A Time for Patriots (42 page)

“Sure. I can get some cots and sleeping bags out of the CAP storage locker.”

“Good. And while we're at the store, I want to get a really good laptop. I've got some studying to do.”

Ten

A community is like a ship; everyone ought to be prepared to take the helm.

—Henrik Ibsen

Patrick's Office, Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

Late that evening

P
atrick was reviewing the hundreds of gigabytes of sensor data that David Bellville had copied onto flash drives before their laptops were seized by the FBI. Brad was asleep in a sleeping bag on a cot just a few feet away. Patrick had been staring at sensor images for six hours and
nothing
was jumping out at him. He had the last twelve hours of images in front of him from two different sensor passes. The computer was flagging about a dozen points of interest, but when Patrick zoomed in on those particular spots, nothing was apparent. The computer could tell him when
something
had changed, but it couldn't tell him if that particular something was relevant to anything. Besides, even if he wanted to take a look, he couldn't—he had no planes.

Patrick activated his subcutaneous transceiver: “Jon?”

“Hey, dude,” Jon Masters replied a few moments later. “How's it going?”

“Not bad. The FBI showed up and took all the laptops and downlinks.”

“They've been calling every hour on the hour, the pricks. They'd like to speak to me, Charlie, and Wayne, and they say they have a warrant to seize my plane, the CID, and the Tin Man. I referred their butts to the legal department.”

“That'll delay them a little bit, but not for long. Where are you?”

“Classified. Hush-hush.”

“We're secure.”

“You think so? I don't.”

Patrick paused. “The comparative analysis that your sensor software does: it looks for
changes,
right?”

“I told you that already. It flags unusual changes in travel patterns over time. Where are you?”

“In my office. We're camping out here for the night. You heard about my trailer?”

“On the news,” Jon said. “If you need anything, let me know. Gia is okay racking out in your office with Brad?”

“She's MIA.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“Sorry, bro.”

“All this was too much for her, I guess.”

“If she wants to hang with the McLanahans, she's got to toughen up her act more than a few notches,” Jon said. “I've worked with you for fifteen years and I'm
still
trying to upshift.”

“Your middle name is ‘upshift,' ” Patrick said. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For being there,” Patrick said. “For standing beside me.”

“I stand for nothing but the science and the profit, my friend,” Jon said. “Everything else is . . . oh, hell, I don't know. If I'm standing anywhere, it's with my hand out, expecting renumeration. Ideas, gadgets, and juicy contracts, that's what I'm all about. You want anything else—well, pay me first, and then we'll talk.”

“Sure,” Patrick said.

“You see anything interesting in those sensor images?” Jon asked.

“No—I don't get it,” Patrick said, frowning at the laptop. “I mean, I see the flags, but there's nothing there that I can see.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the biggest cluster of flags is around one of the copper mines around here that belongs to Judah Andorsen,” Patrick said. “It's called Freedom-7. But why the flags? It's a mine. They have trucks coming and going all the time. They take ore to a railroad spur that takes it to a main rail line and on to the smelters.”

“But remember, Patrick, that the computer records and compares normal activity, and then flags unusual activity.”

“I know. I get it.”

“Then you've got unusual activity out there, my friend,” Jon said. “Normal truck or rail movements wouldn't be flagged after a few passes. Stop trying to rationalize it. If the computer flagged it, especially over several days, something's going on down there, and you should go take a look.”

“That's a problem too. They seized my plane and all the other planes with the sensors on them.”

“Pricks. Can you send me some of those images and let me take a look?”

“Sure.” It took just a couple mouse clicks to send a series of sensor images to Jon's secure e-mail address. “What are you going to do now?”

“I'm still talking with the legal beagles, but they're saying I have to go and turn myself in eventually—sooner, rather than later,” Jon said. “I'll probably fly the Skytrain back to Battle Mountain with the other gadgets. What about you?”

“Not a hell of a lot else I can do except hang around here.”

