A Time for Patriots

The main house was a large, attractive, single-story building with a comfortable-looking wraparound porch, surrounded by desert landscaping. A three-car garage was adjacent, and a pickup truck was parked beside it. The place was deserted except for a couple dogs that came up to him, sniffed, decided he was no threat, and went back to search for some shade. Patrick knocked on the door and waited for an answer — nothing. He went over and looked through a window into the garage and saw one Hummer SUV inside, along with a dressed-out Harley-Davidson Road King and Harley Softail Deluxe motorcycle, all in immaculate condition considering they were in the middle of the desert. The garage was locked. Patrick then went to the pickup and found it unlocked and the keys tucked in the driver’s-side sun visor — perfect. He pulled his Form 104 mission briefing card out of a flight-suit pocket, wrote the phone number of the Battle Mountain squadron on it, stuck it in the front door of the house, then started up the pickup and drove back to the airstrip.

“No one home?” Leo asked.

“No,” Patrick said, “but I’ll bet he’s got security cameras all over the place, so I’d expect someone will be along shortly. I left my Form 104 in his door. Grab the survival kit and your flight bags and let’s go.” They pulled the twenty-five-pound orange survival kit and their personal flight bags from the plane, along with all the bottles of water they had in the cockpit. Patrick found tie-downs and secured the plane, and they clambered into the pickup, with Patrick driving. All three crewmembers had small portable GPS receivers in their flight bags, so it was simple for them to punch in the coordinates of the ground team to get a bearing and distance, and they headed off across the desert.

The long, bumpy, dusty drive was less than fifteen miles but lasted almost an hour. It was getting dark and decidedly cooler by the time they reached the ground team. Patrick was surprised when Bradley ran over to the truck and wrapped his arms around his father as soon as he stepped out of the pickup. “Dad!” he exclaimed. “You’re here!”

Patrick hugged him tightly in return — it had been a long, long time since they had embraced like that. “I’m glad you’re okay, Brad,” he said in a low voice. He took a look at his son’s sunburned, dust-streaked face and smiled, remarking to himself how much taller and more mature he looked just since they spoke back at the base a few hours ago. “You’ve had a really big day, haven’t you, big guy? Congratulations on finding the survivor.”

“Colonel Spara is really

pissed at you,” Brad said with a wide grin. “I don’t think he stopped yelling on the radio until a few minutes ago.”

“I wasn’t going to leave my son out here in the desert,” Patrick said in a whisper. “The colonel is wacky if he thought I’d just fly back to base and leave you behind.” They walked back to Bellville and Fitzgerald. The cadets had set up two dome-shaped tents. They had been eating from self-heating bags of military MREs when they arrived, but now they excitedly ran over to the newcomers. The survivor was resting on a stretcher, covered with a silver space blanket, his head and face bandaged. “Is that the survivor, Dave?” Patrick said to David Bellville with surprise after shaking hands. “The sheriff hasn’t shown up yet?”

“No, and we don’t know what the delay is,” Bellville said. “I can’t believe you landed out here, sir.”

“ I

can believe it,” Fitzgerald said, striding up and pumping Patrick’s hand enthusiastically. “Damn commanders always kowtowing to the regs and ignoring the real situation on the ground. But not this guy!” He thumped Patrick on the shoulder hard enough to tilt him onto one foot. “This is Patrick freakin’ McLanahan, the guy who kicked the Russians’ butts after the American Holocaust. He wasn’t about to leave his mates behind. About time someone said to hell with the damn book and looked out for his troops.” He turned to Spivey and Markham and jabbed a thumb toward Patrick. “He’s a real war hero, you guys, and don’t you forget it.”

“Thanks, Fid,” Patrick said. “Dave, how’s the survivor?”

Bellville turned to Markham. “Ralph?”

“His name is Jeremy, sir,” Ralph said. “Same condition as previously reported. We’re letting him sleep but waking him every hour or so as a precaution because of his possible concussion. He’s alert and responsive. He hasn’t eaten but has had a little water.”

Patrick was very impressed, and now he wished he spent more time with the cadets than he normally did: this cadet was extraordinarily bright. “Thank you, Ralph,” he said. “Good report.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ralph said. “I’ll go back and watch over him.” Again, Patrick was impressed.

Bellville held up his portable FM transceiver. “Colonel wants to talk to you, sir.”

Patrick nodded, then walked away from the group before keying the mike: “McLanahan here.”