A Time for Patriots (39 page)

. . . and just then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it—the gesture made by the guy pumping gas, his hand like a knife, jabbing at the guy in the car . . . exactly like the guy he saw in the car that hit Brad had been doing! Holy shit, he thought, could it be
them,
the same car . . . ?

Sweeping as he moved, Ron casually moved across the front of the store, trying to take his time but anxious to get a look before these guys drove off. It took him almost two minutes to move around, and it was a little hard to see because of the burned-out lights, but he finally saw it—the cracks in the windshield where he had hit it with his football helmet! Jesus Christ, they're
here
! He quickly headed back toward the store entrance, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.

“H
ello?”

“Brad, it's me.”

“Ron? It's almost three
A.M.
, you dork. What's—”

“Shut up, dude. Those guys that hit you after practice? They're
here,
man.”

Brad was now fully awake. “They are? Are you sure?”

“I saw the cracked windshield where I hit it with my helmet!”

“Holy crap! Did you call the cops?”

“No, not yet. I'll do it right . . . oh, shit, oh, shit, Brad,
they're coming into the store
!”

“What?”

“They're wearing hats and sunglasses, and they—” Now Ron was screaming, in a tone of voice Brad had never heard before: “Wait a minute, wait, no, no,
no
. . . !” And just then, Brad heard two gunshots, the clattering of the phone hitting the floor, a woman's scream, and two more gunshots. He then heard footsteps, murmured voices in an unintelligible language, and then a loud crunching sound, followed by chilling silence.

Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

Several days later

“D
ozens of families a day from all over northern Nevada, California, Utah, and southern Oregon are making their way to Joint Air Base Battle Mountain here in the high desert of north-central Nevada to take part in a new government program to provide shelter, food, medical care, and jobs to the neediest among us,” the television reporter was saying. Viewers could see three school buses approaching the base's main gate. “This is day three of President Phoenix's controversial new executive order that opens the gates, and the purses, of military bases around the world to civilians desperately in need of help.”

Patrick was watching the television in his office, with Brad beside him. He didn't want his son out of sight for more than a couple minutes. The funeral for Ron Spivey, yet another Civil Air Patrol member gunned down by shadowy unknown assassins in just the past few weeks, was hard on everyone, but especially on Brad. His son rarely spoke and, as now, mostly sat staring off into space. His appetite was nonexistent, and he stayed mostly in his bedroom in their trailer, lying in bed but not sleeping.

There was a knock on the office door, and Timothy Dobson entered. He stood in front of Patrick's desk. “I'm so very sorry, Brad,” he said in a quiet voice. “I wish I could've stopped them.” Brad did not move a muscle.

“Were you able to identify them, Tim?” Patrick asked.

Dobson nodded. “Officially they are security officers assigned to the Russian consulate in Vancouver, British Columbia,” he replied, “but Interpol says they are direct-action operatives of the
Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye,
or GRU, the Russian military foreign-intelligence service. The Russian foreign ministry denies all this. When asked of their current whereabouts, the ministry claims the men are on their way back to Russia as scheduled.” Patrick nodded, his eyes filled with hate. “They are on all the no-fly and most-wanted lists. But they've been very successful so far in slipping away in plain sight.” He looked at Brad. “You two are not safe outside the base, and with all these civilians coming in now, you may not even be safe here. The vice president is urging you—”

“I'm not leaving,” Patrick said. “That's final. I'm not running. I'll find a way to locate these guys, and I'll hunt them down and eliminate them myself.”

“They're professional killers, General,” Dobson said. “They can move and blend in almost at will—”

“They may be professionals, but they made an amateurish mistake by being caught on a half-dozen security cameras that night,” Patrick said. “They've got their faces on thousands of computer screens and wanted posters all over North America. They're under pressure to perform instead of missing their target, which will make them sloppy and vulnerable.”

“Maybe so, sir,” Dobson said, “but all the Russians have to do is bring in a different team. The chase starts all over again, with different faces.”

