A Time for Patriots

Patrick pulled out his cellular phone. There was no cellular service out here in this remote area, miles from Battle Mountain. But he did have Internet access, thanks to the Space Defense Force’s network of mobile broadband satellites that provided high-speed Internet access to most of the Northern Hemisphere. “Brad, this is Patrick,” he said after he had connected via Voice-over IP to the Battle Mountain CAP Base.

“Where are you?” Spara replied. “You missed a check-in.”

“We’re with Judah Andorsen,” Patrick explained. “He was flying us back to his ranch in his helicopter after dropping the survivor and Dave off at the hospital in Battle Mountain.”

“He was flying ? The entire national airspace is still shut down except for medical and law enforcement. From whom did he get permission?”

“No one.”

“So you’re at his ranch?”

“Not exactly. We were intercepted by an F-16 and ordered to land at Valmy Airport.”

“There’s an airport at Valmy?”

“Abandoned. We’re okay, but we were told to wait for law enforcement. The F-16 is orbiting overhead to make sure we don’t leave.”

“Great,” Spara said with a sigh. “I’ll report it to the National Operations Center. I’ll ask them to explain to the FBI that Andorsen was helping the Civil Air Patrol, but that might take some time. You might be in the pokey for a while. If they place you under arrest—”

“I know,” Patrick said. “Name, address, and Social Security number only, remain silent about everything else, and call the National Operations Center. Number’s on my ID card.”

“Correct. Remind Leo. Maybe he can pull some strings with the Highway Patrol.”

“I think they will want to cooperate in every way with the FBI,” Patrick guessed. “I’ll try to keep in touch.” He put the phone away. “Did you hear that, Leo? If they put us under arrest, we don’t answer questions unless we have a CAP-appointed lawyer present.”

“They wouldn’t dare, ” Andorsen growled.

“The FBI’s going to be on the warpath, Judah,” Patrick warned. “A suicide terrorist just attacked their offices in Reno with a dirty bomb. I wouldn’t mess with these guys until everybody has had a chance to calm down. Once they figure out we’re not terrorists, everyone will dial down the volume quickly, but at first things might be tense.”

About a half hour later, they saw and then heard a vehicle going Code Three down Interstate 80, and soon it turned off, raced down the frontage road, and headed south to the abandoned airport. It was a Humboldt County sheriff’s cruiser. It stopped about twenty yards from the chopper, and a lone deputy got out. “All three of you,” he shouted, “put your hands in the air and turn around!”

“Now just wait a damned minute, Deputy…!” Andorsen shouted, jabbing a finger at the deputy.

“Do it, now !” the sheriff’s deputy shouted, placing a hand on his sidearm.

Patrick and Leo did as they were ordered. “Do it, Mr. Andorsen,” Leo said. “Don’t argue.”

Andorsen puffed up his chest as if he was going to start shouting again, but he shook his head, raised his hands, and turned. Patrick noticed his arms trembling; Andorsen looked at Patrick and said, “Old shoulder injury from Vietnam.” He raised his voice and said loudly, “I can’t hold my arms up like this long, Deputy.”

The deputy ignored him. “Man closest to the nose of the helicopter, take five steps toward me, backward,” he shouted.

Leo did as he was told, then said, “I’m a Nevada Highway Patrol officer. My ID is in the lower right-leg pocket.”

“Are you armed?”

“I’m flying with the Civil Air Patrol today. CAP is never armed.”

“I said, are you armed?” the deputy repeated.

“No.”

“Hands behind your head, lace your fingers.” Leo complied. “Kneel down, cross your ankles.” Leo complied again, and the deputy put him in a pair of handcuffs, then took him to his patrol car. He did the same to Patrick, putting both men in the backseat.

“If you expect me to kneel down, buddy, you’re loco,” Andorsen said acidly when the deputy approached him. “My knees are so old, they will crack like kindling. And I can’t hold my arms up like this — the pain gets too much.”

“I’ll help you up, sir,” the deputy said. “Hands behind your head, lace your—”

Patrick could easily sense what was going to happen next: Andorsen whirled, his hands knotted into fists, and he hit the deputy on the side of his head. The deputy must have sensed it also, because he almost managed to dodge away from the swing and received a glancing blow only.

“I told you, boy, I can’t hold my arms up like that!” Andorsen shouted.

The deputy’s SIG Sauer P226 semiautomatic sidearm was in his hands in the blink of an eye. “Don’t move!” he shouted, the gun leveled at Andorsen’s chest. “Turn and get down on the ground!”

“I told you, son, I can’t get down like that — it hurts too much,” Andorsen said, holding his hands out in plain sight but not raising them. “My name is Judah Andorsen. Get on your damned radio and tell your boss that—”