A Time for Patriots (2 page)

Prologue

This is the porcelain clay of humankind.

—John Dryden

Elko, Nevada

Summer 2013

“S
evere thunderstorm activity along your route of flight,” the Federal Aviation Administration Flight Service Station weather briefer began. “Convective SIGMET Seven Charlie for Nevada, Idaho, California, and Utah, heavy-to-severe thunderstorms in a one-hundred-mile-long band fifty miles southeast of Battle Mountain, Nevada, moving from two-two-zero at fifteen knots, tops above flight-level three-niner-zero, with heavy rain, hail, and damaging winds with gusts over fifty knots.”

Cripes, the young pilot thought, it was one of the worst weather observations he had ever heard. Frank Post was a software engineer from Silicon Valley, an honor graduate of Stanford University, and a fairly new instrument-rated private pilot, with a bit less than two hundred hours of flying time, most in his used single-engine Cessna C-182R Skylane. He looked at his wife sitting beside him, still wearing that impatient expression he had been forced to put up with for the past day and a half.

“Where are the thunderstorms now?” Frank asked on the phone. His wife, Kara, rolled her eyes and looked at her watch for the umpteenth time that afternoon. Kara had been in real estate, but the real estate market had all but dried up in California in the current economic meltdown, so she did part-time fill-in work for other agents, mostly doing escrow paperwork and staging and showing homes. She never liked the idea of owning something as complex and extravagant as an airplane, and only agreed to go on this weeklong cross-country trip because she was assured of being able to see her parents in Kansas as well as Frank's folks in Nevada.

“The northern edge of the band of thunderstorms is about fifty miles south of Battle Mountain,” the briefer repeated.

Frank's face brightened, and he made a sausage-shaped drawing on the sectional chart he had on the desk in the flight planning room to indicate where the storm was, then drew an arrow representing the storm's direction of movement. Kara looked at the circle and looked relieved as well. “So from Elko I can outrun the storms,” he said, “and if the controller tells me the weather is getting close, I can deviate farther north around them.”

“Do you have weather-avoidance or -detection equipment?”

“No,” Frank replied.

“How about NextGen?”

“No,” he repeated. NextGen, or Next Generation, was the new air traffic control system that used datalinks aboard an aircraft to broadcast its GPS satellite-derived position, ground speed, course, and altitude to air traffic control, rather than using ground-based radar. NextGen was designed to increase air traffic control coverage and efficiency and eliminate radar blind spots in higher terrain, but it was expensive and not required to be on small general aviation aircraft for several years.

“Radar coverage is spotty in that general area,” the briefer said. “Unless you're up pretty high or right on the airway, you may be in and out of radar coverage.” Left unsaid was the fact that air traffic control radars were designed to track aircraft, not weather—although newer digital systems were better than the old analog ones, weather avoidance was not a major part of a controller's skills.

“I'll plan on being on the airway, and I have oxygen just in case I need to go higher.” Kara scowled at that comment. She hated wearing the little rubbery oxygen masks because they dried her nose and throat and made her claustrophobic.

“Roger,” the briefer said. He continued his briefing with terminal weather conditions and forecasts. Although their destination on this trip was Sparks, Nevada, where they planned to visit the in-laws, the planned overnight stop was Carson City because they had very inexpensive fuel there at the self-serve pump, almost two dollars per gallon less than Reno. The forecast was for cooler temperatures behind the front, but skies would be clear and winds were out of the west, right down the east–west runway at Carson—perfect. The briefer then read winds-aloft forecasts, which were not much better than the radar summary—strong south-to-southwesterly winds ahead of the front, switching to westerly winds behind the front, with light-to-moderate turbulence forecast above twelve thousand feet. He concluded his briefing with, “Anything else I can help you with today?”

“I'd like to go ahead and file,” Frank said. Kara smiled, silently clapped her hands, then turned to her son, Jeremy, and told him to start packing up his drawing pads and colored pencils, which he had scattered all over the flight-planning-room floor.

