A Time for Patriots (38 page)

“Is this how the government deals with fellow Americans?” the first voice blared angrily over the bullhorn. “Is this how—” And the voice abruptly cut off.

A few minutes later, Patrick saw a technical—a pickup truck with a heavy-gauge machine gun mounted in back, manned by a standing gunner—drive to the compound entrance, and a man emerged from the passenger side. He was tall and very thin, with long silver hair, wearing a black suit, white shirt, bolo tie—and, Patrick noticed, what appeared to be an Uzi slung on his shoulder. “Mr. McLanahan?” he asked.

Patrick stepped forward. Wayne moved forward with him. Patrick could feel dozens of gun muzzles swing in his direction, and he could see the technical on the pickup truck nervously switching aim between him, the CID, and the Tin Man. He held out a hand. “It's okay, Whack.”

“That wasn't the deal, General,” Wayne said, his electronically synthesized voice booming. “We agreed I was going to come with you at all times or we weren't going to do this.”

“ ‘General'?” the newcomer called out. “General Patrick McLanahan?”

“Yes.”

The newcomer moved away from the compound entrance, stepped over to the Wrangler, and held out a hand. “I'm happy to meet you, General,” the man said. “I am Reverend Jeremiah Paulson.”

Patrick shook his hand. “Nice to meet you too, sir.”

“Your reputation precedes you, sir.” Paulson extended a hand to Givens. “We met many years ago, General, when you first took command of the base,” he said. “You held many community forums every year to address issues between the local area and the base, and you've hosted many open-house and other events for the community.”

“I think an important part of being base commander is open and frequent dialogue between the base and the community, Reverend,” Givens said, shaking hands. “Unfortunately, those kinds of activities had to be curtailed as our funding was cut, our operations were reduced, and the people lost interest in the base. But I intend to reverse that.”

“That is long overdue, General Givens.” Paulson looked up at the CID and shook his head. “Such incredible technology,” he said in a low voice. “Too bad it's being used against innocent American citizens.”

“That was the FBI's idea, sir,” Patrick said. “The White House authorized their use because of the radiological attacks in Reno. The FBI is gone now.”

“But the robot and this man remain?”

“Yes, under my command.”

“And what is your ‘command,' General?” Paulson asked. “Why were you sent to Nevada to talk to me?”

“I wasn't sent, sir—I live here,” Patrick said. “I've lived on the air base since January. I previously commanded the air wing here.”

“Indeed? I was not aware of it. A man such as yourself, living out here in obscurity . . . interesting. What is it you do at the base?”

“I'm retired,” Patrick said. “I fly volunteer missions for the Civil Air Patrol, mostly search-and-rescue missions; I fly volunteer charity medical missions for Angel Flight West; and I raise an eighteen-year-old son.”

“Very good,” Paulson said. “Being a responsible, God-fearing parent and serving your community are two of the most noble things a man can do. But why is a retired military officer given devices such as these? Under what authority do you use them?”

“At first I wasn't given any authority to use them, Reverend Paulson,” Patrick replied. “They're here; my community and friends are in danger; I know how to employ them—so I acted. I've recently been given limited authority to use them by the president of the United States.”

“Against the residents of this community?”

“Against threats to
our
community, sir,” Patrick said. “The FBI believes you are a threat. I don't. I have to prove to the president that I'm right.”

“Otherwise the war between us will continue.”

“Reverend Paulson, I'm willing and ready to do whatever it takes to safeguard my home,” Patrick said, “and I'm willing to battle anyone who wants to take away our freedom. So far, I haven't seen any evidence that you are an enemy. You have weapons, you have a stronghold, you have followers ready to take up arms and defend their home . . . well, so do we at Joint Air Base Battle Mountain, and we're not an enemy to the community either. We need to join together to find the common enemy and eliminate it.”

“I am a minister, a spiritual leader only,” Paulson said. “The people of this community came to this place and built their homes around my original church because they felt safer living together. We are all sovereign citizens, followers of the original U.S. Constitution and the laws of God. I don't give orders.”

