A Time for Patriots

“Seat belts and shoulder harnesses on all the time,” Patrick said, reciting from memory. “Fire extinguisher is up here between the front seats. Sterile cockpit in the terminal area and in the grid — no unnecessary conversations. Evacuation order will be Leo first out the left side, then John out the right, then myself, and I’ll grab the survival kit after exiting if the plane’s not on fire. Remember you can pop the windshield out as an emergency escape, and the rear baggage door is unlocked so you can climb over the backseat and get out that way if necessary. Questions?” He didn’t wait for a response — he knew his crew was experienced enough that they could give him the briefing. They continued with the checklist, got the plane’s engine started, the radios and navigation systems on, and minutes later they were taxiing for takeoff.

It was a long taxi to the run-up area, a wide portion of the taxiway where small planes could pull out of the way to make room for other planes while the pilot finished his preflight. Patrick ran through the final engine checks and pretakeoff items. He then ran the Cessna’s engine up to takeoff power, leaned the engine until it was just starting to run rough, enriched the mixture until the cylinder-head temperature was 125 degrees cooler, then pulled the power back. Meanwhile, John entered their grid entry coordinates into the plane’s satellite navigation system, which gave Patrick his direction of flight after takeoff.

“Takeoff briefing,” Patrick began. “John, back me up on engine instruments; Leo, watch for traffic. Engine failure during takeoff roll: throttle to idle, max braking as needed, flaps up, secure the engine. Engine failure after takeoff but less than one thousand feet aboveground: trim for seventy-five knots, full flaps, secure the engine, land straight ahead; if above one thousand feet, we’ll attempt a turn back to the runway, but we have lots of better options for an off-airport landing — if the airplane breaks, it belongs to the insurance company, not us. Any questions?” No reply. “Everyone ready?”

“Observer.”

“Scanner.”

“Here we go.” Patrick taxied to the runway hold line, got takeoff clearance from the Battle Mountain control tower — actually a series of cameras and sensors all around the airfield, with controllers indoors watching on monitors — taxied onto the long reinforced concrete runway, and made the takeoff. The runway was so long that he could have made two more takeoffs and landings and still not have been in any danger of running out of concrete.

“CAP 2722, airborne,” John reported on the FM radio.

“Battle Mountain Base, roger,” Spara replied.

A Remote Desert Playa, Central Nevada

A short time later

The landing on the hard alkali desert surface was one of the worst the workers had ever seen, and they were sure they’d see the big twin-engine plane flip upside down or spin out of control across the playa. But the pilot managed to keep it under control, and soon the King Air was taxiing across the three-inch-deep alkali dust toward the drop-off point.

“Thought you’d ground-loop her for sure, Carl,” one of them said after boarding the King Air and making his way to the cockpit. The engines were still running at idle power, and a cloud of white dust swirled inside the plane. “You still got the touch, though. I shoulda warned you that the winds were squirrelly, but I didn’t want to—”

The man stopped, and a chill ran up and down his spine. The pilot named Carl was slumped over the control wheel, still strapped in his seat, which was covered in bloody diarrhea, urine, and vomit. At first he thought Carl was dead… but a few moments later he saw him raise his head and look back. “Carl?” the man asked. “You look like shit, man.”

“Funny,” Carl breathed. He coughed up more bloody substances, smiled, and sat up. “I feel like hell, not shit.”

“You gonna make it, Carl?” the man asked. “The commander said to unload all the casks if you don’t think you’ll make it.”

“I’ll be okay,” Carl breathed. He wiped his mouth, looked at the bloody mess covering his legs, floor, seat, and most of his instrument panel, then shook his head. “Just great. A perfectly good breakfast, wasted.”

“You want me to clean all that up, Carl?”

“Screw it,” Carl said. “Won’t matter anyway.” He seemed to doze off, then reawaken with a start, look around as if regaining his bearings, then turn back toward his comrade. “You got any whiskey, Joe?” he asked.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to fly and drink,” Joe said even as he thought, What a stupid thing to say, quoting FAA regulations at a time like this. But before Carl could repeat his request, he nodded. “You got it, Carl. Sit tight and relax.”