A Time for Patriots

shots of this unfolding tragedy.”

The camera panned to the southeast face of the building. Thick smoke and flames were still shooting out of the hole in the building, and the entire structure appeared to be tilting away from the camera. “As you can see, the plane hit almost directly in the center of the ten-story building here on the four-hundred block of South Virginia Street,” the reporter went on. “We do not know who the pilot was, how many passengers he had on board, or what kind of plane hit the building, although some observers say it is a medium-size turboprop used mostly by small companies. We have a call in to air traffic controllers at the Reno-Tahoe International Airport to find out if they were in contact with the pilot and what could have caused this terrible accident.

“We have been told that the fire department has just upped the response to this accident with a fifth alarm. The plane did not appear to crash all the way through the building, but the force of its impact blew out its north and northwest sides, spreading fire and debris onto the Bank of America office complex across Virginia Street, the U.S. Bank office building across Liberty Street, and onto residents and visitors on the streets below. Fortunately, most workers were not in those buildings during the weekend. The police have cordoned off two blocks in all directions, and they ask that you should not try to come downtown for any reason and allow police, firefighters, medical personnel, and investigators to do their jobs.”

The reporter touched her earpiece to listen closer, then said breathlessly, “I have just been given word by my producer, John Ramos, in the truck that, according to a spokesman for the FAA air traffic control facility at the Reno airport, an aircraft called a Beech King Air, which is a medium-size civilian turboprop aircraft, overflew the airport minutes ago at very high speed and very low altitude. We must conclude that it was the same airplane that hit the Thompson Federal Building. There is no speculation from the FAA as to whether the plane was trying to land at the airport and the pilot became disoriented, or if this was a deliberate act. It is simply too early to—”

The reporter stopped and again listened into her earpiece while the camera moved away from her and zoomed in on the shattered building. Off-camera, she said in a whisper, “What do you mean, we’re getting out of here? We’re two blocks away — it’s safe! We’re… John? John?” A moment later, a man wearing headphones ran up to the reporter and pulled her away, briefly crossing in front of the camera. “John, what are you doing ? I’m on the air!”

“I know you are,” the man said. “We’re getting out of here, now ! Jerry, pack it up!”

“I’m not going anywhere!” the reporter whispered angrily. “This is the biggest story of my life! I’m staying with it for as long as—” The producer whispered something in the reporter’s ear as he dragged her toward the crew’s truck. “What? What did you say, John?”

“Radioactivity!” he replied.

“What…!”

The producer grabbed the microphone. “U.S. Secret Service investigators have detected large levels of radioactivity at the crash site,” he said. “The plane that crashed into the Thompson Federal Building was carrying some sort of nuclear device or weapon. The entire downtown district of Reno is being evacuated.”

Two

Youth is wholly experimental.

— Robert Louis Stevenson

Northwest of Battle Mountain, Nevada

That same time

“Holy crap … contact! Contact! Over here!” Brad shouted excitedly.

The boy, huddled in the embankment of the desert wash, made a sound that was a combination of a howl, scream, and moan, and he tried to scamper to his feet. Brad rushed over to him. “Easy, guy, easy,” he said. “I’m with the Civil Air Patrol. We’re here to take you home.”

“No! No! I don’t have a home! I don’t have anyone !” the boy shouted in a hoarse, cracking voice. Brad started brushing ants and beetles off the poor boy’s face and arms as Fitzgerald and Bellville rushed over. His head and face were covered with a combination of mud, sand, and blood, his lips and eyes were swollen and blistered, both feet were bare and badly cut up, and he appeared to have a broken right arm. “You’re here to arrest me! Get away from me!”

“No one’s going to arrest you,” Brad said. He pulled out a bottle of water and started pouring it over the boy’s head, trying to wash the horrific muck from his scratched, sunburned face. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

“Battle Mountain Base and CAP 2722, this is Hasty, we’ve located the third person, and he’s alive, ” Bellville radioed happily. He turned to Markham. “Great job, Ralph.” He pulled out his GPS receiver and started copying their location’s geographic coordinates to relay to responders, then said to the others, “C’mon, guys, you have a victim that needs first aid. Let’s get busy and help him until the medevac helicopter and sheriff arrive.”

“The cadets are doing an outstanding job — I think they can help this survivor just fine,” Fitzgerald said with a rare smile on his face. “Spivey, Markham, get busy and help McLanahan.”

The cadets donned rubber gloves and got out their first-aid kits. “Assessment first, guys,” Brad said. “What do we got?”

“He’s pretty messed up,” Ron said. “Looks like a drowned rat.”

“Real helpful, Ron,” Brad said. “Ralph?”

“Airway is open, he’s breathing, but he’s bleeding from somewhere,” Ralph said, going through the ABCs of first aid — airway, breathing, and circulation. Starting at the top, he examined the boy’s head. “What’s your name?” he asked. The boy didn’t answer, but looked at Ralph with relief. “Can you tell me your name?”

“J-Jeremy,” the boy said finally, allowing himself to trust the younger boy rather than the older ones. “Jeremy Post.”

“Hi, Jeremy. I’m Ralph.” He nodded over his shoulder toward the others as he worked. “That’s Brad, that’s Ron, and the adults are David and Michael. We’re with the Civil Air Patrol from Battle Mountain, and we’re here to help you. I’m going to look at your head. Tell me if it hurts.” Jeremy didn’t say anything, but winced as Ralph pressed. “Possible fractured skull in the forehead area,” he said. He pulled out a flashlight and checked Jeremy’s eyes. “Left pupil is blown and unresponsive. Possible concussion.” He smiled at Jeremy. “You’re hurt, Jeremy, but you must be a pretty tough kid to come all this way without your sneakers. We’re going to get you to a hospital and have the docs take a look at you.”

“I don’t want to go to a hospital.”

“I don’t blame you, Jeremy — I don’t like hospitals either,” Brad said, kneeling beside the boy. “But you’re hurt pretty bad. We’re going to make sure you get fixed up.” Jeremy started to sob. “Don’t worry, Jeremy. You’ll be okay.”

“But my folks… my mom and dad…”

Brad nodded and clasped the boy’s shoulder as Ralph continued his examination, thankful for the distracting conversation. “We’re going to make sure they’re taken good care of, Jeremy,” Brad said.

“They’re dead, aren’t they?” Jeremy whispered.

“Yeah,” Brad said. He remembered what Ralph had said when the search began and added, “But it’s not your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have been talking,” Jeremy said. “I should’ve kept quiet. My dad always told me not to talk at certain times in the flight, and I did, and we crashed. It’s my fault.”

“No, it wasn’t your fault,” Brad said. Ralph was right, Brad realized: Jeremy blamed himself for the crash, and he was so afraid of being punished that he ran off across the desert, hoping never to be found. “The weather was pretty bad in-flight, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”