A Time for Patriots

Patrick shrugged. “I guess I feel deep down that I do have a role here,” he said. “Frankly, being retired is the pits. I don’t recommend it. It’s a way I can keep involved with the Air Force and space operations, and at the same time I have time to spend with my son.”

“Like the Civil Air Patrol thing,” Chastain said.

“Exactly,” Patrick said. “I get to fly, contribute my skills, and wear a green bag, just like the old days. I’m with a great bunch of locals and we like to tell stories and teach the cadets about the military and service to the community and the country.” Chastain just nodded — Patrick thought he was just plain uninterested. “Again, I’m sorry about your men.” They shook hands, and Patrick drove off.

Inside the hangar, Chastain found Brady and Renaldo around the Sparrowhawk control table, going over the video they recorded from the reconnaissance flights, along with photos of the compound obtained by agents using telescopic high-resolution digital cameras. “What do you have?” he asked.

“The Knights are really getting cocky, the sons of bitches,” Brady said. “They’re out in the open, still celebrating, still going in front of the media telling the world how evil the FBI and U.S. military are, setting up defenses, and doing target practice with automatic weapons. They must have a shitload of weapons and ammo out there, because dozens of them have been doing target practice for hours, with a whole range of weapons. We’re identifying about a half-dozen new residents an hour.” He looked at Chastain’s distracted expression. “What’s up?”

“I just spoke with McLanahan.”

“You did?” Cassandra Renaldo asked. “You mean he actually talked to you?”

“Condolences for Savoy and Eberle,” Chastain said, “but he was unusually chatty after that. I told him that I checked him out and found out he’s really not the manager of anything around here, and he didn’t seem to care. He seemed to be… feeling pretty relaxed, considering the shit that happened here last night.”

“That’s weird,” Brady said. He nodded toward the images on the laptop screens. “Kinda like these jerk-offs here, celebrating the fact that they killed five fellow Americans, shot down three aircraft, and are flaunting their illegal automatic weapons in front of federal and state authorities.”

Chastain looked at the pictures, and his eyes flared. “Are you putting together files on these people?”

“Of course.”

“How many of them belong to the Civil Air Patrol?” Chastain asked.

“I haven’t drilled down to nonpolitical affiliations yet,” Brady said. “The support staff is doing basic background, aliases, employment, criminal history, and military experience on about a hundred and forty individuals and counting.”

“Start looking into Civil Air Patrol membership,” Chastain said. “I had a bad feeling about McLanahan the moment he refused to talk, but I couldn’t figure out why a guy like him would be involved with domestic terrorists. The Civil Air Patrol could be the common thread. A lot of ex-military, a lot of patriotic wave-the-flag rhetoric, a lot of old guys wearing military-style uniforms…”

“I’m on it,” Brady said excitedly.

“I’m still not so sure,” Renaldo chimed in. “I don’t get that feeling about him. Now, a couple of the guys I’ve interviewed in this CAP unit like Fitzgerald, Slotnick, and de Carteret, yes, they could be extremists; McLanahan, no.”

“I want to keep searching,” Chastain said. “My radar is buzzing, and it’s still aimed right at McLanahan and now this Civil Air Patrol unit. What about the son?”

“He’s ready to pop — literally, if I do say so myself — any day now,” Renaldo said with a smile. Brady gave her a leer and a wink. “He’ll call me soon, don’t worry.”

Seven

The strongest of all warriors are these two

— Time and Patience. Leo Tolstoy

North Peak, West of Battle Mountain

The next morning

“Remember, you’re not looking for anything in particular, Brad,” John de Carteret said. He was in the right front seat of the Civil Air Patrol Cessna 182 as mission observer, with Brad McLanahan in the left rear seat as mission-scanner trainee and his father, Patrick, as mission pilot. “Camps are probably the hardest to find, especially from one thousand feet above ground.”

“It all looks the same,” Brad said. He was using scan techniques, shifting his vision and locking briefly on a spot before shifting and relocking again, and scanning from top to bottom out to the sight line, but it didn’t seem to help. To make matters worse, his stomach wasn’t feeling quite right. “I mean, it’s like I see everything and nothing at the same time.”

“The best thing to look for when looking for camps is how the campers get to the site, not necessarily the site itself,” John said. “Tire tracks, new trails, disturbed ground, open gates, broken fences — those are easier to see from the air.” Brad shifted his attention to those things, but there didn’t seem to be anything like them anywhere.