A Time for Patriots (43 page)

“They're called ‘benches,' ” Michael said.

“Well, aren't we the mining expert today?” Leif quipped. “Anyway, I see the haul roads, and the benches, and . . .” He picked up the binoculars and looked again. “I see a couple tunnels built into the sides of the pit. Do you know what they're for?”

“Usually they're just relief bores to keep water from loosening the rock,” Michael said. “They sometimes reinforce the walls with cables or shotcrete from inside the bores. If this mine ends up becoming a landfill in the future—most of them do—they also have to dig drainage tunnels to keep the pit from becoming a lake.”

“You are just a veritable font of fascinating information this morning, Fid,” Leif said. He focused in on one of the bores indicated as an activity spot on the printout. “Well, those bores look pretty big—almost like tunnels. I do see a lot of water coming out, and . . . hey, I think I see a couple cars lined up near one of those bores.” He looked more carefully. “Why, I think one of those cars is a sheriff's cruiser.”

“What?” Fid took the glasses and looked. “It sure does. What in heck is the sheriff doing down in an open-pit mine?”

“Doing his job, I hope,” Leif said. “That's the first sheriff's car I've seen in days. Very weird.” He took the glasses back. “I don't see anything else all that unusual. Maybe the sheriff is investigating something they found inside the bore, or they're . . .
holy shit
!”

“What?”

“There's a panel truck coming out of that bore!” Leif said. He studied the scene carefully for a few moments, tracking the newcomer, then exclaimed, “It's a blue Air Force maintenance truck!”

“A
what
?” Michael said.

“It's one of those big blue Air Force ‘bread trucks' we see all the time on the flight line,” Leif said. “The ones usually driven by the maintenance supervisor. Now what in heck would . . .  ?” At that moment Leif was interrupted by the sound of a vehicle driving up the dirt road behind them. It was a two-door Jeep Wrangler, with two men aboard.

“Looks like a couple of Andorsen's guys,” Michael said. “No sweat—we're not on Andorsen's property here.”

Leif lowered the binoculars, folded up the image printout, stuffed it in a pocket, and watched the Jeep approach. It roared to a stop a few yards away, and the passenger got out while the driver started talking on the radio. “Hey, guys,” Leif said. “We're just out here checking deer trails. What's going on?”

The passenger walked up to Leif and Michael, pulled a .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol from a hidden holster, and fired two shots.

Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

The next morning

T
he cameras were rolling and the media crews were ready as the C-57 Skytrain II glided in for a landing and taxied over to where the podium was set up outside the Civil Air Patrol hangar. It shut down engines, the landing gear extended to make room underneath the plane to unload cargo, and the cargo-bay doors opened. Meanwhile Jon Masters walked out of the belly hatch and came over to the podium, followed by Wayne Macomber, wearing the Tin Man armor but carrying his helmet in the crook of an arm. Behind them, Jason Richter and Charlie Turlock retrieved the folded Cybernetic Infantry Device and carried it over to the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Dr. Jonathan Masters of Sky Masters, Inc., a major American defense contractor and aerospace engineering firm,” Darrow Horton said into the microphones. Beside her were Patrick and Brad McLanahan, already at the podium. “He is here complying with an order from a federal judge in Reno to surrender this aircraft, various electronic components, computers and storage media, and these two pieces of technology: the Tin Man armor system, being worn by Mr. Wayne Macomber of Sky Masters, Inc., and this: the Cybernetic Infantry Device manned robot, of which I think you're aware after one was attacked by extremists several days ago while on an FBI assignment.”

Darrow nodded to Charlie, who then began to speak: “CID One, deploy.” The large case began to move, and in seconds it had unfolded itself into the crouching robot. The reporters gasped in astonishment as Charlie spoke again: “CID One, pilot up,” and it assumed the boarding position.

“This is Miss Charlie Turlock, an engineer who works at Sky Masters, Inc., who was piloting the robot when it came to General McLanahan's assistance against Agents Chastain, Brady, and Renaldo,” Darrow went on. “They are all here to cooperate with the FBI investigations into the bombing outside this base, as well as the allegations made against General McLanahan that he was conducting illegal spying operations against local citizens, and the even further heinous allegation by former president Gardner that the president of the United States ordered General McLanahan to undertake these flight missions.