“I have no followers, Reverend,” Patrick said. “As I said, I'm retired. I have no command or hold any office. But I am going to use the tools available to me to protect my family, my home, and my community. We share that goal. We should work together to accomplish that mission.”

Paulson looked Patrick up and down, then nodded. “What do you propose, General McLanahan?”

Patrick turned to Givens. “Kurt?”

“Come live with us,” Givens said to Paulson.

“Live with you? On the air base?”

“There's plenty of room for everyone,” Givens said. “The base used to house almost six thousand, and we were in the process of expanding it to seven thousand—we have fewer than one thousand now. We have medical facilities, shopping, fitness, and recreation venues that are hardly used.”

“I think that is a very generous offer, General Givens,” Paulson said, “but most of the members of this community are distrustful of the government already—they won't want to move right into its lap by moving onto a military base.”

“For those who don't want to move, they can stay out here,” Buzz said. “But for those who are living in tents or those with young children, the base facilities might be better, at least temporarily. And even if you don't choose to move, the base's facilities will be open for everyone.”

“But . . . how can this be possible?” Paulson said. “We have no money for any of this.”

“President Kenneth Phoenix has issued a presidential order, directing the commanders of military installations all over the world to help struggling people in their local area however they can, consistent with the military mission and security, until the economic crisis is over,” Patrick said. “Joint Air Base Battle Mountain will be one of the first to implement the policy.”

“All persons who are able to work will be asked to work,” Givens went on. “If paid jobs are available, they'll be paid, and some of the money used to defray expenses; otherwise, everyone able to work will be asked to contribute their skills and abilities to do jobs around the base that need to be done. The Department of Defense will provide subsidized food, shelter, utilities, education, job training, and health care.”

“We have to start thinking about one community rather than separate civilian and military ones,” Patrick said. “The separate communities only cause distrust and resentment.”

“Won't some soldiers resent having outsiders on their base, eating their food and using their facilities without having to swear an oath, put on a uniform, or pick up a gun?” Paulson asked.

“Perhaps,” Patrick said. “But I don't see the people in your community as malingerers—they seem ready to work if a task is needed. The military respects hard work and dedication. If everyone pulls together, this can work.”

Paulson half turned toward the technical behind him. “I assume things such as that won't be allowed.”

“You'll be treated like every other soldier and civilian employee on base,” Givens said. “Legal firearms on base must be registered and stored in our armory, and will be fitted with an identification and tracking tag that assures they're not kept or carried on base; illegal or unregistered weapons won't be allowed. You will be allowed access to your firearms at any time as long as they are immediately taken off the base, and the ID tag will monitor that.”

“What other limitations to personal freedoms will be imposed on us by the government?” Paulson asked.

“I don't know, Reverend—we're just starting this thing tonight,” Givens said honestly. “We're starting from the standpoint that civilian residents on base will be given all the responsibilities and freedoms afforded to military residents. Our military members do give up a lot of their constitutional freedoms in the interest of base security and accomplishing the mission.”

“This will be a work in progress, Reverend,” Patrick said. “But the idea is not to limit your freedom, but to support you during tough economic times. You are free to leave at any time if you feel the loss of your rights outweighs the benefits extended to you by the government.”

“I don't think this will be of much interest to the members of this community, General,” Paulson said. “Living out here means freedom for these people, even if the conditions are sometimes harsh.”

“We think they might be worse than harsh, Reverend,” Patrick said. “We've noticed that two of your crop circles are dying.”

“How would you know this, General?”

“I have been conducting aerial surveillance of about three thousand square miles around the air base, including this compound,” Patrick replied. “My sensors detected the dying crops and the malfunctioning irrigation sprinklers.”

