A Time for Patriots (36 page)

“Not really, sir,” Roxanne replied. She hit another function key, and the image changed slightly. “This is real time. Most of the activity happens at night, but it's everything from motorbikes to ATVs to pickups. No one seems to stay very long. It's like they're visiting or going out there to get something, but I don't see any activity in the house otherwise. The corrals and barns are empty too.”

“So what do you think, Roxanne?” Patrick asked.

She thought for a moment, then replied, “They might be kids just joyriding, or maybe someone looking for the Kellermans—I don't see any sign of a crime being committed. We should call the sheriff's office to take a look on the ground. It'd be best if they were there between eleven
P.M.
and two
A.M.
, but I don't think the sheriff will put somebody out there for that long, on the off chance of catching someone out there.”

Patrick nodded, impressed with her analysis and recommendation. “I'll keep on bugging the sheriff's department,” he said, “but they don't seem too interested in what we're seeing.” He nodded at her energy drink. “How long have you been here today, Roxanne?”

“Since eight.”

“Five hours already?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when do you usually quit?”

“I have to be back home by four so I can finish feeding the animals and cleaning out the stables and pens by six,” she said. “Dad always wants dinner right at six.”

“What do your folks say about all this?”

“I don't think they care much,” Roxanne said. “As long as I do my chores and stay out of trouble, they think it's okay.”

“What do they think of you analyzing drone imagery?”

“I don't think they know, or if they do, they don't care,” she said. “I tell them I'm going to the squadron to work with you, and they just say, ‘Have fun.' ”

“And how do you like it?”

“I think it's neat,” Roxanne replied. “Mr. Bishop has made it a sort of contest: whoever turns in the most detailed analyses wins a Baskin-Robbins gift certificate. The boys think they can win just because they play more video games than girls, but their reports are nothing but junk—they're just trying to turn in the most reports.”

That was interesting, Patrick thought: it wasn't work, but a game. “Thanks for explaining all this, Roxanne,” he said. “Good work. Carry on.”

“Okay,” Roxanne replied, but she was already twirling the trackball and fixating on the next red blinking icon, ignoring the senior beside her.

He scanned around the room. “Hey, you got Ralph Markham here too?” he remarked to Brad.

“The kid's a computer freak, Dad,” Brad said. “Uncle Jon hardly had to explain how to work anything—he just sat in front of the computer and started working. He's been here since seven
A.M
. He actually found a crash site that hadn't been found before. Mr. Fitzgerald went out there and found a victim that had been reported missing for
six years
. Do you believe it?”

“Ralph's a natural Civil Air Patrol guy, that's for sure,” Patrick said. He went over to the boy's workstation. “Hi, Ralph.” Ralph immediately tried to shoot to his feet, but Patrick held up a hand to stop him. “Carry on, Ralph. This isn't Civil Air Patrol, just us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are you looking at?”

“Las Vegas grids six and seven, sir,” Ralph replied. “Right on the border between central Lander and Eureka Counties.”

“About as far south as the patrols fly so far,” Patrick observed. “Anything happening?” He looked at Ralph's screen. “A lot of flashing icons in this area.”

“Those are mines, sir,” Ralph said. “A lot of trucks going in and out.” He hit some function keys and the display changed. “We don't have a plane in that area right now, so this isn't real time, but less than an hour old, from your last patrol sortie.” It was a huge terraced strip mine, probably a mile in diameter and hundreds of feet deep.

“That's one of Judah Andorsen's mines,” a voice said next to him. It was Michael Fitzgerald, wearing what appeared to be deer-hunting clothing. “That might be Freedom-7. They all look alike to me.” He shook hands with Patrick. “How are you, sir?”

“Very good, Fid. What's happening?”

“Still looking for work,” Fitzgerald said. “I was hoping there was something here on the base.”

“I heard you got laid off. Sorry. I can check with the base personnel office. I heard they were going to put a bunch of the trailers on foundations to make them more permanent. Sound good?”

