went on. “You can take the CID and leave, and I’ll find a way to get the job done without it. But if it’s here, I’m going to use it, because I
Jason stared back at Patrick, matching his determined glare — but after a few moments, he nodded. “Yes, General, it’s clear.”
“Good. Now, why don’t you meet with us in my office in the morning and suggest ways we can best utilize the CID. If you don’t care to do that, then load up the CID and get the hell out of my face so I can do the job.”
Patrick walked into the Civil Air Patrol squadron conference room after flying another sensor shift around the area. Six cadets were seated at the table, using laptop computers and trackballs, with cans of soda or energy drinks ready at hand. On the whiteboard at the head of the room there were drawings of various things to watch for: tire tracks, disturbed earth, days-old campfires, and patterns of debris or discarded objects.
Brad was also there, in front of his laptop, acting as the second senior required in any cadet formation. “How’s it going, big guy?” Patrick asked his son.
“Great,” Brad said. “I’ve got some interesting observations.”
“How do you feel?” Patrick asked.
“I feel fine — good enough to fly some scans.” The bruises on his face had all but gone away, but Patrick could see him still limping in the house when he thought his father wasn’t watching.
“It’s not my call, Brad — it’s the flight doc’s,” Patrick said. “We’ll get you flying again soonest. Until then, I appreciate you helping out here.”
“Uncle Jon’s sensors and analysis technology stuff is pretty cool,” Brad admitted, “but I want to
“And you will, big guy,” Patrick said, “when the doc says so.” But he was not encouraging a return to flying status one bit, and he’d told the doctor so.
“How was flying?”
“Good,” Patrick said. “We’ve got six pilots trained to fly the P21 °Centurion and C-172 Skyhawk. You’ll be number seven as soon as the flight doc clears you. Bill Barton’s C-182 Skylane is being fitted with Sky Masters, Inc.’s sensors, so we’ll have three planes. Dave Preston is interested in having his G36 Bonanza fitted too.” He motioned to the images on Brad’s laptop. “What are you looking at that’s so interesting?”
“I’ve been assigned to scan the Knights’ compound,” Brad said, “and there seems to be a lot of people congregating in the main compound — a lot more than usual, outside of their prayer sessions and meetings. Also, I think the irrigation system on a couple of their crop circles has gone out. Wonder what’s going on.”
“I don’t know,” Patrick said, “but that doesn’t sound good. Rob Spara and David Bellville have been trying to call the leaders of the group, but there’s been no answer. What are you up to the rest of the day?”
“Since you don’t want me to go to practice or work, and I can’t fly yet, I’m going to stay here if they need me,” Brad said. “Might as well make myself useful.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “Hey, Dad, mind if I ask Colonel Richter and Miss Turlock to check me out in the CID?”
“You want to pilot the robot?” Patrick asked. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Brad admitted. “It’s still here, right?” Patrick nodded. “And nobody’s using it. So I thought I’d give it a try. If I can’t fly the Centurion, I might as well learn how to pilot the robot.”
Patrick hesitated, but only for a moment. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “Sure. I’ll call Colonel Richter and ask him — it’s not my device, but his — and I’ll call Charlie to see if she’d be willing.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Have fun,” Patrick said. “I’m going to fly the Centurion tonight, if the weather holds. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He went over to an older gentleman who was walking around the table, ready to help when needed, and shook hands with him. “How’s it going, Todd?” he asked.
“Slicker’n goose snot, General,” Todd Bishop said happily. Even though he was age eighty-one, Todd was one of the more active seniors in the squadron, serving in the incident command center, the comm trailer, and as a glider-flight instructor and cadet-orientation pilot. “Those sensors are flippin’ amazing. I caught a glimpse of one of the cadets reading a newspaper through someone’s window! I nixed that right away, of course — you know he wasn’t just searchin’ for newspaper headlines — but I’m amazed we can do that.”
Patrick watched one of the fifteen-year-old female cadets named Roxanne study the images taken yesterday. She started with a wide-angle picture of an area about thirty miles southeast of the base, then punched a function key. Immediately there was a series of flashing red icons. She started at the upper-left corner of the screen, rolled the cursor over the icon, and pressed a button. The screen zoomed in to reveal a dirt road stretching from a ranch house westward until it intersected a paved road, which eventually led north to the town of Crescent Valley. “What have you got, Roxanne?” Patrick asked.
“A lot of new activity on this dirt road in the past few days, sir,” she explained, taking a sip of Red Bull. “This is the Kellerman ranch, except Mr. Fitzgerald says it’s been vacant for quite a while. I’ve looked at the house, and it doesn’t seem to be vandalized or anything.”
“Any patterns in the activity?” Patrick asked. “Types of vehicles, or when they come or go?”
“Not really, sir,” Roxanne replied. She hit another function key, and the image changed slightly. “This is real time. Most of the activity happens at night, but it’s everything from motorbikes to ATVs to pickups. No one seems to stay very long. It’s like they’re visiting or going out there to get something, but I don’t see any activity in the house otherwise. The corrals and barns are empty too.”
“So what do you think, Roxanne?” Patrick asked.
She thought for a moment, then replied, “They might be kids just joyriding, or maybe someone looking for the Kellermans — I don’t see any sign of a crime being committed. We should call the sheriff’s office to take a look on the ground. It’d be best if they were there between eleven P. M. and two A. M., but I don’t think the sheriff will put somebody out there for that long, on the off chance of catching someone out there.”
Patrick nodded, impressed with her analysis and recommendation. “I’ll keep on bugging the sheriff’s department,” he said, “but they don’t seem too interested in what we’re seeing.” He nodded at her energy drink. “How long have you been here today, Roxanne?”
“Since eight.”
“Five hours already?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when do you usually quit?”
“I have to be back home by four so I can finish feeding the animals and cleaning out the stables and pens by six,” she said. “Dad always wants dinner right at six.”
“What do your folks say about all this?”
“I don’t think they care much,” Roxanne said. “As long as I do my chores and stay out of trouble, they think it’s okay.”
“What do they think of you analyzing drone imagery?”
“I don’t think they know, or if they do, they don’t care,” she said. “I tell them I’m going to the squadron to work with you, and they just say, ‘Have fun.’ ”
“And how do you like it?”
“I think it’s neat,” Roxanne replied. “Mr. Bishop has made it a sort of contest: whoever turns in the most detailed analyses wins a Baskin-Robbins gift certificate. The boys think they can win just because they play more video games than girls, but their reports are nothing but junk — they’re just trying to turn in the most reports.”
That was interesting, Patrick thought: it wasn’t work, but a game. “Thanks for explaining all this, Roxanne,” he said. “Good work. Carry on.”
“Okay,” Roxanne replied, but she was already twirling the trackball and fixating on the next red blinking icon, ignoring the senior beside her.
He scanned around the room. “Hey, you got Ralph Markham here too?” he remarked to Brad.
“The kid’s a computer freak, Dad,” Brad said. “Uncle Jon hardly had to explain how to work anything — he just sat in front of the computer and started working. He’s been here since seven A. M. He actually found a crash site that hadn’t been found before. Mr. Fitzgerald went out there and found a victim that had been reported missing for
