A Time for Patriots

“Hasty, this is CAP 2722,” Patrick radioed. “We’ve just been ordered by the FAA to land immediately!”

“ Land? What for?”

“Guys, you won’t believe this, but they’re clearing out all the airspace over the U.S. — the FAA is ordering all planes to land!” Patrick exclaimed. “Every aircraft has to be on the ground within fifteen minutes or they risk being intercepted!”

“It sounds like freakin’ 9/11 again!” Fitzgerald said. The cadets wore blank expressions on their faces. They were young when the Islamist terror attacks of 9/11 had occurred. Even though they saw videos of the collapsing World Trade Center towers, the hole in the Pentagon, and the crash site of United Airlines Flight 93 in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, they had little appreciation for the true sense of horror that gripped the nation that day and for several months beyond.

“The wing is talking with the FAA and the National Operations Center,” Spara radioed. “They can make an exception for CAP flights and medical emergencies.” But several minutes later, the news was not good: “No exceptions until the airspace is cleared, and then FAA will clear flights only on IFR flight plans,” Spara said. “It’s chaos out there. We’d better do what they say before the fighters start launching. RTB right away, Patrick.”

“To hell with that, sir,” Patrick said. “We’ve got a survivor and a Hasty strike team out in the middle of nowhere, and it’ll be dark in a couple hours.” He thought for a moment; then: “I’ll land at the Andorsens’ dirt strip and get help from them.”

“We tried calling Andorsen to get permission for us to drive onto his property — there was no answer.”

“Then I’ll land, find a vehicle, and do it myself.”

“You can’t do that, Patrick,” Spara said. “The Hasty team will be fine until the sheriff and an ambulance makes it out there. RTB, now .”

“I can go back to the van, cut off the lock on the gate, and drive the van back,” Fitzgerald radioed.

“Everybody, just shut up for a minute,” Spara said. “I’m not going to split up a ground team, especially with a survivor with them. Dave, prepare to keep the survivor comfortable until help arrives. Keep your team together . Patrick, RTB right now .”

“I won’t make it back to Battle Mountain in time to meet the deadline, Rob,” Patrick said. “The closest landing strip is the Andorsen ranch. I’m heading that way now.”

“Negative, McLanahan,” Spara said. “Return to base. We’ll advise ATC of your destination and ETA.”

* * *

Patrick reached up and shut off the FM radio. “Damn FM,” he said on intercom. “It’s so old, it goes out all the time, just when you really need it.” He looked around at John and Leo. “Doesn’t it?”

John looked back at Leo, then turned at Patrick and shrugged. “It seemed to be working fine, and all of a sudden — poof, it went out,” he said.

“And that’s not all,” Leo said. “I distinctly heard that engine running a little rough all of a sudden.”

“I was going to mention that too,” John said with a smile.

“Well then, we’d better get this thing on the ground and check it out,” Patrick said. He looked around outside for his landmarks, then made a turn to the right. “I have the Andorsen ranch strip in sight. I think we should land there immediately. And while we’re waiting for further assistance, we can help the ground team.”

“Sounds like a good plan, sir,” Leo said.

John patted Patrick on the shoulder, smiled, and nodded. “That’s the Patrick S. McLanahan I’ve always heard about,” he said. “Looks like the Mac is back.”

After making a low pass over the strip to check for any hazards — it was by far the nicest dirt strip any of them had ever seen, as clean, flat, and straight as an asphalt runway — Patrick landed the Cessna. Being careful to keep the power up and the control yoke back without braking, all to avoid digging the nose tire into the dirt, he taxied over to the parking area next to two fuel tanks and a storage-and-pump building. Beside the fuel farm was a half-mile-long asphalt road leading to what looked like the main house; on the other side of the asphalt road was an aircraft hangar.

“Nice little airport Andorsen’s got here,” John commented.

“Andorsen owns a large percentage of the land in northern Nevada not owned by the government,” Leo said. “He’s probably got a half dozen of these private airstrips scattered all over the state. They may be dirt, but they’re built to handle a bizjet. Ever meet him? Great guy. Throws parties and fund-raisers for law enforcement all the time.”

After climbing out of the plane, Patrick searched around and found a bicycle propped up next to the pump building. “I’ll be back as quick as I can,” he said, and he pedaled toward the main house.