“No.”
“Did you get to talk with Reverend Paulson? That guy is a real piece of work. He’s definitely crazy enough to have loaded that ambulance up with explosives and killed all those people.”
Patrick dropped into a chair, emotionally drained. “Paulson is dead,” he said.
“Dead?” Fitzgerald immediately looked over at Whack. “Did you kill him?”
“Suicide,” Whack said in a low voice.
“No shit,” Fitzgerald said. “I’ll bet the Knights will be on the warpath tomorrow.”
“They’re coming onto the base,” Patrick said. “The Knights disbanded, and the compound is wide open, not guarded anymore.”
“Wow — the Knights, disbanded,” Fitzgerald breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Now I’ll bet the cops can go in there and search for any more of that radioactive shit they’ve been using against government buildings.”
“We searched,” Patrick said, rubbing his eyes. “We didn’t find anything. No explosives, no radioactive material, no shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles. Just lots of guns and a few old light antitank launchers.”
“No shit,” Fitzgerald said. “So… so what does that mean?”
“It means we keep searching,” Patrick said. “We start all over, first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Well, you may be onto something with the Kellerman place,” Fitzgerald said. “Somebody’s definitely been out there — it looks like some supplies have been brought in, food and water, and the power’s been turned back on. No sign of the place being broken into.”
“Thanks, Fid,” Patrick said. His brain was just too worn out to process this new information. “We’ll meet tomorrow to plan our next moves.”
“See you tomorrow, General.” Fitzgerald took one last look at the Tin Man, the stowed CID, and the broken- up CID as he headed out the door.
“One of your Civil Air Patrol guys?” Whack asked, watching Fitzgerald depart.
“Michael Fitzgerald,” Patrick said. “Lost his job with the Nevada Department of Wildlife just a few months from retirement, probably because of the FBI.”
“He sure doesn’t look ex-military.”
“You don’t need to be ex-military to join the Civil Air Patrol,” Patrick said. “He specializes in cadet ground- strike teams. He’s a good guy.” He got to his feet. “I’m going home, guys. I don’t want to leave Brad alone too long if I can help it. He’s pretty busted up about his friend Ron.”
“Why don’t you just stay home for a couple days with Brad, maybe fly on out to see your mom in Scottsdale?” Charlie Turlock suggested. “General Givens has got the incoming community members taken care of — if we get any more, because of that ambush today — and we’ll keep on helping with surveillance. If anything crops up, we’ll give you a call and we can decide how to handle it.”
Patrick said nothing for several long moments, then nodded. “That sounds really good, Charlie,” he said. “I’d hate to lose a surveillance plane, but the Bonanza should be ready soon, so we’ll be back to two planes. And it’d be good for Brad to see his grandma and aunts. I’ll see how he feels. We can make it his dual cross-country, and if he feels up to it, he can fly his solo cross-countries from Scottsdale. That’s all he needs for his check ride.”
“Then he can take me flying, right?” Charlie asked. “He promised, as soon as he got his private pilot’s license.”
“Sure. He’s a good stick, and the turbine Centurion is a nice ride.”
“Cool. Hey, speaking of piloting — did Jason tell you about Brad piloting the CID?” Charlie asked.
“What?” The weariness in Patrick’s face disappeared in a heartbeat, replaced by surprise and concern. “No! Brad was in the CID? When?”
“The afternoon before we first went to the Knights’ compound.” Charlie could see Patrick’s face turning dark, and she added quickly, “He told me he got permission from you to ask Jason and me to check him out in the CID. You gave him permission, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but… I don’t want him training to pilot the CID anymore.”
“Okay,” Charlie said, a bit of confusion in her face. “But he’s really good in it, a real natural. You should have seen him doing hacky sack with a—”
“No ‘buts,’ Charlie,” Patrick said. “The CID was designed as a one-man killing machine, and the last thing Brad needs to be exposed to now is more killing.” He remembered his close friend Hal Briggs, and how the normally cool, calm, collected Air Force security expert and Army Ranger literally went berserk when he entered combat aboard a Cybernetic Infantry Device — he eventually ran into a massed assault by Iranian Revolutionary Guards and was killed in battle while trying to destroy Iranian nuclear missiles. “No more CID training.”
