A Time for Patriots Read online

  “That was to get our attention,” Patrick said. He switched COM1 to the VHF GUARD channel and spoke: “Air Force F-16, this is JetRanger One Juliet Alpha on VHF GUARD, go ahead.”

  “JetRanger One Juliet Alpha, this is Saber One-Seven, Air Force F-16, on GUARD,” came the reply. “Turn left heading two-six-zero. You are instructed to land at Valmy Municipal Airport.”

  “I ain’t landin’ at Valmy—that place has been shut down for twenty years!” Andorsen said. “There isn’t anything out there!”

  “Judah, you’d better turn to that heading,” Patrick said. “If we’re not responding, he’ll get permission to shoot.”

  “Shoot? You mean, shoot me down?”

  “I do, and after what happened in Reno yesterday, he’ll do it.” Andorsen shook his head but turned to the heading. Relieved, Patrick switched to COM1. “Saber One-Seven, this is JetRanger One Juliet Alpha, requesting permission to land at the owner’s private airstrip at our four o’clock, forty miles. We will remain clear of Class-C airspace.”

  “Negative, One Juliet Alpha,” the fighter pilot replied. “You are instructed to land as directed and await law enforcement. Do not attempt to take off again. I will be circling overhead and I may be directed to fire upon you without warning if you attempt a takeoff. Remain on this frequency.”

  “Why, this is the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard!” Andorsen thundered. “What does he mean, ‘law enforcement’? What in hell did I do?”

  “We’re not supposed to be flying, Judah,” Patrick said. “Don’t worry—once they find out who we are, they’ll let us go once the emergency is over.”

  “I’m not going to wait,” Andorsen said. He switched COM2 to his own discrete frequency. “Teddy, this is Judah.”

  “Read you loud and clear, sir,” came a reply moments later, with a remarkably clear transmission, as if the responder was very close by.

  “I’m in the JetRanger,” Andorsen said. “There’s an Air Force fighter jet forcing me to land at the old airport in Valmy. Send some boys out there. Then tell Cunningham to meet us out there too. They may try to arrest us. They may use the Highway Patrol or Humboldt County sheriff before the feds arrive.”

  “Roger that, sir, I’ll tell him.”

  Andorsen nodded. “They think they’re hot shit because they got a jet fighter?” he snapped cross-cockpit. “They ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.”

  After overflying the deserted field and selecting the least weed-choked area he could find, Andorsen set the JetRanger down with an irritated thud and a swirl of tumbleweeds, shut the engine down, and exited the chopper. He scowled at the noise of the F-16 overhead. “Bastard,” he muttered. “Intercepted by the damned Air Force, and I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

  Patrick pulled out his cellular phone. There was no cellular service out here in this remote area, miles from Battle Mountain. But he did have Internet access, thanks to the Space Defense Force’s network of mobile broadband satellites that provided high-speed Internet access to most of the Northern Hemisphere. “Brad, this is Patrick,” he said after he had connected via Voice-over IP to the Battle Mountain CAP Base.

  “Where are you?” Spara replied. “You missed a check-in.”

  “We’re with Judah Andorsen,” Patrick explained. “He was flying us back to his ranch in his helicopter after dropping the survivor and Dave off at the hospital in Battle Mountain.”

  “He was flying? The entire national airspace is still shut down except for medical and law enforcement. From whom did he get permission?”

  “No one.”

  “So you’re at his ranch?”

  “Not exactly. We were intercepted by an F-16 and ordered to land at Valmy Airport.”

  “There’s an airport at Valmy?”

  “Abandoned. We’re okay, but we were told to wait for law enforcement. The F-16 is orbiting overhead to make sure we don’t leave.”

  “Great,” Spara said with a sigh. “I’ll report it to the National Operations Center. I’ll ask them to explain to the FBI that Andorsen was helping the Civil Air Patrol, but that might take some time. You might be in the pokey for a while. If they place you under arrest—”

  “I know,” Patrick said. “Name, address, and Social Security number only, remain silent about everything else, and call the National Operations Center. Number’s on my ID card.”

  “Correct. Remind Leo. Maybe he can pull some strings with the Highway Patrol.”

