A Time for Patriots (37 page)

Brad smacked his friend on the back as hard as he dared. “Congrats, you SOB. You're going to be a dad. And you've actually got a plan.”

“I wouldn't go giving me too much credit,” Ron said, shrugging off the sting in his back. “My dad ran out on my mom a long time ago, and I know how tough it's been for her to raise two sons alone. I'd hate to do that to some little kid of mine.” He shook hands with Brad. “Thanks for listening, bro.”

“Sure. See you at practice.”

He watched Ron's face fall. “I . . . I'm not so sure,” he said. “I got a chance for a full-time job at the overnight delivery company warehouse in Elko. I might drop out of high school after I turn eighteen in a couple months.”

Brad was thunderstruck. “Are you sure you want to do that, Ron?”

Ron shrugged. “I hate school, Brad, you know that—the only reason I'm there is for football and girls,” he said. “At the company I'll get a decent salary, medical and dental, a pension, and they'll help with getting a GED and an online bachelor's degree. After a year I could become a manager. And I actually like working there. I won't just be loading and unloading short-haul planes, but working toward a real career in the express shipping industry.” He fell silent, then nodded. “I think it's the right thing to do.”

Brad shook his head. “Man, you're freaking me out here, dude,” he said. “You're turning into . . . like, a regular
guy,
right before my very eyes.”

“Yeah, I know—it's hard for guys like me to be seen as anything else but an Adonis to you mere mortals.” They both laughed at that one. “I'll see you soon, bro.”

“Congrats again . . . Dad.”

Ron nodded his thanks and left.

Nine

Duty cannot exist without faith.

—Benjamin Disraeli

Later that afternoon

P
atrick's desktop computer monitor showed the seal of the president of the United States. “Hold for the president, please,” the White House operator said after she had initiated the secure videoconference. A few moments later, Patrick saw President Ken Phoenix, seated at his desk in the private study next to the Oval Office. Beside him was Vice President Ann Page, smiling warmly. “Patrick, how are you, buddy?”

“Fine, Mr. President. Good to see you. You too, Madam Vice President.”

“It's been too long, Patrick.” His expression turned serious. “I'll get right down to it, Patrick: I received a very serious accusation from the Justice Department this morning, something dealing with the FBI agents leading the surveillance operation against the extremists near you.”

“The accusations are true, sir.”

Phoenix's eyes widened in surprise. “You
threatened
three federal agents with
death
?”

“Yes, sir.”

Phoenix sat back in his chair in complete shock. “The attorney general is screaming mad, Patrick. You used the CID robot and a Tin Man to threaten those agents with death? Why would you do something like that?”

“The agent from Homeland Security seduced Brad and lured him into a trap with the FBI,” Patrick explained, “and then the FBI agents set up Brad so they could get him to inform on me. I don't suppose they mentioned any of that.”

The president rubbed his temples. “Has the entire damned world gone mad?” he murmured. “Why would the FBI want to spy on you?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“They said you've been uncooperative ever since violating no-fly airspace a while back.”

“My attorney advised me not to answer any questions.”

“Attorney General Horton told you that?”

“Yes, sir.”

The president leaned forward and looked directly into the camera on his desktop computer. “Listen to me carefully, General,” he said. “You will rescind this . . . this
death threat
immediately, and you will guarantee to me that those agents have nothing to fear from you, the CID, the Tin Man, or any technology or weapons you control.”

“As long as I'm still free to protect my family, my community, and myself . . .”

The president held up a finger. “No conditions, Patrick.
None
. Agree to this, or I'll send the Marines to come get you, the CID, and the Tin Man. I'm not going to have anyone threaten a federal agent, even you.” Patrick still hesitated. “I'm serious about this, my friend. If you have evidence that these agents did something illegal, turn it over to me, and I'll have the Justice Department's internal affairs look into it. But you
will not
go around threatening federal agents as long as I'm president.” He paused, the anger level in his face slowly rising.
“Well?”

“I guarantee no federal agents will be harmed, sir,” Patrick said finally.

The president sat back in his chair. “That's better,” he said after a few moments. “Just wait until Gardner gets hold of this. It'll be front-page news all around the world in no time. The only reason I don't bust you now, Patrick, is because I believe you will send me clear and convincing evidence of what those agents did to Bradley, and that it was outside their legal authority. I was the attorney general, Patrick,
remember
? I believe the FBI is the finest law enforcement and investigative agency in the world. I'm not going to let anyone threaten an FBI agent, even you.”

