A Time for Patriots pm-17 Page 33

  “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

  Each 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?”

  “I do, Reverend,” Patrick said. “I refused to talk with the FBI without my attorney present, even though a nationwide state of emergency existed and almost every other member of my squadron had already cooperated. They tried to blackmail my son to inform on me for them.”

  “Then you understand completely,” Paulson said. “We have a right to be secure in our persons, houses, papers, and effects against unreasonable searches and seizures. There is no caveat, no exceptions, no provision that says, ‘Unless the FBI orders otherwise.’ ” He sighed. “But there is too much distrust in our community, and it is tearing us apart. We have decided to disband.”

  “You’re breaking up the Knights of the True Republic?”

  “I think the true believers will still push for true freedom, less government, and more personal responsibility,” Paulson said, “but the idea that we can live apart from our neighbors in our own purist society is not realistic. Rather than ensuring our own happiness and security, it has turned our neighbors against us. That was not our goal.”

  “So what will happen?” Patrick asked.

  “Most will go to your air base, look for work, and join with others to form a stronger, tighter community, with the help of the federal government and the military,” Paulson said. “Some will probably join other independent communities; a few will try to form their own cells of like-minded idealists. Everyone is free to do whatever he or she chooses. As for this community: so
me will stay and try to keep it alive, but in the end, it’s not separation and anonymity that guarantees success, but cooperation and community. We forgot that truth years ago, and it’s hurt us. It’s time to support the greater community once again.”

  Paulson reached down from the dais and extended a hand. “It was a great privilege to meet you, General McLanahan,” he said. Patrick shook his hand. “You are indeed a patriot. I believed you wanted to use your technology to destroy our community. I see that I was mistaken. One word of advice, however: don’t rely too much on the technology. You have some fine people here that want to help you rid our community of extremists — rely on them instead.”

  “I will, Reverend,” Patrick said. He turned and started to leave…

  … when suddenly Whack rushed forward between Patrick and the dais and shouted, “General , get down!” Paulson had dropped the Bible, swung the Uzi up into his hands, and aimed…

  … but not at Patrick… he aimed upward from the bottom of his jaw. He closed his eyes, shouted, “God bless the True Republic!” and pulled the trigger. Except for a few children who cried out at the gunshot, no one in the audience moved or said a word as the lifeless body hit the dais.

  Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

  A short time later

  Patrick led the others into the FBI hangar, with Whack carrying the folded-up CID unit himself. Patrick was surprised to see Michael Fitzgerald there, examining the bullet-ridden wreckage of the second Cybernetic Infantry Device, which had been hit by gunners in the Knights of the True Republic’s compound. “Hey, Fid,” Patrick said.

  Fitzgerald looked at amazement at the Tin Man as Whack set the stowed CID unit in its charging cradle. “Who in hell are you ?” he exclaimed. Whack didn’t answer him, but took off his helmet, then removed the battery packs on his waist and put them into their chargers.

  “It’s kind of late to explain, Fid,” Patrick said wearily. “What’s going on?”

  “I went over to the squadron to see if you needed any help with the surveillance,” Fitzgerald said, “and Rob said you’d be over here. What happened? Where were you guys?”

  “Out at the Knights’ compound.”

  “Did you fight it out with them? I heard they have all sorts of weapons out there.”

  “No.”

  “Did you get to talk with Reverend Paulson? That guy is a real piece of work. He’s definitely crazy enough to have loaded that ambulance up with explosives and killed all those people.”

  Patrick dropped into a chair, emotionally drained. “Paulson is dead,” he said.

  “Dead?” Fitzgerald immediately looked over at Whack. “Did you kill him?”

  “Suicide,” Whack said in a low voice.

  “No shit,” Fitzgerald said. “I’ll bet the Knights will be on the warpath tomorrow.”

  “They’re coming onto the base,” Patrick said. “The Knights disbanded, and the compound is wide open, not guarded anymore.”

  “Wow — the Knights, disbanded,” Fitzgerald breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Now I’ll bet the cops can go in there and search for any more of that radioactive shit they’ve been using against government buildings.”

  “We searched,” Patrick said, rubbing his eyes. “We didn’t find anything. No explosives, no radioactive material, no shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles. Just lots of guns and a few old light antitank launchers.”

  “No shit,” Fitzgerald said. “So… so what does that mean?”

  “It means we keep searching,” Patrick said. “We start all over, first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, you may be onto something with the Kellerman place,” Fitzgerald said. “Somebody’s definitely been out there — it looks like some supplies have been brought in, food and water, and the power’s been turned back on. No sign of the place being broken into.”

  “Thanks, Fid,” Patrick said. His brain was just too worn out to process this new information. “We’ll meet tomorrow to plan our next moves.”

  “See you tomorrow, General.” Fitzgerald took one last look at the Tin Man, the stowed CID, and the broken-up CID as he headed out the door.

  “One of your Civil Air Patrol guys?” Whack asked, watching Fitzgerald depart.

