A Time for Patriots (25 page)

“It looks like it's unmanned—I don't see no cockpit on the thing!”

“It's probably a surveillance aircraft, like a really big Predator,” Fitzgerald said. “They fly a lot of unmanned planes out of here, although I don't recall seeing that one before.” He jabbed a finger toward one of the hangars surrounded by a tall barbed-wire fence off in the distance. “Came from one of those hangars over there, in the restricted area, I think.”

“Is that right?” Andorsen watched the Sparrowhawk until it flew out of sight, then shook his head and turned his attention to the trailer. “So, what do you got here?”

“This is our Civil Air Patrol communications trailer,” Fitzgerald said. “It's a thirty-foot ‘toy hauler' that we converted into a mobile incident command post.” He stepped inside. “This is a high-frequency radio; those two are tactical VHF base stations; that's a VHF airband base station; that's a computer terminal that we can link up with the global satellite Internet network; and we carry several portable radios. The front of the trailer has a galley, latrine, bunks, and a small planning area, big enough for two guys. We have a telescoping thirty-foot antenna mounted on the roof for the radios, and we can pull in satellite broadcasts as well. We have enough fresh water, power generators, propane, supplies, and gray water storage for two men to deploy for as long as a week without any hookups. We can communicate with just about any local, state, or federal agency even with power knocked out.” Fitzgerald tapped a wood-and-brass plaque attached to the bulkhead over the desk. “In fact, sir, we have
you
to thank for the trailer—you donated it to Civil Air Patrol a couple years ago.”

“You don't say!” Andorsen exclaimed. “When you get to be my age, you forget a lot of stuff. I'm happy to help out.” He was silent for a few moments, then said, “You spend a lot of time with the Civil Air Patrol, do you?”

“More nowadays,” Fitzgerald said in a low voice. “I got laid off from the Department of Wildlife.”

“Sorry to hear that, son.”

“They said it was ‘budget cutbacks,' but I'm sure the FBI complained to my boss that I wasn't answering their questions, and told them to can me,” Fitzgerald said bitterly. “Now that I can't afford a lawyer, the FBI probably thinks I'll talk. They can kiss my ass.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. “Fucking feds. They don't give a shit about personal freedom or individual rights—they just want answers, and they'll do whatever they feel like, and fuck the Constitution. I was less than a year from retiring from the department. I'm screwed. I got no savings, and now no retirement, thanks to the feds.”

“Sounds like you might have a case against the Department of Forestry, son,” Andorsen said. He pulled out his wallet and handed Fitzgerald a card. “Call that number. I set up a legal defense fund for Nevada and California ranchers to help them keep their land if they're getting foreclosed on or if the state or county comes after them for back property taxes. I'm sure they can help you, or if they can't, at least get you pointed in the right direction.”

“Thank you, sir,” Fitzgerald said, looking at the business card in awe. “I appreciate that very much.”

“It's my pleasure, son,” Andorsen said. “Us folks gotta stay together in these tough times, especially when the government thinks they can run roughshod over us.”

“Damned right,” Fitzgerald said.

“And if the Department of Forestry doesn't do right by you,” Andorsen said, “I'll make sure my people tell me. I might have a position for someone with your skills in my organization.”

“Working for
you
?”

“No promises,” Andorsen said, holding up a hand in caution, “but you seem like a squared-away guy that has his priorities straight: tell the government to back off, and get busy taking care of the things that matter. You volunteer your time for the Civil Air Patrol when most guys out of work would either be out breaking into houses, beating their wives, kids, or girlfriends, or drinking themselves into a stupor. I like that attitude, and I try to surround myself with men and women that have that same can-do, will-do attitude.”

“Yes, sir, that's me,” Fitzgerald said. “Screw the government. Hardworking guys can take care of their families and communities just fine.”

“Amen,” Andorsen said. “Hey, Fitz, I gotta go. Nice to talk to you.” He shook hands with Fitzgerald. “Give my folks a call. They'll help you out. And thank you for doing this Civil Air Patrol stuff. It's pretty darned cool.”