The briefer was silent for a long moment, obviously not expecting the guy to launch into such mean-looking weather. But it was not his job to tell a pilot to fly or not to fly, just to give him all the information he requests. “Stand by and I'll call up the flight-plan page . . . Okay, I have IFR, Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, a Charlie-One-Eighty-Two slant Golf, departing at twenty hundred Zulu, route of flight Battle Mountain, Lovelock, Carson City direct at ten thousand feet. Go ahead with the rest.”

“Two-point-five hours en route, no remarks, five hours' fuel on board, alternate is Reno International,” Frank replied. He gave his name, his San Carlos, California, address, his cell-phone number, three souls on board, and his aircraft's colors of white with blue stripes.

“Your flight plan is on file,” the briefer said after entering all the information into his computer and waiting for an “ACCEPTED” message from the FAA's computer servers. “PIREPS are strongly encouraged on one-two-two-point-zero. Have a safe . . . and very
careful
flight, sir.” The briefer was trying everything he could to get this pilot to cancel this trip short of just telling him, “Wise up, jerk, and keep your stupid ass on the ground.”

“Thank you,” Frank said, and hung up the phone. He turned to Kara. “There's a line of thunderstorms south of our route of flight,” he told her as he quickly packed up his charts and flight plan, “but I think we can outrun it because it's moving pretty slow. If it moves up quicker, we can fly farther north around it, and if we can't, we'll turn around and land back here at Elko.”

“No, we're
not,
” Kara said adamantly. “I've had enough of this little cow town. Two days stuck here because of thunderstorms—I've had enough.”

“I think it's a cute little town.”

“All we've seen of it is the McDonald's down the street,” she said.

“The hotel was nice, the people are nice, and the casino has a bowling alley and movie theater.”

“I'm not taking my son into any of those casinos—I don't care if they offered free ice cream and movies for life.” She turned to her son. “Jeremy, I asked you to please pick up your stuff. We're going . . .
finally.
”

“I have to go
cagada,
” the boy said, using the Spanish word for
crap,
and he hopped up and dashed off.

“Again?” his mother commented. “I hope you're not coming down with something.”

“I'll start untying the plane and do a preflight,” Frank said. “Be careful going outside on the ramp.”

Jeremy was gone for more than fifteen minutes. “What took you so long?” his mother asked. “Are you runny again?” The boy nodded, embarrassed. “I think that last sundae at McDonald's was not a good idea. Maybe you should wear the you-know-what this time.”

“I am
not
wearing a diaper,” Jeremy said. “I'm ten.”

“It's an adult diaper,” Kara said. “If you wear it, you don't have to pee in the bag thing, and if you have an accident, it'll be easier to clean up.”

“I am
not
wearing a diaper,” Jeremy insisted.

Frank came back into the flight planning room and looked at the pencils and drawing pads still on the floor. “What's going on? Why aren't you guys ready?”

“Jeremy spent a while in the bathroom.”

“Are you loosey-goosey again, buddy?” Frank asked.

“Daaad
. . .
!”

“Well, you should put on the personal hygienic undergarment, then, buddy,” his father said with a smile.

“You mean the
diaper,
Dad! I'm not wearing a diaper!”

“The astronauts wear them, and you want to be a Space Defense Force astronaut, right?”

“When I have to do a four-hour space walk, then I'll wear it,” Jeremy said.

“All right, all right,” Kara said with growing impatience. “If you make a skid mark in your pants, let's hope your grandparents don't see it. Pick up your stuff and let's go.”

It took another few minutes for Jeremy to collect his stuff. While he waited, Frank took his iPhone out of his pocket and punched up an app that downloaded NexRad radar images. He immediately saw the line of thunderstorms that had been forecast, and noted they were farther north than anticipated.

“How's it look?” Kara asked.

“Mean and nasty—we'll definitely have to deviate around them to the north,” her husband replied. He was suddenly very anxious to get going, so he skipped his intended bathroom visit. “C'mon, guys, we need to go,” he urged his family. Soon they were on their way to the plane, the boy's hands filled with stray colored pencils.

