A Time for Patriots

“I know I shouldn’t be talkin’ to no federal agents without a lawyer, but what the hell, I don’t have anything to hide, so I just… holy bejeezus, what in hell is that?”

Fitzgerald turned to follow Andorsen’s surprised gaze and saw the Sparrowhawk flying across the airfield. “I don’t know planes myself, sir,” Fitzgerald said, “but if you hang around this place long enough, you’ll see all kinds.”

“It looks like it’s unmanned — I don’t see no cockpit on the thing!”

“It’s probably a surveillance aircraft, like a really big Predator,” Fitzgerald said. “They fly a lot of unmanned planes out of here, although I don’t recall seeing that one before.” He jabbed a finger toward one of the hangars surrounded by a tall barbed-wire fence off in the distance. “Came from one of those hangars over there, in the restricted area, I think.”

“Is that right?” Andorsen watched the Sparrowhawk until it flew out of sight, then shook his head and turned his attention to the trailer. “So, what do you got here?”

“This is our Civil Air Patrol communications trailer,” Fitzgerald said. “It’s a thirty-foot ‘toy hauler’ that we converted into a mobile incident command post.” He stepped inside. “This is a high-frequency radio; those two are tactical VHF base stations; that’s a VHF airband base station; that’s a computer terminal that we can link up with the global satellite Internet network; and we carry several portable radios. The front of the trailer has a galley, latrine, bunks, and a small planning area, big enough for two guys. We have a telescoping thirty-foot antenna mounted on the roof for the radios, and we can pull in satellite broadcasts as well. We have enough fresh water, power generators, propane, supplies, and gray water storage for two men to deploy for as long as a week without any hookups. We can communicate with just about any local, state, or federal agency even with power knocked out.” Fitzgerald tapped a wood-and-brass plaque attached to the bulkhead over the desk. “In fact, sir, we have you to thank for the trailer — you donated it to Civil Air Patrol a couple years ago.”

“You don’t say!” Andorsen exclaimed. “When you get to be my age, you forget a lot of stuff. I’m happy to help out.” He was silent for a few moments, then said, “You spend a lot of time with the Civil Air Patrol, do you?”

“More nowadays,” Fitzgerald said in a low voice. “I got laid off from the Department of Wildlife.”

“Sorry to hear that, son.”

“They said it was ‘budget cutbacks,’ but I’m sure the FBI complained to my boss that I wasn’t answering their questions, and told them to can me,” Fitzgerald said bitterly. “Now that I can’t afford a lawyer, the FBI probably thinks I’ll talk. They can kiss my ass.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. “Fucking feds. They don’t give a shit about personal freedom or individual rights — they just want answers, and they’ll do whatever they feel like, and fuck the Constitution. I was less than a year from retiring from the department. I’m screwed. I got no savings, and now no retirement, thanks to the feds.”

“Sounds like you might have a case against the Department of Forestry, son,” Andorsen said. He pulled out his wallet and handed Fitzgerald a card. “Call that number. I set up a legal defense fund for Nevada and California ranchers to help them keep their land if they’re getting foreclosed on or if the state or county comes after them for back property taxes. I’m sure they can help you, or if they can’t, at least get you pointed in the right direction.”

“Thank you, sir,” Fitzgerald said, looking at the business card in awe. “I appreciate that very much.”

“It’s my pleasure, son,” Andorsen said. “Us folks gotta stay together in these tough times, especially when the government thinks they can run roughshod over us.”

“Damned right,” Fitzgerald said.

“And if the Department of Forestry doesn’t do right by you,” Andorsen said, “I’ll make sure my people tell me. I might have a position for someone with your skills in my organization.”

“Working for you ?”

“No promises,” Andorsen said, holding up a hand in caution, “but you seem like a squared-away guy that has his priorities straight: tell the government to back off, and get busy taking care of the things that matter. You volunteer your time for the Civil Air Patrol when most guys out of work would either be out breaking into houses, beating their wives, kids, or girlfriends, or drinking themselves into a stupor. I like that attitude, and I try to surround myself with men and women that have that same can-do, will-do attitude.”

“Yes, sir, that’s me,” Fitzgerald said. “Screw the government. Hardworking guys can take care of their families and communities just fine.”

“Amen,” Andorsen said. “Hey, Fitz, I gotta go. Nice to talk to you.” He shook hands with Fitzgerald. “Give my folks a call. They’ll help you out. And thank you for doing this Civil Air Patrol stuff. It’s pretty darned cool.”

Six

In nature there are few sharp lines.

— A. R. Ammons

That same time

As the Sparrowhawk unmanned aircraft turned on course, Chastain pointed to a spot on the left laptop. The screen displayed a sectional chart that showed details of landmarks on the ground — roads, power lines, terrain, and cultural points. “Zoom in on that,” he said. The technician did so, and Chastain pointed to a tiny square at the base of a mountain marked simply ranch . “This is highly classified,” he said. “That’s the ranch I want pictures of.” The technician hit a function key on the center laptop and touched the left screen, and a magenta line indicated that the Sparrowhawk’s course was set. “The Knights have expanded that ranch considerably over the past year and a half. They started out with two families and a half-dozen hands residing there — now it’s sixty families and almost a hundred hands. They add another two or three families almost every week.”

“What do they do there?” Jon asked.

“It’s like a commune: whatever income they have goes to the collective; they contribute skills and manual labor for food and water,” Chastain said. “The ranch hands act as security. Several of the hands are ex-military, and we believe they have the skills to pull off these attacks.”

“Jon, we’re going to have to move the orbit to the northwest or southeast a little to keep the Sparrowhawk off the airway,” the technician named Jeff said. He studied the sectional chart for a moment, then said, “About four miles southeast looks best, with a northeast-southwest orbit.”

Jon nodded. “Go ahead and—”

“Negative, Masters,” Chastain interrupted. “I want an orbit right over the center of the compound.”

“We can’t do that, Agent Chastain,” Jon said, pointing at the sectional chart. “The compound sits almost directly under the center of this Victor airway.”

“What in hell is that?”

“It’s a charted electronic corridor that pilots flying under eighteen thousand feet use,” Jon explained. “It guarantees radio- and navigation-aid reception at or above certain altitudes.”

“So?”

“It’s dangerous for unmanned aircraft that can’t look for other aircraft to fly on an airway,” Jon said. “We just offset ourselves four miles away from the center of the airway, outside the corridor. It’s not a problem — the Sparrowhawk’s sensors can scan the entire compound on one leg easily from that distance. Then we’ll switch sides of the airway and scan it from the other direction so we can—”

“That’s bullshit, Masters,” Chastain snapped. “I want it orbiting right over the compound.”

“That’s not safe.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass, Masters,” Chastain said. “First of all, there’s not supposed to be any other aircraft out there unless they’re on an approved flight plan.”

“That’s not true,” Jon said. “Only aircraft flying in or transiting within fifty miles of Alpha-, Bravo-, or Charlie- controlled airspace have to be on IFR flight plans. If you’re flying under eighteen thousand feet and not flying into or near busy controlled airspace, you can still legally fly anywhere.”

Chastain pointed to the right laptop, which was displaying a radar traffic display similar-looking to an air