the face of the entire push for military space. You can't do that from a base that's going to be a ghost town in a few months.”

“I don't like the idea of running from these hit-man goons, Madam Vice President,” Patrick said. He sat back, thought for a few moments, then looked at Brad. “But the most important thing is your safety, son.”

“But what about my friends, my team, the squadron?” Brad asked. “We can't just disappear. And if I'd be in danger, wouldn't all my friends be in danger too?”

Dobson looked at the vice president. “He's right, ma'am,” he said. “Any one of Brad's friends—maybe even their entire families—could be targets.”

“One problem at a time here, guys,” Ann said irritably. “I don't mean to scare you, Brad, but it would be an immense blow to the entire nation to lose your father to an assassin's bullet. I know you'd be missing out on your senior year in high school with your friends, but Mr. Dobson and I feel it would be too dangerous for you to go back. You can enroll in high school in Washington. I know you're accustomed to military moves, so this shouldn't be too much of a shock to your system, right?” She didn't wait for a reply; to Patrick, she said, “In Washington, you'd be working in the White House again as my special adviser for space affairs—unfortunately not a salaried position, but all of your housing would be provided as well as stipends for living expenses.” She looked at him carefully. “I don't expect you to go back to Battle Mountain, guys. I'll send some folks to get your things, but you and Brad are coming with me to Washington,
today
.”

Patrick thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I appreciate the concern, Madam Vice President,” Patrick said, “but Brad is right: if they couldn't get to me through Brad, they'd try it with someone else. And if we moved to Washington, they'd just start the whole hunt over again, and the FBI and CIA would have to start looking all over again. The whole reason to send me to Battle Mountain in the first place was not just to hide out, but to draw the assassins in to a place where it would be easier to detect their presence. And with all due respect, ma'am, I'm not running out on my friends to save my own neck—especially Gia. She's in the greatest danger of all next to Brad, and she's the most vulnerable.”

“You're insane, General,” Ann said. “You actually think you're safer in Battle Mountain than in Washington?” She shook her head, then looked at him directly. “I could order you to leave, in the interest of national security.”

“You wouldn't do that, Ann,” Patrick said. “Besides, you know I'm right.” She didn't answer him. He smiled at her, which only made her scowl darken. “But I appreciate the try.”

“You're wrong—I
would
do that, Patrick, and you know it,” Ann said. She leaned forward toward him. “Let me ask you a direct question, Patrick: this woman, the one that left you many times, the one who shacked up with some guy, the one who is probably leading another hit squad up here to target you—you still care about her?”

“I not only care for her, Ann—I love her,” Patrick replied. “When she first told me about the other guy, I was furious. But she still came back to me. I wasn't sure if she would stay, but I decided that if she left I'd carry on, and maybe she'd be happier. But now that you've told me this guy might be a sleeper, I know he doesn't really care about her. That just makes me want to help her even more. And if she leaves again anyway . . . well, Brad and I will deal with that later.”

Ann Page nodded. “You're a good guy, Patrick,” she said. “You are. Sometimes you're dumber than a bag of doorknobs and sappier than a maple tree in the fall, but you're a good guy.”

“Thank you, Madam Vice President.”

“Bite me, McLanahan,” she said with a faint smile. “And you're still coming to Washington—the president has already ordered it. You're working for me, in the White House, to spearhead the charge to get the Space Defense Force fully funded, set up, and running. President Phoenix agreed to wait until next summer, after Brad was on his way to college.”

“That sounds fine, Madam Vice President,” Patrick said. “I think I'd enjoy working for you.”

“You're damned right, you will,” Ann said. “You're damned right.”

Eight

Be good and you will be lonesome.

—Samuel Clemens

Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

The next evening

“I
'm sorry to have to tell you, folks,” Squadron Commander Rob Spara said at the Civil Air Patrol seniors' squadron meeting, “but the CAP national headquarters is suspending our squadron's activities until further notice.”

