There were thunderstorms in the area, with tremendous flashes of lightning brightly illuminating the horizon and an occasional rumble of thunder rolling across the desert, but the group had clear skies and unusually gentle breezes that evening. Patrick told stories until almost midnight while the rest of them ate MREs and drank water, with hardly a word uttered by anyone. Even Jeremy, occasionally awakened on the stretcher, listened intently.
Bellville finally called the storytelling to a halt and organized the camp for the night, setting up sleeping areas, a latrine, the camp perimeter, and night watches; all their food and anything that might attract animals was stored inside the truck. The cadets took the first hour-long watches, patrolling the area around the camp with their headlights and flashlights to ward off curious coyotes and warmth-seeking snakes. Everyone else slept outside except Jeremy, who was placed in one of the tents, with Ralph steadfastly refusing to leave his patient’s side.
Bradley had taken the first perimeter patrol. When his shift was done he went over to Ron. “Wake up, Ron,” he whispered.
“I’m not asleep.”
“Then get up, jerk-off. Perimeter patrol. You wake up Mr. de Carteret at zero-two-hundred.”
“I know, I know,” Ron said. He shook off his sleeping bag, found his boots and headlamp, and struggled to his feet.
“Don’t leave your sleeping bag open like that, Ron,” Brad said. “You’ll have half the bugs and lizards in the desert inside by the time you go back in.”
“I know, I know,” Ron repeated irritably. “I was going to zip it up. Just go to sleep, A-hole.” He zipped the sleeping bag closed, turned on his headlamp and flashlight, and took the portable FM radio from Brad.
“Don’t forget check-ins at fifteen and forty-five past…”
“Jeez, McLanahan, I’m not a goober like Marky,” Ron hissed. “Lay off, all right?” and he stomped off.
Brad went back to where his father was sleeping under his unzipped and folded-out sleeping bag. He took off his boots, being careful to stuff spare socks inside to keep bugs and snakes from crawling in, then knelt on the ground. He was surprised to feel his sleeping pad beneath his knees. “You asleep, Dad?” he whispered.
“No,” Patrick whispered back.
Brad lay down, then sat up again. “Why aren’t you sleeping on the pad, Dad?” he asked.
“I saved it for you. It’s too small for both of us.”
Brad chuckled. “But you’re old,” he said, “and the ground is very rocky.”
“I’m not old, you young fart, and the ground is just fine.”
Brad snickered and settled back down under the sleeping bag. After a few minutes, he whispered, “Is this what it felt like after 9/11, Dad? Scared, but you’re not sure why?”
“Yes,” Patrick replied solemnly. “And the American Holocaust. No one knew what was going to happen next, or where or when the next attack would be. The Holocaust was far worse. Everyone slept in basements and air-raid shelters for weeks afterward, even after… after the counterattacks.” He paused, then said, “Lots of sleepless nights.”
Brad didn’t say it aloud, but he thought it:
“Good night, big guy.”
Because Patrick was flying the Cessna and was the highest-ranking officer, he was the last to take a patrol shift so he could get the most sleep. David Bellville touched his shoulder. “Time, sir,” he said. “You get any sleep?”
“An hour or so altogether, maybe.”
“That’s an hour or so more than me,” Bellville said. “I have relatives that live near Reno.”
“I know,” Patrick said. “I’m sure Rob is checking. Anything?”
“Poor Jeremy crying in his sleep every now and then, and Fid snoring away like an old hound dog,” Bellville whispered. He handed Patrick the portable FM radio. “Otherwise good. We’ll get everyone up at six.”
“Roger.” Patrick donned his headlamp, used the latrine pit, then started his patrol. He pretended he was flying an expanding-square search: First he started at the center of the camp, checked every cadet, then checked on Ralph and Jeremy — both were thankfully asleep. Then he checked every senior, checked the ration cache in the pickup’s cab with John, then started walking the perimeter, shining a flashlight on every bush, hole, rock, and crevice, trying to scare away any critters.
The shift went by quickly. The stars were amazing, and Patrick had never seen so many shooting stars before. He checked in ops-normal with Battle Mountain Base at fifteen minutes and forty-five minutes after the hour, just as he did on every mission or exercise. As the end of the shift approached, dawn was quickly approaching, and the eastern sky was ablaze with red and orange. Yes, he was here because of a disaster, but the opportunity to see this incredibly beautiful vista was…
… and as the light on the horizon brightened, he saw it: a Jeep Wrangler, top down and doors off, with two men sitting in the front seat — both armed with what looked like military rifles! It was no more than forty yards to their campsite — how in the world could these guys get so close without being heard by anyone?
Patrick decided to find out, and he walked over to them. The two men never looked over toward him as he approached, but straight ahead, even when Patrick pointed his flashlight in their faces. “Who are you guys?” he asked. No reply. Patrick saw the words ANDORSEN AND SONS painted on the side of the hood. “You work for Andorsen?”
“Mr. Andorsen will be by shortly to speak with you,” the man in the passenger seat said, still not looking at Patrick. Patrick could see several radios in the Jeep, including a police-band scanner and VHF aviation-band radio; he could also see that the scopes on their AR-15 rifles were low-light telescopic sniperscopes, able to intensify starlight enough to see in the dark. “We don’t talk to trespassers and thieves.”
Patrick decided these guys weren’t going to answer any questions, so he walked back to the camp and woke up the adults. “We have visitors,” he told the senior members.
“What?” Fitzgerald thundered. He followed Patrick’s outstretched hand. “Those guys have been watchin’ us, and they got
“Negative, Fid,” Bellville said. “Stay put; get the cadets up and the camp packed up.” Fid turned, glaring at the newcomers.
“They said Andorsen will be out shortly,” Patrick said.
“What else?”
“Nothing. They weren’t very chatty — or friendly.”
“Another Jeep to the south,” Leo said, lowering a pair of binoculars. “A little better hidden than the others.”
“Looks like Judah has had us under surveillance all night,” John said.
“Judah?”
“Judah Andorsen,” John explained. “Fourth-generation rancher out here. Good customer of mine at the store. I’ve known him for years.” He fell silent; then: “I wonder why he didn’t come in.”
“Or why he didn’t report us to the sheriff, and why the sheriff isn’t here,” Patrick said. “You think Andorsen wants to handle this situation by himself?”
“We’ll find out pretty soon,” Bellville said, “because I hear a chopper.” Sure enough, a minute later a Bell JetRanger helicopter approached, flying low. It stirred up a cloud of dust as it settled a few yards away from the Jeep to the east. Through the swirling sand, a tall, broad-shouldered man emerged and strode purposefully toward the camp, flanked by one of the men from the Jeep, carrying the rifle at port arms.
When he was a few paces away from the CAP members, the man shouted over the subsiding roar of the helicopter’s turbine engine, “Who the hell is McLanahan? I want to know which one of you is McLanahan!”
“I’m McLanahan,” Patrick replied.
“So you think you can steal one of my trucks and leave
“Good morning, Judah,” John said with a smile. “You’re in quite a state this morning, aren’t you?”
“You’re with this group of thieves, John? Are you all right? What are you wearing?”
