A Time for Patriots (31 page)

Patrick sat back down on the ottoman and took her hands again. “It can be different now,” he said. “I'm retired, Gia. Maybe I needed to grow up and finally realize that. I pretended I had a job and a function here, but now I know I don't. So I can be with you and help you in any way I can, any way you need.”

Gia looked up, touched the collar of his Air Force–style sage-green Civil Air Patrol flight suit, and choked down a sob with a smile. “I find that a little hard to believe,” she said with a wry smile. “Somehow I can't see you settling down. If it's not Civil Air Patrol, Angel Flight West charity flying, flight instructing, or meeting up with your space-faring buddies, it would be something else.”

“Well, Gia, I guess I'll always do a little bit of that stuff,” Patrick said honestly, “but with you and me together, it can be different. We'll move off base, rent until we save up some money, then when Brad graduates high school and goes off to college, we can pick a place together and move.”

“Move off base?” Gia asked. “What about . . . you know, the Russians . . . ?”

“It's been almost a year since we found out about that, and nothing has surfaced,” Patrick said. “I think the CIA shut that threat down completely. They've got bigger fish to fry, and I've been under their radar for too long.”

“I saw you on TV, on the news, as part of the team that rescued that little boy in the desert,” Gia said. “I think you're on the radar again.”

“I'm not worried about that,” Patrick said. “You're much more important to me than some supposed threat that young Agent Dobson came up with.”

CIA agent Timothy Dobson, an adviser to Kenneth Phoenix when he was vice president, had warned Patrick of the threat of Russian assassination squads sent out after him in retaliation for last year's attacks in the Gulf of Aden and Yemen, and had suggested that Patrick move to Battle Mountain to make it easier for the CIA and FBI to detect their approach.

Gia looked into his eyes, saw that he was sincere, and smiled. “Thank you, Patrick,” she said. “Let's take a little time to get to know each other again, and find out what Bradley thinks of all this. And my first order of business is to find a meeting place here on base or in town.”

“I can find that out for you in the blink of an eye . . . literally,” Patrick said. He activated his intraocular monitors, virtual keyboard, and computer network . . .

. . . but Gia put a hand on his arm. “Let's start exploring a new life together . . . by doing away with the high-tech gadgets a little more,” she said with a smile. “Frankly, that thing you do creeps me out.”

Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

Several days later

I
t was becoming an almost daily occurrence now: mornings around eight
A.M.
, the protesters would return to the main gate. Their numbers were growing, but they were becoming more civilized as well. The Nevada Highway Patrol cars were reduced to just two, with no armored vehicles and no riot gear. The Air Force Avenger units were no longer in sight inside the base either, although they were not far away.

The protests were organized, almost routine, and relatively nonthreatening. The marchers—about a hundred of them today, the biggest number yet—would pile up to the front gate, chanting and singing as they approached, waving signs and banners, surrounded by photographers and crews from news outlets all over the world. A Highway Patrol trooper would order them to get off the highway. Someone with a bullhorn would read off a list of demands, usually right into the trooper's face. The Highway Patrol trooper would repeat the order. The protesters continued to sing and chant, amplified with bullhorns, and a half dozen or so would sit down in front of the gate. The trooper would put one of them in handcuffs, surrounded by the crowd, yelling and screaming while the one person was taken away. Then the one patrol car's lights and sirens activated, and the crowd would slowly move off to either side of the highway. They would stay for another hour or so, then start to leave. The one arrested protester would be allowed to leave as soon as the cameras were out of sight. By nine-thirty, ten o'clock tops, it was over.

It was Leo Slotnick's turn at the front gate. The air was already fairly hot and humid for this time of day, but he still wore his long-sleeved blouse with body armor underneath, and he was already damp with sweat. He had been sure to install a pair of foam earplugs to help preserve his hearing from the noisy crowd with their bullhorns, and he was wearing a pair of black Kevlar knife-proof gloves with steel knuckles. His trainee, Bobby Johnson, was back beside the patrol car, ready to take today's designated volunteer arrestee into custody.

