A Time for Patriots (13 page)

“Colonel Spara is
really
pissed at you,” Brad said with a wide grin. “I don't think he stopped yelling on the radio until a few minutes ago.”

“I wasn't going to leave my son out here in the desert,” Patrick said in a whisper. “The colonel is wacky if he thought I'd just fly back to base and leave you behind.” They walked back to Bellville and Fitzgerald. The cadets had set up two dome-shaped tents. They had been eating from self-heating bags of military MREs when they arrived, but now they excitedly ran over to the newcomers. The survivor was resting on a stretcher, covered with a silver space blanket, his head and face bandaged. “Is that the
survivor,
Dave?” Patrick said to David Bellville with surprise after shaking hands. “The sheriff hasn't shown up yet?”

“No, and we don't know what the delay is,” Bellville said. “I can't believe you landed out here, sir.”

“
I
can believe it,” Fitzgerald said, striding up and pumping Patrick's hand enthusiastically. “Damn commanders always kowtowing to the regs and ignoring the real situation on the ground. But not this guy!” He thumped Patrick on the shoulder hard enough to tilt him onto one foot. “This is Patrick freakin' McLanahan, the guy who kicked the Russians' butts after the American Holocaust. He wasn't about to leave his mates behind. About time someone said to hell with the damn book and looked out for his troops.” He turned to Spivey and Markham and jabbed a thumb toward Patrick. “He's a real war hero, you guys, and don't you forget it.”

“Thanks, Fid,” Patrick said. “Dave, how's the survivor?”

Bellville turned to Markham. “Ralph?”

“His name is Jeremy, sir,” Ralph said. “Same condition as previously reported. We're letting him sleep but waking him every hour or so as a precaution because of his possible concussion. He's alert and responsive. He hasn't eaten but has had a little water.”

Patrick was very impressed, and now he wished he spent more time with the cadets than he normally did: this cadet was extraordinarily bright. “Thank you, Ralph,” he said. “Good report.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ralph said. “I'll go back and watch over him.” Again, Patrick was impressed.

Bellville held up his portable FM transceiver. “Colonel wants to talk to you, sir.”

Patrick nodded, then walked away from the group before keying the mike: “McLanahan here.”

“McLanahan, I am going to kick your ass when you get back here—I don't care if you are a retired three-star general,” Spara said angrily. “Did you deliberately shut off the repeater?”

“Something happened to it, Rob. We can discuss it when I get back.”

“You violated your flight release and landed at another airport without permission.”

“Leo and John both said they thought they heard the engine running rough. I made a precautionary landing at the first available airport. Besides, I'm allowed to land at different airports as long as I don't alter the crew composition.”

“Not on an actual mission you can't,” Spara shouted. “And
was
the engine running rough?
You're
the damned mission pilot, not Leo!”

“We can discuss that face-to-face too, Rob.”

“Jesus,” Spara breathed. “You know you were on the hook for that plane and the lives of your crew the minute you touched down on Andorsen's ranch, don't you? Except in an emergency, if you're off the flight release during an actual mission, you might as well have stolen the plane.”

“We were ordered by the FAA to land immediately,” Patrick said. “If I didn't and tried to return to Battle Mountain, I would have risked being intercepted and shot down. I think I made the better decision, don't you?”

“It won't be up to me—it'll be up to the regional commander, maybe the national commander or even the Air Force,” Spara said. “They're likely to boot us all out of CAP.”

“I'm fine, the crew is fine, the ground team is fine, Jeremy the survivor is fine, and the plane is fine, thanks for asking, Rob,” Patrick deadpanned.

“Why, you son of a b—”
Spara began . . . but then he started to chuckle. A moment later: “All right, hotshot, I'm glad you're all fine,” he said.

“Thank you. What's going on with the sheriff's department?”

“No idea yet,” Spara said wearily. “They keep telling me someone's been dispatched, but that's all they'll tell me.”

“I have one of Andorsen's trucks.”

“So you stole a vehicle too? Great,” Spara said even more wearily than before. “Oh well, might as well go out with a bang. How long did it take you to drive out to the ground team?”

