A Time for Patriots

“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 exactly how it felt.”

Later that evening

Brad orbited over the Knights of the True Republic’s compound for an hour more; cruised around the area about fifty miles around the town of Battle Mountain in a parallel tracklike pattern for another hour so they could record sensor scans of activity on the ground; then did three takeoffs and landings back at Battle Mountain to log some of his required night full-stop landings. Four hours of flying, three of it at night, and not one rumble whatsoever in his stomach — what a great day.

After putting the Centurion back in its hangar, he phoned his father. “Plane’s put up, fueled up, windshield’s clean, bugs wiped off,” he said. “How do the pictures look?”

“Excellent,” Patrick said. “Better than we expected. The other scans around the area will be stored by the computer, and we’ll compare them to scans we’ll take later to look for unusual activity.”

“Cool.”

“How’s your stomach feel?”

“Great. Not even a big burp.”

“I was a little concerned with you flying at night — I was afraid the loss of a horizon might bring back the nausea,” Patrick said. “But you seemed to do okay when we did our night landings the other night.”

“I’m fine, Dad.”

“Heading home?”

“I’m going to stop by the bowling alley.”

“Drinking age is—”

“I know, I know, no booze until I’m twenty-one. I don’t like the stuff anyway, and with Gia back, I don’t even want to deal with it. I just want to see if anything’s going on, maybe play some pinball.”

“I can’t believe pinball machines are making a comeback,” Patrick said. “We used to play those things for hours when we sat alert in the B-52s.” He was getting into reminiscing mode again, Brad thought — that was happening more and more the older he got. “Have fun. Be back by midnight.”

“It’ll be before then — I’ve got workouts in the morning, and then I want to fly the P210.”