Six

In nature there are few sharp lines.

—A. R. Ammons

That same time

A
s the Sparrowhawk unmanned aircraft turned on course, Chastain pointed to a spot on the left laptop. The screen displayed a sectional chart that showed details of landmarks on the ground—roads, power lines, terrain, and cultural points. “Zoom in on that,” he said. The technician did so, and Chastain pointed to a tiny square at the base of a mountain marked simply
ranch
. “This is highly classified,” he said. “That's the ranch I want pictures of.” The technician hit a function key on the center laptop and touched the left screen, and a magenta line indicated that the Sparrowhawk's course was set. “The Knights have expanded that ranch considerably over the past year and a half. They started out with two families and a half-dozen hands residing there—now it's sixty families and almost a hundred hands. They add another two or three families almost every week.”

“What do they do there?” Jon asked.

“It's like a commune: whatever income they have goes to the collective; they contribute skills and manual labor for food and water,” Chastain said. “The ranch hands act as security. Several of the hands are ex-military, and we believe they have the skills to pull off these attacks.”

“Jon, we're going to have to move the orbit to the northwest or southeast a little to keep the Sparrowhawk off the airway,” the technician named Jeff said. He studied the sectional chart for a moment, then said, “About four miles southeast looks best, with a northeast-southwest orbit.”

Jon nodded. “Go ahead and—”

“Negative, Masters,” Chastain interrupted. “I want an orbit right over the center of the compound.”

“We can't do that, Agent Chastain,” Jon said, pointing at the sectional chart. “The compound sits almost directly under the center of this Victor airway.”

“What in hell is that?”

“It's a charted electronic corridor that pilots flying under eighteen thousand feet use,” Jon explained. “It guarantees radio- and navigation-aid reception at or above certain altitudes.”

“So?”

“It's dangerous for unmanned aircraft that can't look for other aircraft to fly on an airway,” Jon said. “We just offset ourselves four miles away from the center of the airway, outside the corridor. It's not a problem—the Sparrowhawk's sensors can scan the entire compound on one leg easily from that distance. Then we'll switch sides of the airway and scan it from the other direction so we can—”

“That's bullshit, Masters,” Chastain snapped. “I want it orbiting right
over
the compound.”

“That's not safe.”

“I don't give a rat's ass, Masters,” Chastain said. “First of all, there's not supposed to be any other aircraft out there unless they're on an approved flight plan.”

“That's not true,” Jon said. “Only aircraft flying in or transiting within fifty miles of Alpha-, Bravo-, or Charlie-controlled airspace have to be on IFR flight plans. If you're flying under eighteen thousand feet and not flying into or near busy controlled airspace, you can still legally fly anywhere.”

Chastain pointed to the right laptop, which was displaying a radar traffic display similar-looking to an air traffic control system. “Isn't this supposed to tell us if there are any other planes in the area?”

“This only shows us the aircraft that are on IFR flight plans or are using air traffic control flight-following advisory services,” Jon said. “If there are other planes out there not using FAA radar services, we won't see them.”

“Aren't these planes supposed to have beacons or something to locate other planes?”

“Some do, but small light planes or light-sport aircraft that don't fly in controlled airspace probably won't,” Jon said. “Besides, those beacons interrogate other planes' beacons to locate them, and you ordered the Sparrowhawk's transponder shut off.”

“Because
you
told me anyone on the ground can identify an aircraft flying overhead with that beacon on the Internet, or even with a camera phone!”

“That's true.”

“So I'm not going to reveal the drone's position with a beacon on the wild-ass off chance that another aircraft might be in the exact same location and altitude,” Chastain said. “That'll tip off the Knights that they're under surveillance for sure. Besides, pilots are supposed to be looking out for other planes, right? What are the chances of two planes colliding?”

“If the drone is on an airway below eighteen thousand feet, the chances are much greater,” Jon said. “That's what I'm trying to tell you: if you put the Sparrowhawk right on the airway, the chances of a disaster are greatly increased. If you move it just a few miles away, the chances don't go to zero, but they are much, much more favorable.”