“I'll have Darrow Horton send you the recordings, sir. I turned everything over to her.”

“You do that—
soonest
.”

“She's requested an interview of Special Agent Renaldo of Homeland Security to verify the plan to entrap my son,” Patrick said. “Renaldo invoked the Fifth Amendment and refused to cooperate.”

“Let them handle it,” the president said. “Next: you left a message with Ann saying you wanted to ask me something?”

“Yes, sir. I've been conducting surveillance of suspected extremist compounds in the Battle Mountain area, and—”

“You've been doing
what
?” the president interrupted. “What kind of surveillance?”

“Exactly the same kind that Special Agent Chastain was supposed to be doing,” Patrick said, “but instead, he decided to trick my son into informing on
me
.”

“Has that desert heat fried your brain, Patrick?” the president asked. “Using what? The CID and Tin Man?”

“No, sir—Sky Masters sensors mounted on private aircraft.”

“First the Iranians, then the Turks, the Russians, and now Americans,” the president muttered. “Next you'll be spying on me, I suppose? I regret putting you and Jonathan Masters in the same half of the country again—the trouble you two get into never ceases to aggravate me.” He thought for a moment; then: “I can think of a dozen different laws you've broken, but if anyone can keep you out of prison, it'll be Darrow Horton.”

“At the risk of eating fruit from the forbidden tree,” Vice President Page asked off-camera, “what have you found, Patrick?”

“That the FBI was barking up the wrong tree, ma'am,” Patrick said. “I have a plan to try to fix the situation, Mr. President, and I need your permission to do a few things.”

That same time

“S
o the deal is: I teach you how to pilot the CID, and you teach me how to fly,” Charlie Turlock said. She, Jason Richter, and Brad were in the FBI hangar with the stowed Cybernetic Infantry Device. “Deal?”

“I'm not a licensed pilot yet,” Brad said, “let alone a flight instructor. But I'll take you flying anytime as soon as I get my license, and as soon as I become a CFI, I'll teach you.”

“Good enough,” Charlie said. “Okay, before we get started, we have some programming to do so the CID will respond to your—”

“Already did it this morning with Colonel Richter, just before I asked you if we could train together,” Brad said. “Voice prints and brain scans too. CID One, deploy.” To Charlie's amazement, the CID unit began to unstow itself, and seconds later it had assumed its low crouching standby position.

“You did all that in just two hours?” Charlie remarked. “Usually it takes all day and a couple test runs to get it to respond properly.”

“We did it in less than an hour,” Brad said. Charlie turned to Jason in surprise, and Jason shrugged—he didn't understand why either. “Colonel Richter said they need to study me at the BattleLab to figure out why I can program so fast.”

“I couldn't believe it myself,” Jason said. “I thought we were just going to do a preliminary scan to get the input parameters set. We ended up running the entire routine.”

“Let's see if it took. Keep going.”

“CID One, pilot up,” Brad spoke. The robot immediately assumed the boarding position, and the entry hatch opened on its back. Brad climbed up and slid inside as if he had been doing it all his life, as evidenced by the hatch closing on the robot's back as the haptic interface connected Brad's brain to the computers and sensors inside the robot. Moments later, the CID was up on its feet. Brad looked at his hands and body like a frog that had just been turned into a prince. “Man, this is
incredible
!”

“Not so loud, Brad,” Charlie said, smiling. “Well, this is a milestone. Savoy took two days to interface. Stand in the center of the hangar so you don't go crashing into things.” Brad stepped forward, and Charlie saw no evidence of Brad's feet or legs hitting each other, as was common in new CID pilots. “It takes a while for the haptic interface to adjust for the differences between where you think your hands are and where the robot's hands are really—”

“Charlie, let's see if it was a fluke or the real deal,” Jason said. He went over to the hangar wall and retrieved a cart with four bowling balls on it. “This is my favorite demonstration of the CID, Brad. Care to give it a try?”

“You
bet,
sir.” Brad came over to him, and Jason tossed him one of the bowling balls. It landed on his right hand, but slipped out before he could close his composite armored fingers around it.

“Feet and legs are one thing, but fingers are another,” Charlie said. “We have an exercise routine that'll help with programming the haptic interface to—”

“Wait a second . . . I call a do-over,” Brad said. He picked up the bowling ball on the hangar floor with his fingers.

