A Time for Patriots (15 page)

“Almost six months on this posting,” Patrick said, carefully scanning the sky for aircraft and taking another nervous look back at the warning lights from the base. He knew Battle Mountain had very sophisticated air-defense weapons, but he wasn't familiar with their status and guessed they had probably been deactivated when the drawdown began. “I spent two years here commanding the base previously.”

“You know about the underground hangar at the base, of course.”

“Of course.”

“My grandfather started that project, you know,” Andorsen said proudly, “and my father finished it. We've always been a family of miners—everyone in my family can work and live just as easily belowground as we do above. I was taken through the complex many times when I was a kid—of course, I was sworn to secrecy, and the threat of commies and saboteurs was so great back then that I was too scared to even think about talking about it to my friends. It was considered one of the eight technical marvels of the modern world back then.”

“I couldn't believe it when I was first taken through it,” Patrick said. “It still amazes me that we can park B-52 bombers down there.”

“And what do you do now, Patrick?” Andorsen asked.

“Officially I'm a reserve Air Force lieutenant-general in command of the Space Defense Force,” Patrick replied, “although there really is no Space Defense Force and the planned upgrades to the space-defense systems have been put on hold. In actuality, I'm a caretaker. If a contingency takes place, I'm there to make sure that the place is ready to support aircraft and spacecraft operations when a real commander and battle staff arrive.”

Andorsen scowled at him. “You're a
caretaker
?
You?
Why aren't you out there on the lecture circuit, or a consultant for some defense contractor? You could be pulling in some big bucks.”

“I might just do that later on,” Patrick said, “but if the Space Defense Force languishes in this recession, it might not survive when things recover. Someone needs to be the advocate. I'm happy to do it for my retirement pay.”

“You don't even get
paid
?” Andorsen asked incredulously. He shook his head. “How screwed up is that? General Patrick McLanahan, working for
nothing
? Unbelievable.”

Andorsen continued to chat about landmarks and features of his expansive ranch, flying this way and that. Patrick listened, but in reality he was looking at the VHF radios, itching to switch one to the Battle Mountain control-tower frequency, Battle Mountain Approach Control, or the GUARD emergency channel. Andorsen had the radio set to some personal frequency that Patrick didn't recognize.

“And this here is our Freedom-3 mine,” Andorsen went on. The mine was an immense open-pit area encompassing several hundred acres and several hundred feet deep. “My great-great-grandfather opened it way back after the turn of the century. He found mostly copper back then, but over the years we've found a little bit of everything there: silver, lead, bauxite, even a tiny bit of gold. Look there and you can see—”

Patrick couldn't stand it any longer: “Judah, if you don't mind, I'm going to flip your number two comm to GUARD,” he said as he switched radio frequencies and selected the proper button on the audio panel to monitor the frequency. “With all the stuff going on, I want to monitor GUARD. Hope you don't mind.”

“No, no, go ahead, set it for anything you want,” Andorsen said a bit perturbedly. “Just leave me comm one so I can talk to my boys if I need to.”

“You got it.” Patrick switched frequencies and hit the COM2 button on the audio panel, and immediately they heard, “ . . . fifteen miles south of Joint Air Base Battle Mountain, warning, warning, you have violated controlled airspace during an air-defense emergency. Repeat, unidentified helicopter nine miles north of Joint Air Base Battle Mountain, you have violated controlled airspace during a national air-defense emergency. You are instructed to depart Class-C airspace immediately and contact Battle Mountain Approach immediately on GUARD or on one-two-six-point-four. Be advised, you may be intercepted and fired upon without warning if you remain in Class-C airspace. Unidentified helicopter, if you hear this message, respond immediately on any channel.”

“They're talking about us!” Leo exclaimed.

“What in Sam Hill are they getting so wrapped around the axle about?” Andorsen exclaimed. “They know it's me.”

“That doesn't matter in an air-defense emergency, Judah,” Patrick said. “They may have deployed interceptors to Battle Mountain in case of more attacks in the area. Let me talk to them.”

“Fine by me,” Andorsen said irritably. “Go ahead.”