“So even if we turn on the beacon and move the drone away, it can still be hit by another plane?”

“Unlikely . . . but yes, it . . .”

“Masters, I think the odds of something happening are much lower than you're telling me,” Chastain interjected. “The drone is out in the middle of nowhere, more than a hundred miles from the nearest city; people aren't flying anyway because of the shitty economy; and even if they were, the odds of two planes being at the same spot at the same time are astronomical. You people that whine all day about safety, safety, safety drive guys who are trying to get the job done, like
me,
absolutely
crazy
. Now quit your damned bitching and orbit that compound.”

Jon finally gave up, and he nodded to Jeff to have the Sparrowhawk orbit the ranch. “Make the altitude seventeen thousand feet,” he told his technician. “If they're on an IFR flight plan, they'll be at either sixteen or seventeen, so we should be able to see them on the FAA feed.”

“Is that too high?” Chastain asked. “I want detailed imagery of that compound.”

“The sensors on the Sparrowhawk are optimized for ten thousand feet aboveground, which is fifteen thousand feet above mean sea level,” Jon said, “but the resolution is perfectly fine at—”

“Then put the damned drone at fifteen thousand,” Chastain said. “Why in hell would you have it fly higher?”

“Because . . .” He was going to say,
It's safer,
but it was obvious that Chastain didn't much care for the “safety” argument. Jon turned to Jeff. “Put Sparrowhawk at fifteen thousand,” he said. “Let's notify Oakland, Seattle, and Salt Lake Centers of the altitude change.”

“Do what?” Chastain asked.

“We coordinate all flight activities with Seattle, Oakland, and Salt Lake air traffic control centers,” Jon said. “They don't disseminate the information without telling us first, but we have to tell them. They can see most primary-target traffic on radar so they—”

“Primary targets?”

“Radar returns that don't have transponder data such as altitude and identification codes.”

“Speak English, would you please, Masters?”

“It's important we coordinate with them,” Jon said. “If they're in radio contact with other traffic, they can advise them of the Sparrowhawk's position so they can help them avoid it.”

“Fine, fine,” Chastain said dismissively. “As long as they don't interfere.”

This was incredibly risky, Jon thought, but he issued the orders to put the Sparrowhawk at fifteen thousand feet, then put in a call to air traffic control facilities in Sacramento and Salt Lake City, advising them of the Sparrowhawk's orbit.

Jon was soon able to relax as the day went on. It looked like Chastain was probably going to be correct: there was very little traffic in the Sparrowhawk's orbital area. Only once did they have to steer the unmanned aircraft off the airway for a bizjet descending into Reno, and the two aircraft passed well clear of each other without the bizjet's crew having to turn to avoid the UAV.

They were getting excellent images of the suspect's entire desert facility, and it was indeed very impressive. It resembled a medieval town, with crop circles and groves of fruit trees in the outlying area, stockyards and maintenance buildings inside that, a variety of housing units from cabins to tents next, then a tall chain-link and stone fence surrounding the main compound. Inside the main compound were several houses, barns, warehouses, storage tanks, and an outdoor meeting area large enough for perhaps five hundred people. They saw several small sheds that many persons walked in and out of, way out of proportion to its size—that had to be entrances to an underground facility.

“All of that activity is being recorded and analyzed by our computers,” Jon said. “Then over time the computers will compare activity at certain times in different locations. If there's a change in activity—a sudden marshaling of vehicles, or a large movement of people that's out of the ordinary—the computer will alert us.”

“My agents have been doing that for decades, Masters—it's called ‘police work,' ” Chastain said dismissively, taking a sip of coffee and carefully studying the monitors. “Again with the sales pitch. Do you mind? We're trying to work here.”

Jon held his hands up in surrender and departed.

Andorsen Park, Battle Mountain

Later that afternoon

T
alk about coming down from an extreme high, Bradley thought: this morning I was soloing a high-tech turboprop airplane—now I'm scrubbing toilets for six dollars an hour, and thankful I'm doing so.

