A Time for Patriots (3 page)

“Number one,” the boy said, but if the father had turned back to look at his son, he would've noticed the little anxious expression that meant that number two might be stirring as well.

“Then you'll have to do it in the piddle pack,” Frank said. “We're leaving. Hold it as long as you can.”

“Okay, Dad,” Jeremy responded meekly. Frank called Elko Tower, received another takeoff clearance, and in moments they were rolling down the runway again. This time there was no banging or anything else gone wrong, and they were airborne.

The skies were bright and sunny until thirty minutes into the flight, but soon Frank saw it—a dark white, gray, and brown mass of clouds on the horizon. He could see the northern edge of the squall line, but it was far to the
right
of course, not to the left as he had hoped. The thunderheads were towering skyward, and as he flew closer he swore he could see them rolling up even higher, driven by enough heat and raw energy to light up a city.

“Salt Lake Center, Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima.”

“Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake Center, go ahead.”

“I'd like to deviate twenty degrees north for weather.”

“Deviation right approved, report when direct Winnemucca again.”

“Three-Four Lima, wilco.”

“Why are we turning?” Kara asked.

“To get as far away from those buildups as we can,” Frank said. “If we start turning now, we won't be as far off course when we pass them, and we won't have to make as big turns. It's a fairly slow-moving system—we should miss it easily.”

“Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake Center . . . uh, verify that you do not have weather-avoidance or -detection equipment?” the air traffic control controller radioed.

“That's affirmative, Three-Four Lima does not have weather equipment,” Frank admitted. Several times this summer, which seemed to be particularly thunderstorm-active in the West, he wished he had spent the extra money on the portable navigation unit that also downloaded weather and NexRad radar images via XM satellite radio. But it wasn't required equipment, he rarely flew in bad weather or at night, it was a lot more money than the unit he had purchased, and the monthly subscription costs were astronomical—the wife was already pissed about how much all the airplane stuff cost already.

“Roger,” the controller responded. “On your new heading off the airway, I'm going to need you higher to stay in radar coverage. Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, climb and maintain one-two thousand.”

“Leaving one-zero thousand, climbing to one-two thousand, Three-Four Lima,” Frank responded. He pushed in the mixture and propeller controls, fed in power, and started a shallow climb.

“Do we have to go on oxygen now?” Kara asked.

“Only if you feel you need to,” Frank replied. “Go ahead and get the masks out.” The portable oxygen bottle and the three masks were in a canvas bag behind the pilot's seat, so it was easy to open it up and get the masks out. Kara swabbed the inside of each mask with an alcohol pad, making sure to wipe hers twice—she always thought it was a veritable germ breeding ground.

As soon as they passed eleven thousand feet, the turbulence began. They felt an occasional light bump at ten thousand, but now it was a consistent light chop with an occasional moderate bump, and the higher they climbed, the worse it got.

“Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake Center, how's your ride?” the controller asked as they leveled off at twelve thousand feet.

“Light, occasional moderate turbulence,” Frank reported. “When can I go back down to ten thousand?”

“Not until after Battle Mountain, sir,” the controller replied.

“Can I get VFR on top at ten-five?” “VFR on top” was an option for pilots on an IFR flight plan to fly at VFR altitudes—even-numbered altitudes plus five hundred feet flying westbound—if they were clear of clouds.

“Negative, Three-Four Lima, that's below my minimum vectoring altitude in your present area,” the controller responded. “You'll have to wait until you get into Battle Mountain Approach's airspace. Maintain one-two thousand.”

“Maintain one-two thousand, wilco, Three-Four Lima,” Frank replied. His only other option to fly at a lower altitude out of the turbulence was to cancel his IFR flight plan, but he didn't feel comfortable with that until he was around those thunderstorms—the mountain ranges in this area were pretty high, and if he lost contact with the ground, he'd be in a world of danger.

“Dad, I don't feel so good,” Jeremy said. His wife immediately found an airsick bag, opened it, and gave it to her son. The turbulence was gradually increasing in intensity—it was now getting close to continuous moderate turbulence with an occasional jolt that made their bodies strain against their shoulder harnesses.

“Can we get out of this turbulence?” Kara asked.