  “I think they will want to cooperate in every way with the FBI,” Patrick guessed. “I’ll try to keep in touch.” He put the phone away. “Did you hear that, Leo? If they put us under arrest, we don’t answer questions unless we have a CAP-appointed lawyer present.”

  “They wouldn’t dare,” Andorsen growled.

  “The FBI’s going to be on the warpath, Judah,” Patrick warned. “A suicide terrorist just attacked their offices in Reno with a dirty bomb. I wouldn’t mess with these guys until everybody has had a chance to calm down. Once they figure out we’re not terrorists, everyone will dial down the volume quickly, but at first things might be tense.”

  About a half hour later, they saw and then heard a vehicle going Code Three down Interstate 80, and soon it turned off, raced down the frontage road, and headed south to the abandoned airport. It was a Humboldt County sheriff’s cruiser. It stopped about twenty yards from the chopper, and a lone deputy got out. “All three of you,” he shouted, “put your hands in the air and turn around!”

  “Now just wait a damned minute, Deputy . . . !” Andorsen shouted, jabbing a finger at the deputy.

  “Do it, now!” the sheriff’s deputy shouted, placing a hand on his sidearm.

  Patrick and Leo did as they were ordered. “Do it, Mr. Andorsen,” Leo said. “Don’t argue.”

  Andorsen puffed up his chest as if he was going to start shouting again, but he shook his head, raised his hands, and turned. Patrick noticed his arms trembling; Andorsen looked at Patrick and said, “Old shoulder injury from Vietnam.” He raised his voice and said loudly, “I can’t hold my arms up like this long, Deputy.”

  The deputy ignored him. “Man closest to the nose of the helicopter, take five steps toward me, backward,” he shouted.

  Leo did as he was told, then said, “I’m a Nevada Highway Patrol officer. My ID is in the lower right-leg pocket.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “I’m flying with the Civil Air Patrol today. CAP is never armed.”

  “I said, are you armed?” the deputy repeated.

  “No.”

  “Hands behind your head, lace your fingers.” Leo complied. “Kneel down, cross your ankles.” Leo complied again, and the deputy put him in a pair of handcuffs, then took him to his patrol car. He did the same to Patrick, putting both men in the backseat.

  “If you expect me to kneel down, buddy, you’re loco,” Andorsen said acidly when the deputy approached him. “My knees are so old, they will crack like kindling. And I can’t hold my arms up like this—the pain gets too much.”

  “I’ll help you up, sir,” the deputy said. “Hands behind your head, lace your—”

  Patrick could easily sense what was going to happen next: Andorsen whirled, his hands knotted into fists, and he hit the deputy on the side of his head. The deputy must have sensed it also, because he almost managed to dodge away from the swing and received a glancing blow only.

  “I told you, boy, I can’t hold my arms up like that!” Andorsen shouted.

  The deputy’s SIG Sauer P226 semiautomatic sidearm was in his hands in the blink of an eye. “Don’t move!” he shouted, the gun leveled at Andorsen’s chest. “Turn and get down on the ground!”

  “I told you, son, I can’t get down like that—it hurts too much,” Andorsen said, holding his hands out in plain sight but not raising them. “My name is Judah Andorsen. Get on your damned radio and tell your boss that—”

  The deputy grabbed Andorsen by the front of his jacket and tugged backward, and as soon as Andorsen
resisted by pulling away, the deputy put one leg between Andorsen’s legs, shoved forward, and placed a toe behind Andorsen’s heel, tripping him. As the deputy fell on top of Andorsen, he made sure one knee was in Andorsen’s groin when they hit the ground. With Andorsen doubled up in pain and clutching his groin, it was easy for the deputy to holster his sidearm, grab a wrist, spin the man over on his stomach, wrestle the other wrist around, and snap handcuffs in place.

  “Dispatch, Unit Five,” he radioed using his portable radio, breathing heavily, but more from excitement and adrenaline rush than exertion, “three in custody, Valmy Airport, notify FBI—”

  And at that moment a black six-pack dually pickup truck raced up the dirt road toward the deputy, tires kicking up dirt and stones. It was followed by a Cadillac sedan. The dually screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust beside the police cruiser, the doors flew open, and six men jumped out and ran toward the deputy.