  “Michael Fitzgerald,” Patrick said. “Lost his job with the Nevada Department of Wildlife just a few months from retirement, probably because of the FBI.”

  “He sure doesn’t look ex-military.”

  “You don’t need to be ex-military to join the Civil Air Patrol,” Patrick said. “He specializes in cadet ground-strike teams. He’s a good guy.” He got to his feet. “I’m going home, guys. I don’t want to leave Brad alone too long if I can help it. He’s pretty busted up about his friend Ron.”

  “Why don’t you just stay home for a couple days with Brad, maybe fly on out to see your mom in Scottsdale?” Charlie Turlock suggested. “General Givens has got the incoming community members taken care of — if we get any more, because of that ambush today — and we’ll keep on helping with surveillance. If anything crops up, we’ll give you a call and we can decide how to handle it.”

  Patrick said nothing for several long moments, then nodded. “That sounds really good, Charlie,” he said. “I’d hate to lose a surveillance plane, but the Bonanza should be ready soon, so we’ll be back to two planes. And it’d be good for Brad to see his grandma and aunts. I’ll see how he feels. We can make it his dual cross-country, and if he feels up to it, he can fly his solo cross-countries from Scottsdale. That’s all he needs for his check ride.”

  “Then he can take me flying, right?” Charlie asked. “He promised, as soon as he got his private pilot’s license.”

  “Sure. He’s a good stick, and the turbine Centurion is a nice ride.”

  “Cool. Hey, speaking of piloting — did Jason tell you about Brad piloting the CID?” Charlie asked.

  “What?” The weariness in Patrick’s face disappeared in a heartbeat, replaced by surprise and concern. “No! Brad was in the CID? When?”

  “The afternoon before we first went to the Knights’ compound.” Charlie could see Patrick’s face turning dark, and she added quickly, “He told me he got permission from you to ask Jason and me to check him out in the CID. You gave him permission, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but… I don’t want him training to pilot the CID anymore.”

  “Okay,” Charlie said, a bit of confusion in her face. “But he’s really good in it, a real natural. You should have seen him doing hacky sack with a—”

  “No ‘buts,’ Charlie,” Patrick said. “The CID was designed as a one-man killing machine, and the last thing Brad needs to be exposed to now is more killing.” He remembered his close friend Hal Briggs, and how the normally cool, calm, collected Air Force security expert and Army Ranger literally went berserk when he entered combat aboard a Cybernetic Infantry Device — he eventually ran into a massed assault by Iranian Revolutionary Guards and was killed in battle while trying to destroy Iranian nuclear missiles. “No more CID training.”

  “Okay, Patrick.”

  Patrick spun on a heel without another word and departed.

  “He looks totally stressed out,” Charlie said to Whack.

  “He’s putting a lot of pressure on himself, and he’s going to burn himself out if he’s not careful,” Whack said. “Good suggestion, Charlie, him getting out of town with his son. I hope he’s smart enough to take it.”

  Scottsdale, Arizona

  A few days later

  It was an absolutely spectacular flight from Battle Mountain to Sacramento Executive Airport for Patrick, Gia, and Brad. Patrick planned the trip as a dual cross-country lesson: Brad had to make stops at three different airports spaced at least one hundred miles apart, at least one of which had to have a control tower, and he had to draw up a flight plan and annotate a sectional chart with the route of flight, visual checkpoints, and timing points. He also had to file a VFR flight plan, get a complete flight briefing by phone, talk to flig
ht service to open and close his flight plan, and give and receive an in-flight weather observation to Flight Watch. Although Brad knew how to fly on instruments-only and was adept at using the advanced avionics in the P210 turbine Centurion, he had to demonstrate that he could navigate using “dead reckoning”—using time, the compass, and landmarks on the ground to determine where he was.

  Patrick’s two sisters, Nancy and Margaret, still lived in Sacramento and still ran the little Irish pub downtown that had been in the McLanahan family for three generations. After Patrick, Gia, and Brad arrived and were settled in, the five made a visit to the historic family memorial complex at the Old City Cemetery, just six blocks south of the state capitol. So many McLanahans had been buried in the cemetery over the past 150 years that many called it the “McLanahan Cemetery.” For the past fifteen years, the cemetery no longer had room for any more burials, so Patrick’s father, a retired veteran city police sergeant with thirty years wearing a badge, was the last of the McLanahans to be interred there — Patrick’s wife Wendy’s and his brother Paul’s inurnment markers were in the historic family columbarium erected at the cemetery, as were vacant niches for the rest of the family.

  Patrick and Brad spent a long time touching Wendy’s marker, as did Margaret and Nancy with Paul’s, with Gia respectfully looking on. Finally, Patrick kissed his wife’s and brother’s markers and patted them reassuringly. “I think it’s so sweet that you decided to keep Wendy here, instead of bringing her to Arlington National Cemetery,” Margaret said as they left the cemetery. “What an honor, for you and her to be laid to rest at such a historic place as Arlington, if you chose.”