Outside they were greeted with brilliant sunshine, a welcome change to the past two days of booming thunderstorms and swirling winds. Frank noted that the wind was from the southwest and breezy on occasion, which would mean a slight crosswind takeoff, but nothing he couldn't handle. In minutes, he started the Cessna 182 Skylane's engine, received his IFR clearance and taxi clearance from Elko Ground Control, and was soon on his way, splashing through a few large puddles, taxiing a little bit faster than he normally did in order to get airborne as quickly as possible.

There was no one else in the pattern or on the taxiways. Frank did a hurried run-up check of the magnetos, then hustled through the rest of the checklist. “Everyone ready to go?” he asked over the intercom.

“Ready, Dad!” Jeremy replied enthusiastically.

“I'm ready,” Kara replied, turning and checking to be sure her son's seat belt was tight.

“Here we go.” He pressed the microphone button: “Elko Tower, Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, number one, runway two-three, ready to go,” he radioed.

“Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, Elko Tower, runway two-three, cleared for takeoff.”

“Three-Four Lima, cleared for takeoff, runway two-three.” Frank taxied onto Runway 23, and instead of locking the brakes, running the engine up to full power, and then releasing the brakes, he kept on rolling, then applied full power as he turned onto the runway centerline. The engine smoothly roared to full power, and the four-seat Cessna responded as spritely as ever, accelerating quickly . . .

. . . except there was a sharp banging sound on the left side of the plane, from the direction of the left main gear tire, getting louder and louder as he accelerated. “What the . . . something's wrong,” Frank muttered, and he jerked the throttle lever to idle.

“What's wrong?” Kara asked, the concern evident in her voice. “What's going on, Frank?”

“Why are we stopping, Dad?” Jeremy asked.

“Sterile cockpit, guys, remember—no talking until level-off except for an emergency,” Frank said. He pressed the mike button: “Elko Tower, Three-Four Lima is aborting the takeoff, possible flat tire.”

“Roger, Three-Four Lima,” the tower controller said. “Cancel takeoff clearance, turn right at the next taxiway, and contact Ground.”

“Three-Four Lima, wilco.”

“Hey, Dad?”

“I said no talking, Jeremy.”

“But, Dad . . . ?”

“This better be important, Jeremy!”

“I think it's your seat belt, Dad. Something's hanging out of the plane.” The pilot looked out his left side window, and sure enough, there it was: in his haste to depart, he forgot to fasten his seat belt, and the buckle end had started banging on the side of the plane. How in hell could he miss that?

“Thank you, buddy,” Frank said in a low, contrite monotone. “Good call.” He taxied off the runway, contacted Ground Control, and received a clearance back to takeoff position. In the run-up area, he pulled power to idle, pulled the parking-brake handle, had Kara hold the toe brakes on her set of rudder pedals just in case—her husband was usually admonishing her to keep her feet
off
the pedals, and now he wanted her feet
on
them—unlatched the door, and pushed it open. With the propeller turning, it required a lot more strength than he thought to open it, and the noise was a lot louder than he expected.

“Hopefully I'll never do
that
again,” Frank said after he had everything retrieved and reconnected. He took a moment to catch his breath—he noticed his heart pumping rapidly just from the excitement of being in all that noise and windblast. “I'm sure the guys in the tower got a big laugh out of that.” He made sure he fastened his seat belt this time, then looked around at everyone else's belts. “Okay, everyone ready to go?”

“Dad, I need to use the bathroom,” Jeremy said.

“What?”
Frank thundered, then immediately felt bad for shouting. “But you just went!”

“I just gotta go, Dad.”

“If we go back, will we miss those thunderstorms?” Kara asked. “Will we have to spend
another
night here?”

“We might.”

“Then we'll have to skip seeing my parents in Reno,” Kara said cross-cockpit. “We can't stay in Reno—we have to go straight home from Carson City. Jeremy can't miss any school, and I have no more vacation days off left on the books.”

Frank didn't reply to her, but instead asked, “Is it number one or number two?”