When the protesters approached, Leo let them chant and sing for about fifteen minutes—he thought a few of them were actually looking at their watches, wondering why he was taking so long to confront them. At the next pause between songs, he filled his lungs and shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please. I am Sergeant Slotnick of the Nevada Highway Patrol. I am here to inform you that you are illegally blocking a state thoroughfare and interfering with normal traffic, in violation of Nevada Revised Statute four-eighty-four B point nine-twenty dash one. You are hereby ordered to clear the highway and allow traffic to proceed. Failure to obey a traffic officer is also a violation of Nevada Revised Statutes four-eighty-four B point one hundred, and could result in arrest and detainment. Please clear the highway immediately. Thank you.”

Now it was time for the shouting and demands. Leo folded his hands in front of his body—these folks were mostly harmless, but he still had to be ready to protect himself—and he steeled himself to accept the amplified yelling and screaming that was about to occur. Sure enough, the bozo with the bullhorn began shouting just a couple feet away from his ear, and even with the earplugs firmly installed, the bastard was giving him a splitting . . .

. . . and then he saw them: the same two tall guys he had seen at the first demonstration, but this time they were right up front, at the head of the crowd.

He tilted his head so he could talk into his shoulder-mounted microphone: “Bobby, this is Leo. C'mon out here and cover me, will you?”

“Roger,” came the immediate reply.

Leo looked directly at the taller of the two men. They returned his gaze, not attempting to retreat or hide at all. Over the blaring bullhorn beside him, he waved two fingers at the man. “You, sir, would you come with me, please?” The man did not move. “I said,
you,
sir, come with me.” The crowd, sensing something unknown was unfolding, seemed to back away from the direct line between the two men. “Anyone here know this man?” Leo shouted.

“He has a right to be here!” the guy with the bullhorn shouted. “What's your beef, man?”

“I want to talk with you, sir,” Leo said to the stranger. “I want you to come with me.”

“What the hell's going on, Leo?” the guy with the bullhorn asked. Leo recognized him as the night-shift clerk at the 7-Eleven in town. “Why are you dissin' this guy?”

“Do you know who he is, Tommy?” Leo asked him. “Have you met him before? Is he from around here?”

The guy with the bullhorn looked at the stranger with a blank expression, but turned to Leo and said, “Hey, Leo, I don't get it. I don't know this dude, but he ain't doin' nuthin'. We don't want no trouble, bro. He's not the one we're going to get arrested today with you, so don't—”

“I want you to come with me, sir,
right
now,
” Leo shouted, and he put a hand on his sidearm . . .

. . . and no one was exactly sure what happened first after that:

There was the sound of gunshots, four in rapid succession. Screams, cries of surprise and fear, and an immediate retreat of the dozens of persons crowded around Leo and the stranger at the main gate, as if pushed aside by a mighty gust of wind. Then several loud explosions erupted behind the crowd, followed by an immense billowing mushroom cloud of green skin-burning gas. The crowd of protesters surged forward away from the noxious green chlorine-smelling gas directly at the base's main gate. Almost the entire crowd of over a hundred protesters rushed onto the base, trampling anyone who was overcome by the gas or not quick enough to surge forward or get out of the way fast enough.

Northern Nevada Veterans Memorial Cemetery, Fernley, Nevada

Three days later

F
ollowing the hearse and the limousine carrying the family members of Nevada Highway Patrol sergeant Leo Slotnick were three dark blue armored Suburbans and several other limousines. Behind the limousines was a truly awe-inspiring sight: a long line of police cars from all over the United States, stretching for miles along Interstate 80, with lights flashing, slowly making their way to the cemetery. The police cars were followed by hundreds of other cars, some with Civil Air Patrol flags affixed to their roofs. The Nevada Highway Patrol troopers who were blocking crossroads and directing the impossibly long procession of cars saluted the hearse as it drove past. At Exit 48 on the freeway, the lead group continued on to the Northern Nevada Veterans Memorial Cemetery, while the hundreds of police cruisers and Civil Air Patrol members that were part of the procession lined up and stopped in the number two lane. The passengers got out of the cars, and they held salutes or hands over their hearts until the hearse was out of sight.