“Not for another twenty minutes or so.”

“Twenty minutes?”

“ 'Fraid so.” He looked out his left window and was surprised to see how close he was to the thunderheads—probably less than twenty miles now, the minimum recommended spacing. The turbulence was undoubtedly being caused by the spillover from the tops of the thunderstorm anvil pounding at them from above—the spillover could toss hail and ice as far as twenty miles or more from the center of the storm. “Those thunderstorms are moving a lot faster than forecast.” He looked at his GPS navigation device—sure enough, they were fighting a fifty-knot crosswind. The storm was catching up to them.

For a moment Frank thought about turning back toward Elko. But that would really screw up their schedule. And if they had to spend more than one night in Elko—the forecast for tomorrow had the thunderstorms moving back in and staying for days—he could get reprimanded for missing that much work. He could take an airline flight from Elko to Oakland, but that meant more money wasted, and
then
he would have to take the airlines
back
to Elko to get his plane. Turning around was an option, but not a very good one.

“Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake, are you still VMC?” the controller asked.

“Affirmative, Three-Four Lima,” Frank responded. “We're getting a little bit of rain.”

“How's your ride?”

“Light, occasional moderate,” Frank lied. It was more like continuous moderate, with more frequent bumps hard enough to make the top of his headset hit the headliner.

“The closest cell is at your ten o'clock, fifteen miles,” the controller said. “You may need to turn southeast to avoid it.”

“Roger,” Frank replied. “Can you vector me around the cells? Can you keep me away from the cells?”

“Three-Four Lima, turn left heading one-seven-zero, vector for weather, maintain one-two thousand, clear to deviate as necessary to stay VMC if possible.”

“Heading one-seven-zero, Three-Four Lima.” Now they were paralleling the storm, actually flying away from their destination. If the controller was making a strong suggestion to the pilot to turn back toward Elko, this was it. But the storm seemed to know it. Now that they were on a clear avoidance track, the storm seemed to awaken, transforming into the snarling ugly beast it really was and turning to pursue. But the storm had one more trick up its sleeve first.

Frank was relieved to actually see breaks in the cloud wall and decided to steer right for them. “I can see blue skies on the other side,” he said. “We can get through this.” He tried to aim right for those breaks, but it seemed as if he was almost flying sideways. The severe turbulence was more persistent now. He heard a
BEEP BEEP BEEP!
and saw a yellow flashing light—the turbulence had caused the autopilot to disconnect. He grabbed the control yoke tighter and fought to maintain control. He knew enough to let the plane wander in altitude a bit and not try to fight the up- and downdrafts.

“Three-Four Lima, turn left heading one-five-zero, vectors for weather, cleared in the block one-two thousand to one-four thousand,” the controller radioed. Frank realized with shock that he was flying almost
north
in his vain attempt to fly through the break in the storm, but now he could see nothing but a mass of dark gray. The turbulence had eased up a bit, but now the plane was being pelted by heavy rain and gravel-size hailstones. He had no idea what his altitude was—it took every ounce of concentration to steer to the heading and keep the wings relatively level.

The storm had sucked him in with fleeting glimpses of clear skies, and now its jaws were closing
fast
. “Salt Lake, Three-Four Lima, this is not good,” Frank said. “I need to get out of this.”

“Say again, Three-Four Lima?”

“Dad?”

“Not now, Jeremy.”

“Three-Four Lima, Battle Mountain Joint Air Base is at your six o'clock, fifty-five miles, turn right heading one-six-zero.”

“Dad?”

“Jeremy, what is it?”

“Ice on the pitot tube!” Frank looked and found the pitot tube and the leading edges of both wings covered in ice. It was July, and Elko had to be ninety degrees when they left . . . how could there be
ice
? Frank turned on the pitot heat, then started a right turn . . .

. . .  and then a gust of wind and turbulence lifted the left wing up so suddenly and so severely that they rolled completely inverted. Frank heard someone scream . . . and realized it might have been
himself
. He fought to roll wings-level again, but the artificial horizon was tumbling uncontrollably and the turn-and bank indicator seemed frozen in a full-scale right turn. The nose shot skyward—or it might have been earthward, he couldn't tell for sure. Pulling and turning the yoke in any direction didn't seem to do a thing.

