A Time for Patriots

by Dale Brown

  “McLanahan wasn’t flying—Judah Andorsen was,” Renaldo said. “I can’t wait to have a chat with him.”

  “The guy has been talking with investigators since he flew home,” Chastain said. “He’s giving statements to everyone, and so far he checks out. The guy is cooperating, which is more than I can say for McLanahan.”

  “Well, I don’t think McLanahan is going to talk before his lawyer shows up.”

  “We’ve already heard from his damned lawyer,” Chastain said. “I can’t figure out how a D.C. law firm found out we had one of their clients in Nevada, but Washington is already ordering us to charge McLanahan or release him.”

  “I thought I saw McLanahan in a corner working on a laptop with his son, but I checked and he didn’t have one,” Renaldo said. She thought for a moment, then said, “McLanahan’s son.”

  “What about him?”

  When Renaldo didn’t answer right away, the agent named Brady smiled and nodded. “You couldn’t get to the old man . . . so you got to his teenage son?” He chuckled. “That’s the Renaldo I know and love!”

  “I didn’t go after the son—he was after me.”

  “Then he must like older women,” Brady said. Renaldo scratched the tip of her nose with an upraised middle finger. “But the boy wasn’t flying with the father.”

  “If the old man is involved with any extremist groups, the boy may be able to tell us,” Chastain said. “There’s no way McLanahan is going to let you near his son in here, and if we arrest him he’ll tell his son to keep quiet. You’ll have to approach the son some other time.”

  “No problem,” Renaldo said. “In the meantime, I still want a crack at hunky Trooper Slotnick. Give me the letters from his boss and his union, and maybe he’ll talk to me about what McLanahan was doing out there.” Chastain handed her a folder with several faxes from different agencies and courts, ordering all personnel to cooperate with the FBI and Homeland Security. “At least maybe I can chat him up and find out more about him that I can use later.”

  “They don’t call you the ‘Black Widow’ for nothing, Renaldo—you have your way with your victims, then eat them,” Brady said. “It’s fun to watch a person who loves what they do.”

  “The one thing I hate more than smart-ass FBI agents like you, Brady, is extremists and terrorists,” Cassandra Renaldo said. “There are extremists nearby in this stinking-hot desert—I can smell them. Even if it turns out to be a genuine national hero like Patrick McLanahan, I’m going to make it my business to throw his ass into a supermax prison as fast as I possibly can.”

  Thompson Federal Building, Reno, Nevada

  The next day

  Smoke still billowed out of the stricken Thompson Federal Building and in several other nearby buildings as well. Investigators and searchers wearing biohazard suits were still being kept three blocks away from the crash site, and other responders were being kept six blocks away because of lingering radioactivity.

  In the early-morning stillness, a V-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft flew over the crash site in airplane mode, then transitioned to helicopter mode and cruised slower over the area. Minutes later, as it made a third pass over the building at one hundred feet aboveground and thirty knots, the rear cargo ramp opened and two figures dropped out.

  The figures landed upright about a half block from each other in front of the federal building. Each humanoid figure was twelve feet high, medium gray in color. Its trunk and shoulders were large, but its arms and legs were little more than hydraulic pistons, and its head was a dark low-profile dome with sensor arrays behind protective dielectric windows arrayed all around it. They each carried two large bags.

  “CID One, on the ground,” Lieutenant Colonel Jason Richter, piloting the first robot, radioed. The robot, called a CID, or Cybernetic Infantry Device, was a manned robot that used advanced materials and systems to enable its pilot to do functions and tasks equal to a large armored fighting vehicle. “Check.”

  “Two,” Charlie Turlock, piloting the second CID, responded. She looked up at the gaping hole in the building where the King Air had entered. “My God.”

  “Radiation levels are lower than reported,” Richter said. “Our time on station should be about an hour. Let’s go.”

  They approached the rear entrance to the building, and Jason kicked the reinforced door open. The security area was still intact, but he could see that the floors above had collapsed and the hallway beyond security was impassable. “Can’t go this way,” he radioed.

  “From the outside, then?” Turlock suggested.

  “You want to climb the outside just to show off,” Richter said.