“Not too tightly,” Charlie warned him. But Brad was definitely getting the hang of it. He tossed the bowling ball up in the air and caught it with one hand. “Not bad. Try . . .” But Brad began tossing the ball between two hands, then doing it faster, and then higher. Then he took another bowling ball and juggled the two in one hand, tossing one up while catching the other.

“Know how to juggle three balls, Brad?” Jason asked.

“No . . . but I can do hacky sack,” Brad said . . . and to Jason and Charlie's amazement, he dropped one of the bowling balls on the instep of his right armored foot, held it there for a moment, then began flipping it up and down. In moments he was using every portion of his foot to kick the ball back in the air. Still carrying the second bowling ball, he then kicked the ball back and forth between his feet, bounced it off his chest and back onto his feet, kicked it up onto his head and balanced it there for a moment, then even kicked it back over his head, spun around, and caught it with a foot again. Before long Brad was prancing around the hangar, bouncing the bowling ball off his feet, his thighs, his chest, and his head as he moved.

“A-
mazing,
” Jason breathed. “The guy's a natural.”

“What else can you say: he's a McLanahan,” Charlie said. “Definitely his father's son. He can fly, and he's a gadget nut.”

“Let's bring it in, Brad,” Jason said.

“Can we do some outdoor training tonight?” Brad asked in his electronically synthesized voice. “I can't wait to
really
open this baby up!”

“We're going to use it tonight,” Charlie said. “And you have some studying to do on the electronics, electrical system, microhydraulics, sensors, and communications gear.”

“Okay,” Brad said. He stopped at the place where the CID was going to be stowed, flipped the bowling ball up into the air one last time, held his arms out straight with the second bowling ball in his left hand, then caught the first in his right hand without even looking. “Ta-
daaa
!” he cried out . . . then crushed both bowling balls in his armored hands, the balls exploding into clouds of dust with a loud
BAANG!

“Definitely a McLanahan,” Jason said.

Knights of the True Republic's Compound

That evening

“I
ntruder inbound! Intruder inbound!”
the loudspeakers throughout the compound blared. Men, women, and even children ran to preplanned response positions inside and outside the fenced interior part of the compound. Men, women, and older boys carried weapons of all kinds, from small revolvers to heavy machine guns; children helped by carrying ammunition, lights, radios, and even water buckets in case they had to fight fires.

A lone four-door three-ton crew-cab pickup truck moved up the dirt road leading to the main entrance to the compound, stopped outside the cattle guard at the outer perimeter, and Patrick McLanahan got out of the driver's side. Several spotlights were trained on him. “You're on private property,” a man with a bullhorn spoke. “You are trespassing. Turn around and go back to the main highway immediately.”

“My name is Patrick McLanahan. I want to speak with Reverend Paulson.”

“The reverend doesn't speak with strangers in the middle of the night. Go away.”

“Tell the reverend that I was responsible for the FBI pulling out of the surveillance of your property,” Patrick said. “Tell him I want to talk and make an offer to the residents of this compound to terminate the hostilities between you and the government.”

There was silence for several minutes; then a different voice on the bullhorn said, “Say your name again, stranger.”

“McLanahan. Patrick McLanahan.”

There was another long pause; then the first voice said, “Is there anyone in the car with you?”

“Yes.” Patrick turned toward the pickup. Brigadier-General Kurt Givens emerged from the right-rear passenger seat . . . and Wayne Macomber, dressed in the Tin Man battle armor, got out of the front passenger side.

“Raise your hands, all of you!”
the first man shouted. Patrick, Kurt, and Whack complied. “Is this your idea of talk, mister—sending in another robot after us?”

“Wayne insisted on coming along, as my bodyguard,” Patrick said. “There is a Cybernetic Infantry Device, a manned robot, out there as well. Her job is to destroy the technicals and machine-gun emplacements if fighting breaks out. This is General Givens, the commander of Joint Air Base Battle Mountain.”

“You want to start a war, mister, you've come to the right place! Now go away!”

“The general and I want to talk with Reverend Paulson,” Patrick said. “Face-to-face. No one wants to start a war. I want to talk to Reverend Paulson about uniting our two communities.”

There was another long pause; then the second voice said, “Bring out the robot and have it join you at the entrance.” A few moments later they heard car horns beeping and floodlights illuminate all around the north side of the compound, and Charlie Turlock aboard the CID ran around the perimeter fence and joined Patrick and Whack.