A Time for Patriots

“Need to take a break, Brad?” Patrick asked. “I can reverse the turn and contour-search the mountain from the other direction to let John do some scanning.” They had been assigned to search North Peak, west-northwest of Battle Mountain, for signs of a missile launch site — the FBI investigators definitely discovered that the first Sparrowhawk had been hit by a Stinger-like missile. Because this was an Air Force — assigned mission, Brad was getting his first of two required actual missions before being able to move up to mission observer. A ground team, led by Michael Fitzgerald with Ron Spivey as the cadet leader, was in the area below searching as well.

“No, I’m good, Dad,” although his stomach sure wasn’t liking these orbits around the mountain. A contour search started a thousand feet above the highest point of a peak, then two left-turn orbits. Then they would descend five hundred feet and do two more orbits, staying about a half mile away from the mountain’s face. After that, they would descend another five hundred feet and do it again.

Working around mountains and ridges always meant turbulence and squirrelly winds, especially in summer, and each bump didn’t help Brad’s stomach. Now he wished he’d eaten something before this mission, and wished he brought a barf bag — the only container he could see within reach was his brand-new flight-gear bag and the case for the digital camera, and he didn’t want to throw up in either one.

“I’m really glad Colonel Spara let us fly together, Brad,” Patrick said.

“Me too,” Brad said uneasily. He took a sip of water, but it didn’t help his stomach much.

“I think it’s because there’s a whole lot less guys hanging around the squadron these days, after the attack on the FBI guys,” John said. “It’s getting harder every day to put a crew together. Leo is busier than ever with the Highway Patrol. I think there’s just one other pilot I’ve seen around, other than Rob and you.”

Just as they were circling the northeast side of North Peak, Brad saw it — two black circles, one small, like a campfire area, and the other much larger. “Dad, I think I see something, nine o’clock.”

“Pick out things around it that will help steer your eyes back to it,” Patrick said. “What do you see?”

“A couple black spots on the ground, right beside a trail,” Brad said. He had to look farther down and back to keep it in sight, and that was even more disorientating.

Patrick scanned out his window, but he knew he couldn’t get too distracted from flying the plane. “I didn’t see it,” he said. “I don’t have enough room to keep turning left, but I’ll loop around to the right and bring you right back to it on the same heading. Coming right.” He made a right turn away from the mountain, perhaps a bit more sharply than he intended…

… but Brad wasn’t ready for it, and when Patrick turned, Brad couldn’t stop it — he put his head between his legs, pulled the headset microphone away from his lips just in time, and threw up on the floor of the Cessna.

“Brad!” Patrick exclaimed, rolling wings level. “Are you all right?” His question was answered with another heave. “Brad?”

“I’m… I’m okay.” But he followed that announcement with a third heave.

Patrick and John pulled their overhead vents open all the way to let in as much fresh air as they could, but it was no use — the smell wafted up to the cockpit, and now it was everywhere, impossible to ignore. Patrick looked over at John, who was already starting to turn a little pale. “John…?”

“I think I’m done for a while too, Patrick,” he said uneasily.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Brad said. “I should’ve eaten something. It’s all the turning, and looking sideways and downward, and the turbulence…”

“Don’t worry, Brad,” Patrick said. “Either it’s happened to every pilot, or it soon will. We’re heading back to base.” John radioed Rob Spara at the squadron to report that they were exiting the search grid and gave them their ETA back to base.

As they were approaching the traffic pattern, John looked and saw a group of about ten cars on either side of the road to the base. “What’s going on down there?” he asked.

Patrick looked himself. Two lines of individuals carrying signs were walking down the road toward the main entrance to the base. “Why, they look like protesters!” he exclaimed. “Looks like they’re going to demonstrate outside the base!”

“I hope they stay outside,” John said. There was really no outer gate to Joint Air Base Battle Mountain, just a light chain-link fence designed to keep out tumbleweeds, and a cattle guard on the road to keep out stray farm animals on the nearby open ranges. All of the base security was electronic, using laser, infrared, and millimeter-wave sensors for all-weather precision scanning, with responses made by unmanned and then manned vehicles. “I haven’t seen a protest march since the Vietnam years.”