  “Damn right,” Turlock said. “Follow me.” On the outside of the building, she examined the best route up to the hole. Looping one pack on her back by its carrying straps, she merely reached up and, floor by floor like a ladder, climbed up the outside of the shattered building, punching her armored hands and feet through cracked walls and windows. On the ninth floor, which was the lower edge of the hole, she smashed through the walls and windows as easily as brushing away cobwebs and climbed inside.

  “Looks like the plane punched almost all the way through the building, then collapsed a bunch of floors down below,” Turlock radioed. “Radiation levels are much higher up here—I might only have another thirty minutes.”

  “Roger, then we can switch.”

  “Roger,” Turlock said. She started scanning the devastation around her. The right wingtip of the King Air had sliced an entire hallway wall open, and at a desk in one of the offices, Turlock found a young woman, half burned, still sitting at a reception desk. “One casualty found. I’ll set up the sling.” She withdrew a large sling, cable, and pulleys from her bag, rigged the pulley up on a support beam, looped the cable through the pulley, recovered the body of the young woman, put her in the sling, and lowered her to Richter on the ground. He carried the body over to the rescuers in hazmat suits outside the cordon while Turlock pulled the sling back up.

  She found no one else as she carefully made her way down the ripped-apart hallway, then down one collapsed floor to where the burned hulk of the King Air rested. “I’m at the plane,” she radioed. “Radiation levels are very high here. I’m going to take a peek inside, and then I’ll probably have to get out.”

  “Roger,” Richter said. He was watching a video feed from Turlock’s CID unit. “Be careful—that floor looks very unstable.”

  “Yes, Dad,” Turlock responded. She was able to climb up the left side of the fuselage. The entry door was partially unhinged, most of the glass throughout the entire plane had shattered, and the cabin of the plane was charred and melted—but, surprisingly, the cockpit appeared to be in better condition. “Hey, we may have lucked out—I think the pilot is still in here, and mostly intact! I might be able to get him out . . . or pieces of him, at least. Stand by—I’m going to open the door.” Turlock grasped the air-stair hatch in her armored hands and pulled. The door broke free . . . and then the entire fuselage rolled left and fell about three feet. Turlock was able to twist away, narrowly missing being trapped between the fuselage and the crushed concrete floor.

  “You okay, Charlie?” Richter asked.

  “Yeah, but the entry door is blocked now,” Turlock replied. She checked forward. “Okay, I’m going to try one more thing, and then I’ll have to get out.” She moved forward and stood over the pilot’s windshield. The remains of the pilot were barely recognizable as human—the body was badly burned and half smashed against the control wheel and instrument panel. “The pilot is one crispy critter, but I think he was wearing a fireproof flight suit, because most of the torso is intact. Let’s see if I can yank him out.” Turlock first used her powerful armored fingers like the Jaws of Life to cut the control wheel free, then reached through the windshield, grasped the pilot’s seat and as much of what was strapped onto it as she could, and pulled . . .

  . . . and as she did, the fuselage and the smashed building roared like an angry li
on and the floors gave way. The plane dropped straight down two floors, then slid forward twenty feet, crashed through the front of the federal building, and fell the remaining six floors to the street.

  “Charlie!” Richter shouted. He used every erg of energy in his CID unit to dash around to the front of the building. The plane was underneath a mass of rubble. Richter began furiously digging through the debris, appearing as if he were wading through waist-deep water, throwing chunks of concrete and steel in every direction until he reached the plane. The fuselage was upside down—he couldn’t see Turlock, and her video feed was dark.

  Like a scrap-cutting machine gone berserk, Richter began plunging his superhydraulic hands and arms through the underside of the nose section of the King Air, ripping pieces of steel and aluminum away in large sheets and chunks. In seconds he had torn through the entire left side of the plane and, like a wrecking crane, ripped away the entire nose section. He finally found Turlock’s CID unit underneath what was left of the cockpit and instrument panel. “Jesus, Charlie, can you hear me? Charlie . . . ?”

  “I’m . . . I’m okay,” Turlock responded several tense moments later. “Wow, what a ride!” She raised herself up to a sitting position and threw the pilot’s seat and pieces of the instrument panel away. Richter pulled more debris from her legs and tried to help her up, but she stopped him. “Wait . . . oh, yuk!”