“That would happen if we were in Washington too,” Patrick said. “No, I'll find a way to stop them.” He went back to watching the television; Dobson had nothing further to say, so he departed. A few minutes later, Patrick stood. “I'm going to meet the new group and help them get settled,” he said to Brad. “Come along with me.” After a moment's hesitation, Brad stood, his head still lowered. But just then, there was a knock on the door. “Come.” Patrick was surprised to see Judah Andorsen come through the door, and he shot to his feet. “Mr. Andorsen! This is a surprise.”

“Hope I'm not botherin' you, General,” Andorsen said in his big, booming voice. He was wearing his usual outfit, the only one Patrick had ever seen him in: leather flying jacket, jeans, boots, cowboy hat, and leather work gloves. He shook hands with Patrick, then looked over at Brad. “This is your son, right? The one that found that crash survivor?”

“I don't believe you've met him, sir,” Patrick said. “Mr. Andorsen, this is my son, Brad. Brad, this is Mr. Judah Andorsen.” Brad raised his eyes just long enough to shake Andorsen's hand.

“Hey, I'm sorry about your friend, son,” Andorsen said. “The news said it was an attempted robbery, and when your friend tried to call the cops, they went crazy.” Dobson had somehow managed to get control of the security-camera tapes, so no one knew that it was really an assassination rather than a botched robbery. “You doin' okay, son?”

“Yes, sir,” Brad said.

“We were just on our way out to meet the new arrivals, Mr. Andorsen,” Patrick said.

“I don't want to keep you, General,” Andorsen said. “I just wanted to stop in and say how proud I am to know you. Word has it that this whole program openin' up the base to folks from these camps was your idea.”

“The base commander, Kurt Givens, and I came up with it,” Patrick said. “The White House and Department of Defense signed on quickly.”

“That's fine work, General, fine work,” Andorsen said. “I want to help by hirin' some of the men who will be staying here. Miners, ranch hands, drivers, general laborers—I'm sure I can find at least temporary work for a good many of the men.”

“That would be incredible, sir,” Patrick said. “Thank you.”

“It ain't nuthin', General,” Andorsen said. “Now, I know a lot of these men lived in religious-like camps and communities, and—nothin' against God and religion and all—I don't have much use for the real hard-core holy rollers, if you get my meanin'. I don't want no illegals either. Nothin' against Mexicans or other hardworkin' folks from Guatemala or wherever, but if they sneaked across the border without botherin' to register like you're supposed to, they can starve, for all I care.”

“You're the boss, Mr. Andorsen,” Patrick said. “You hire anyone you wish. Any help you can extend would be great.”

“If I could get a list with the names and work experience from you, General, I might be able to line up work for them within a week or two. No promises, mind you, but I think I can lend a hand. We'll provide transportation to and from and meals on the job site, of course, and we can probably kick in a little for some work clothing.”

“I'll start compiling a list of those who want to work and get it to you as soon as I can, sir,” Patrick said. He shook hands. “Thank you again.”

“Don't mention it, General. Happy to help.” Andorsen's attention was drawn to the TV screen. “Looks like someone called an ambulance.” Patrick watched as an ambulance from Andorsen Memorial Hospital made its way on the wrong side of the highway toward the base, lights and siren running. It was followed by a Battle Mountain Fire Department fire chief's car, which stopped about thirty yards behind the ambulance. The ambulance stopped beside the middle of the three school buses. Curious passengers exiting the buses stopped to watch out the windows.

Patrick picked up his telephone and pressed a button. “Command post, this is Sierra Alpha Seven,” he spoke. “Who called an ambulance? What happened?”

“Where in hell are those bozos runnin' off to?” Andorsen asked. The TV cameras showed two paramedics rush out of the ambulance and run back to the fire chief's car. “What, they gotta ask permission from the chief before they . . . hey, where's he goin'?” They saw the fire chief's car spin around and head away from the base. “What the hell is this? Why did they—”

And at that instant, a brilliant flash of light, a ball of fire, and a cloud of black smoke obscured the TV image. The middle school bus was blown apart almost instantly; the other two buses were tossed aside like toys and set ablaze.