“If it pays cash money, Patrick, I'll pick up the trailers with my bare hands,” Fitzgerald said. “Thank you, General.” He nodded toward the screens. “How's the surveillance going?”

“Pretty good. Congrats on making that find the other day.”

“The kids made the find—I just walked to where they told me,” Fitzgerald said. “Any more targets you need checked out? Roxanne mentioned the Kellerman ranch. You need that scoped out?”

“If the sheriff won't send anyone, yes, I might have you go on out there,” Patrick said. “It certainly looks suspicious.” Just then he was alerted to an incoming phone call via his intraocular monitor, and he touched his left ear to answer the call. He spoke just a few words, then logged off. “Ralph's mom is at the front gate, asking—no,
demanding
—she be let in. I'm going to escort her in.”

Several minutes later, Ralph's mom, Amanda, was led into the squadron conference room. She went directly over to Ralph. “Hi, Mom,” Ralph greeted her. “I'm helping with—”

“Helping with
what,
Ralph?” she demanded. She looked at the images on the laptop, her eyes getting bigger and bigger by the second. “So it's true—you
are
spying on people in Lander County?”

“I'm not spying, Mom,” Ralph said. “We're conducting surveillance of the area around Battle Mountain, looking for—”

“I don't care what the military propaganda says you're doing, Ralph—what you are doing is
spying
on American citizens.” She whirled on Patrick. “I did not sign Ralph up for Civil Air Patrol to spy on fellow American citizens, General McLanahan,” she said angrily. “How can you ask
children
to do such a thing?”

“Mrs. Markham, first and foremost: this is not a Civil Air Patrol activity,” Patrick said. “We asked the cadets if they wanted to participate, but this is not authorized or sanctioned by the Civil Air Patrol. Secondly: this is not spying on anyone in particular, but performing surveillance over large areas of Lander, Humboldt, Pershing, Eureka, and Elko Counties, looking for evidence of terrorist and extremist activity. All we do is watch and report. Consider it a high-tech neighborhood watch program.”

“With all due respect, General . . . are you
serious
?” Amanda asked. “This sounds like something out of Nazi Germany in the 1930s—asking kids to inform on their Jew neighbors and report them to the Gestapo so they could be rounded up for extermination.”

“Ma'am, it's nothing like that at all,” Fitzgerald said. “These are private individuals helping their community by staying on watch. You should be thanking them.”

“
Thanking
them?” the woman asked incredulously. “This . . . this is
espionage,
against fellow Americans! This is an invasion of privacy! My son will have absolutely no part of this! Ralph, we're
leaving
.”

“But, Mom, I still have two grids to analyze before—”

“Ralph, we're leaving,
now
.” And with that, Amanda Markham towed her son out of the conference room.

Patrick escorted Amanda back to the front gate, then returned to the squadron. “Well, that's the second parent to pull their kid out just this morning,” he said, “and the tenth since we started. The word's definitely getting around, and it's not good. I wonder how these folks are finding out about what we're doing? We're certainly not advertising it, especially since we're using improperly modified airplanes.”

“We'll do the best we can with what we got, General,” Todd Bishop said. “But Ralph was one of our best. The kid's got a sixth sense.”

“Some folks just got no clue,” Fitzgerald grumbled. “They expect the government to wet-nurse them, and the citizens should do nothing but roll over and play dead. Well, she's in for a rude awakening.” He shook hands with Patrick. “Thanks again for checking on jobs for me, General. Much appreciated. Let me know about the Kellerman ranch—I've been there many times before.” And he lumbered off.

Patrick thought for a few moments, then returned to Brad's workstation. “Wow, was Mrs. Markham mad,” Brad said. “I can call Ron and see if he can take over.”

“Okay,” Patrick said. He studied Brad's monitor. “So do you have the Knights' defensive positions mapped out?”