“Well, I'll probably see you out there soon, maybe even tomorrow if the legal department arranges the surrender that quickly,” Jon said, “and then we can hang out together.”

“See you soon, then.” The connection was terminated.

Patrick stared at the sensor images for a few more minutes, then made another phone call. “Hello?”

“Hi, David. It's Patrick McLanahan. Hope I'm not calling too late.”

“No, not at all, sir,” David Bellville said. “I was just watching the latest blasts from your good friend Joseph Gardner on the evening news. Where does that guy get off saying all that nonsense?”

“Because the press likes controversy, and no one wants to take on an ex-president,” Patrick said. “Listen, I've been looking over the sensor images, and I see a bunch of flags that I think we need to take a look at.”

“Where?”

“One of the Andorsen mines down near Mount Callahan.”

“Freedom-7,” David said. “Me and Fid go hunting down near there every year. I've got work all day tomorrow, but I'll ask Leif if he wants to go—he knows that area better than I do. I'll have him take Fid along if he's available. The guy's been asking all over town about a job—maybe a ride will cheer him up.”

“Thanks, David. I'll e-mail the images of the area the computer flagged to Leif. Let me know what he finds.”

“Will do. Sorry about your trailer. If you need anything at all, just holler.”

“Thank you. I will.”

P
atrick felt as if he had only gotten a couple minutes' sleep when he heard a loud pounding on his office door. When he opened the door, he found FBI special agent Chastain and two other agents with jackets emblazoned with FBI. “Executing the warrant to search your office, McLanahan,” he said, pushing past Patrick into the room.

“You searched it yesterday.”

“I'm searching it again.” He stepped past Brad and went right over to the desk. “What's this?” he asked, pointing to the laptop computer.

“I want my attorney before I'll answer any questions,” Patrick said.

“You'll need one, mister,” Chastain said. He found the collection of flash drives and stared at Patrick angrily. “Withholding evidence? Putting you away will be a slam dunk, McLanahan.” He and the other agents collected the laptop and flash drives, quickly searched the desk, then departed.

“What did he mean, ‘withholding evidence,' Dad?” Brad asked.

“We didn't withhold anything, big guy,” Patrick said. “The flash drives are just backups—they have the same data as the laptops they seized. And the laptop is new—we just bought it yesterday. He's trying to intimidate us, Brad—that's how he operates. He makes people feel afraid so they'll either talk when they're not supposed to, or start to lie, and then he's got you.” Patrick had a troubled look on his face; he shook it off a few moments later, then clapped his hands. “Well, we're up, so we might as well get moving.”

After breakfast at the nearly deserted base-exchange cafeteria, they went past the front gate back out to the housing area. J. Andorsen Construction crews were busy repairing the highway from the deadly bomb blast that seemed like an eternity ago but in fact was only two days. A security-forces cruiser was parked just in back of the entrance, and Patrick noticed an unmanned Avenger parked behind the former data-processing center about a quarter of a mile away.

At the taped-off investigation-scene boundary, which was a couple blocks away from where his trailer used to be, Patrick found the deputy fire chief. “Any information on the explosive, Chief?” he asked.

“Preliminarily, they're saying it was RDX, General,” the fire chief said after checking around to see who might be in earshot—obviously he wasn't supposed to be sharing information with anyone. “Pretty common explosive in the military and industry, fairly easy to handle, easy to mix with plasticizing materials, easy to store—a favorite with terrorists. They say it was about three pounds, based on the blast radius. They haven't found the trigger device but it's a good bet it was a remote detonator, probably using a cell phone. It was probably tossed out of a vehicle—they're checking surveillance videos. It looks like they weren't sure which trailer was yours, because the trailers near yours were vacant where the blast occurred; since you were away also, they might've been confused.” He looked at Patrick, concern evident on his face. “Looks like you have some pretty serious enemies, General.”

“The list is pretty long, Chief,” Patrick said. “By the way: you haven't seen that woman I was with yesterday around here, have you?”

“Sorry, General.”