  “Freeze!” the deputy shouted. He knelt next to Andorsen and again put a hand on his sidearm. “Humboldt County Sheriff’s Department making an arrest! All you men, get back in your truck, now!”

  The six men stopped but did not retreat. “We’re right here, Mr. Andorsen,” one of the men said. “What do you want us to do?”

  “Tell these men to raise their hands and back away,” the deputy ordered.

  “Back on up, Teddy,” Andorsen said into the dust. The six men immediately stepped backward to their pickup, their eyes on the sheriff’s deputy and their boss the whole time.

  “Dispatch, Unit Five, requesting backup, Valmy Airport,” the deputy radioed.

  “Damn it, what do those guys think they’re doing?” Leo asked from the backseat of the deputy’s cruiser. “Were they trying to—”

  “Holy shit!” Patrick said between clenched teeth. He looked over to the pickup . . . and noticed AR-15 assault rifles with sniperscopes being passed out from within the pickup, shielded from view. “Those guys have guns!”

  “This is not good,” Leo whispered.

  Patrick thought for a second, then shouted, “Judah, this is General Patrick McLanahan. Tell your men to put down their rifles.”

  The sheriff’s deputy leaped to his feet, dashed around the nose of the helicopter, drew his sidearm, pointed it toward the six men, and shouted, “Show me your hands! Now!”

  In a flash, the six men spread out about six yards apart from one another and dropped to the ground. Patrick counted four AR-15 rifles pointed at the deputy. These guys looked professional all the way, he thought. “I think it’s your turn to drop your weapon and show us your hands, Deputy,” the man named Teddy shouted.

  Three

  If you will just start with the idea that this is a hard world, it will all be much simpler.

  —Louis D. Brandeis, U.S. Supreme Court justice

  Valmy, Nevada

  “Are they crazy?” Leo said. “They’re drawing down on a sheriff’s deputy!”

  During this time, the Cadillac had pulled up to the scene, and a lone, short, balding man in a gray business suit got out and walked toward the helicopter, unbuttoning and then removing his jacket. “Freeze!” the deputy shouted.

  The newcomer dropped his jacket to the ground and raised his hands. “I’m not armed, Deputy,” he said in a remarkably calm voice. “My name is Harold Cunningham, and I am Mr. Andorsen’s attorney and counsel.” He looked up into his right hand, in which he was holding a cell phone. “I’m expecting a call from Sheriff Martinez, District Attorney Cauldwell, and County Commissioner Blane any minute now, Deputy, and you’ll be receiving a call from the sheriff explaining what this is all about.”

  “You just stay where you are and keep your hands where I can see them!” the deputy shouted back.

  “Unit Five,” came the message from the deputy’s portable radio.

  The deputy keyed the mike button on his left shoulder: “Dispatch, Unit Five, three in custody, holding seven at gunpoint, repeat, seven, multiple weapons visible, request immediate backup, covers Code Three.” His voice was clearly fearful.

  “Five, this is Sheriff Martinez,” came a different voice on the channel. “Mark, relax. This is all a big fat mix-up by the feds. That’s Judah Andorsen you got there.”

  “Sir, I’ve got four guys with rifles and two with handguns aimed at me,” the deputy radioed back to the obviously known person on the radio.

  “They’re Mr. Andorsen’s security guys,” Martinez replied. “The feds have got everybody believing we’ve got terrorists running amok in Humboldt County. Just relax.”

  “I’ll relax as soon as these motherfuckers lower their guns, sir,” the deputy named Mark radioed.

  “I’m on my way out there now, son,” Martinez radioed. “Just don’t do anything until I get there.”

  In the next ninety minutes, as the day grew hotter and hotter and thunderstorms began to build around them like sand monsters rising from the high desert, more and more cars arrived. After each new vehicle arrived, the man named Cunningham dialed another number, and more cars arrived. Before long, two FBI special agents showed up and took charge of the scene. By then, Andorsen’s men had gotten back to their feet and had joined their boss around the helicopter, with their weapons in holsters or slung on their shoulders. The FBI agents stood by their car with sidearms leveled. “This is the FBI,” one of the agents shouted. “All of you men, drop your weapons and raise your hands.”

