A Time for Patriots

“First time camping out ever except for Air Force survival school and maybe once or twice in the backyard when I was a kid,” Patrick said. “I’ll just sleep in the truck.”

“Nah, Dad, you gotta sleep out under the stars with us,” Brad said happily. “You’ll love it. You can tell us war stories.”

“Okay, okay,” Patrick said. “But it better not rain on us.”

There were thunderstorms in the area, with tremendous flashes of lightning brightly illuminating the horizon and an occasional rumble of thunder rolling across the desert, but the group had clear skies and unusually gentle breezes that evening. Patrick told stories until almost midnight while the rest of them ate MREs and drank water, with hardly a word uttered by anyone. Even Jeremy, occasionally awakened on the stretcher, listened intently.

Bellville finally called the storytelling to a halt and organized the camp for the night, setting up sleeping areas, a latrine, the camp perimeter, and night watches; all their food and anything that might attract animals was stored inside the truck. The cadets took the first hour-long watches, patrolling the area around the camp with their headlights and flashlights to ward off curious coyotes and warmth-seeking snakes. Everyone else slept outside except Jeremy, who was placed in one of the tents, with Ralph steadfastly refusing to leave his patient’s side.

Bradley had taken the first perimeter patrol. When his shift was done he went over to Ron. “Wake up, Ron,” he whispered.

“I’m not asleep.”

“Then get up, jerk-off. Perimeter patrol. You wake up Mr. de Carteret at zero-two-hundred.”

“I know, I know,” Ron said. He shook off his sleeping bag, found his boots and headlamp, and struggled to his feet.

“Don’t leave your sleeping bag open like that, Ron,” Brad said. “You’ll have half the bugs and lizards in the desert inside by the time you go back in.”

“I know, I know,” Ron repeated irritably. “I was going to zip it up. Just go to sleep, A-hole.” He zipped the sleeping bag closed, turned on his headlamp and flashlight, and took the portable FM radio from Brad.

“Don’t forget check-ins at fifteen and forty-five past…”

“Jeez, McLanahan, I’m not a goober like Marky,” Ron hissed. “Lay off, all right?” and he stomped off.

Brad went back to where his father was sleeping under his unzipped and folded-out sleeping bag. He took off his boots, being careful to stuff spare socks inside to keep bugs and snakes from crawling in, then knelt on the ground. He was surprised to feel his sleeping pad beneath his knees. “You asleep, Dad?” he whispered.

“No,” Patrick whispered back.

Brad lay down, then sat up again. “Why aren’t you sleeping on the pad, Dad?” he asked.

“I saved it for you. It’s too small for both of us.”

Brad chuckled. “But you’re old,” he said, “and the ground is very rocky.”

“I’m not old, you young fart, and the ground is just fine.”

Brad snickered and settled back down under the sleeping bag. After a few minutes, he whispered, “Is this what it felt like after 9/11, Dad? Scared, but you’re not sure why?”

“Yes,” Patrick replied solemnly. “And the American Holocaust. No one knew what was going to happen next, or where or when the next attack would be. The Holocaust was far worse. Everyone slept in basements and air-raid shelters for weeks afterward, even after… after the counterattacks.” He paused, then said, “Lots of sleepless nights.”

Brad didn’t say it aloud, but he thought it: Your counterattacks, the ones you planned and led, Dad. But all he said was, “Good night, Dad.”

“Good night, big guy.”

* * *

Because Patrick was flying the Cessna and was the highest-ranking officer, he was the last to take a patrol shift so he could get the most sleep. David Bellville touched his shoulder. “Time, sir,” he said. “You get any sleep?”

“An hour or so altogether, maybe.”

“That’s an hour or so more than me,” Bellville said. “I have relatives that live near Reno.”

“I know,” Patrick said. “I’m sure Rob is checking. Anything?”

“Poor Jeremy crying in his sleep every now and then, and Fid snoring away like an old hound dog,” Bellville whispered. He handed Patrick the portable FM radio. “Otherwise good. We’ll get everyone up at six.”

“Roger.” Patrick donned his headlamp, used the latrine pit, then started his patrol. He pretended he was flying an expanding-square search: First he started at the center of the camp, checked every cadet, then checked on Ralph and Jeremy — both were thankfully asleep. Then he checked every senior, checked the ration cache in the pickup’s cab with John, then started walking the perimeter, shining a flashlight on every bush, hole, rock, and crevice, trying to scare away any critters.