There was a rumble of disbelief and surprise around the conference room. “Why in the
hell
are they doin' that, Rob?” Michael Fitzgerald boomed.

“They feel it's too dangerous to come on the base anymore,” Rob said. “The protesters, the shootings—frankly, I can't argue with them. The planes have already been scheduled to depart: as soon as the 182 is flyable, it'll go to Winnemucca; the ARCHER is already in Minden; and the 206 will go to Elko. The comm trailer will probably go to Winnemucca too.”

“Well, that blows,” Fitzgerald grumbled. “What about the cadets? Are we just going to shut down emergency services and all the cadet programs just like
that
?”

“All emergency services are suspended,” Rob said, “but cadet aerospace, military, and PT programs can continue away from the base, as long as the cadets don't wear utility or Air Force–style uniforms and aren't seen doing drill-team or marching exercises outdoors. PT and Class-B clothing are okay.”

“Don't wear uniforms?”

“National HQ is afraid that extremists that see the cadets in uniform off base will think the military is moving into their communities,” Rob said, “and if any of the extremist violence is directed at CAP, they may try to harm the cadets too. I want you and David to get those organized, maybe at the church or at your place, Fid.”

“Nothing but spineless wussies,” Fitzgerald grumbled again. “You know, this is our town and our base too—it doesn't belong just to the nut jobs. Why don't the cops do something to protect
us
?”

“When was the last time you saw a sheriff's deputy on the street, Fid?” David Bellville asked. “It seems they're all on vacation or something. Ever since Leo was killed, it's as if all the cops are staying out of sight.”

“Screw 'em anyway,” Fitzgerald said. He patted his right hip. “I'm takin' care of business myself right here.”

“Not around the cadets you're not, Fid,” Rob said.

“I won't—as far as you know,” Fitzgerald said, and it was obvious he wasn't going to debate the issue. There wasn't anything else to talk about, so the meeting soon broke up.

As the seniors were departing, Patrick caught up with John de Carteret. “Hey, John,” he said. “Got a few minutes?”

“After that last bit of news we got? Sure, I have
lots
of time now,” John said. He followed Patrick to his office, where he found Jon Masters and Gia Cazzotto seated at Patrick's desk in front of two laptop computers.

“John, I don't believe you know these folks,” Patrick said. “My good friends Gia and Jon. This is my favorite mission observer, John de Carteret.” They shook hands. “I worked with both of them in the Air Force. Gia is a former—”

“I remember you,” John said. “The one prosecuted by President Gardner for war cri—” He stopped when he saw Gia's shoulders slump and she averted her eyes. “Sorry to upset you, miss. Jon, good to meet you.”

“Take a look at this, John,” Patrick said, motioning to the laptop. John studied the display. It showed an overhead view of the Knights of the True Republic's compound, with all sorts of symbology inside the compound itself, and a side window with a legend explaining what the symbology stood for. The detail was astounding: it was easy to pick out individuals walking around the compound, and even easy to make out what they were carrying.

“Is that the extremists' compound—the Knights of the True Republic, or whatever they call themselves?”

“It is.”

“Is it recorded?”

“No, it's live,” Patrick said.

“Where are you getting this from?”

“This is being downlinked from my Cessna P210,” Patrick said. “Jon and I mounted a pair of sensitive all-weather-imaging infrared and millimeter-wave radar sensors on it, plus the hardware to send the images here. The P210 is orbiting about five miles away from the compound at four thousand feet AGL.”

“Who's flying the plane?”

“Brad.”

“Brad? Cool. But why is he taking pictures of that compound?”

“Because these are the guys who supposedly organized the protests at the front gate, shot at our plane, and may have killed Leo,” Patrick said, not mentioning the fact that the ones who killed Leo may have been gunning for
him
. “The FBI is conducting visual surveillance of the compound, but they don't seem to be getting anywhere.”

“The FBI? How do you know all this?”

“Jon here supplied some of the technology to the FBI to conduct aerial surveillance.”

