A Time for Patriots (40 page)

“I do, Reverend,” Patrick said. “I refused to talk with the FBI without my attorney present, even though a nationwide state of emergency existed and almost every other member of my squadron had already cooperated. They tried to blackmail my son to inform on me for them.”

“Then you understand completely,” Paulson said. “We have a right to be secure in our persons, houses, papers, and effects against unreasonable searches and seizures. There is no caveat, no exceptions, no provision that says, ‘Unless the FBI orders otherwise.' ” He sighed. “But there is too much distrust in our community, and it is tearing us apart. We have decided to disband.”

“You're breaking up the Knights of the True Republic?”

“I think the true believers will still push for true freedom, less government, and more personal responsibility,” Paulson said, “but the idea that we can live apart from our neighbors in our own purist society is not realistic. Rather than ensuring our own happiness and security, it has turned our neighbors against us. That was not our goal.”

“So what will happen?” Patrick asked.

“Most will go to your air base, look for work, and join with others to form a stronger, tighter community, with the help of the federal government and the military,” Paulson said. “Some will probably join other independent communities; a few will try to form their own cells of like-minded idealists. Everyone is free to do whatever he or she chooses. As for this community: some will stay and try to keep it alive, but in the end, it's not separation and anonymity that guarantees success, but cooperation and community. We forgot that truth years ago, and it's hurt us. It's time to support the greater community once again.”

Paulson reached down from the dais and extended a hand. “It was a great privilege to meet you, General McLanahan,” he said. Patrick shook his hand. “You are indeed a patriot. I believed you wanted to use your technology to destroy our community. I see that I was mistaken. One word of advice, however: don't rely too much on the technology. You have some fine people here that want to help you rid our community of extremists—rely on
them
instead.”

“I will, Reverend,” Patrick said. He turned and started to leave . . .

. . . when suddenly Whack rushed forward between Patrick and the dais and shouted,
“General
,
get down!”
Paulson had dropped the Bible, swung the Uzi up into his hands, and aimed . . .

. . . but not at Patrick . . . he aimed upward from the bottom of his jaw. He closed his eyes, shouted, “God bless the True Republic!” and pulled the trigger. Except for a few children who cried out at the gunshot, no one in the audience moved or said a word as the lifeless body hit the dais.

Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

A short time later

P
atrick led the others into the FBI hangar, with Whack carrying the folded-up CID unit himself. Patrick was surprised to see Michael Fitzgerald there, examining the bullet-ridden wreckage of the second Cybernetic Infantry Device, which had been hit by gunners in the Knights of the True Republic's compound. “Hey, Fid,” Patrick said.

Fitzgerald looked at amazement at the Tin Man as Whack set the stowed CID unit in its charging cradle. “Who in hell are
you
?” he exclaimed. Whack didn't answer him, but took off his helmet, then removed the battery packs on his waist and put them into their chargers.

“It's kind of late to explain, Fid,” Patrick said wearily. “What's going on?”

“I went over to the squadron to see if you needed any help with the surveillance,” Fitzgerald said, “and Rob said you'd be over here. What happened? Where were you guys?”

“Out at the Knights' compound.”

“Did you fight it out with them? I heard they have all sorts of weapons out there.”

“No.”

“Did you get to talk with Reverend Paulson? That guy is a real piece of work. He's definitely crazy enough to have loaded that ambulance up with explosives and killed all those people.”

Patrick dropped into a chair, emotionally drained. “Paulson is dead,” he said.

“Dead?” Fitzgerald immediately looked over at Whack. “Did you kill him?”

“Suicide,” Whack said in a low voice.

“No shit,” Fitzgerald said. “I'll bet the Knights will be on the warpath tomorrow.”

“They're coming onto the base,” Patrick said. “The Knights disbanded, and the compound is wide open, not guarded anymore.”

“Wow—the Knights, disbanded,” Fitzgerald breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Now I'll bet the cops can go in there and search for any more of that radioactive shit they've been using against government buildings.”

