“
“Apparently our friend is a pilot in the Civil Air Patrol out of Battle Mountain, Nevada, and he was involved in a search for a missing plane when the attack in Reno occurred,” Ann explained. “Patrick’s son is also a member, and he was actually part of the ground team that found the missing plane and rescued a passenger. It was all over the national news this morning.”
“Unbelievable! Good for little Bradley — although I’ll bet he’s not so little anymore. But how did Patrick violate the airspace?”
“The owner of the land where the rescue took place flew the survivor to the hospital, and afterward they were cruising around the local area close to the military air base out there.”
“That doesn’t sound like something Patrick would do.”
“It wasn’t. The pilot of the helicopter is a big-time mucky-muck rancher that I guess owns half of Nevada.”
“Doesn’t matter. Homeland Security and maybe even the Justice Department should put the fear of God into that guy.”
“Fuller said they tried, but the rancher has more friends in high places than Billy Graham,” Ann said. “He said even Attorney General Caffery got a call. Fuller said that because they were involved in a Civil Air Patrol rescue, everyone decided to back off, but they’re continuing their investigation deep in the background.”
Phoenix nodded, then shook his head in amusement. “I thought Patrick would just retire and take it easy out there,” he said. “I should have known he’d be doing
“I could sure use him here in Washington, sir,” Ann said. “He’s the only guy still advocating for the Space Defense Force, and there’s that rumor of a bill before Congress to ramp up defense spending again.”
“Do that,” the president said. “If he’s working for living expenses only out in Nevada, I’m sure he’d be willing to do the same in Washington. Besides, Battle Mountain is closing next year, if I’m not mistaken — they’re moving everything to Fallon Naval Air Station.”
“Is that… situation of his still an issue?” Ann asked.
“Unfortunately, yes, and it’ll probably stay like that until President Truznyev of Russia is out of office,” the president said. Patrick McLanahan was the head of a secret nongovernmental military operation that had attacked Russian commando and space operation forces in Africa and the Middle East, and since then the Central Intelligence Agency and Federal Bureau of Investigation counterespionage units had intercepted hit squads, supposedly sent by Truznyev, that were intent on assassinating him. “CIA and FBI still say they can spot a hit squad easier if he’s isolated rather than in Washington.”
“Maybe so, but I’d like him back in Washington,” the president said. “We can protect him. I just wish we could pay him what he’s worth, but there’s just no money in the budget.”
“I’ll find a place for him, sir,” Ann said. “He’ll probably want to stay until Bradley graduates from high school, so next summer.”
“Put him to work in the meantime. I want a ten-year plan for space forces and long-range strike ready by the time this economy turns around, and he’s the guy I want to work on them.”
“Will do.” She looked at the president, studying him carefully, then said, “I admire you for sticking to this severe austerity plan, Mr. President. But to be totally honest with you, sir, it looks like the pressure is grinding on you. Are you sleeping at all?”
“A few hours a night is all I’ve ever needed, ever since my years in the Corps,” Phoenix said.
“Try not to let the pressure get to you, sir,” Ann said. “The programs you put in place
“That’s because the dollar is as low as it’s ever been in history, commodities are dirt cheap, and no one is buying anything from China and Russia as long as they’re continuing their military buildup,” the president said. He waved a hand at his vice president. “I know our plan will work, Ann, and I know the folks expect results unreasonably fast. But I see all the suffering out there, and I think if I just loosen the purse strings a little more, I can alleviate some of it. Reduce the cuts we made in Medicare and Social Security by a few percentage points; raise the income level of Medicaid applicants by a little bit; give the states a few more dollars to hire a few more cops and teachers—”
“And we both know what will happen then, sir: they’ll scream for more, we’ll be forced to borrow and print more money, and the downward spiral will happen all over again,” Ann said. “We’re moving in the right direction, sir. There’s hardship now, but your plans will help everyone in the long run. We need to stay the course.”
“Even if we create more of these Knights of the True Republic extremist groups?”
“I would say that the recession helped to create the conditions for these extremists to grow, yes, sir,” Ann said, “but they already existed and will always exist, whether we’re in prosperity or recession. We need to show the American people that we’re not going to tolerate extremism in any form, for whatever reason. I’ll get busy right now, draft the legislative proposal for the Army, Air Force, and Sky Masters law enforcement assistance package in the next day or two, we’ll go over it, and I’ll take it to the congressional leadership right away. So soon after the attack in Reno, I don’t think we’ll get very much opposition, even from Gardner and his sycophants.”
“Joseph Gardner,” Phoenix said with an exasperated sigh. “Whatever happened to the rule that former presidents aren’t allowed to criticize the current president?”
“That went out with compact discs and free television, Mr. President,” Ann said with a wry smile. She turned serious; the smile disappeared, and she then said, “What we’re going to propose is a major counterterrorist offensive against fellow American citizens, sir. We’re talking about sending American-manned robots and unmanned aircraft against our own.”
“I know that, Ann—”
“I just want to be clear, sir,” Ann Page interjected. “We have to stay tough and united on this. It’s not going to be popular, not in the
“Frankly, Ann,” Phoenix said, after several long moments of thought, “I’m not comfortable with this.”
Ann Page’s shoulders slumped disappointedly, but moments later she straightened them and said, “Fine, sir. So let’s—”
“No, I’m not saying we
“Freeze!” the U.S. Border Patrol agent shouted in Spanish through his van’s public-address loudspeakers. His partner shined a powerful searchlight into the faces of the migrants in front of them, instantly blinding them. “This is the United States Border Patrol. Drop all your belongings and raise your hands!”
The group of about twenty illegal immigrants — they were about eight miles north of the border here in the Yuma Desert, with the closest legal border crossing twenty-five miles away in San Luis — did as they were told slowly and carefully, without a sense of fear or anger. No one panicked or ran — obviously a group experienced in getting caught, the officer thought.
The economy might be in the tank, the U.S. Border Patrol agent thought, and a lot fewer Mexicans were illegally crossing the border because there were no jobs in the United States. But they were still coming, and although the Border Patrol’s budget had been cut and a lot of the technology they relied on was in disrepair or simply not deployed, they were still catching them. The Mexicans were all carrying several one-gallon jugs of water looped around their necks with rope, plus backpacks, trash bags, or whatever else they could find to carry their belongings. They ranged in age from the teens to sixties, both men and women, and most looked in fairly good health, which was necessary when making this dangerous border crossing in such hostile conditions, especially in