“About an hour.”

“It'll be dark soon. We'll stick with the original plan: camp out tonight and await the sheriff and ambulance or medevac helicopter.”

“What's happened? Why is the FAA shutting down airspace?”

“It's unbelievable, Patrick: it looks like a terrorist flew a plane filled with nuclear material into the federal building in Reno.”

“Nuclear material!”

“They're ordering the evacuation of one hundred thousand residents of Reno,” Spara went on. “The downtown part of the city is completely empty.”

“Was it a bomb?”

“They're starting to report now that it might have been just a large amount of low-grade medical radioactive waste,” Spara replied. “But no one is believing that yet. They're showing video of thousands of people madly running or driving like crazy in a full-throttle panic, as far away as Las Vegas and Sacramento. Same all across the country: people are fleeing any cities that have federal office buildings.”

“My God . . .” Patrick thought of his family in Sacramento, friends in Las Vegas and Houston, and colleagues in Washington—and, selfishly he realized, he was thankful he and Bradley were out in the middle of nowhere in north-central Nevada.

“I expect the panic to subside quickly as long as there's not any more attacks,” Spara said. “As soon as the airspace is reopened, I imagine CAP will be tasked with surveillance, transport, and SAR missions around Reno. But for now, you guys sit tight and wait for help. Let me know when the sheriff arrives, and try not to violate any more regulations tonight, okay, General? Battle Mountain Base, out.”

Patrick returned to the group and gave the transceiver back to Bellville. “Pretty incredible, eh?” Bellville remarked. “I filled John and Leo in. Anything more?”

“They're saying it was a large quantity of radioactive medical waste, not a bomb,” Patrick said to the entire group, especially the cadets, “but the airspace is still closed. Folks are panicking all around the country.”

“That's exactly what the attackers want: get the people good and scared,” Fitzgerald said acidly.

“Well, it's working,” Bellville said. “Our plans change?”

“Not before the sheriff arrives,” Patrick said. “We have ourselves a campout until daybreak.”

Bellville nodded. “If an ambulance or medevac helicopter doesn't arrive by then, we'll take Jeremy to the nearest hospital in Andorsen's truck,” he said. “We should make contact with Andorsen by then, and we'll ask him to help us get our van so we can take the ground team back to base. You can take the 182 back to Battle Mountain as soon as the airspace is reopened.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

“So you get to camp out with us tonight, Dad?” Brad asked excitedly. “It's the first time camping out with the CAP, isn't it?”

“First time camping out
ever
except for Air Force survival school and maybe once or twice in the backyard when I was a kid,” Patrick said. “I'll just sleep in the truck.”

“Nah, Dad, you gotta sleep out under the stars with us,” Brad said happily. “You'll love it. You can tell us war stories.”

“Okay, okay,” Patrick said. “But it better not rain on us.”

There were thunderstorms in the area, with tremendous flashes of lightning brightly illuminating the horizon and an occasional rumble of thunder rolling across the desert, but the group had clear skies and unusually gentle breezes that evening. Patrick told stories until almost midnight while the rest of them ate MREs and drank water, with hardly a word uttered by anyone. Even Jeremy, occasionally awakened on the stretcher, listened intently.

Bellville finally called the storytelling to a halt and organized the camp for the night, setting up sleeping areas, a latrine, the camp perimeter, and night watches; all their food and anything that might attract animals was stored inside the truck. The cadets took the first hour-long watches, patrolling the area around the camp with their headlights and flashlights to ward off curious coyotes and warmth-seeking snakes. Everyone else slept outside except Jeremy, who was placed in one of the tents, with Ralph steadfastly refusing to leave his patient's side.

Bradley had taken the first perimeter patrol. When his shift was done he went over to Ron. “Wake up, Ron,” he whispered.

“I'm not asleep.”

“Then get up, jerk-off. Perimeter patrol. You wake up Mr. de Carteret at zero-two-hundred.”

“I know, I know,” Ron said. He shook off his sleeping bag, found his boots and headlamp, and struggled to his feet.

“Don't leave your sleeping bag open like that, Ron,” Brad said. “You'll have half the bugs and lizards in the desert inside by the time you go back in.”