Knights of the True Republic's Compound

That night

E
ach gunner and driver manning the weaponized pickup trucks saw, heard, and felt the same thing before the lights went out: a hard
thump
beside the truck, a blur of motion, and a hard blow to the side of the head. “That's the last technical,” Charlie Turlock radioed from within the Cybernetic Infantry Device after she neutralized both the gunner and the driver. She reached over and bent the barrel of the machine gun mounted on the technical in a right angle as easily as bending a straw.

“Machine-gun nests are neutralized as well,” Wayne Macomber, wearing the Tin Man armor, radioed. “They were only half manned, mostly by older guys.”

“We detected two less technicals than before,” Rob Spara, manning the bank of laptops at the squadron, radioed. John de Carteret was orbiting the Knights of the True Republic's compound overhead at 9,500 feet, maintaining real-time surveillance and acting as a communications relay node for this operation. The sensor images were being beamed to Charlie and Whack as well as to Rob. “They must've lost more residents than we thought.”

“I'm moving in,” Patrick radioed. He was in the crew-cab pickup, with David Bellville driving, heading up the dirt road toward the compound. “Heads up, everyone.”

But it was soon apparent that the layers of defenses set up around the compound were gone, replaced by residents with little more than walkie-talkies and flashlights. Patrick and David were not challenged—in fact, some of the residents left their post and followed Patrick's pickup toward the inner compound.

The gates to the inner compound were wide open, and David drove right up to the church and outdoor meeting area. There was several sheriffs' patrol cars parked there as well. Patrick and David got out of the pickup and were met moments later by Whack. The meeting area was about half full. The residents seated there were silent, not moving—no one turned to look at them. “This is weird—kinda Jonestown-like,” Whack radioed.

The three walked up the main aisle toward the dais. Again, no one made a motion to stop them or even looked up. Reverend Jeremiah Paulson was standing at the lectern, dressed all in black, his head bowed, a Bible in one hand, his Uzi still slung on his shoulder.

“Come on out in sight, Charlie,” Patrick radioed. A few moments later, the CID approached the meeting area from the opposite side and walked right up to the last row of chairs, towering over the seated residents. Again, no one turned to look at it. They heard babies crying and a few sobs, but no one spoke or even moved.

Patrick stepped forward and stopped at the edge of the platform on which Paulson stood. “Reverend Paulson, what's going on here?” he asked.

“This is a memorial service for our murdered family members,” Paulson said. “We are in deep mourning. We are observing a period of silent vigil that will last until daybreak.”

“ ‘Family members'?” Patrick asked. “They're not traitors to your community anymore?”

“They were never traitors, General,” Paulson said. “They were always members of our family. They are now martyrs in the civil war that is tearing the Constitution and this nation apart.”

“How many did you lose, Reverend?”

“Twenty-seven killed or wounded, including eleven children,” Paulson said. “Whoever did such a thing is a monster and needs to be eliminated.”

“Reverend, the FBI thought you engineered the attacks in Reno and Pahrump and the missile attacks against the drones doing surveillance over your compound.” Paulson said nothing. “Many believe you were responsible for today's bombing outside the base.” Still no response. “You weren't involved in any of them, were you?”

“We are a peaceful community, General,” Paulson said. “Yes, we have weapons, but they are weapons for self-defense only. We would never attack innocents—only those who seek to do our community harm. We care nothing about being spied upon, as long as we are left alone to live our lives as God and the framers of the Constitution intended.”

“Then why didn't you speak out against any of it, Reverend?” Patrick asked. “Why didn't you cooperate with the FBI, allow them to search the compound? They could have refocused their resources on the real extremists.”

“I think you know exactly why I did not, General,” Paulson said, looking directly at Patrick for the first time. “The Fourth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America. The FBI had no warrants to search our homes—they wanted to search simply because they wanted it, and that is not permitted in the United States under the Constitution. Simply because a horrific disaster or crime occurs is no reason to suspend the Constitution. Do you agree, General?”