Patrick nodded his thanks and departed.

They drove the ten miles to town, checking the bus terminal, casinos, motels, and hospital, hoping to see Gia somewhere, but still no luck, so they headed back to the base. After they arrived at his office, he took a phone call: “Hi, Patrick, Darrow here,” Darrow Horton said. “I'm on my way to Reno to talk with the U.S. attorney in person, and I should be in Battle Mountain by seven
P.M
. I'm bringing a couple of associates. Can you get us rooms somewhere?”

“Sure—I'll put you up right here on base at the transient lodging facility. It's just as nice as the casino hotels in town, and the all-ranks club has great food and is begging for business,” Patrick said. “It'll be nice to see you. What's going on?”

“Based on my discussions with the U.S. attorney, I think he's reluctant to indict you,” Darrow said. “I'm pushing for probation and a fine in exchange for a misdemeanor plea, but he's getting pressure from guys like former president Gardner to push for a felony prosecution. So I'm going to apply a little pressure of my own:

“Jon Masters has arranged to fly in to Battle Mountain to surrender his equipment to the FBI tomorrow morning,” she went on. “I've called a news conference with you, me, Jon, Brad, the robot, and the Tin Man, and we're going to explain our side of the story and tell what crazy, irresponsible, and probably illegal foolishness the FBI has been doing out there. I want to tell the whole story, right from the very beginning—how the FBI was supposed to be going after extremists and ended up going after
you
instead, through Brad. I'm hoping the U.S. attorney will drop the case today after I tell him what I'm going to do, but if he doesn't, we'll smear Chastain and his goons all over the breaking-news segment on every TV channel in the country. All the networks and cable news channels will be there.”

“Sounds good to me,” Patrick said. “I'm ready and anxious to tell my side of the story to a judge, but I'm more than happy to tell it in front of news cameras too.”

“You bet we will,” Darrow said. “We'll be in their face every week polluting the jury pool until the trial starts. We'll make everyone in America thinks Gardner has a vendetta against you—which he probably does.

“Now, I probably can't protect you from what the Tin Man and CID did to those agents, and we might even be facing a felony plea, but I think we can avoid confinement,” Darrow went on. “My plan is to have you admit that the Tin Man and CID were operating under your orders—I'm not even referring to the operators as persons. The U.S. attorney would rather focus on you than Macomber and Turlock, although they might get misdemeanor charges as well.”

“I agree,” Patrick said. “They were definitely following my orders.”

“But you were protecting yourself and protecting your son from Chastain and Brady, the best way you knew how. Good. It'll be easy to make them the bad guys and the robot and Tin Man the defenders. So, how's Gia? Am I finally going to meet this woman?”

“She left sometime yesterday morning, after we got back from Scottsdale. I think seeing the trailer destroyed was too much for her.”

“I'm sorry. Try not to let her distract you too much. Tomorrow will be a big day.”

“Okay. Give me a call when you get close and I'll meet you at the front gate.”

“Can't wait to see you again, Patrick,” Darrow said, and she sounded
very
sincere about that.

Toiyabe Range near Mount Callahan, Central Nevada

That same time

“W
ell, I can't see anything from here,” Leif Delamar said. Leif was a retired mail carrier and avid hunter, and his rugged six-foot-five frame, creased face, and weathered hands were living portraits of his longtime love for the outdoors. He was looking through a pair of binoculars at the base of Judah Andorsen's Freedom-7 mine. He and Michael Fitzgerald were in Leif's Land Rover about a half mile from the mine at a barbed-wire fence that marked the edge of Andorsen's land. He handed the binoculars to Michael. “What do you see, Fid?”

Michael searched for a few minutes, then lowered the binoculars and gave them back. “Nothing. Looks like business as usual.”

Leif studied the printout he made of the computer image, rotating the page so it was oriented the same way they were facing, then started tracing the different roads snaking up and down the face of the open-pit mine. “Okay, I see the two main truck roads going in,” he said, “and the west terraces here.”