“Okay, Patrick.”
Patrick spun on a heel without another word and departed.
“He looks totally stressed out,” Charlie said to Whack.
“He’s putting a lot of pressure on himself, and he’s going to burn himself out if he’s not careful,” Whack said. “Good suggestion, Charlie, him getting out of town with his son. I hope he’s smart enough to take it.”
It was an absolutely spectacular flight from Battle Mountain to Sacramento Executive Airport for Patrick, Gia, and Brad. Patrick planned the trip as a dual cross-country lesson: Brad had to make stops at three different airports spaced at least one hundred miles apart, at least one of which had to have a control tower, and he had to draw up a flight plan and annotate a sectional chart with the route of flight, visual checkpoints, and timing points. He also had to file a VFR flight plan, get a complete flight briefing by phone, talk to flight service to open and close his flight plan, and give and receive an in-flight weather observation to Flight Watch. Although Brad knew how to fly on instruments-only and was adept at using the advanced avionics in the P210 turbine Centurion, he had to demonstrate that he could navigate using “dead reckoning”—using time, the compass, and landmarks on the ground to determine where he was.
Patrick’s two sisters, Nancy and Margaret, still lived in Sacramento and still ran the little Irish pub downtown that had been in the McLanahan family for three generations. After Patrick, Gia, and Brad arrived and were settled in, the five made a visit to the historic family memorial complex at the Old City Cemetery, just six blocks south of the state capitol. So many McLanahans had been buried in the cemetery over the past 150 years that many called it the “McLanahan Cemetery.” For the past fifteen years, the cemetery no longer had room for any more burials, so Patrick’s father, a retired veteran city police sergeant with thirty years wearing a badge, was the last of the McLanahans to be interred there — Patrick’s wife Wendy’s and his brother Paul’s inurnment markers were in the historic family columbarium erected at the cemetery, as were vacant niches for the rest of the family.
Patrick and Brad spent a long time touching Wendy’s marker, as did Margaret and Nancy with Paul’s, with Gia respectfully looking on. Finally, Patrick kissed his wife’s and brother’s markers and patted them reassuringly. “I think it’s so sweet that you decided to keep Wendy here, instead of bringing her to Arlington National Cemetery,” Margaret said as they left the cemetery. “What an honor, for you and her to be laid to rest at such a historic place as Arlington, if you chose.”
“It would be,” Patrick said, “but I wouldn’t be buried anywhere else but here, with the rest of the family. And this place is older and just as historic as Arlington.”
The next morning, Patrick loaded Gia, Brad, and his sisters into the P21 °Centurion, and they flew to Deer Valley Airport near Scottsdale, Arizona. Patrick’s mother, Maureen, lived in an assisted-living facility nearby. Patrick’s arrival became a major event, not only for his mother but also for every resident of the facility. They were invited for dinner with the residents, but Patrick hardly had a chance to eat because everyone wanted their picture taken with and an autograph from the famous aviator and general.
Patrick had registered them in the Scottsdale Princess Hotel using his middle name, Shane, instead of Patrick so they were able to enjoy a much greater level of anonymity as they sat out at the pool bar with drinks. Brad had gone upstairs to watch TV and chat with his friends back home, and Gia was on her way to a twelve-step meeting in Scottsdale. “This is very nice.” Patrick sighed as he settled in with his second Balvenie single-malt Scotch. “The air and the temperature are the same, but Battle Mountain doesn’t have anything as grand as this.”
“Why in the world would you leave Las Vegas for someplace like Battle Mountain?” his sister Nancy asked. “I looked it up: it’s a bump in the interstate, and always has been.”
“I’m there not because of what Battle Mountain
