A Time for Patriots

“I probably could,” Patrick said, “but when I think I know it all, that’ll be the time to quit flying.”

“True enough,” John said. He paused for a moment, then commented, “I… I’m not sure if I’ve said this to you before, Patrick, and if I have, I apologize, but…”

“What?”

“I just can’t believe you are here,” John said, his eyes filled with unabashed wonder — one might even describe it as amazement. “I mean, you are Patrick McLanahan. The Patrick McLanahan. It seems like one day you’re leading a group of bombers against Russia to avenge America for the American Holocaust, then the next you’re on the space station, and then you’re in Iraq stopping a major war from breaking out between Turkey and America. The next day, you’re in little Battle Mountain, Nevada, flying Cessna 182s and 206s for the Civil Air Patrol. With all due respect, sir… what in hell

are you doing here? I mean, here ?”

“I explained this to the squadron when I first joined, John,” Patrick began. “I retired from the Air Force—”

“You mean, you were forced to retire.”

“President Phoenix put his political life on the line during his campaign when he supported me and stood against President Gardner prosecuting me for the Aden and Socotra Island incidents,” Patrick said. “I felt I had no choice but to retire. President Gardner still decided to prosecute the others and myself. I was lucky: the case hadn’t gone to the jury by the time President Phoenix was sworn in, and he pardoned me.”

“The others weren’t so lucky.”

“I know,” Patrick said somberly. “A lot of good people had their lives turned inside out because of the orders I issued, even though no one spent any time in prison.” He straightened his shoulders. “Okay, let’s get our heads back in the game, John.”

“But wait, Patrick,” the retired Coast Guard officer said quietly. He put a hand on Patrick’s arm in earnest. “You still didn’t answer my question: Why here

?”

“I explained that,” Patrick said. “Battle Mountain is still a vital bomber, spaceport, UAV, and joint air facility. It’s been downgraded to part-time status, but there’s no money in anyone’s budget for a large support staff. I’m familiar with Battle Mountain and all the Air Force and Space Defense Force activities here; the high school has a good football program for my son, and he likes being part of the Civil Air Patrol. Probably most important: I can work for a dollar a year and live pretty well off my retirement, government housing, and expense reimbursements. I run a small caretaker staff, keep the networks and communications systems alive, and keep the lights minimally on and support the few missions we fly out of here until the economy recovers, and we can start rebuilding the force. It’s that simple.”

John’s expression was skeptical, almost disbelieving, and he looked as if he was going to continue questioning him, but Patrick’s expression told him to back off. “Well, General,” he said, “I’m proud and pleased that you’re here.” He touched the silver eagle insignia on his left shoulder. “And I’m sorry you have to wear a bird instead of stars. It seems like an insult to me, given your service to our country.”

“They offered an honorary lieutenant-general’s rank and position — I declined,” Patrick said. “I’m a crew dog, John, plain and simple. I wanted to fly, not give speeches and have my picture taken with politicians who say they support our mission and us. I couldn’t fly for CAP wearing three stars. Enough already, Observer. There may be people on the ground who need us. Let’s stop chitchatting.” John gave him a pat on the arm and let him get back to his preflight.

A few minutes later, the crew climbed aboard. Patrick was in first in the left-front pilot’s seat, and then he rolled his seat forward so Leo could get in the left-rear seat. Leo carried a flight bag with charts, his own personal headset, and other gear, and another padded canvas bag with a digital telescopic camera for recording pictures for upload to the Civil Air Patrol National Operations Center after their mission was over. John got in last and strapped in. “Ready, John?” Patrick asked.

“Ready,” John said, retrieving a laminated checklist card from a pocket near his right leg. “Preflight, completed. Crew brief.”