A Time for Patriots

“I don’t know, but the CAP are not freakin’ trespassers,” Fitzgerald said. “We have standing permission to enter his property. Let’s just cut the lock off and get going.”

“We can’t cut locks, Fid, and you know it,” Bellville said. “But we do have standing permission, so I think we’ll be okay if we climb the gate and go in on foot. Meanwhile we can have Battle Mountain Base call the Andorsens and have one of their hands drive us to the crash site.”

“I’d rather just buy Mr. Andorsen a new padlock,” Fitzgerald grumbled. But he turned to the cadets in the back: “Looks like we’re going in on foot, guys. Let’s hustle.”

* * *

“Shallow up the bank angle a tad, Patrick… good, right there,” John said. He had drawn a circle on the window with a grease pencil and was directing Patrick’s orbit over his sighting so the object he was looking at stayed in the circle. Meanwhile, Leo had a pair of binoculars out and was scanning the area out the right-rear window in short cycles, being careful not to give himself vertigo. “Still can’t make it out, but it’s definitely not natural.”

“I’ll set up an orbit,” Patrick said. “If it’s a good target, your eyes will come back to it in the scan. Pick out details around it in case we have trouble picking it out.”

“Roger.”

“CAP 2722, this is Battle Mountain Hasty, we’re inside the gate and en route to the contact,” Fitzgerald radioed. “We had to go in on foot because the gate was locked, so we’re about thirty minutes out. What do you got?”

“Still trying to make it out, Hasty,” Patrick radioed back.

“Tell Slotnick to stop trying to superanalyze it and just report,” Fitzgerald radioed impatiently. “First impression is always the best. Is it a crash or not?”

“Leo?”

“It looks like an abandoned pickup or some farm equipment, not a plane,” Leo said, lowering the binoculars, clearing his eyes, then focusing again. “It’s too small to be a plane.” But his voice implied he still wasn’t sure. “Can you go lower, Patrick?”

“Sure. I’ll switch to a left orbit. John, eyes off the target, back me up on altitude and airspeed, and you got the radios. Report we’re going to five hundred AGL for a closer look.”

“Roger,” John said. On the repeater, he radioed, “Battle Mountain Base, CAP 2722 leaving one thousand AGL for five hundred for a closer look at a target.”

“Roger, 2722,” Spara radioed back. “Advise when you’re climbing back to patrol altitude.”

“Wilco.”

Patrick started a shallow descent while reversing the direction of orbit. He took a peek at what he was orbiting over every now and then while continuing to monitor his bank angle, altitude, and airspeed. “Still hard to tell,” he said, “but I think you might be right, Leo — I don’t think it’s a plane.”

“I’d expect our objective to not be busted up so bad if the ELT is still working,” Leo said.

“Try not to create any expectations,” Patrick offered. “We’re looking for evidence of a downed plane, not a downed plane. Don’t decide ahead of time what it’s going to look like. Crashed airplanes almost never look like airplanes.”

“Roger.” Leo used his telescopic digital camera to study the scene. “Nah, looks like an old hay baler or something, with pieces of tarps lying around,” he said. “We can go back up to patrol altitude, Patrick.”

“Roger,” Patrick said. “John, report that we’re—”

“Stand by!” Leo suddenly shouted. “I saw a glint of a reflection, like off a windscreen! Possible target contact, eight o’clock!”

“Keep it in sight, Leo,” Patrick said, forcing himself to not get too excited and forget about flying the plane — every mission had dozens of false sightings. “I’ll do a shallow left turn and stay at five hundred.”

Leo was straining to keep the target in sight out of the left-rear window. “It’s about fifty yards south of the hay baler — I fixated on the hay baler and stopped scanning,” he said. “It’s lying on its left side. No wings, but the cockpit and cabin look in pretty good shape. Hot damn, I think we got it!”

“Everybody calm down and relax,” Patrick said. “Let’s stay heads-up and keep on doing our jobs until we set up an orbit around it. John…”

“Got it,” John said. On the repeater, he radioed, “Battle Mountain Base, CAP 2722, maneuvering to investigate a possible target contact, remaining at five hundred AGL.”

“Roger, 2722.”

“Battle Mountain Hasty copies, and we have 2722 in sight on the horizon,” Bellville radioed. “We’re about twenty minutes away.”

A few minutes later, Patrick had set up his orbit around a blue-and-white light aircraft. The belly was badly crumpled, as if it had pancaked in at a high rate of descent; the landing gear and wings were gone, and soon they saw that the engine and propeller were ripped off the fuselage too. “Call it in, John,” Patrick said. “Good job, Leo.”

“With pleasure, sir.” On the repeater, John radioed, “Battle Mountain Base, CAP 2722 has made target contact, fuselage of a white-and-blue light plane, undercarriage, engine, propeller, and wings missing, no evidence of fire, no sign of any persons yet.”