A Time for Patriots (8 page)

“Which means it'll be almost useless?” Patrick deadpanned.

“If you talk badly about the DF, it will hear you and act badly,” John deadpanned back. “I thought 406 megahertz satellite ELTs were required on all planes.”

“They are,” Patrick said. “But everyone is cutting corners to cut costs these days, and ELTs are one of those things that you never think you'll ever use. The owner was probably waiting until his ELT battery replacement was due before buying the new one.”

“Well, hopefully it'll keep on working long enough to get a good steer,” John said. He nodded to Patrick. “I'm always amazed watching you work, Patrick.”

“Why?”

“You're the guy who's flown all sorts of heavy iron, from B-52s to spaceplanes,” John said, “and here you are, preflighting a plane that probably weighs less than one of the bomb-bay doors on a B-52, and you're using a paper checklist. You can probably preflight a Cessna 182 blindfolded.”

“I probably could,” Patrick said, “but when I think I know it all, that'll be the time to quit flying.”

“True enough,” John said. He paused for a moment, then commented, “I . . . I'm not sure if I've said this to you before, Patrick, and if I have, I apologize, but . . .”

“What?”

“I just can't believe
you
are here,” John said, his eyes filled with unabashed wonder—one might even describe it as amazement. “I mean,
you
are Patrick McLanahan.
The
Patrick McLanahan. It seems like one day you're leading a group of bombers against Russia to avenge America for the American Holocaust, then the next you're on the space station, and then you're in Iraq stopping a major war from breaking out between Turkey and America. The next day, you're in little Battle Mountain, Nevada, flying Cessna 182s and 206s for the Civil Air Patrol. With all due respect, sir . . . what in
hell
are you doing here? I mean,
here
?”

“I explained this to the squadron when I first joined, John,” Patrick began. “I retired from the Air Force—”

“You mean, you were
forced
to retire.”

“President Phoenix put his political life on the line during his campaign when he supported me and stood against President Gardner prosecuting me for the Aden and Socotra Island incidents,” Patrick said. “I felt I had no choice but to retire. President Gardner still decided to prosecute the others and myself. I was lucky: the case hadn't gone to the jury by the time President Phoenix was sworn in, and he pardoned me.”

“The others weren't so lucky.”

“I know,” Patrick said somberly. “A lot of good people had their lives turned inside out because of the orders I issued, even though no one spent any time in prison.” He straightened his shoulders. “Okay, let's get our heads back in the game, John.”

“But wait, Patrick,” the retired Coast Guard officer said quietly. He put a hand on Patrick's arm in earnest. “You still didn't answer my question: Why
here
?”

“I explained that,” Patrick said. “Battle Mountain is still a vital bomber, spaceport, UAV, and joint air facility. It's been downgraded to part-time status, but there's no money in anyone's budget for a large support staff. I'm familiar with Battle Mountain and all the Air Force and Space Defense Force activities here; the high school has a good football program for my son, and he likes being part of the Civil Air Patrol. Probably most important: I can work for a dollar a year and live pretty well off my retirement, government housing, and expense reimbursements. I run a small caretaker staff, keep the networks and communications systems alive, and keep the lights minimally on and support the few missions we fly out of here until the economy recovers, and we can start rebuilding the force. It's that simple.”

John's expression was skeptical, almost disbelieving, and he looked as if he was going to continue questioning him, but Patrick's expression told him to back off. “Well, General,” he said, “I'm proud and pleased that you're here.” He touched the silver eagle insignia on his left shoulder. “And I'm sorry you have to wear a bird instead of stars. It seems like an insult to me, given your service to our country.”

“They offered an honorary lieutenant-general's rank and position—I declined,” Patrick said. “I'm a crew dog, John, plain and simple. I wanted to fly, not give speeches and have my picture taken with politicians who
say
they support our mission and us. I couldn't fly for CAP wearing three stars. Enough already, Observer. There may be people on the ground who need us. Let's stop chitchatting.” John gave him a pat on the arm and let him get back to his preflight.

