A Time for Patriots

don’t think we’ll be flying tonight. What time did you get in last night?”

“Ten-thirty.” Brad swallowed, then said, “I… I got into a little fight last night outside the bowling alley.”

“ What? A fight?”

“No big deal, just an argument over a stupid game,” Brad lied. “The guy claimed he put money in the machine I was playing on, but he didn’t, and I guess him and a friend waited for me outside.”

“Are you okay?”

“Just a few bruises. I’m still going to practice.”

“Did you report it to base security?”

“No. I… I kinda started it.”

“ ‘Started it’?”

“Look, Dad, it was dumb, and I got what I deserved. I’d rather forget about it.”

“Do you know the guys? Were they military?”

“I guess.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes.”

“Was alcohol involved, Brad?”

“No, Dad. I told you, I’m not drinking.”

“Stop by the office when you get done with practice and let me take a look.”

“I’m okay, Dad. I’m going to practice, and then I’m going to work.”

“I’ll come over and give you the Wrangler,” Patrick said. “I’ll take the scooter.”

“I’ll be fine, Dad. If I don’t feel well enough to ride to town, I’ll come over and switch. But I’m gonna be late.”

There was a long pause; then: “All right, I’ll see you tonight. Call if you don’t feel good. Be careful driving.”

“Okay.” Brad hung up, then composed a text message: FLT INSTRUCTING DECARTERET AND SPARA UNTIL DINNER to Chastain’s number. Then he put on a jacket, helmet, gloves, and reflective safety vest, looped his equipment bag over his aching shoulders, painfully got on his Genuine Buddy scooter, and headed off to the senior high school for football workout.

“What the heck happened to you?” Ron Spivey asked when Brad jogged over to the team. Brad’s face was badly bruised, his eyes were swollen, and he could hardly move his arms. “You get into a fight or something?”

“Couple of guys at the bowling alley,” Brad said.

“No shit,” Ron said. “You tell your dad?”

“Yeah.”

“I hope the other guys look worse than you do,” Ron said. “You okay to work out? We were going to do light pads today.”

“Red-shirt me,” Brad said.

Ron threw him a red pinnie from the equipment bag, indicating that none of the other players were allowed to block or tackle him during practice. “First time I’ve ever seen you red-shirted,” he said.

“First time I ever got beat up like that.”

“Do you know who they were?”

“GIs, Marines I think, but I never saw them before.”

“We should get a bunch of the guys and lay in wait for them .”

“Let’s just drop it,” Brad said, and they started their workout. Brad thought the ride over in the scooter was painful, but now he thought his arms were going to fall off as he started running. But soon the double dose of aspirin he took was kicking in, and he forgot about the pain.

It was the most difficult practice Brad ever remembered since he started playing football, but he made it through it. He limped back to the scooter and loaded up. He seriously thought about skipping work, but he needed the money. A couple more aspirins would probably take the edge off enough for him to make it through work. He started up the scooter, readjusted the equipment bag on his shoulder one more time to find a more comfortable position, headed out of the parking spot toward the exit…

… and before he could react, a car screeched backward out of its parking spot and crashed into the front of his scooter, traveling about ten miles an hour. Brad was thrown backward off the scooter from the weight of his equipment bag. The car kept on going, backing right over the scooter.

“Hey, asshole!” Ron Spivey shouted, running up to Brad. The car was about fifteen feet away, revving its engine. He saw two guys in the front seat, both wearing sunglasses, both with baseball caps. The guy in the passenger side was yelling something that Ron couldn’t understand, gesturing with his right hand like a knife blade at the driver as if he was stabbing him. “Someone call the cops!” Ron shouted, and threw his football helmet at the car, cracking the windshield. More players ran toward them, shouting. The car suddenly shifted into gear and roared out of the parking lot. “ Jesus, Brad, are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Brad said, holding his left leg.

“Stay down, Brad,” Ron said. “I’m calling 911.” He pulled out his cell phone. “Man, that guy was haulin’ out of that parking space! What in hell was he doing? And he didn’t have any license plates either!”

Brad felt a creaking and grinding when he tried to move his left leg, and the pain shot through his entire body all the way to the top of his head. “Shit, I hope it’s not broken,” he grunted through clenched teeth.

“It’s just not your day, hombre,” Ron said. “First you get beat up, and then you get run over. What’s next for you, pal?”

Brad didn’t even want to think about that .

Andorsen Memorial Hospital, Battle Mountain, Nevada

A short time later

Timothy Dobson walked into the hospital room, noting that there were no other persons in the room except Patrick and Brad. Patrick was seated on Brad’s bed beside him; Brad had his left leg slightly elevated in a temporary cast, his left arm also in a temporary cast, and his torso wrapped. Patrick saw Dobson enter, and his face immediately filled with concern. “Hello, General,” Dobson said. “Hi, Brad.”

“Tim? What’s going on?”

Dobson turned and locked the door. “How are you, Brad?” he asked.

“Okay.”

“He’s lucky — no broken bones, just sprains, bruises, and scrapes,” Patrick said. “They’re keeping him overnight for observation. We’re waiting for X-rays on internal injuries.” Dobson nodded. “What’s up, Tim? Do you have information on who hit Brad?”

“Not yet,” Dobson said. “We’ve got a good description of the car from witnesses, and we’re checking freeway, intersection, and security cameras. We’ll know something soon.” He looked at Brad. “Any idea who might have done this, Brad? Ever seen the car before?”

“No.”

Dobson nodded, a very somber look on his face. “While you were getting X-rays, Brad, your dad told me about getting beat up at the bowling alley last night.” Brad looked down at his hands. “I asked around, thinking the same guys that ran you over might have beat you up… but no one saw you at the bowling alley last night.”

“Brad?” Patrick asked. “Why the story? Where were you last night?” Brad said nothing. “I said: Where were you?” He was getting angrier by the moment. “Damn it, Brad answer me! What the hell is going on?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why the hell not?” But Brad only kept his eyes averted. Patrick turned to Dobson. “Well?”

“Maybe this is between you two, sir.”

“Where was he, Dobson?”

The agent hesitated for a moment, then said, “We tracked his cell-phone signals from your hangar… to the hangar the FBI is using on the base.”

“What?” Patrick exclaimed. He whirled back to stare in astonishment at his son. “Why in hell would you go there?” Still no answer. “Damn it, Brad, I’d rather hear it from you than from Mr. Dobson, but I am going to hear what happened, one way or another. Were you arrested? What