“But make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen: we are not here to be bullied into submitting to frivolous and intimidating activities by the FBI or by inflammatory accusations and outright lies by Mr. Gardner,” Darrow went on. “First, we completely reject the idea that Special Agent Chastain return to Battle Mountain to conduct these investigations, in light of what happened here when General McLanahan defended himself and his son, Bradley, against the malicious actions of Agents Chastain, Brady, and Renaldo. He's here because he wants revenge on General McLanahan, and that is unacceptable. We call on the FBI to immediately assign another lead investigator.”

While Darrow spoke, an Avenger security vehicle and a maintenance vehicle had arrived at the C-57, parking near the Skytrain's tail, keeping a distance while the press conference was going on but ready to service the Skytrain if necessary. The arrival of both vehicles got Jon Masters's attention—no one got near his planes unless he knew about it, especially ones with guns and missiles on it.

“Second, it is completely unclear why the FBI has ordered the seizure of Dr. Masters's aircraft and these two defensive systems, the Tin Man and the Cybernetic Infantry Device,” Darrow went on. “They were not involved in either occurrence and are completely outside the purview of this investigation—Dr. Masters merely sold and installed the sensors that General McLanahan and his friends used on their
private
aircraft for
personal
reasons. Again, the FBI is using this opportunity to punish Dr. Masters, Mr. Macomber, and Miss Turlock for their previous actions, and that is completely unacceptable.

“I would like to invite General Patrick McLanahan to make a statement,” Darrow continued. “As you all very well know, Lieutenant-General McLanahan is a retired veteran with twenty years of service in the United States Air Force, rising to the rank of three-star general. He has long proved himself the champion of the American people and of the cause of justice in every corner of the globe. Even when faced with tremendous odds and strong opponents, General McLanahan has consistently and unerringly taken the challenge upon himself, and he has taken the fight to the enemy, protecting our country, our people, and our allies from certain destruction.

“In retirement, General McLanahan's main job is raising his son, Bradley. But he also serves as a volunteer mission pilot for the Civil Air Patrol, the U.S. Air Force auxiliary, as does Bradley, and both were recently credited with a find and a rescue of an airplane crash victim. General McLanahan also performs charity medical flights for Angel Flight West, helping needy medical patients get lifesaving treatment free of charge. His is still serving his country and his community to this day. Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present my client and a genuine American hero, General Patrick McLanahan.”

As Patrick took the dais, the Avenger air-defense vehicle suddenly moved its gun and missile turret from a stowed position to unstowed, and it began to move toward the C-57 Skytrain. Jon Masters turned and walked toward the aircraft.

“Jon, where are you going?” Charlie whispered.

“Why is that thing heading toward my plane?” Jon asked. “Whoever's driving that thing better be careful.”

“It can wait, Jon.”

“He should have a wing walker out there. I'll be right—” Suddenly the Avenger roared off at high speed toward the Skytrain.
“Hey!”
Jon shouted.
“Watch out!”

Patrick turned and saw a blue Air Force maintenance van racing down a taxiway at very high speed, heading right for them! “What the . . . ?” At that instant, the Avenger's twenty-millimeter Gatling gun opened fire on the van. The audience screamed at the impossibly loud
BRRZZZZZZZ!
sound erupting from just a few yards away. Patrick waved at the audience.
“Get back!”
he shouted.
“Back toward the hangar! Run!”

“Jon, get back here!” Charlie shouted, and she dashed off after him. Jon had run all the way to the Skytrain's left wingtip, waving at the Avenger.
“Jon!”

“What's he trying to do—rip my airplane to shreds?” Jon shouted, pointing at the Avenger as heavy-caliber rounds continued to pour from the cannon. That's when he noticed the maintenance van heading toward him, faster and faster. “Hey, what's that van doing? Someone tell that jerk to steer away from—”

The heavy machine-gun rounds ripped into the van. Tires and glass exploded, and something inside the engine compartment detonated, blowing the hood completely off.

