A Time for Patriots (6 page)

But then the economic crash of December 2012 happened, and everything changed.

Newly elected president Kenneth Phoenix, politically exhausted from a bruising and divisive election that saw yet another president being chosen in effect by the U.S. Supreme Court, ordered a series of massive tax cuts as well as cuts in all government services. Such government cuts had not been seen since the Thomas Thorn administration: entire cabinet-level departments, such as education, commerce, transportation, energy, and veterans affairs, were consolidated with other departments or closed outright; all entitlement-program outlays were cut in half or defunded completely; American military units and even entire bases around the world disappeared virtually overnight. Despite howls of protest from both the political left and right, Congress had no choice but to agree to the severe austerity measures.

Joint Air Base Battle Mountain was not spared. Every aircraft at the once-bustling base was in “hangar queen” status—available only for spare parts—reassigned to other bases, or mothballed. Most planes placed in “flyable storage” were not even properly mothballed, but just hoisted up on jacks and shrink-wrapped in place to protect them against sun and sandstorms. Construction at the base was halted, seemingly with nails half pounded, concrete footers half poured, and streets abruptly turning into dirt roads or littered with construction equipment that appeared to be just dropped or turned off and abandoned. There seemed to be no one on the base at all except for security patrols, and most of the visible ones were unmanned robotic vehicles responding to security breaches discovered by remote electronic sensors.

Patrick and Brad drove past the partially completed headquarters building of the Space Defense Force. They had passed just a handful of persons and vehicles since entering the base. “Man, this place looks . . . freakin' lonely, Dad,” Brad said. “Aren't they ever going to finish those buildings?”

“There's no money in the budget right now,” Patrick said. He nodded toward several trailers set up nearby. “Those will do for now.” If the Space Defense Force survived the economic downturn, he silently added. President Phoenix was a big supporter, but like every other government program, it had been cut by at least 50 percent.

“Battle Mountain's town flower: the trailer,” Brad said, reciting the oft-repeated joke.

The flight line was built up much more than the rest of the base because of all the flying activity before the 2012 crash, but now it appeared just as vacant as the rest of the base. Each large hangar had just one or two planes parked there—the rest were either in the hangars being cannibalized or on the south parking ramp encased in shrink-wrap. The most active flying units on the base were the RQ-4 Global Hawk reconnaissance planes, which had transferred here from Beale Air Force Base in Marysville, California; and the three surviving Air Force E-4B National Airborne Operations Center airborne command post planes, which along with the Navy's Mercury sea-launched ballistic-missile airborne command posts resumed around-the-clock operations after the American Holocaust.

Patrick drove to the older western side of the flight line, parked in front of a large cube-shaped hangar, and he and Brad retrieved their gear and headed inside. The hangar was shared with several nonmilitary organizations, everyone from the Lander County Sheriff's Department to the Nevada Department of Wildlife, so there was an assortment of fixed- and rotary-wing aircraft parked inside. They found two men at a large table inside the hangar, looking over topographic charts. One was wearing an Air Force–style green Nomex flight suit, similar to Patrick's; the other was wearing a camouflaged battle-dress utility uniform with an orange vest over the jacket. They looked up when Patrick and Brad came over to them.

“The McLanahans: first to arrive, as usual,” the man in the flight suit, Civil Air Patrol Lieutenant Colonel Rob Spara, said. Spara was a retired Army Kiowa Scout helicopter pilot and commanded an Army helicopter training squadron before retiring; he held a variety of helicopter-related jobs now, doing everything from flying skiers to fresh powder on mountaintops, to air ambulance, to maintenance and repair. He shook hands with Patrick, then handed him a clipboard with a sign-in roster. “You're the first pilot to arrive, sir.” Even though rank in the squadron was rarely observed, everyone called Patrick “General” or “sir.” “Feel like flying the 182 today?”

“Absolutely,” Patrick said immediately. He completed the sign-in, then had Brad sign in.