A few minutes later, the crew climbed aboard. Patrick was in first in the left-front pilot's seat, and then he rolled his seat forward so Leo could get in the left-rear seat. Leo carried a flight bag with charts, his own personal headset, and other gear, and another padded canvas bag with a digital telescopic camera for recording pictures for upload to the Civil Air Patrol National Operations Center after their mission was over. John got in last and strapped in. “Ready, John?” Patrick asked.

“Ready,” John said, retrieving a laminated checklist card from a pocket near his right leg. “Preflight, completed. Crew brief.”

“Seat belts and shoulder harnesses on all the time,” Patrick said, reciting from memory. “Fire extinguisher is up here between the front seats. Sterile cockpit in the terminal area and in the grid—no unnecessary conversations. Evacuation order will be Leo first out the left side, then John out the right, then myself, and I'll grab the survival kit after exiting if the plane's not on fire. Remember you can pop the windshield out as an emergency escape, and the rear baggage door is unlocked so you can climb over the backseat and get out that way if necessary. Questions?” He didn't wait for a response—he knew his crew was experienced enough that
they
could give
him
the briefing. They continued with the checklist, got the plane's engine started, the radios and navigation systems on, and minutes later they were taxiing for takeoff.

It was a long taxi to the run-up area, a wide portion of the taxiway where small planes could pull out of the way to make room for other planes while the pilot finished his preflight. Patrick ran through the final engine checks and pretakeoff items. He then ran the Cessna's engine up to takeoff power, leaned the engine until it was just starting to run rough, enriched the mixture until the cylinder-head temperature was 125 degrees cooler, then pulled the power back. Meanwhile, John entered their grid entry coordinates into the plane's satellite navigation system, which gave Patrick his direction of flight after takeoff.

“Takeoff briefing,” Patrick began. “John, back me up on engine instruments; Leo, watch for traffic. Engine failure during takeoff roll: throttle to idle, max braking as needed, flaps up, secure the engine. Engine failure after takeoff but less than one thousand feet aboveground: trim for seventy-five knots, full flaps, secure the engine, land straight ahead; if above one thousand feet, we'll attempt a turn back to the runway, but we have lots of better options for an off-airport landing—if the airplane breaks, it belongs to the insurance company, not us. Any questions?” No reply. “Everyone ready?”

“Observer.”

“Scanner.”

“Here we go.” Patrick taxied to the runway hold line, got takeoff clearance from the Battle Mountain control tower—actually a series of cameras and sensors all around the airfield, with controllers indoors watching on monitors—taxied onto the long reinforced concrete runway, and made the takeoff. The runway was so long that he could have made two more takeoffs and landings and still not have been in any danger of running out of concrete.

“CAP 2722, airborne,” John reported on the FM radio.

“Battle Mountain Base, roger,” Spara replied.

A Remote Desert Playa, Central Nevada

A short time later

T
he landing on the hard alkali desert surface was one of the worst the workers had ever seen, and they were sure they'd see the big twin-engine plane flip upside down or spin out of control across the playa. But the pilot managed to keep it under control, and soon the King Air was taxiing across the three-inch-deep alkali dust toward the drop-off point.

“Thought you'd ground-loop her for sure, Carl,” one of them said after boarding the King Air and making his way to the cockpit. The engines were still running at idle power, and a cloud of white dust swirled inside the plane. “You still got the touch, though. I shoulda warned you that the winds were squirrelly, but I didn't want to—”

The man stopped, and a chill ran up and down his spine. The pilot named Carl was slumped over the control wheel, still strapped in his seat, which was covered in bloody diarrhea, urine, and vomit. At first he thought Carl was dead . . . but a few moments later he saw him raise his head and look back. “Carl?” the man asked. “You look like shit, man.”

“Funny,” Carl breathed. He coughed up more bloody substances, smiled, and sat up. “I feel like hell, not shit.”

“You gonna make it, Carl?” the man asked. “The commander said to unload all the casks if you don't think you'll make it.”