“Sure—they're updated on every flight,” Brad replied. “Couple guys in each nest, four-hour rotating shifts, and they change nests on every shift. We've even seen kids man those nests. But the big problem is not the machine-gun nests but those guys on the pickups with the heavier machine guns. They're mobile, they're fast, and they do roving patrols that change constantly—”

“And they're deadly,” Patrick said. He thought for another moment, then spoke into his subcutaneous transceiver: “Whack? Charlie? Patrick here. Got a few minutes? . . . Yes, over at the squadron, where we set up the surveillance workstations. Thanks, guys.” To Brad, he said, “I'm going to have Mr. Macomber and Miss Turlock look at what you have. Would you mind explaining your observations to them when they get here?”

“Sure, Dad. Why?”

“I think it's time to have a talk with the Knights of the True Republic,” Patrick said. “The FBI set a confrontational tone with the Knights from day one, and we blindly followed along when we set up our own surveillance. I think it's time for that to change.”

A
few hours later, Ron Spivey walked into the squadron conference room. Brad was the only one using the laptops. “Hey, bro,” Brad greeted him. “Where have you been? I only see you at practice these days. We could use some help around here.”

“Working,” Ron said wearily. “I gotta leave for the convenience store in Elko in a few minutes. I'm doing a twelve-hour shift there tonight.”

“You sure are busting your hump these days.”

“Yeah. I'm kinda glad they suspended the squadron's activities—gives me a little time for some rest.” He sat beside Brad, but he didn't look at the laptop's screen. After several long moments he said, “Brad?”

“Yeah?”

Ron was silent until Brad looked at him, then said, “Marina's pregnant.”

“What?”

Ron nodded. “We . . . actually found out a couple months ago,” he said in a quiet voice, “but I wanted a paternity test done. We just found out today: chances are, it's mine. They can't tell you positively, only give you a percentage, but it's a pretty high percentage.” He sighed, then said, “I guess I knew it was mine all along. Marina's been faithful. Me, not so much.”

“Is this why you've been working your ass off on a dozen different jobs?”

Ron nodded, then looked up at Brad. “Marina wants to keep it,” he said, the fear evident in his voice. “She told her parents—they noticed her morning sickness—and they
freaked,
and now my mom knows. I haven't spoken to her yet, but she calls me every ten minutes. What the hell am I going to do, Brad?”

“Sounds to me like you've already got a plan of action, bro—you're working your butt off, saving money for when the baby comes.” He looked at his friend carefully. “That
is
what you're doing, right?”

“Well, of
course
it is, ass-wipe,” Ron shot back. “What'd you think I was going to do—skip town?”

“It had crossed my mind,” Brad said. He saw the hurt and disbelief on Ron's face. “Oh, give me a break, jerk-off. I see you with a different girl almost every day. You may be with Marina most of the time, but you can't say
you're
exclusive.”

Ron's face turned crestfallen, then he lowered his head in shame. “I guess I have been a jerk,” he said. “Marina didn't sleep around—that was me.”

“Well, maybe the fickle finger of fate pointed you in the right direction after all.”

“The what?”

“Forget it—old TV-show bit. What I'm saying is: maybe out of all the chicks you aimed your shotgun at, the right one got bagged.”

That seemed to brighten Ron's entire demeanor for the first time in many days. “Yeah, maybe you're right,” he said. He actually smiled. “Did you know Marina is half Greek and half Apache Indian? Can you imagine a Greek woman going at it with an Apache? She sure is a wildcat in the sack, that's for sure. And she can
actually
cook—not just reheat takeout, but make meals out of just random stuff in the cabinets. She wants to go to nursing school.” He fell silent. “Shit, I guess a football college scholarship is out the window.”

“You never know,” Brad said. “Like they say: when one door closes, another opens.”

Ron looked at him in mock disgust. “You been beating off while watching some chick flick again?” Brad laughed. Ron shrugged, still smiling. “Yeah, maybe that's true. I always thought Marina was just another lay—you know, date the high school football captain, trading sex for cash. But she actually saved the money I gave her, and she used some of it to pay for her doctor's bills—she didn't blow it on clothes and stuff. All this time I thought she was just this moody, clingy bitch, when it turns out she was nesting, trying to straighten me out.” He was silent for a moment, then looked at his watch. “I gotta hit the road.”