“Get down! Everybody get down!”
Patrick shouted, and he grabbed Darrow and Brad and pulled them down to the tarmac . . .

. . . just as the van exploded in a gigantic fireball, less than a hundred yards away.

Base Medical Clinic, Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

Several hours later

D
avid Bellville walked into the waiting room of the small base clinic, dressed in scrubs and removing a surgical mask, cap, and latex gloves. The room was packed with people: some looked seriously hurt, with bandaged faces and limbs, while others had less serious wounds. He came over to where Patrick, Brad, Whack, and Darrow were standing, along with Rob Spara and John de Carteret, who had arrived at the clinic shortly after the blast. Three of them had some cuts and scrapes, and their clothing was burned in places; Whack was still in the Tin Man armor, but had suffered some burns on his face. “Hey, Patrick,” David said.

“What's the latest, David?” Patrick asked.

“Your friend Charlie has some burns and a concussion,” David said. “There were a number of severe burn injuries and injuries from the explosion, but luckily it was far enough away.” He looked directly at Patrick. “There was just one fatality.” Patrick closed his eyes, and he half leaned, half stumbled back against the wall for support. “I'm sorry, Patrick.”

“What?” Brad asked, looking back and forth from Patrick to David in confusion. “Who?”

Patrick reached out and hugged his son tightly. “Your uncle Jon, son.”

“Wha-
what
?” Brad gasped, and he started to sob into his father's shoulder. “Uncle Jon's
dead
?”

“I'm sorry, Brad,” David said. He waited a few moments, then went on: “There's more, Patrick.” He pinned a white plastic tag on their shirts. “They detected traces of radiation at the blast site—another dirty bomb. No lethal levels have been detected yet on the survivors—I think the bomb was so big that it cooked off most of whatever was in the van—but the blast site is pretty contaminated. The base is being evacuated and closed down. We're going to transfer the casualties to Andorsen Memorial any minute now—everyone else will be taken to the high school for more examinations.”

“Jesus . . .” Patrick breathed, then hugged Darrow as well as his son. “I swear to God, I'm going to find these terrorist bastards and make them pay, I
swear
it.”

“Let the authorities handle it, Patrick,” Darrow said. “This . . . this is just too massive, too dangerous. It'll take the Army to stop those terrorists. Your son needs you right now. You've done all you can. Let the authorities take charge.” Patrick could do nothing else but hug his son and Darrow—the energy just seemed to flow from his body like air escaping from a balloon.

“Dad?” Brad asked. “What's going to happen? What do we do?”

“We'll deal with it, son,” Patrick said softly, hugging Brad tightly. “We'll be okay.” He turned and looked toward the entrance to the clinic . . . and saw none other than Judah Andorsen talking with FBI special agent Chastain . . .

. . . and standing beside and behind Andorsen was Michael Fitzgerald! He looked at Patrick with a painful, horrified expression, then averted his eyes.

Andorsen noticed Patrick looking toward him and stepped forward. Fitzgerald did not move, and he kept his eyes averted. “Hello, General,” Andorsen said. Both his voice and demeanor were completely changed—he no longer came across as the “aw, shucks” grandfatherly country rancher. “It's good to see you're okay. What a horrible thing, absolutely horrible. And I just heard they're evacuating and closing the base today. God, what a mess. I'll sure miss all of you, but I think it's the best thing for the community. Obviously the base has been targeted by extremists, and even the Air Force's best security can't seem to keep anyone safe.”

He took a step toward Patrick, and sensing danger, Patrick pulled his son away from him and guided him into Darrow's arms, then took a step toward Andorsen. The rancher got face-to-face with Patrick, then said in a low voice: “As you know, General, I like aircraft, and I like airports. I like
this
airport—nice long runways, lots of hangar space, lots of land, and, of course, the cool underground hangars that my father and grandfather built. I think I'd like to have this airport, and I think the county will sell it to me for next to nothing right after the Air Force gives it to them—after it's been cleaned up and decontaminated, of course.