Patrick quickly switched the audio panel to COM2, hit the mike button on his cyclic, and spoke: “Battle Mountain Approach, this is Sierra Alpha Seven aboard JetRanger One Juliet Alpha on GUARD, fifteen miles south of JAB Battle Mountain. I was previously mission pilot aboard CAP 2722 that launched yesterday. Requesting permission to land at the CAP hangar.”

“What's that Sierra Alpha Seven nonsense?” Andorsen asked.

“My call sign at the base—I'm hoping that'll turn down the tension here,” Patrick replied. Andorsen snorted and shook his head but said nothing.

“Negative, One Juliet Alpha, negative,” the controller replied angrily. He directed Patrick to switch to his regular VHF frequency to clear the emergency frequency, then said, “You are directed to keep clear of Class-C airspace and land immediately. Acknowledge.”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Andorsen said. He turned the helicopter to the northwest. “We'll head back to the house.”

“That's about twenty minutes away, Judah,” Patrick said. He quickly scanned outside, then pointed to the left. “That rest-area parking lot looks empty. You can set it down there.”

“I'm not landing on no parking lot!” Andorsen said. “I'm heading away from the base, we've made radio contact, and my ranch is less than twenty minutes away. I'm not threatening anyone.” He flipped over to COM2. “Listen, Approach, this is Judah Andorsen on One Juliet Alpha. We're heading straight back to the ranch. I've been helpin' out the Civil Air Patrol with a rescue, so don't get all riled up about—”

At that instant they heard a tremendous screaming
WHOOOSH!
and the helicopter was tossed around the sky like a leaf in the wind. When Andorsen finally got the craft back under control, they all clearly saw what had caused the upset, because it had missed them by less than a hundred yards: an Air Force F-16C Fighting Falcon, banking steeply right in front of them.
“What in the hell
. . .
?”

“That was to get our attention,” Patrick said. He switched COM1 to the VHF GUARD channel and spoke: “Air Force F-16, this is JetRanger One Juliet Alpha on VHF GUARD, go ahead.”

“JetRanger One Juliet Alpha, this is Saber One-Seven, Air Force F-16, on GUARD,” came the reply. “Turn left heading two-six-zero. You are instructed to land at Valmy Municipal Airport.”

“I ain't landin' at Valmy—that place has been shut down for twenty years!” Andorsen said. “There isn't anything out there!”

“Judah, you'd better turn to that heading,” Patrick said. “If we're not responding, he'll get permission to shoot.”

“
Shoot?
You mean,
shoot me down
?”

“I do, and after what happened in Reno yesterday, he'll do it.” Andorsen shook his head but turned to the heading. Relieved, Patrick switched to COM1. “Saber One-Seven, this is JetRanger One Juliet Alpha, requesting permission to land at the owner's private airstrip at our four o'clock, forty miles. We will remain clear of Class-C airspace.”

“Negative, One Juliet Alpha,” the fighter pilot replied. “You are instructed to land as directed and await law enforcement. Do not attempt to take off again. I will be circling overhead and I may be directed to fire upon you without warning if you attempt a takeoff. Remain on this frequency.”

“Why, this is the biggest load of crap I've ever heard!” Andorsen thundered. “What does he mean, ‘law enforcement'? What in hell did I do?”

“We're not supposed to be flying, Judah,” Patrick said. “Don't worry—once they find out who we are, they'll let us go once the emergency is over.”

“I'm not going to wait,” Andorsen said. He switched COM2 to his own discrete frequency. “Teddy, this is Judah.”

“Read you loud and clear, sir,” came a reply moments later, with a remarkably clear transmission, as if the responder was very close by.

“I'm in the JetRanger,” Andorsen said. “There's an Air Force fighter jet forcing me to land at the old airport in Valmy. Send some boys out there. Then tell Cunningham to meet us out there too. They may try to arrest us. They may use the Highway Patrol or Humboldt County sheriff before the feds arrive.”

“Roger that, sir, I'll tell him.”

Andorsen nodded. “They think they're hot shit because they got a jet fighter?” he snapped cross-cockpit. “They ain't seen
nuthin'
yet.”