“You mean, the drones that were shot down? The ones on the news?”

“Yes.”

“So the FBI asked you to put those sensors on your plane and start surveillance on that compound?” John asked.

“Not exactly,” Patrick said. “This is our project. We're doing our own surveillance.”

“Why are you doing that? Why not let the FBI handle it?”

“Because like Fid said, this is our town and our base,” Patrick said. “We have the technology to do it, so I'm going to do it.”

John smiled. “I said it before, and I'll say it again: that's the Patrick S. McLanahan I've always heard and read about,” he said, chuckling. His expression turned serious again. “So why are you telling me all this, Patrick?”

“Because out of all the guys in the squadron except for Leo, I know and trust you the most,” Patrick said. “I'm going to start conducting surveillance of the entire area, not just of the Knights' compound. I'm going to assist law enforcement in protecting our community, and if the cops won't do it, I'll organize our community to do it for ourselves.”

“You're starting to sound like some of those Knights of the True Republic yourself, Patrick,” John said seriously, a look of concern on his face. “You sure that's the smart thing to do?”

Patrick shook his head. “Honestly: no, I'm not sure,” he said. “It's probably not legal, and it may not be ethical or my right as a citizen. But something is happening in this community and this entire country, John, and I want to do something about it. I thought the Civil Air Patrol was a good start, but now I don't even have that. So I'm starting this.”

De Carteret thought for a moment, then nodded. “Sounds good to me, Patrick,” he said. “If you need help, I'm in.”

“Great. Who else do you think would be interested?”

“Well, I'm sure all the ex-military guys in the squadron: Rob; David; my wife, Janet; David Preston; Kevan; Bill and Nancy Barton; Rick; Mark; Debbie for sure,” John said. “Fid . . . no offense to him, but he's strung a little too tight for my taste.”

“That's a pretty good group to start with,” Patrick said. “You still fly your Skyhawk, don't you?”

“Not so much these days,” he admitted, “but when I get a couple extra bucks saved up, you bet.”

“Feel like flying some of these surveillance missions?”

“In your P210? Sure!”

“The P210 . . . and in your Skyhawk.”

“You mean, put those sensors on my Skyhawk? Are you kidding me?”

“No sweat, John,” Jon Masters said, not looking up from his laptops. “It'll take me a couple days, plus a couple flight tests.”

“Wow, that would be cool,” John said, sounding more and more like a little kid. “You gonna get field approval from the FAA Flight Standards guys in Elko?”

“This mod . . . isn't going in your logbooks, John,” Patrick said. “We've got some of the best mechanics and technicians in the country from Jon's company installing them, and I'll make sure your plane is put back together properly when we're done.”

“Hot damn,” John said, sticking out his hand. “Can't wait to get started.” His eyes were dancing with anticipation. “So tell me, Patrick—is this how it felt when you were getting ready to fly some of your supersecret missions with all the newest high-tech gear? Because I'm telling ya, it's pretty damned exciting.”

“This is how it felt, John,” Patrick said, taking John's hand and shaking it enthusiastically. “This is
exactly
how it felt.”

Later that evening

Brad orbited over the Knights of the True Republic's compound for an hour more; cruised around the area about fifty miles around the town of Battle Mountain in a parallel tracklike pattern for another hour so they could record sensor scans of activity on the ground; then did three takeoffs and landings back at Battle Mountain to log some of his required night full-stop landings. Four hours of flying, three of it at night, and not one rumble whatsoever in his stomach—what a great day.

After putting the Centurion back in its hangar, he phoned his father. “Plane's put up, fueled up, windshield's clean, bugs wiped off,” he said. “How do the pictures look?”

“Excellent,” Patrick said. “Better than we expected. The other scans around the area will be stored by the computer, and we'll compare them to scans we'll take later to look for unusual activity.”

“Cool.”

“How's your stomach feel?”

“Great. Not even a big burp.”