“We searched,” Patrick said, rubbing his eyes. “We didn't find anything. No explosives, no radioactive material, no shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles. Just lots of guns and a few old light antitank launchers.”

“No shit,” Fitzgerald said. “So . . . so what does that mean?”

“It means we keep searching,” Patrick said. “We start all over, first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Well, you may be onto something with the Kellerman place,” Fitzgerald said. “Somebody's definitely been out there—it looks like some supplies have been brought in, food and water, and the power's been turned back on. No sign of the place being broken into.”

“Thanks, Fid,” Patrick said. His brain was just too worn out to process this new information. “We'll meet tomorrow to plan our next moves.”

“See you tomorrow, General.” Fitzgerald took one last look at the Tin Man, the stowed CID, and the broken-up CID as he headed out the door.

“One of your Civil Air Patrol guys?” Whack asked, watching Fitzgerald depart.

“Michael Fitzgerald,” Patrick said. “Lost his job with the Nevada Department of Wildlife just a few months from retirement, probably because of the FBI.”

“He sure doesn't look ex-military.”

“You don't need to be ex-military to join the Civil Air Patrol,” Patrick said. “He specializes in cadet ground-strike teams. He's a good guy.” He got to his feet. “I'm going home, guys. I don't want to leave Brad alone too long if I can help it. He's pretty busted up about his friend Ron.”

“Why don't you just stay home for a couple days with Brad, maybe fly on out to see your mom in Scottsdale?” Charlie Turlock suggested. “General Givens has got the incoming community members taken care of—if we get any more, because of that ambush today—and we'll keep on helping with surveillance. If anything crops up, we'll give you a call and we can decide how to handle it.”

Patrick said nothing for several long moments, then nodded. “That sounds really good, Charlie,” he said. “I'd hate to lose a surveillance plane, but the Bonanza should be ready soon, so we'll be back to two planes. And it'd be good for Brad to see his grandma and aunts. I'll see how he feels. We can make it his dual cross-country, and if he feels up to it, he can fly his solo cross-countries from Scottsdale. That's all he needs for his check ride.”

“Then he can take me flying, right?” Charlie asked. “He promised, as soon as he got his private pilot's license.”

“Sure. He's a good stick, and the turbine Centurion is a nice ride.”

“Cool. Hey, speaking of piloting—did Jason tell you about Brad piloting the CID?” Charlie asked.

“What?” The weariness in Patrick's face disappeared in a heartbeat, replaced by surprise and concern. “No! Brad was in the CID? When?”

“The afternoon before we first went to the Knights' compound.” Charlie could see Patrick's face turning dark, and she added quickly, “He told me he got permission from you to ask Jason and me to check him out in the CID. You gave him permission, didn't you?”

“Yes, but . . . I don't want him training to pilot the CID anymore.”

“Okay,” Charlie said, a bit of confusion in her face. “But he's really good in it, a real natural. You should have seen him doing hacky sack with a—”

“No ‘buts,' Charlie,” Patrick said. “The CID was designed as a one-man killing machine, and the last thing Brad needs to be exposed to now is more killing.” He remembered his close friend Hal Briggs, and how the normally cool, calm, collected Air Force security expert and Army Ranger literally went berserk when he entered combat aboard a Cybernetic Infantry Device—he eventually ran into a massed assault by Iranian Revolutionary Guards and was killed in battle while trying to destroy Iranian nuclear missiles. “No more CID training.”

“Okay, Patrick.”

Patrick spun on a heel without another word and departed.

“He looks totally stressed out,” Charlie said to Whack.

“He's putting a lot of pressure on himself, and he's going to burn himself out if he's not careful,” Whack said. “Good suggestion, Charlie, him getting out of town with his son. I hope he's smart enough to take it.”