“Good,” the other man, CAP Captain David Bellville, said. Bellville was the vice commander of the squadron and the commander of cadets, a ten-year veteran of the Civil Air Patrol, a twenty-two-year veteran of the U.S. Air Force, and a physician's assistant. “I'll be your flight release officer. I'll enter you into the ICU and give your crew a face-to-face when you're done preflighting.” The ICU, or incident commander utility, was the computerized data-input system for the Civil Air Patrol, which did away with a lot of the paperwork required by the Air Force.

“I'd like to fly as scanner, sir,” Brad said.

“You know you're not old enough, Brad,” Spara said.

“But I finished all the training, and—”

“And you know how I feel about father and son flying together: if there was an accident, it would be an even greater tragedy,” Spara interrupted.

“Then can I be on the DF on the ground team, sir?”

Spara had turned back to his incident planning and looked a little peeved at the question. “The initial mass briefing will be in thirty minutes, Brad.”

“I can start inspecting the L-Per.” Spara looked as if he hadn't heard him. “I'm here early, and I did navigation on the last exercise. I can—”

“Brad, we're trying to work here,” Spara said. He paused, then nodded. “We'll put you on DF. Go start preflighting it. Briefing in thirty.” He gave Patrick a short glance, and Patrick nodded and followed Brad to the equipment room.

As Brad unlocked the door, Patrick said, “I know you're anxious, big guy, but you shouldn't badger the squadron commander like that. He'll give out everyone's assignment in the mass briefing. He doesn't have time to address each individual in the unit.”

“He gave out
your
assignment,” Brad said.

“I think that was a courtesy, Brad,” Patrick said. “I didn't ask him if I could fly as mission pilot.”

“Courtesy because you're a retired general?”

“Probably.” Patrick detected a slightly angry expression. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Spill it.” Still silent. “You still don't like that I joined the Civil Air Patrol, do you?” Patrick asked. Brad glared at him. “I told you, I didn't do it just to keep an eye on you.”

“Then why?”

“Because I'm a flier, and I was Air Force, and when we got sent to Battle Mountain and you transferred to this squadron from the Henderson squadron, I thought it would be fun, and it is. Plus, I give back to the community by volunteering.”

“It was my hobby, not yours.”

“So I can't have the same hobby as you?”

“It's not just that you're a general, it's because you're a flier,” Brad said. “The CO looks down his nose at cadets and ground ops.”

“That's not true,” Patrick said. “He's a pilot, but he's also retired Army—he's been supporting ground troops his whole career. But that's not what's eating you either, is it?” Silence. “Wish I wasn't part of Civil Air Patrol? Get used to it—I'm not going to quit unless work really picks up, which seems unlikely for a while.” Still silent. Patrick scowled, then asked directly, “What's eating you, Brad?”

Brad looked up, then around, then took a deep breath and said, “Nothing.”

“C'mon, Brad, what's up?”

“It's nothing, Dad,” Brad said. He retrieved the L-Per direction-finding device and turned. “I gotta go.”

“Okay,” Patrick said dejectedly. It wasn't the first time they'd tried to have this conversation, he thought, and it ended the same way every time.

Brad finished checking the direction-finding device, then brought it and his equipment over near the four-wheel-drive van to get ready for inspection and boarding. More squadron members had arrived, and he had time to visit with his friends and watch the local news for any information while they waited for the mass briefing. There weren't that many members yet in the hangar—folks who lived in Battle Mountain usually escaped on weekends, to Elko, Jackpot, Reno, Lake Tahoe, Salt Lake City, or to remote desert campsites scattered throughout the area. If they were available, more would show up later for follow-on or backup missions.

Ron Spivey was a bit younger than Brad and was going to be a senior in high school, like Brad. “Hey, Ron,” Brad greeted him when they saw each other. “Where were you when the call came in?”

“Just bought Marina a cone at the DQ and were on our way out to do some off-roading,” Ron said. He was the quarterback and captain of the football team with Brad, taller but not as beefy as Brad, with big hands, a thin face that looked even thinner because of a thick football player's neck, and narrow eyes.

“Was she pissed?” Brad asked.

His initial expression told Brad that she was, but Ron shrugged it off. “Who cares?” he replied. “If she wanted to nag on me, she could do it in my rearview mirror. She knew better. I dropped her off and geared up. What do you know?”