“I was a little concerned with you flying at night—I was afraid the loss of a horizon might bring back the nausea,” Patrick said. “But you seemed to do okay when we did our night landings the other night.”

“I'm fine, Dad.”

“Heading home?”

“I'm going to stop by the bowling alley.”

“Drinking age is—”

“I know, I know, no booze until I'm twenty-one. I don't like the stuff anyway, and with Gia back, I don't even want to deal with it. I just want to see if anything's going on, maybe play some pinball.”

“I can't believe pinball machines are making a comeback,” Patrick said. “We used to play those things for hours when we sat alert in the B-52s.” He was getting into reminiscing mode again, Brad thought—that was happening more and more the older he got. “Have fun. Be back by midnight.”

“It'll be before then—I've got workouts in the morning, and then I want to fly the P210.”

“I'm flying Captain de Carteret and maybe Colonel Spara tomorrow, getting them checked out in the P210. It might have to wait.”

“They're going to patrol with us?”

“Yes.”

“Cool. It's like our own secret little Civil Air Patrol squadron.”

“
Secret
being the key word here, Brad.”

“No problem. Okay. See ya.”

His next phone call was to Cassandra Renaldo. “It's me,” he said when she answered.

“I'm so glad you called, baby,” she said. “It has been a long day. I'm still at work.”

“I'm at my dad's hangar. I just got done flying.”

“You did? Flying at night?”

“I need to log at least ten hours and ten night landings for my check ride.”

“How do you feel?”

“Excellent. No problems.”

“You didn't have to take any of that medicine I gave you?”

“Nope. I've got it with me, but I didn't need it.”

“You should keep it with you, in case you have to fly in the back of the plane again.”

“Okay. Can I see you tonight?”

“I would love to see you, but I'm still at work.” She hesitated, then said, “But I want to see you
so
badly . . . I think it'll be all right—no one else is here. Do you know which hangar is ours?”

“I think so. One of the hangars on the east side of the field with the big fence around it, right?”

“Yes. You'll see my car parked in front of one of the hangars, outside the fence. If there's another car parked there, I won't be alone, so I'll see you another time. But if there are no other cars, I'll be all alone. The gate will be closed, but I'll leave it partially open so you'll just need to nudge it a few times to get the gate open. Same with the hangar door—just pull, then push a couple times, and it'll open. C'mon in. I might be in the comm room, but I'll be waiting for you, lover. Maybe we'll do it right here on the . . . well, we'll see. Bye.”

Man, Brad thought as he hung up, she had that sexy X-rated phone-porn voice that never failed to make the blood run right out of my brain. He had to be extra careful not to exceed the base speed limit as he headed over to the east side of the field.

He found her car in the parking lot outside the row of security hangars, and
yes,
it was by itself. It took more than a little nudge to get the gate open, but he wasn't going to let it stop him. Same with the hangar door, but after putting his shoulder in it a little, it finally came open.

The hangar was dark except for a desk with several laptops on it, illuminated by desk lights. “Cassandra?” he called out. No reply. He went over to the desk. This was definitely her desk—he could smell her fragrance . . . or was that just chronic horniness and the lack of blood in his brain making him imagine it? “Cassandra, where are you?”

Brad decided to wait. He checked out the images on the laptops. There were electronic charts, diagrams of what looked like the Knights of the True Republic's compound, and still photographs of people, obviously taken from very long distance. Each image was marked
SECRET,
but as far as he could tell, he didn't see anything
SECRET
about any of—

Suddenly his arms were yanked behind his back so hard he thought they were going to rip off his torso, and his head was slammed down onto the desk so hard that his vision exploded into a field of stars.
“Freeze! FBI!”
he heard through the sudden roaring in his ears.
“Don't you move!”
His hands were being twisted so hard that he thought they were going to pop off his wrists. His legs were kicked out behind him so even more pressure was on his face and head. He felt cold steel handcuffs being snapped onto his wrists, and then rough hands patting him down from head to foot.