A Time for Patriots

“Because it’s been programmed for all of the taxiways and…” But he looked at Chastain’s impatient face, then said to his technician, “You have enough taxiway there, Jeff?”

“I think so, Jon.”

Jon checked the engine readouts to make sure the engines were at operating temperature, then said, “Launch it from the taxiway, Jeff, and let’s get this mission under way.” The technician stopped the Sparrowhawk and entered commands into the center laptop’s keyboard. A few moments later they could see the taxiway rushing out of view, and the Sparrowhawk was airborne. It took a bit more taxiway than anticipated — they caught a glimpse of the blue taxiway lights missing the nose gear by just a few feet.

At the Civil Air Patrol Hangar

That same time

Michael Fitzgerald was testing the radios in the rear of the Civil Air Patrol’s communications trailer parked beside the hangar when he heard a booming voice say, “Well, well, look at all this fancy gear.” He turned to find none other than Judah Andorsen, dressed as he was the first time they met — leather flying jacket, work gloves, boots, and cowboy hat.

“Mr. Andorsen,” Fitzgerald said, surprised. He got out of the trailer and they shook hands. “How are you today, sir?”

“I’m doin’ just fine… uh, the name’s Fitzgerald, right?”

“Yes, sir. Michael Fitzgerald. What brings you out here?”

“I just got done with another chat with the Homeland Security folks, including a hot and sassy agent who I’d let frisk me all day long, if you get my meanin’.”

“Cassandra Renaldo. She didn’t give me the time of day.”

“Renaldo. That’s the one.”

“I told her and her FBI pals to kiss my hairy ass until I got a lawyer,” Fitzgerald said.

“I know I shouldn’t be talkin’ to no federal agents without a lawyer, but what the hell, I don’t have anything to hide, so I just… holy bejeezus, what in hell is that?”

Fitzgerald turned to follow Andorsen’s surprised gaze and saw the Sparrowhawk flying across the airfield. “I don’t know planes myself, sir,” Fitzgerald said, “but if you hang around this place long enough, you’ll see all kinds.”

“It looks like it’s unmanned — I don’t see no cockpit on the thing!”

“It’s probably a surveillance aircraft, like a really big Predator,” Fitzgerald said. “They fly a lot of unmanned planes out of here, although I don’t recall seeing that one before.” He jabbed a finger toward one of the hangars surrounded by a tall barbed-wire fence off in the distance. “Came from one of those hangars over there, in the restricted area, I think.”

“Is that right?” Andorsen watched the Sparrowhawk until it flew out of sight, then shook his head and turned his attention to the trailer. “So, what do you got here?”

“This is our Civil Air Patrol communications trailer,” Fitzgerald said. “It’s a thirty-foot ‘toy hauler’ that we converted into a mobile incident command post.” He stepped inside. “This is a high-frequency radio; those two are tactical VHF base stations; that’s a VHF airband base station; that’s a computer terminal that we can link up with the global satellite Internet network; and we carry several portable radios. The front of the trailer has a galley, latrine, bunks, and a small planning area, big enough for two guys. We have a telescoping thirty-foot antenna mounted on the roof for the radios, and we can pull in satellite broadcasts as well. We have enough fresh water, power generators, propane, supplies, and gray water storage for two men to deploy for as long as a week without any hookups. We can communicate with just about any local, state, or federal agency even with power knocked out.” Fitzgerald tapped a wood-and-brass plaque attached to the bulkhead over the desk. “In fact, sir, we have you to thank for the trailer — you donated it to Civil Air Patrol a couple years ago.”

“You don’t say!” Andorsen exclaimed. “When you get to be my age, you forget a lot of stuff. I’m happy to help out.” He was silent for a few moments, then said, “You spend a lot of time with the Civil Air Patrol, do you?”

“More nowadays,” Fitzgerald said in a low voice. “I got laid off from the Department of Wildlife.”

“Sorry to hear that, son.”

“They said it was ‘budget cutbacks,’ but I’m sure the FBI complained to my boss that I wasn’t answering their questions, and told them to can me,” Fitzgerald said bitterly. “Now that I can’t afford a lawyer, the FBI probably thinks I’ll talk. They can kiss my ass.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. “Fucking feds. They don’t give a shit about personal freedom or individual rights — they just want answers, and they’ll do whatever they feel like, and fuck the Constitution. I was less than a year from retiring from the department. I’m screwed. I got no savings, and now no retirement, thanks to the feds.”