A Time for Patriots

“I’ll be ten times worse than any other check pilot,” Patrick said with a smile, “but I know you can do it. You’ll be a licensed pilot before you know it. Now, you’re in charge of putting the plane away, because I need to run over to the other side of the base and find out why the Midnight is in. Congratulations again, son.” He hated to leave the celebration, but the sudden appearance of the XS-19 was unexpected.

* * *

“Sierra Alpha Seven, Alpha,” he heard on his secure subcutaneous transceiver. The transceiver was a leftover from his days with the top-secret High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center at Elliott Air Force Base; although it was capable of global two-way communications, it was mostly used for regular UHF and VHF radio transmissions these days. “Alpha” was the base commander of Joint Air Base Battle Mountain, Air Force Brigadier-General Kurt “Buzz” Givens, a former bomber navigator and operations officer when Patrick commanded the base.

“Go ahead, Alpha,” Patrick responded.

“I’m going to put ‘it’ in Uniform.” Both men knew exactly where “it” was.

“Roger,” Patrick responded. “I’d like to meet up with it and the crew.”

“Approved.” There were six secure aircraft hangars aboveground, but the Uniform secure area was sixty feet underground. The belowground aircraft storage and servicing area — big enough for several B52 Stratofortress bombers — was a leftover from Battle Mountain’s Cold War days.

Patrick drove over to the secure aircraft parking hangar. The XS-19 Midnight spaceplane had just been directed to park inside a large aircraft shelter, and Patrick followed it in and parked beside it. A few aircraft handlers and maintenance officers were standing ready and waiting to assist the crew, but no one could get near the ship for several more minutes because the skin was still too hot to touch — just minutes earlier it had been reentering Earth’s atmosphere, flying thousands of miles an hour, and even the ultracold upper-air molecules acted like billions of keys being scraped against a sidewalk, turning the carbon-carbon composite skin red-hot.

The floor of the aircraft shelter was actually a giant elevator. As soon as it was safe to do so, the Midnight spaceplane was secured with chains, and the ship, Patrick’s Wrangler, and the handlers were lowered underground. It took twelve minutes to go six stories — part of the security of the underground facility were ultraslow elevators that allowed security forces to get into position to repel attackers — but finally they reached the floor.

“Hey, General!” Patrick heard a voice shout. The entry hatch to the spaceplane’s cockpit had opened, and Hunter “Boomer” Noble, the vice president of engineering for Sky Masters, Inc., appeared in the opening. Not quite thirty years old, roguish good looks, a bit taller than most astronauts, and always with an above-average air of excitement and humor about him, Boomer was one of a generation of young, idealistic, limitless creative dreamers whom Jon Masters liked to surround himself with at Sky Masters. He was wearing one of the newer Electronic Elastomeric Activity Suits, or EEAS, a tight-fitting garment that used electronically controlled filaments to apply pressure on the body instead of a traditional bulky space suit, which used breathing air under pressure. “I heard you were here at BAM again! How are you, sir?”

“Doing okay, Boomer, doing okay,” Patrick replied. They had to talk at a distance because the spaceplane was still too warm to put up a boarding ladder. “How was the flight?”

“Excellent — except for the finish.”

“What happened?”

“You haven’t heard? It just happened about twenty, thirty minutes ago.”

“I was out flying with Bradley. He soloed today.”

“Little Bradley? Congrats to him. But you haven’t heard what happened?”

“No.” Patrick felt a sudden pang of loss — he was getting very, very tired of being out of the loop.

“There was another terrorist attack on a government office in Nevada,” Boomer said. “The Nye County administrative office in Pahrump was attacked with a truck bomb.” Patrick’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Twenty-one people were killed. All flights in and out of Las Vegas, Nellis, Henderson, and as far away as Riverside were diverted. That’s why I’m here.”

Patrick was thunderstruck. “Did they detect radioactive materials?” he asked.

“Yes,” Boomer said. “I don’t know what it was, but it’s apparently a lot nastier than the stuff used in Reno.”

Patrick’s transceiver beeped. “Sierra Alpha Seven,” he responded.

“This is Alpha,” Kurt Givens radioed. “Gizmo and Nutcracker want the airspace cleared and want immediate launch authority.” “Gizmo” was Jon Masters’s call sign, and “Nutcracker” was Special Agent Chastain’s, picked by Patrick himself — both appropriate call signs, if he did say so himself. “Is ‘it’ secure?”

“Affirmative,” Patrick replied.

“Roger. Make sure the Centurion knows his airspace access is terminated. Alpha out.”