After overflying the deserted field and selecting the least weed-choked area he could find, Andorsen set the JetRanger down with an irritated
thud
and a swirl of tumbleweeds, shut the engine down, and exited the chopper. He scowled at the noise of the F-16 overhead. “Bastard,” he muttered. “Intercepted by the damned Air Force, and I haven't even had breakfast yet.”

Patrick pulled out his cellular phone. There was no cellular service out here in this remote area, miles from Battle Mountain. But he did have Internet access, thanks to the Space Defense Force's network of mobile broadband satellites that provided high-speed Internet access to most of the Northern Hemisphere. “Brad, this is Patrick,” he said after he had connected via Voice-over IP to the Battle Mountain CAP Base.

“Where are you?” Spara replied. “You missed a check-in.”

“We're with Judah Andorsen,” Patrick explained. “He was flying us back to his ranch in his helicopter after dropping the survivor and Dave off at the hospital in Battle Mountain.”

“He was
flying
? The entire national airspace is still shut down except for medical and law enforcement. From whom did he get permission?”

“No one.”

“So you're at his ranch?”

“Not exactly. We were intercepted by an F-16 and ordered to land at Valmy Airport.”

“There's an airport at Valmy?”

“Abandoned. We're okay, but we were told to wait for law enforcement. The F-16 is orbiting overhead to make sure we don't leave.”

“Great,” Spara said with a sigh. “I'll report it to the National Operations Center. I'll ask them to explain to the FBI that Andorsen was helping the Civil Air Patrol, but that might take some time. You might be in the pokey for a while. If they place you under arrest—”

“I know,” Patrick said. “Name, address, and Social Security number only, remain silent about everything else, and call the National Operations Center. Number's on my ID card.”

“Correct. Remind Leo. Maybe he can pull some strings with the Highway Patrol.”

“I think they will want to cooperate in every way with the FBI,” Patrick guessed. “I'll try to keep in touch.” He put the phone away. “Did you hear that, Leo? If they put us under arrest, we don't answer questions unless we have a CAP-appointed lawyer present.”

“They wouldn't
dare,
” Andorsen growled.

“The FBI's going to be on the warpath, Judah,” Patrick warned. “A suicide terrorist just attacked their offices in Reno with a dirty bomb. I wouldn't mess with these guys until everybody has had a chance to calm down. Once they figure out we're not terrorists, everyone will dial down the volume quickly, but at first things might be tense.”

About a half hour later, they saw and then heard a vehicle going Code Three down Interstate 80, and soon it turned off, raced down the frontage road, and headed south to the abandoned airport. It was a Humboldt County sheriff's cruiser. It stopped about twenty yards from the chopper, and a lone deputy got out. “All three of you,” he shouted, “put your hands in the air and turn around!”

“Now just wait a damned minute, Deputy . . . !” Andorsen shouted, jabbing a finger at the deputy.

“Do it,
now
!” the sheriff's deputy shouted, placing a hand on his sidearm.

Patrick and Leo did as they were ordered. “Do it, Mr. Andorsen,” Leo said. “Don't argue.”

Andorsen puffed up his chest as if he was going to start shouting again, but he shook his head, raised his hands, and turned. Patrick noticed his arms trembling; Andorsen looked at Patrick and said, “Old shoulder injury from Vietnam.” He raised his voice and said loudly, “I can't hold my arms up like this long, Deputy.”

The deputy ignored him. “Man closest to the nose of the helicopter, take five steps toward me, backward,” he shouted.

Leo did as he was told, then said, “I'm a Nevada Highway Patrol officer. My ID is in the lower right-leg pocket.”

“Are you armed?”

“I'm flying with the Civil Air Patrol today. CAP is never armed.”

“I said, are you armed?” the deputy repeated.

“No.”

“Hands behind your head, lace your fingers.” Leo complied. “Kneel down, cross your ankles.” Leo complied again, and the deputy put him in a pair of handcuffs, then took him to his patrol car. He did the same to Patrick, putting both men in the backseat.

“If you expect me to kneel down, buddy, you're loco,” Andorsen said acidly when the deputy approached him. “My knees are so old, they will crack like kindling. And I can't hold my arms up like this—the pain gets too much.”

“I'll help you up, sir,” the deputy said. “Hands behind your head, lace your—”