Brad picked up his cleanup kit and headed out of the men's room at the city park's rest facilities. It was still very warm, so the park was empty, but closer to sunset, folks would come out to barbecue or hang out. Brad was a sort of part-time security guard as well as janitor and maintenance man: if there were any problems, such as drug, alcohol, or hooker issues, his job was to call the police and get help; otherwise, his job was to clean the johns and urinals, empty the trash bins, and wipe down benches. After finishing the men's toilets, his job was to scrub the women's toilets, so he put out all the “Cleaners Working” and “Use Caution—Wet Floors” signs on his way to mucking out the ladies' room.

A few minutes into his labors, he heard a voice say, “Hey, I know you.” He turned and found Department of Homeland Security special agent Cassandra Renaldo alone in the bathroom with him.

“Hello,” Brad said. Jeez, he thought, she looked hotter than ever. “What a . . . surprise.”

“Why, it's Cadet Bradley James McLanahan, the Civil Air Patrol rescue hero,” Renaldo said. “Fancy meeting you here. Remember me? I'm Cassandra. Cassandra Renaldo.”

Oh yeah, I damn well
do
remember, he thought, checking out her breasts once again. He could see her hard nipples through her thin blouse from all the way across the bathroom. “I work here,” was all Brad could say, swallowing hard.

“You do?” Renaldo said.

“Just part-time.”

“Why, I think that is very diligent of you,” Renaldo said. “What a weird coincidence. I was heading out to Salt Lake City for a staff conference tomorrow morning, and I left the base without . . . you know, without stopping, and I spotted the park and decided to stop here. I was thinking of you. I thought, you are such an impressive young man. And suddenly poof, here you are, all by yourself, in the flesh. How lucky can I get?”

“Uh-huh,” Brad heard himself say.

“I think it's so incredible that young men like you step up and get the training and perform the services you do in the Civil Air Patrol,” Renaldo said. “The whole world is changing, and young men like you are taking the lead in protecting your country and saving lives. You are
so
incredible, Bradley. Thank you so very much for your service.”

“You're welcome.” He couldn't seem to manage to get more than two or three words out at a time.

“So,” Renaldo said, putting her hands together, “are you . . . going to be done soon?”

“Oh!” Brad said, looking at the scrub brush and the gloves on his hands as if he forgot he had them on. “I'll just get on out of here and wait . . . until . . . you know . . .”

“Okay.” As he walked toward the door, she put out an arm to stop him. “Brad? Can I call you Brad?”

“S-sure.”

“And you can call me Cassie.” She lowered her eyes. “I have a confession to make.”

“W-what?”

“I didn't just happen to stop here on my way to Salt Lake City,” Renaldo said, looking deeply into his eyes and taking a deep breath, which only accentuated her breasts even more. “I knew you were going to be here.”

“You did? How?”

“It's my job to find out things like that,” she said. “But the thing is . . . I learned that not because of business, but because I wanted to see you.” She lowered her eyes again. “I could lose my job if anyone found out.”

“Found out what?”

“That . . . that I'm turned on by you,” Renaldo said. “You're a hardworking, dedicated guy, but”—she put a hand on his chest—“but you're also great-looking, and you have this hard young body, and I'm just plain turned on by you. I know I could lose my job if anyone ever found out I followed you here, but right now I don't care. And I saw the way you looked at me back on that first day in the hangar. I was flattered. That makes me even hotter for you.” She stepped closer to him. “Brad, can . . . can I kiss you?” All he could do was stand there and sweat. “I know you just turned eighteen today, so you're a man, and that turns me on even more. I love hard, strong young men.” And she lightly touched his lips with hers, with the very tips of her nipples pressing against his chest.

“I knew you would have soft lips,” she murmured. “Hard-body guys always have soft lips.” She backed away, her eyes still closed, and she smiled when she opened them and saw Brad frozen like a statue in front of her. She pressed a card into his hand. “Call me sometime on my cell when we can . . . be alone,” she said. “And please, Brad, keep this a secret. My career depends on your discretion.” And she turned and walked out.