A Time for Patriots

“They feel it’s too dangerous to come on the base anymore,” Rob said. “The protesters, the shootings — frankly, I can’t argue with them. The planes have already been scheduled to depart: as soon as the 182 is flyable, it’ll go to Winnemucca; the ARCHER is already in Minden; and the 206 will go to Elko. The comm trailer will probably go to Winnemucca too.”

“Well, that blows,” Fitzgerald grumbled. “What about the cadets? Are we just going to shut down emergency services and all the cadet programs just like that ?”

“All emergency services are suspended,” Rob said, “but cadet aerospace, military, and PT programs can continue away from the base, as long as the cadets don’t wear utility or Air Force — style uniforms and aren’t seen doing drill-team or marching exercises outdoors. PT and Class-B clothing are okay.”

“Don’t wear uniforms?”

“National HQ is afraid that extremists that see the cadets in uniform off base will think the military is moving into their communities,” Rob said, “and if any of the extremist violence is directed at CAP, they may try to harm the cadets too. I want you and David to get those organized, maybe at the church or at your place, Fid.”

“Nothing but spineless wussies,” Fitzgerald grumbled again. “You know, this is our town and our base too — it doesn’t belong just to the nut jobs. Why don’t the cops do something to protect us ?”

“When was the last time you saw a sheriff’s deputy on the street, Fid?” David Bellville asked. “It seems they’re all on vacation or something. Ever since Leo was killed, it’s as if all the cops are staying out of sight.”

“Screw ’em anyway,” Fitzgerald said. He patted his right hip. “I’m takin’ care of business myself right here.”

“Not around the cadets you’re not, Fid,” Rob said.

“I won’t — as far as you know,” Fitzgerald said, and it was obvious he wasn’t going to debate the issue. There wasn’t anything else to talk about, so the meeting soon broke up.

As the seniors were departing, Patrick caught up with John de Carteret. “Hey, John,” he said. “Got a few minutes?”

“After that last bit of news we got? Sure, I have lots of time now,” John said. He followed Patrick to his office, where he found Jon Masters and Gia Cazzotto seated at Patrick’s desk in front of two laptop computers.

“John, I don’t believe you know these folks,” Patrick said. “My good friends Gia and Jon. This is my favorite mission observer, John de Carteret.” They shook hands. “I worked with both of them in the Air Force. Gia is a former—”

“I remember you,” John said. “The one prosecuted by President Gardner for war cri—” He stopped when he saw Gia’s shoulders slump and she averted her eyes. “Sorry to upset you, miss. Jon, good to meet you.”

“Take a look at this, John,” Patrick said, motioning to the laptop. John studied the display. It showed an overhead view of the Knights of the True Republic’s compound, with all sorts of symbology inside the compound itself, and a side window with a legend explaining what the symbology stood for. The detail was astounding: it was easy to pick out individuals walking around the compound, and even easy to make out what they were carrying.

“Is that the extremists’ compound — the Knights of the True Republic, or whatever they call themselves?”

“It is.”

“Is it recorded?”

“No, it’s live,” Patrick said.

“Where are you getting this from?”

“This is being downlinked from my Cessna P210,” Patrick said. “Jon and I mounted a pair of sensitive all- weather-imaging infrared and millimeter-wave radar sensors on it, plus the hardware to send the images here. The P210 is orbiting about five miles away from the compound at four thousand feet AGL.”

“Who’s flying the plane?”

“Brad.”

“Brad? Cool. But why is he taking pictures of that compound?”

“Because these are the guys who supposedly organized the protests at the front gate, shot at our plane, and may have killed Leo,” Patrick said, not mentioning the fact that the ones who killed Leo may have been gunning for him . “The FBI is conducting visual surveillance of the compound, but they don’t seem to be getting anywhere.”

“The FBI? How do you know all this?”

“Jon here supplied some of the technology to the FBI to conduct aerial surveillance.”

“You mean, the drones that were shot down? The ones on the news?”

“Yes.”

“So the FBI asked you to put those sensors on your plane and start surveillance on that compound?” John asked.

“Not exactly,” Patrick said. “This is our project. We’re doing our own surveillance.”

“Why are you doing that? Why not let the FBI handle it?”

“Because like Fid said, this is our town and our base,” Patrick said. “We have the technology to do it, so I’m going to do it.”

John smiled. “I said it before, and I’ll say it again: that’s the Patrick S. McLanahan I’ve always heard and read about,” he said, chuckling. His expression turned serious again. “So why are you telling me all this, Patrick?”

“Because out of all the guys in the squadron except for Leo, I know and trust you the most,” Patrick said. “I’m going to start conducting surveillance of the entire area, not just of the Knights’ compound. I’m going to assist law enforcement in protecting our community, and if the cops won’t do it, I’ll organize our community to do it for ourselves.”

“You’re starting to sound like some of those Knights of the True Republic yourself, Patrick,” John said seriously, a look of concern on his face. “You sure that’s the smart thing to do?”

Patrick shook his head. “Honestly: no, I’m not sure,” he said. “It’s probably not legal, and it may not be ethical or my right as a citizen. But something is happening in this community and this entire country, John, and I want to do something about it. I thought the Civil Air Patrol was a good start, but now I don’t even have that. So I’m starting this.”

De Carteret thought for a moment, then nodded. “Sounds good to me, Patrick,” he said. “If you need help, I’m in.”

“Great. Who else do you think would be interested?”

“Well, I’m sure all the ex-military guys in the squadron: Rob; David; my wife, Janet; David Preston; Kevan; Bill and Nancy Barton; Rick; Mark; Debbie for sure,” John said. “Fid… no offense to him, but he’s strung a little too tight for my taste.”

“That’s a pretty good group to start with,” Patrick said. “You still fly your Skyhawk, don’t you?”

“Not so much these days,” he admitted, “but when I get a couple extra bucks saved up, you bet.”

“Feel like flying some of these surveillance missions?”

“In your P210? Sure!”

“The P210… and in your Skyhawk.”

“You mean, put those sensors on my Skyhawk? Are you kidding me?”

“No sweat, John,” Jon Masters said, not looking up from his laptops. “It’ll take me a couple days, plus a couple flight tests.”

“Wow, that would be cool,” John said, sounding more and more like a little kid. “You gonna get field approval from the FAA Flight Standards guys in Elko?”

“This mod… isn’t going in your logbooks, John,” Patrick said. “We’ve got some of the best mechanics and technicians in the country from Jon’s company installing them, and I’ll make sure your plane is put back together properly when we’re done.”

“Hot damn,” John said, sticking out his hand. “Can’t wait to get started.” His eyes were dancing with anticipation. “So tell me, Patrick — is this how it felt when you were getting ready to fly some of your supersecret missions with all the newest high-tech gear? Because I’m telling ya, it’s pretty damned exciting.”

“This is how it felt, John,” Patrick said, taking John’s hand and shaking it enthusiastically. “This is