“I'll be okay,” Carl breathed. He wiped his mouth, looked at the bloody mess covering his legs, floor, seat, and most of his instrument panel, then shook his head. “Just great. A perfectly good breakfast, wasted.”

“You want me to clean all that up, Carl?”

“Screw it,” Carl said. “Won't matter anyway.” He seemed to doze off, then reawaken with a start, look around as if regaining his bearings, then turn back toward his comrade. “You got any whiskey, Joe?” he asked.

“Thought you weren't supposed to fly and drink,” Joe said even as he thought, What a stupid thing to say, quoting FAA regulations at a time like this. But before Carl could repeat his request, he nodded. “You got it, Carl. Sit tight and relax.”

About ten minutes later, the worker named Joe returned to the cockpit with a plastic canteen. Another worker was maneuvering one of the casks behind him. “Here ya go, Carl,” Joe said. “A little Black Jack for ya.” Carl took the canteen and drank—most of it dribbled out of his mouth, but he didn't seem to notice or care. “We got the payload up here for ya too.” Joe dropped a ratcheting wrench onto the copilot's seat, then said apprehensively, “I . . . I can loosen a few of the bolts if you need.”

Carl looked at Joe's taut face, smiled, and shook his head. “No reason for both of us to get zapped, Joe,” he said. “I can handle it.” He held out an emesis-stained hand. “Thanks, brother. For the True Republic.”

Joe hesitated for a heartbeat, but swallowed his fear and took Carl's hand. “Good luck, Carl. For the True Republic. See you in Asgard, brother.” He turned and made his way out of the aircraft and closed and dogged the door shut.

For several minutes, Carl sat in the cockpit, staring at the floor, trying to remember what he was supposed to do. But one look at the large steel-and-concrete cask sitting beside him reminded him of the task before him.

On the handheld GPS navigation system attached to the control yoke, he called up Flight Plan Nine, the flight plan he had developed and tweaked over the past several weeks for this mission. He had rehearsed it several times on a desktop-computer flight simulator, even using real-world satellite and three-dimensional street-level photographic images to get the most detailed preview of the final moments of the flight. But that was before the diseases ravaging his body began destroying his vision, lungs, and nervous system, and he wondered if he had the strength to do it after all his hard work. It would be so easy, he thought, so peaceful, to just let go of his sense of duty and responsibility, accept the horrible death that had been imposed on him, and let the inevitable happen.

But then, just as his spirit was waning to the point of surrender, he looked out the cockpit window. One of the soldiers had brought an American flag out onto the playa so Carl could see the wind direction and strength. He reached behind the copilot's seat and withdrew his own flag: the flag of the Knights of the True Republic of America. It was a Stars and Stripes flag but with the coiled snake from the Gadsden flag, the original flag conceived by South Carolina army officer Christopher Gadsden and adopted by the colonial American Navy and Marine Corps, in the stripes field. But instead of a coiled timber rattlesnake shaking its rattle and warning others to stay away as on the Gadsden flag, the flag of the True Republic of America showed the rattlesnake striking. The symbology was plain: those who carried this flag would no longer be warning our enemies not to oppose us, but its followers were ready to attack.

The persons he was working for weren't members of the Knights of the True Republic, but it was clear that they shared the same ideas and vision, and he was happy to contribute his flying skills for them. There were armies of men, women, and even children throughout the West, willing to risk their liberty and even their lives to stand under the Knights' flag, willing to do whatever it took to wake up a comatose American public, warn them of the danger of those bureaucrats and politicians who wanted more government and more taxation, and call on others to follow them into battle against those who were driving the nation into the ground. But it was not enough to rally around the flag—someone had to carry it into battle.

This flag was special: he had fashioned it out of material from old uniforms. He hated to soil it with his own blood and vomit, but a flag carried into battle would naturally be soiled with the stain of battle. The important thing was not to make sure the flag stayed clean, but make sure that the world, and especially the enemy, saw the flag at the front of an advancing and angry army. That was his mission: to carry the flag in the Knights of the True Republic of America's next and greatest offensive.