A Time for Patriots

“Sounds like you might have a case against the Department of Forestry, son,” Andorsen said. He pulled out his wallet and handed Fitzgerald a card. “Call that number. I set up a legal defense fund for Nevada and California ranchers to help them keep their land if they’re getting foreclosed on or if the state or county comes after them for back property taxes. I’m sure they can help you, or if they can’t, at least get you pointed in the right direction.”

“Thank you, sir,” Fitzgerald said, looking at the business card in awe. “I appreciate that very much.”

“It’s my pleasure, son,” Andorsen said. “Us folks gotta stay together in these tough times, especially when the government thinks they can run roughshod over us.”

“Damned right,” Fitzgerald said.

“And if the Department of Forestry doesn’t do right by you,” Andorsen said, “I’ll make sure my people tell me. I might have a position for someone with your skills in my organization.”

“Working for you ?”

“No promises,” Andorsen said, holding up a hand in caution, “but you seem like a squared-away guy that has his priorities straight: tell the government to back off, and get busy taking care of the things that matter. You volunteer your time for the Civil Air Patrol when most guys out of work would either be out breaking into houses, beating their wives, kids, or girlfriends, or drinking themselves into a stupor. I like that attitude, and I try to surround myself with men and women that have that same can-do, will-do attitude.”

“Yes, sir, that’s me,” Fitzgerald said. “Screw the government. Hardworking guys can take care of their families and communities just fine.”

“Amen,” Andorsen said. “Hey, Fitz, I gotta go. Nice to talk to you.” He shook hands with Fitzgerald. “Give my folks a call. They’ll help you out. And thank you for doing this Civil Air Patrol stuff. It’s pretty darned cool.”

Six

In nature there are few sharp lines.

— A. R. Ammons

That same time

As the Sparrowhawk unmanned aircraft turned on course, Chastain pointed to a spot on the left laptop. The screen displayed a sectional chart that showed details of landmarks on the ground — roads, power lines, terrain, and cultural points. “Zoom in on that,” he said. The technician did so, and Chastain pointed to a tiny square at the base of a mountain marked simply ranch . “This is highly classified,” he said. “That’s the ranch I want pictures of.” The technician hit a function key on the center laptop and touched the left screen, and a magenta line indicated that the Sparrowhawk’s course was set. “The Knights have expanded that ranch considerably over the past year and a half. They started out with two families and a half-dozen hands residing there — now it’s sixty families and almost a hundred hands. They add another two or three families almost every week.”

“What do they do there?” Jon asked.

“It’s like a commune: whatever income they have goes to the collective; they contribute skills and manual labor for food and water,” Chastain said. “The ranch hands act as security. Several of the hands are ex-military, and we believe they have the skills to pull off these attacks.”

“Jon, we’re going to have to move the orbit to the northwest or southeast a little to keep the Sparrowhawk off the airway,” the technician named Jeff said. He studied the sectional chart for a moment, then said, “About four miles southeast looks best, with a northeast-southwest orbit.”

Jon nodded. “Go ahead and—”

“Negative, Masters,” Chastain interrupted. “I want an orbit right over the center of the compound.”

“We can’t do that, Agent Chastain,” Jon said, pointing at the sectional chart. “The compound sits almost directly under the center of this Victor airway.”

“What in hell is that?”

“It’s a charted electronic corridor that pilots flying under eighteen thousand feet use,” Jon explained. “It guarantees radio- and navigation-aid reception at or above certain altitudes.”

“So?”

“It’s dangerous for unmanned aircraft that can’t look for other aircraft to fly on an airway,” Jon said. “We just offset ourselves four miles away from the center of the airway, outside the corridor. It’s not a problem — the Sparrowhawk’s sensors can scan the entire compound on one leg easily from that distance. Then we’ll switch sides of the airway and scan it from the other direction so we can—”

“That’s bullshit, Masters,” Chastain snapped. “I want it orbiting right over the compound.”

“That’s not safe.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass, Masters,” Chastain said. “First of all, there’s not supposed to be any other aircraft out there unless they’re on an approved flight plan.”

“That’s not true,” Jon said. “Only aircraft flying in or transiting within fifty miles of Alpha-, Bravo-, or Charlie-controlled airspace have to be on IFR flight plans. If you’re flying under eighteen thousand feet and not flying into or near busy controlled airspace, you can still legally fly anywhere.”