A Time for Patriots (17 page)

“I want my attorney,” was all Patrick said.

Chastain glanced at the woman beside him, then shook his head again as he went through Leo's identification. “Fine,” he said resignedly after several minutes. “You and Trooper Slotnick will be placed under arrest until she arrives.” The agent named Brady who had frisked Patrick and Leo made them turn around and place their hands behind their backs, and for the second time that day they were in handcuffs. “You're charged with violating Homeland Security executive directives and entering controlled airspace without permission.” Chastain's fingers poised over his laptop. “What's your attorney's name?”

“Darrow Horton.”

Chastain looked up from the keyboard, and all of the agents began another round of surprised stares. “Darrow Horton?”

“You've heard of her?”

“You mean,
former attorney general
Darrow Horton?”

“That's the one. Need her number? Her Washington office is just a couple blocks from the Justice Department.”

Chastain nodded at his agents to silently tell them to take the handcuffs off. “Of course,” he said. “She represented you when the Gardner administration indicted you for ordering attacks against noncombatants, disobeying lawful orders, and dereliction of duty, correct?”

“I want my lawyer,” Patrick repeated.

Chastain smiled. “Tough guy,” he said. “Too bad the tough-guy act is blinding you to how much shit you're in.” He turned back to his laptop. “No phone calls are allowed for now, but we'll contact Miss Horton for you. You can go.” He turned next to Leo. “Trooper Slotnick, I hope you'll be much more cooperative than the general.”

“I want my lawyer,” Leo said, giving Patrick a wink as he walked past.

In the hangar, Patrick met up again with Rob Spara, who was with David Bellville and Michael Fitzgerald. “That was quick,” Rob said. “We were in there for a lot longer.”

“I refused to answer any questions and lawyered up,” Patrick said. “They couldn't do much with me after that except arrest me.”

“Good on you, General,” Fitzgerald said. “I told them to kiss my ass too until I get a lawyer—they weren't too interested in talkin' to me after that. Which was good, because I have no friggin' idea how to get a lawyer.”

“I don't know if that's such a good idea, Patrick,” Spara said worriedly. “I spoke with the CAP attorney from headquarters, and he told everyone to cooperate fully.”

“That's maybe good for CAP, but not necessarily for you,” Patrick said. “I'll let my attorney straighten things out.”

“If they ever let us call anyone,” Bellville remarked. “How long can they keep us here incommunicado like this? They took our cell phones and even the squadron's computers.”

“They said we couldn't use cell phones,” Patrick said. “Let me see what I can do.” He motioned to Brad to follow him, then walked over to an isolated corner of the hangar as far from the break room as he could. “Keep an eye out for guys talking into their sleeves,” he told his son. He raised his right hand, then activated his personal satellite Internet portal, his artificial lens monitors, and his virtual keyboard.

His first VoIP phone call was to Darrow Horton in Washington. “Patrick!” Darrow said excitedly. Darrow—named after famed libertarian and criminal attorney Clarence Darrow, a distant relative—was a bit older than Patrick, tall and slender, with long dark hair and sparkling blue eyes, an avid outdoor-sports enthusiast as well as a brilliant attorney. At that moment she was outdoors on a video-enabled laptop—obviously not in her Washington office. “Things are a little busy since the attack in Reno, but it's nice to hear from you. Wish I could see you. Your webcam not working?”

“Hi, Darrow,” Patrick said, pronouncing her name “Darra” in the proper North Carolina way, which was where she was originally from. “No, I'm on a . . . different machine right now. This is a business call.”

“Uh-oh,” Darrow said. “What did you do now?”

“I'm here in Battle Mountain, Nevada,” Patrick explained. “I was airborne during the nationwide airspace closure, and now I'm being detained.”

“Ouch,” Darrow said. “Homeland Security—that's going to be tough until things calm down, if they ever do. Where's Battle Mountain?”

“North-central Nevada.”

“Good. I'm up in Friday Harbor, Washington, on vacation, so it won't take that long to get to you. Who's got you? FAA? Homeland Security? Customs and Border Protection?”

“FBI.”