“I know, I know,” Ron repeated irritably. “I was going to zip it up. Just go to sleep, A-hole.” He zipped the sleeping bag closed, turned on his headlamp and flashlight, and took the portable FM radio from Brad.

“Don't forget check-ins at fifteen and forty-five past . . .”

“Jeez, McLanahan, I'm not a goober like Marky,” Ron hissed. “Lay off, all right?” and he stomped off.

Brad went back to where his father was sleeping under his unzipped and folded-out sleeping bag. He took off his boots, being careful to stuff spare socks inside to keep bugs and snakes from crawling in, then knelt on the ground. He was surprised to feel his sleeping pad beneath his knees. “You asleep, Dad?” he whispered.

“No,” Patrick whispered back.

Brad lay down, then sat up again. “Why aren't you sleeping on the pad, Dad?” he asked.

“I saved it for you. It's too small for both of us.”

Brad chuckled. “But you're old,” he said, “and the ground is very rocky.”

“I'm not old, you young fart, and the ground is just fine.”

Brad snickered and settled back down under the sleeping bag. After a few minutes, he whispered, “Is this what it felt like after 9/11, Dad? Scared, but you're not sure why?”

“Yes,” Patrick replied solemnly. “And the American Holocaust. No one knew what was going to happen next, or where or when the next attack would be. The Holocaust was far worse. Everyone slept in basements and air-raid shelters for weeks afterward, even after . . . after the counterattacks.” He paused, then said, “Lots of sleepless nights.”

Brad didn't say it aloud, but he thought it:
Your
counterattacks, the ones
you
planned and led, Dad. But all he said was, “Good night, Dad.”

“Good night, big guy.”

B
ecause Patrick was flying the Cessna and was the highest-ranking officer, he was the last to take a patrol shift so he could get the most sleep. David Bellville touched his shoulder. “Time, sir,” he said. “You get any sleep?”

“An hour or so altogether, maybe.”

“That's an hour or so more than me,” Bellville said. “I have relatives that live near Reno.”

“I know,” Patrick said. “I'm sure Rob is checking. Anything?”

“Poor Jeremy crying in his sleep every now and then, and Fid snoring away like an old hound dog,” Bellville whispered. He handed Patrick the portable FM radio. “Otherwise good. We'll get everyone up at six.”

“Roger.” Patrick donned his headlamp, used the latrine pit, then started his patrol. He pretended he was flying an expanding-square search: First he started at the center of the camp, checked every cadet, then checked on Ralph and Jeremy—both were thankfully asleep. Then he checked every senior, checked the ration cache in the pickup's cab with John, then started walking the perimeter, shining a flashlight on every bush, hole, rock, and crevice, trying to scare away any critters.

The shift went by quickly. The stars were amazing, and Patrick had never seen so many shooting stars before. He checked in ops-normal with Battle Mountain Base at fifteen minutes and forty-five minutes after the hour, just as he did on every mission or exercise. As the end of the shift approached, dawn was quickly approaching, and the eastern sky was ablaze with red and orange. Yes, he was here because of a disaster, but the opportunity to see this incredibly beautiful vista was . . .

. . . and as the light on the horizon brightened, he saw it: a Jeep Wrangler, top down and doors off, with two men sitting in the front seat—both armed with what looked like military rifles! It was no more than forty yards to their campsite—how in the world could these guys get so close without being heard by anyone?

Patrick decided to find out, and he walked over to them. The two men never looked over toward him as he approached, but straight ahead, even when Patrick pointed his flashlight in their faces. “Who are you guys?” he asked. No reply. Patrick saw the words
ANDORSEN AND SONS
painted on the side of the hood. “You work for Andorsen?”

“Mr. Andorsen will be by shortly to speak with you,” the man in the passenger seat said, still not looking at Patrick. Patrick could see several radios in the Jeep, including a police-band scanner and VHF aviation-band radio; he could also see that the scopes on their AR-15 rifles were low-light telescopic sniperscopes, able to intensify starlight enough to see in the dark. “We don't talk to trespassers and thieves.”