“Plane went down northwest of here,” Brad said. “I'll bet they'll put us on a Hasty team.”

“Maybe we'll get to see victims.”

“You're a sicko.”

“Beats those stuffed scarecrow things they put out on SAREXs.”

A few moments later, another young boy came up to them, stood in front of Brad, and saluted. “Cadet Sergeant Markham reporting, sir,” he said. He was fifteen years old but looked about ten, with a round face and body, a nose way too small for his freckly face, and big green eyes.

Brad returned the salute. “You don't have to salute indoors, Ralph,” he said, “and you don't have to report to me—you report to the IC or whoever's signing us in.”

“Sorry, sir,” Markham said.

“Don't apologize either. Did you sign in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you don't have to ‘sir' me unless we're in formation,” Brad said. But he knew that Ralph Markham liked the military formalities and wasn't going to stop. “They'll probably put us together on a Hasty team. Got all your Seventy-Two gear?”

“Yes, s—Brad,” Ralph said. “Out by the van ready for inspection.”

“Who's closer to level one?” Brad asked the others. He turned to Ron. “Did you get your advanced first aid at the last SAREX?”

“No, I came in late, so they put me at the base on the radio.”

“Then make sure you ask Bellville or Fitzgerald to be lead medic so you can get a sign-off and take the practical exam,” Brad said. “That okay with you, Ralph?”

“I've already got my advanced done, sir,” he said proudly.

“Excellent,” Brad said. “The practical too?”

“Mr. Fitzgerald gave it to me last week.”

“So what do you need for your level one?”

“Tracking and DF, sir.”

“They said they're getting an ELT signal,” Brad said, “so they put me on DF, and I'd like to stay on it to help out if they need me. But if we're on foot, I'll have you organize a line search and take us through some tracking procedures. Remember, verbalize what you see to the rest of the strike team and take lots of pictures or drawings. If you get a sign-off, we'll do some tracking practice on our own and get you ready for your practical exam. The DF sign-off will have to wait for another actual or SAREX next month, unless you can go to the California Wing's summer camp in two weeks.”

“I can't,” Ralph said. “I have summer school.”

“Bummer,” Brad said. Ralph was an enthusiastic cadet and loved the challenges of the Civil Air Patrol, but his reading was several grade levels lower than his classmates', and he needed a lot of extra time to do the simplest reading assignments. “No problem. You know your stuff—we just gotta get you some practice and a senior to observe you. You'll get your first class before you know it, and I think you'll skate through Urban DF too. You could be up for officer promotion.” Ralph looked as if he was going to explode with pride. Brad turned to Ron. “You gotta get busy on getting some sign-offs, Cap. You've been a second class for, what? A year?”

“Hey, BJ, I'm busy, okay?” Ron spat back irritably. Brad's face turned stony. Ron Spivey was probably the only person who could get away with using that pejorative nickname, and only if he used it
very
sparingly. “I got two lousy part-time jobs that don't pay shit—”

“Watch the language around the younger cadets and the seniors, bro.”

“—football practice twice a day,” Ron went on, ignoring Brad's remark, “and a girlfriend who thinks I'm her personal chauffeur and cash machine. I'll do the stuff when I can get the time.”

“I'll help you, Ron, but you gotta make the time,” Brad said. “When this is over we'll go online, I'll take a look at your SQTR progress record, and we'll figure out—”

“I said, I'll do the stuff when I get the time, McLanahan,” Ron said, and turned on a heel and walked away.

A few minutes later, all of the senior and cadet members who had arrived took places around the conference table. “Thanks for coming so quickly, everyone,” Rob Spara began. He gave a time hack, then began: “This is an actual search-and-rescue mission. Approximately forty minutes ago, the Air Force Rescue Coordination Center was notified by Salt Lake Air Traffic Control Center that a Cessna 182 with three souls aboard was lost on radar and presumed crashed in heavy thunderstorms. A commercial airliner flying in the vicinity picked up an emergency locator transmitter beacon on VHF GUARD frequency about fifty-five miles northwest of here. The Air Force notified the Civil Air Patrol National Operations Center, who called Nevada Wing headquarters, and the colonel made me the incident commander.