“Dad?” Jeremy asked.

“Not now, Jeremy.”

“But, Dad, your heading indicator, your turn-and-bank . . . look at your—”

“I said not now, Jeremy, I'm trying to fly.” Suddenly more light seemed to come in through the windscreen. The pilot realized that a thin film of ice was obscuring the view outside, but he could see! They were out of the thunderstorm! “Okay, okay, I got it,” Frank said on intercom. “We made it. We . . .”

And just then he realized that the ground was rushing up to meet them—they were in a nearly vertical spinning dive heading straight for the ground. The pilot centered the controls and shoved in the left rudder, managed to somehow stop the spin, pulled back on the power, and raised the nose almost to level . . . just before the plane smashed into the ground.

“C
essna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, radar contact lost, how do you hear Salt Lake Center?” the controller radioed. He waited a few moments, feeling his skin turn cold, his throat turn dry, and little hairs stand up on the back of his neck. “Three-Four Lima, how do you hear Salt Lake Center?” His supervisor was already standing beside him. “Shit, Bill,” he said, “I think I lost him.”

“Salt Lake Center, United Twelve-Seventeen.”

“United Twelve-Seventeen, Salt Lake Center, go ahead.”

“We're picking up an ELT beacon on two-four-three-point-zero,” the airline pilot radioed.

The controller felt his lower lip start to tremble. That UHF frequency was the international emergency channel on which an airplane's ELT, or emergency locator transmitter, broadcast—and ELTs automatically activated after a crash. A hand touched his shoulder—it was his replacement, come to relieve him so he could get away from the console, pull himself together, and start his grim report. “Copy, Twelve-Seventeen, thank you,” he said.

“I'll get on the horn to the Air Force,” the supervisor said.

“No, I'll do it,” the controller said. He threw off his headset, kicked himself out of the chair, picked up the phone between his seat and the assistant controller, and hit a red button marked
AFRCC
. He took a deep breath and waited for the direct line to activate.

“Rescue Coordination Center, Sergeant Goris,” came the reply from the duty controller at the Air Force Rescue Coordination Center at Tyndall Air Force Base in Florida, which directed all air and sea rescue missions in the United States. “Ready to copy, Salt Lake Center.”

“This is Adams, Salt Lake Center. Lost radar contact with a Cessna 182, five-five miles north-northwest of Battle Mountain, Nevada, in an area of heavy thunderstorms. Airliner at flight level three-five-zero reports picking up a VHF ELT overhead that vicinity.”

“We're on it, Salt Lake,” the voice on the other end of the line said. The controller could hear an alarm sounding in the background. “Colors, fuel on board, pilot's name, and souls on board?”

The controller picked up the flight-plan strip from its holder. “White with blue stripes, five hours, three . . . three souls on board,” he read, his voice catching when he read the grim number off the flight's data strip.

“Roger, Salt Lake,” the voice said. “When do you estimate the weather will move out of the area?”

“It's moving pretty fast and it's not very big, just long,” the controller said. “About an hour.”

“Thanks, Mr. Adams,” the voice said. “I'm sorry. Tyndall is clear.”

Warehouse Complex Outside Lincoln Municipal Airport, California

That same time

“O
kay, guys, this is it,” the Federal Bureau of Investigation special agent in charge, Gary Hardison, said. He was surrounded by two plainclothes agents, a team of four FBI Special Weapons and Tactics officers, and a squad of eight federal Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms agents, all in full body armor and tactical helmets and carrying submachine guns. “It's the culmination of eighteen months of undercover work to get close to this gang. It all happens in about an hour.”

Hardison stepped over to a large presentation board with overhead satellite photographs of the objective and a hand-drawn diagram of their ingress plan. “Here's the hangar where they want to make the exchange, in the middle of the first row nearest to the taxiway. Be on the lookout for planes and pilots on the airport, but the weather has been stormy, so the airport manager believes there won't be any pilots on the airport. To be sure, he's deactivated everyone's gate access cards except ours so they won't be able to get onto the airport until we're done. We've verified that the other hangars are occupied, the identities of the owners have been checked, and the airport manager has deactivated their gate cards so they won't be able to get in.