“Another ouch.” He could see her thinking, planning strategies; then: “Okay, I'll get my staff on the case back in D.C., and I'll get a car and start heading in your direction. I should be there in a couple days. What in the world is in Battle Mountain, Nevada?”

“What's left of the Space Defense Force, and my son.”

“How's Bradley doing?”

“He and his Civil Air Patrol strike team found an airplane-crash survivor yesterday,” Patrick said proudly. “He's turning into a young man. You won't recognize him when you see him.”

“And Gia?”

“MIA.”

“Again?” Patrick wasn't sure, but he thought Darrow didn't really sound concerned or empathetic. She spent as much time on canoeing trips and rock-climbing expeditions as she did in courtrooms—Patrick knew few men who had a chance in keeping up with her, including himself. Darrow did not like weakness, in herself or in others. She always felt that Gia Cazzotto had been too quick to blame others for her downfall, and it left a bad mark on all women. But men were a different issue. Patrick always felt that Darrow wasn't looking for a man who could keep up with her, but one who was strong in other areas. “Sorry. We'll have a chance to talk when I get there.”

“Thanks. I'm looking forward to seeing you.”

“Dad?” Brad touched his father's shoulder. “Someone heading this way.”

“Gotta go, Darrow. Thank you.” He terminated the call and turned. It was the female FBI agent who'd been with Chastain in the break room. Patrick got to his feet as she approached. She was a bit taller than he was, probably about ten years younger, with long dark hair, dark eyes, and an athletic body. She wore a dark gray suit with a low-cut cream blouse under the jacket that accentuated her breasts very well. Her eyes were narrow and inquisitive as she crossed the hangar, but when she noticed Patrick standing, she immediately put on a friendly smile.

Patrick held out a hand to her as she approached. “We were never introduced,” he said. “Patrick.”

“Everyone knows who you are, sir,” she said. She took his hand and shook it with a very firm grip. “Special Agent Cassandra Renaldo, U.S. Department of Homeland Security, antiterrorist unit. Everyone calls me Cassie.”

Patrick smiled as she released his hand. “That must be your shooting hand,” he said with a smile, shaking his hand in mock pain.

“Sorry,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I spend too much time with guy agents who do that to me all the time.”

“My son, Brad,” Patrick said, putting a hand on his son's shoulder.

They shook hands, and she saw it immediately: that adolescent smitten expression. Brad McLanahan was in love. She gave him a big smile and an appreciative glance. “You're in the Civil Air Patrol too?” she asked, admiring his camouflage field uniform. “I think that is so exciting for a young man.” Brad didn't answer, but continued to gaze at her, casting glances at her cleavage. Cassandra gave him another approving smile, then turned back to Patrick. “Both of you, working together. How cool is that?”

“Agent Renaldo . . .”

“Cassie, please,” she said. She gave him her best contrite expression, then said, “Honest, Patrick, I'm not trying to get you to talk to me . . .” She gave him a sly smile, then added, “Although I
was
sent over here to ask you again if you would talk to us.”

“I want my attorney first, Cassandra.”

“That's what I told them you'd say, but I had to ask first.” She then shrugged and added, “And, I
did
want to meet you. I couldn't believe it when Special Agent Chastain called up your info. We thought it was a mistake.” Patrick smiled and nodded but said nothing. Cassandra looked sheepishly at him and Brad, then said, “So. A little father-and-son talk over here?” No response. “Brad, I heard you found a survivor from a plane crash,
alive
. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Brad said. He squared up his shoulders and added, “My team and I found him. I was the cadet strike-team leader.”

“Wow. You're a hero. Pretty cool. What a great story.” She turned to Patrick. “You must be very proud of him, sir.”

“I want to speak with my—”

Cassandra held up her hands. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Patrick—I don't mean to pressure you or chat you up in hopes of getting you to talk to us,” she said. “I . . . I really did want to meet you. You're a hero to a lot of us.” She held out a hand again, then said, “When this is over, I hope we have a chance to get together and get to know each other.” She gave him a slight smile when he shook her hand, then nodded respectfully. To Brad, she held out her hand. “Very nice to meet you, Cadet McLanahan.”