The flag-draped casket was brought to the center of the visitors' center, escorted by an honor guard composed of Air Force, Highway Patrol, and Civil Air Patrol officers and cadets. Since the facility was so small, only a small fraction of the thousands of attendees could be seated inside, but hundreds of others stood outside to listen to the service on loudspeakers. The family members—Leo's wife, three young children, his parents, and his wife's parents—were escorted to their seats, followed by the invited VIP guests: the vice president of the United States, the secretary of the Air Force, the governor of Nevada, the commandant of the Nevada Highway Patrol, and the national commander of the Civil Air Patrol, among many other dignitaries.

After the service was over, the vice president's motorcade departed first, heading west on Interstate 80 toward Reno with two armored Suburbans as escorts, where her C-32 transport, a VIP-modified Boeing 757-200, was waiting at Reno-Tahoe International Airport. “Patrick, it's good to see you again,” Vice President Ann Page said. “You need to come to Washington more often—it seems I only get to see you at funerals.”

“Thank you, Madam Vice President,” Patrick McLanahan said. “It's good to see you too.”

“And I never would have recognized young Bradley here,” the vice president said to Brad, seated beside his father, “although you're certainly not so young anymore. Congratulations on the Civil Air Patrol save.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“You know who Mr. Dobson is, don't you, Brad?” the vice president asked, motioning to the man seated beside her.

“I think so,” Brad said, but it was obvious he didn't remember—and that was the way Patrick had wanted it, at the time, when Dobson delivered the message that Russian hit men had been sent to target his father for assassination in retaliation for the attacks on Russian installations in the Middle East and East Africa. They left Henderson, Nevada, soon after President Kenneth Phoenix's inauguration, went to Washington to support Gia Cazzotto in her trial and to await Patrick's trial, then moved to Battle Mountain after Gia's sentence was commuted and Patrick was pardoned.

“Mr. Dobson has some information for your father,” Ann said, “but I thought it was okay if you hear it too, because it concerns both of you, and I think you're old enough to know everything. Tim?”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Timothy Dobson said. Dobson, a fifteen-year veteran of the Central Intelligence Agency, had served with then–vice president Ken Phoenix on a panel to rewrite the national space policy. But when China and Russia began a cooperative plan to attack American space-defense satellites, Phoenix assigned Dobson to work with Patrick on a covert strike plan to destroy the Chinese antisatellite-missile sites and Russian intelligence radar sites that were damaging the American antisatellite-weapon garages. In the aftermath of Patrick's attacks, Dobson had discovered that Russia was sending assassination squads into the United States, targeting Patrick for reprisals.

“We've analyzed photos and videos taken at the demonstrations in front of Battle Mountain air base,” Dobson said, “and my team has identified two and possibly four foreign agents that have been moving closer and closer to the air base at Battle Mountain.”

“They're getting bolder by the day,” the vice president said. “They're moving right to your doorstep. You're not safe.”

“We think Sergeant Slotnick detected the agents about two weeks ago at one of the demonstrations,” Dobson went on, “and actually confronted one the day he was killed. Most likely it was one of the agents that killed Slotnick, and the backups in the crowd set off the tear-gas bombs that caused the protesters to panic and rush the base.”

“The base is still a safe place for you,” the vice president said. “The security there is the best in the nation. But it's closing soon, and you'll lose that protection. And I'm concerned about young Brad here. You go to high school off base, and I know you have off-base jobs and activities, and that's where they could get to you. It won't be much of a life stuck on the base.” She turned to Patrick. “That's why I want to suggest you come to Washington, Patrick.”

“Ma'am . . .”

Page held up a hand. “I understand all about Colonel Cazzotto, how angry she was at President Phoenix for not pardoning her. But have you seen her lately?”