A Time for Patriots

“Ralph’s a natural Civil Air Patrol guy, that’s for sure,” Patrick said. He went over to the boy’s workstation. “Hi, Ralph.” Ralph immediately tried to shoot to his feet, but Patrick held up a hand to stop him. “Carry on, Ralph. This isn’t Civil Air Patrol, just us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are you looking at?”

“Las Vegas grids six and seven, sir,” Ralph replied. “Right on the border between central Lander and Eureka Counties.”

“About as far south as the patrols fly so far,” Patrick observed. “Anything happening?” He looked at Ralph’s screen. “A lot of flashing icons in this area.”

“Those are mines, sir,” Ralph said. “A lot of trucks going in and out.” He hit some function keys and the display changed. “We don’t have a plane in that area right now, so this isn’t real time, but less than an hour old, from your last patrol sortie.” It was a huge terraced strip mine, probably a mile in diameter and hundreds of feet deep.

“That’s one of Judah Andorsen’s mines,” a voice said next to him. It was Michael Fitzgerald, wearing what appeared to be deer-hunting clothing. “That might be Freedom-7. They all look alike to me.” He shook hands with Patrick. “How are you, sir?”

“Very good, Fid. What’s happening?”

“Still looking for work,” Fitzgerald said. “I was hoping there was something here on the base.”

“I heard you got laid off. Sorry. I can check with the base personnel office. I heard they were going to put a bunch of the trailers on foundations to make them more permanent. Sound good?”

“If it pays cash money, Patrick, I’ll pick up the trailers with my bare hands,” Fitzgerald said. “Thank you, General.” He nodded toward the screens. “How’s the surveillance going?”

“Pretty good. Congrats on making that find the other day.”

“The kids made the find — I just walked to where they told me,” Fitzgerald said. “Any more targets you need checked out? Roxanne mentioned the Kellerman ranch. You need that scoped out?”

“If the sheriff won’t send anyone, yes, I might have you go on out there,” Patrick said. “It certainly looks suspicious.” Just then he was alerted to an incoming phone call via his intraocular monitor, and he touched his left ear to answer the call. He spoke just a few words, then logged off. “Ralph’s mom is at the front gate, asking — no, demanding — she be let in. I’m going to escort her in.”

Several minutes later, Ralph’s mom, Amanda, was led into the squadron conference room. She went directly over to Ralph. “Hi, Mom,” Ralph greeted her. “I’m helping with—”

“Helping with what, Ralph?” she demanded. She looked at the images on the laptop, her eyes getting bigger and bigger by the second. “So it’s true — you are spying on people in Lander County?”

“I’m not spying, Mom,” Ralph said. “We’re conducting surveillance of the area around Battle Mountain, looking for—”

“I don’t care what the military propaganda says you’re doing, Ralph — what you are doing is spying on American citizens.” She whirled on Patrick. “I did not sign Ralph up for Civil Air Patrol to spy on fellow American citizens, General McLanahan,” she said angrily. “How can you ask children to do such a thing?”

“Mrs. Markham, first and foremost: this is not a Civil Air Patrol activity,” Patrick said. “We asked the cadets if they wanted to participate, but this is not authorized or sanctioned by the Civil Air Patrol. Secondly: this is not spying on anyone in particular, but performing surveillance over large areas of Lander, Humboldt, Pershing, Eureka, and Elko Counties, looking for evidence of terrorist and extremist activity. All we do is watch and report. Consider it a high-tech neighborhood watch program.”

“With all due respect, General… are you serious ?” Amanda asked. “This sounds like something out of Nazi Germany in the 1930s — asking kids to inform on their Jew neighbors and report them to the Gestapo so they could be rounded up for extermination.”

“Ma’am, it’s nothing like that at all,” Fitzgerald said. “These are private individuals helping their community by staying on watch. You should be thanking them.”

“ Thanking them?” the woman asked incredulously. “This… this is espionage, against fellow Americans! This is an invasion of privacy! My son will have absolutely no part of this! Ralph, we’re leaving .”

“But, Mom, I still have two grids to analyze before—”

“Ralph, we’re leaving, now .” And with that, Amanda Markham towed her son out of the conference room.

Patrick escorted Amanda back to the front gate, then returned to the squadron. “Well, that’s the second parent to pull their kid out just this morning,” he said, “and the tenth since we started. The word’s definitely getting around, and it’s not good. I wonder how these folks are finding out about what we’re doing? We’re certainly not advertising it, especially since we’re using improperly modified airplanes.”

“We’ll do the best we can with what we got, General,” Todd Bishop said. “But Ralph was one of our best. The kid’s got a sixth sense.”

“Some folks just got no clue,” Fitzgerald grumbled. “They expect the government to wet-nurse them, and the citizens should do nothing but roll over and play dead. Well, she’s in for a rude awakening.” He shook hands with Patrick. “Thanks again for checking on jobs for me, General. Much appreciated. Let me know about the Kellerman ranch — I’ve been there many times before.” And he lumbered off.

Patrick thought for a few moments, then returned to Brad’s workstation. “Wow, was Mrs. Markham mad,” Brad said. “I can call Ron and see if he can take over.”

“Okay,” Patrick said. He studied Brad’s monitor. “So do you have the Knights’ defensive positions mapped out?”

“Sure — they’re updated on every flight,” Brad replied. “Couple guys in each nest, four-hour rotating shifts, and they change nests on every shift. We’ve even seen kids man those nests. But the big problem is not the machine-gun nests but those guys on the pickups with the heavier machine guns. They’re mobile, they’re fast, and they do roving patrols that change constantly—”

“And they’re deadly,” Patrick said. He thought for another moment, then spoke into his subcutaneous transceiver: “Whack? Charlie? Patrick here. Got a few minutes?… Yes, over at the squadron, where we set up the surveillance workstations. Thanks, guys.” To Brad, he said, “I’m going to have Mr. Macomber and Miss Turlock look at what you have. Would you mind explaining your observations to them when they get here?”

“Sure, Dad. Why?”

“I think it’s time to have a talk with the Knights of the True Republic,” Patrick said. “The FBI set a confrontational tone with the Knights from day one, and we blindly followed along when we set up our own surveillance. I think it’s time for that to change.”

* * *

A few hours later, Ron Spivey walked into the squadron conference room. Brad was the only one using the laptops. “Hey, bro,” Brad greeted him. “Where have you been? I only see you at practice these days. We could use some help around here.”

“Working,” Ron said wearily. “I gotta leave for the convenience store in Elko in a few minutes. I’m doing a twelve-hour shift there tonight.”

“You sure are busting your hump these days.”

“Yeah. I’m kinda glad they suspended the squadron’s activities — gives me a little time for some rest.” He sat beside Brad, but he didn’t look at the laptop’s screen. After several long moments he said, “Brad?”

“Yeah?”

Ron was silent until Brad looked at him, then said, “Marina’s pregnant.”

“What?”

Ron nodded. “We… actually found out a couple months ago,” he said in a quiet voice, “but I wanted a paternity test done. We just found out today: chances are, it’s mine. They can’t tell you positively, only give you a percentage, but it’s a pretty high percentage.” He sighed, then said, “I guess I knew it was mine all along. Marina’s been faithful. Me, not so much.”

“Is this why you’ve been working your ass off on a dozen different jobs?”