“Call me Brad,” he said quickly. Patrick blinked in surprise at that invitation but said nothing.

“Okay, I will, Brad. And you can call me Cassie.” She gave him one last smile, turned, and headed back to the break room.

“Hey, she was nice,” Brad said after Renaldo departed.

“I guess,” Patrick said noncommittally.

Brad looked at his Dad carefully. “You don't think she's nice? I think she's great.”

“I really don't know her, Brad,” Patrick said. “I've seen an awful lot of folks doing and saying strange things this morning, and I don't feel like trusting anyone just yet.” He turned back toward the wall and logged back online once again, with his son guarding his back—so he didn't notice Brad's eyes following Cassandra Renaldo as she walked across the hangar.

R
enaldo returned to the others in the break room. Chastain was finishing another cup of coffee. “Well?” he asked.

“Like I thought: he stayed lawyered up,” Renaldo said.

“Losing your touch, Renaldo?” one of the other agents quipped.

“My job is to track down extremists, Brady, not to bat my eyes and shake my ass at suspects,” Renaldo said acidly. The agent named Brady gave her a “yeah, right” expression. She turned back to Chastain. “I still don't think he's working with any extremist groups, sir,” she said.

“Based on?”

“Gut feeling right now,” Renaldo admitted. “Plus, he's Patrick McLanahan. Everyone thought he was going to run for president last year.”

“David Duke ran for president too,” Chastain said. “There are plenty of extremist groups who would welcome McLanahan as their leader, even as a spiritual figurehead.”

“Like an American Osama bin Laden,” the agent named Brady interjected.

“You're comparing Patrick McLanahan to Osama bin Laden, Brady? Are you insane?” Renaldo asked. “Sir, I don't think we should abandon our investigation, but I just don't feel it. He's not the target.”

“Anyone who lawyers up right away like that sets my alarm bells off, Renaldo,” Chastain said. “The guy's been through hell fighting off the Gardner indictment, and he could be angry at the government for sticking him in this shithole assignment. When a disaster like the attack in Reno happens, most everyone cooperates, but not McLanahan. And what in the world is he doing out in the middle of nowhere at Battle Mountain? There's nothing out here—a few buildings, a skeleton staff, not many aircraft. Hell, the Space Defense Force doesn't
really
exist. And what was McLanahan doing flying around when he knew the airspace was closed? Things aren't adding up.”

“McLanahan wasn't flying—Judah Andorsen was,” Renaldo said. “I can't wait to have a chat with
him
.”

“The guy has been talking with investigators since he flew home,” Chastain said. “He's giving statements to everyone, and so far he checks out. The guy is cooperating, which is more than I can say for McLanahan.”

“Well, I don't think McLanahan is going to talk before his lawyer shows up.”

“We've already heard from his damned lawyer,” Chastain said. “I can't figure out how a D.C. law firm found out we had one of their clients in Nevada, but Washington is already ordering us to charge McLanahan or release him.”

“I thought I saw McLanahan in a corner working on a laptop with his son, but I checked and he didn't have one,” Renaldo said. She thought for a moment, then said, “McLanahan's son.”

“What about him?”

When Renaldo didn't answer right away, the agent named Brady smiled and nodded. “You couldn't get to the old man . . . so you got to his teenage
son
?” He chuckled. “That's the Renaldo I know and love!”

“I didn't go after the son—he was after
me
.”

“Then he must like older women,” Brady said. Renaldo scratched the tip of her nose with an upraised middle finger. “But the boy wasn't flying with the father.”

“If the old man is involved with any extremist groups, the boy may be able to tell us,” Chastain said. “There's no way McLanahan is going to let you near his son in here, and if we arrest him he'll tell his son to keep quiet. You'll have to approach the son some other time.”

“No problem,” Renaldo said. “In the meantime, I still want a crack at hunky Trooper Slotnick. Give me the letters from his boss and his union, and maybe he'll talk to me about what McLanahan was doing out there.” Chastain handed her a folder with several faxes from different agencies and courts, ordering all personnel to cooperate with the FBI and Homeland Security. “At least maybe I can chat him up and find out more about him that I can use later.”