“More of using whatever devices are at hand for your own purposes, General McLanahan?” Paulson asked suspiciously. He straightened his shoulders. “I do not approve of this, sir, and I do not approve of you,” he said acidly. “General Givens, I thank you and the president for your offer, and I will present the idea to the people of this community tomorrow morning at community breakfast. If anyone wishes to move, they will be allowed to do so at any time. I will place them in contact with you and arrange a time for the transfer.

“But I will also advise them of General McLanahan's use of this combat technology and surveillance operations,” Paulson went on, “and I will be candid with them: I believe General McLanahan to be as much an extremist as the others who roam this state and harm law-abiding citizens, and placing yourselves under his protection is the moral equivalent of endorsing his anticonstitutional actions. He is violating his oath to serve and defend the Constitution, and as such is a criminal in the eyes of the people and of God almighty.

“If anyone wants to leave this place, they are welcome, but I believe
you,
General McLanahan, to be an affront to the United States Constitution and the laws of God, and those who leave us and join you will be considered traitors to our community and faith. Never come back here, General McLanahan—you are hereby declared an enemy of the Knights of the True Republic. You have fifteen minutes to get off of our property or you will be considered criminal trespassers and dealt with accordingly.” And he spun on a heel and walked back to the technical.

“Well, I think that went swimmingly,” Charlie Turlock deadpanned in her electronically synthesized voice from inside the Cybernetic Infantry Device. After Paulson and the technical departed, the CID assumed the dismount position, and Charlie climbed out and ordered the CID to fold itself up for transport. “Think anyone will take us up on the offer?”

“And be excommunicated from Paulson's church? I don't think so,” Whack said. He helped Charlie stow the CID in the back of the pickup. “Are you sure the FBI was wrong about these people, Patrick? Paulson's definitely got a one-track mind—and it's not a very peaceful track.”

“I'm not a cop—I could be completely wrong about them,” Patrick said. “Paulson may be a zealot and even an extremist, but a homicidal maniac using planes and radiological dirty bombs? I don't know.”

“He could have an entire faction within his community doing the attacks, with Paulson's blessing,” Whack said.

“I suggest we get out of here before we find out Paulson's watch is running fast,” Buzz said. They climbed into the pickup and headed off back to Battle Mountain.

Elko, Nevada

Later that night

R
on Spivey made liberal use of his employee discount to buy energy drinks to help stay awake during these graveyard shifts working at the convenience store outside of town. Well, he thought, only a couple more months of this, and then I'll concentrate on the new path. He was anxious to get started on it.

The night-shift manager, a woman named Matilda, was behind the counter. Ron took a broom and dustpan and headed out the door. “I'm going on parking-lot patrol, Matilda,” he said.

“Bathrooms must be next, Ron,” she said.

“Okay.” Matilda insisted on spotless bathrooms, so he was sent back to do them after almost every customer used them. Another good reason to get the heck out and start a
real
career, he thought. He had a lot of newfound respect for persons who cleaned johns for a living.

It was a perfect summer evening—clear as a bell, not too hot, not too cold, no thunderstorms, and gentle breezes. The store was pretty quiet, but the truck stop about a quarter of a mile down the frontage road seemed busier than usual. Another sign that the economy was turning around? You wouldn't know it by business at the convenience store, but more truckers seemed to be on the road these days. The express shipping business was definitely hiring, so maybe things were starting to look up?

Ron laughed at himself. Sheesh, when did he ever think about stuff like the economy before? Maybe having a baby and a future wife changes a guy's perspective—even a brainless skirt-chasing jock's.

Finally, a customer. The car pulled up to the gas pump island farthest from the store, the one with the burned-out overhead fluorescents—he would have to get the big ladder out to change those. One guy got out, while the other guy stayed in the car. They were talking to each other through the windows, but Ron couldn't make out what they were saying. The parking lot was in pretty good shape, no broken beer bottles or the puddles of vomit that were more common on the weekends. The two guys' voices over on the far island were getting a bit louder. Uh-oh, he thought, boyfriends having a little late-night to-do? At last, some entertainment . . .