  “I’m sorry, Special Agent Chastain,” the man named Cunningham said, “but I’m expecting a call from the deputy attorney general and the U.S. attorney in Reno. He’ll straighten all this out for you.”

  “How did Cunningham know his name?” Patrick asked in a low voice. He and Leo were still handcuffed in the back of the now-sweltering-hot sheriff’s cruiser. “Neither FBI agent identified himself yet, right?”

  “This is bizarro,” Leo said. “They’ve got everybody except the governor of Nevada and vice president of the United States out here.”

  “I said, drop your weapons and raise your hands!” the special agent repeated. It was a surreal scene to Patrick: the Humboldt County sheriff and several deputies, the district attorney, a county commissioner, a high-ranking official from the Nevada Highway Patrol, and someone from the state of Nevada Attorney General’s office, along with Andorsen’s armed employees, were all standing around Andorsen’s helicopter, being confronted by two FBI agents! The officials with Andorsen, Patrick noted with shock, were not only not arresting anyone, but were openly protecting and shielding him from federal law enforcement officers!

  “You should be getting a call from Washington or the Nevada U.S. District Court any minute now, Special Agent Chastain,” Cunningham called out. “It should straighten this whole ugly incident out right away.”

  “I’m warning all of you, drop your weapons and raise your hands!” the agent named Chastain repeated. But it was obvious that he was distracted by something.

  “Boys, go ahead and put your guns down so Agent Chastain there can answer his phone,” Andorsen said with a wide grin. His men immediately laid their weapons on the ground so the FBI agents could clearly see them. “I’ll bet it’s a real important call. Don’t you worry none about any of us, son—we ain’t gonna move a muscle.”

  With the other agent covering the odd group, Chastain pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket—and everyone could see his jaw drop in surprise when he read the caller ID. “Chastain,” he said. “Go ahead, sir . . . Yes, I’m in charge of this incident, the airspace violation and the . . . Excuse me, sir? . . . You’re saying there was no violation because the airspace in this area had been cleared because of the Civil Air Patrol search-and-rescue operation?” Patrick could see Andorsen’s grin become even wider. “But, sir, I was advised that the entire national airspace system is still shut down and . . . What, sir? . . . I see . . . All the airspace except for this particular area. So there never was any violation, even though the military controllers at Battle Mountain had . . . Yes, sir . . . Yes, yes .
. . Yes, sir, right away.” The call ended abruptly. The agent named Chastain half turned to his partner and spoke in a low tone, and moments later he holstered his weapon.

  “Sorry for the misunderstanding, sir,” Chastain said. “Have a nice day.” And just like that, both FBI agents climbed back into their car and drove off.

  “Well, I’m glad that’s taken care of,” Andorsen said as his men picked up their weapons and headed back to their truck. “Deputy, mind takin’ those cuffs off my friends?” The deputy hustled to comply, and finally Patrick and Leo returned to the helicopter, rubbing sore wrists. “I apologize for the mix-up, guys, but it’s all good now,” Andorsen said. He turned to the officials behind him. “I’m going to fly these gents for a little meeting back at the ranch, Patrick, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to ask the deputy to drive you back to the ranch to get your plane. Don’t worry about the airspace—you shouldn’t have no more problems.” He stuck out a hand, and Patrick shook it. “It was a real honor meeting you, General, a real honor. I’ll see you soon.” He shook hands with Leo and offered seats in his helicopter to the county and state officials by his side.

  Patrick and Leo retrieved their flight bags—they had been unceremoniously dumped out of the helicopter by one of Andorsen’s men—and walked in silent confusion back to the cruiser that they had been locked up in for the past two hours. Neither they nor the sheriff’s deputy said anything for the ninety-minute-long ride back to Andorsen’s airstrip. The helicopter was already there, as were a number of official-looking vehicles parked outside the ranch house.

  “What just happened back there?” Patrick finally asked after they had been dropped off beside the CAP Cessna 182.

  “I knew Andorsen was a big name around Nevada,” Leo said, “but I never realized how big. Call the sheriff? His man calls the district attorney. Call the Highway Patrol? He calls the Nevada attorney general. The FBI shows up? He’s got the U.S. attorney general on speed dial. It looked as if that special agent saw his entire career flash before his eyes back there.”