Scottsdale, Arizona

A few days later

I
t was an absolutely spectacular flight from Battle Mountain to Sacramento Executive Airport for Patrick, Gia, and Brad. Patrick planned the trip as a dual cross-country lesson: Brad had to make stops at three different airports spaced at least one hundred miles apart, at least one of which had to have a control tower, and he had to draw up a flight plan and annotate a sectional chart with the route of flight, visual checkpoints, and timing points. He also had to file a VFR flight plan, get a complete flight briefing by phone, talk to flight service to open and close his flight plan, and give and receive an in-flight weather observation to Flight Watch. Although Brad knew how to fly on instruments-only and was adept at using the advanced avionics in the P210 turbine Centurion, he had to demonstrate that he could navigate using “dead reckoning”—using time, the compass, and landmarks on the ground to determine where he was.

Patrick's two sisters, Nancy and Margaret, still lived in Sacramento and still ran the little Irish pub downtown that had been in the McLanahan family for three generations. After Patrick, Gia, and Brad arrived and were settled in, the five made a visit to the historic family memorial complex at the Old City Cemetery, just six blocks south of the state capitol. So many McLanahans had been buried in the cemetery over the past 150 years that many called it the “McLanahan Cemetery.” For the past fifteen years, the cemetery no longer had room for any more burials, so Patrick's father, a retired veteran city police sergeant with thirty years wearing a badge, was the last of the McLanahans to be interred there—Patrick's wife Wendy's and his brother Paul's inurnment markers were in the historic family columbarium erected at the cemetery, as were vacant niches for the rest of the family.

Patrick and Brad spent a long time touching Wendy's marker, as did Margaret and Nancy with Paul's, with Gia respectfully looking on. Finally, Patrick kissed his wife's and brother's markers and patted them reassuringly. “I think it's so sweet that you decided to keep Wendy here, instead of bringing her to Arlington National Cemetery,” Margaret said as they left the cemetery. “What an honor, for you and her to be laid to rest at such a historic place as Arlington, if you chose.”

“It would be,” Patrick said, “but I wouldn't be buried anywhere else but here, with the rest of the family. And this place is older and just as historic as Arlington.”

The next morning, Patrick loaded Gia, Brad, and his sisters into the P210 Centurion, and they flew to Deer Valley Airport near Scottsdale, Arizona. Patrick's mother, Maureen, lived in an assisted-living facility nearby. Patrick's arrival became a major event, not only for his mother but also for every resident of the facility. They were invited for dinner with the residents, but Patrick hardly had a chance to eat because everyone wanted their picture taken with and an autograph from the famous aviator and general.

Patrick had registered them in the Scottsdale Princess Hotel using his middle name, Shane, instead of Patrick so they were able to enjoy a much greater level of anonymity as they sat out at the pool bar with drinks. Brad had gone upstairs to watch TV and chat with his friends back home, and Gia was on her way to a twelve-step meeting in Scottsdale. “This is very nice.” Patrick sighed as he settled in with his second Balvenie single-malt Scotch. “The air and the temperature are the same, but Battle Mountain doesn't have anything as grand as this.”

“Why in the world would you leave Las Vegas for someplace like Battle Mountain?” his sister Nancy asked. “I looked it up: it's a bump in the interstate, and always has been.”

“I'm there not because of what Battle Mountain
is,
but because of what it
can
be,
” Patrick replied. “The base is an incredible facility. It's over seven thousand acres, with a hundred acres
underground
.”

“Underground? How is that possible?”

“It's one of the most incredible engineering feats on the planet,” Patrick said. “We can park B-52 bombers
sixty feet underground
. But that's not the best thing about Battle Mountain. It's centrally located between Salt Lake City, Portland, Reno, Sacramento, Phoenix, San Diego, Las Vegas, Seattle, and Denver, so it has a huge pool of well-educated talent it can draw from for advanced research and development. It has almost unlimited airspace for flying, it has pretty good weather most of the year, and easy access to Air Force and Navy restricted airspace for flight testing. Land and housing are cheap.” He paused for a few moments, adopting his infamous “ten-thousand-yard stare” that even his sisters recognized. “It just needs someone to . . . to
commit
to it. It's ready to contribute, if someone would just commit.”

“What the hell are you babbling about, big brother?” Margaret asked. She giggled. “Or is that just the second Balvenie talking?”