  “What the hell is it, Charlie?” he asked.

  “It’s the pilot.”

  “The pilot?” Richter looked around. “I don’t see anyone.”

  Turlock motioned to the thick mass of charred debris covering the entire front of her CID unit. “This is the evidence we were looking for,” she said. She pulled a piece of fireproof flight suit off her armored chest. “Looks like they’re going to have to swab me for his DNA.”

  Four

  I don’t think change is stressful. I think failure is stressful.

  —Bob Stearns

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  Later that day

  The president of the United States, Kenneth Phoenix, strode into the press briefing room, followed by the vice president, Ann Page, and the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Justin Fuller. The reporters assembled in the room shot to their feet, wearing surprised expressions—they had not been told that the president himself would be attending the daily press briefing.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” Phoenix began. “Please take your seats.” The president was just forty-nine years old, tall and ruggedly handsome, but the past year had taken a toll on him, and he looked much older. Ken Phoenix’s career—as a former Marine Corps attorney, U.S. attorney general, and vice president of the United States—had, to say the least, been a series of challenges. He was always able to overcome them, but the journey had never been easy for him and his family. His face told everyone that the hard journey was still under way.

  “I know that you had been briefed that Vice President Page and I were at secret undisclosed locations until the full examination of the attack in Reno was concluded,” Phoenix began, “but that was not the case. Our responses had to be immediate, and although we have very good emergency facilities all across the country, Vice President Page and I, who as you know serves as both my chief of staff and my national security adviser and press officer, decided to stay in Washington.

  “Let me give you the latest information that I was just given by FBI director Fuller. Based on his investigations and the fact that there haven’t been any more attacks, the FBI is recommending to the Department of Homeland Security, U.S. Northern Command, which is in charge of the defense of the continental United States, and the North American Aerospace Defense Command, which is in charge of the air defense of the United States and Canada, that the airspace around the United States be reopened, with strict limitations. All aircraft will be required to be on flight plans filed on the ground. Any aircraft not on a flight plan may be attacked by ground or airborne air-defense units without warning. These limitations will be relaxed as the investigations proceed, but I agree with the director that we exercise an abundance of caution.

  “Next: The radioactive material detected at the Reno crash site was iridium-192, used in medical radiography as well as industrial nondestructive testing facilities,” the president went on. “It was not a nuclear bomb . . . I repeat, it was not a nuclear bomb. Iridium-192 is relatively widespread in industry and medicine and has a short half-life, which means its toxicity degrades in a matter of days, and decontamination procedures are common and well known.” He paused for a moment, then said, “The source of the material was positively identified as part of a shipment of radioactive materials stolen from the FBI by suspected domestic terrorists yesterday morning.”

  The room erupted into sheer bedlam, with every reporter leaping to his or her feet trying to ask a question. Phoenix held up his hands and spoke in a soft voice, which forced the reporters to quiet themselves so they could hear the president’s remarks. “It was my decision not to reveal the theft, in order to prevent a panic,” Phoenix went on after the reporters took their seats again. “The materials were stolen in an FBI sting gone bad north of Sacramento, California. Several FBI agents and deputy sheriffs were killed.” A ripple of shock and disbelief swept through the room. “FBI director Fuller briefed me and outlined a plan for an investigation and arrest of known terrorist leaders, and I approved the plan. Unfortunately, no arrests could be made that could have stopped the attack on the federal building in Reno, Nevada.

  “I want to assure the American people that I am in Washington and I’m in constant contact with the FBI and other law enforcement agencies across the country, and we are on the hunt for the terrorists who launched this horrible attack,” Phoenix went on. “I am personally overseeing the government response, and it is my highest priority. We have no way of knowing if there will be more attacks, but since the other stolen materials haven’t been recovered yet, we are operating on the assumption that the terrorists intend to use them. We will do everything in our powers to stop them from doing so.”

  The president paused, then waved a hand as reporters started to raise their hands with questions. “I’m not going to take questions right now. I’m going to say one more thing before I get back to work. At first, I was concerned about creating a panic, so I didn’t want any information released until we were further along in the investigation. I realize now that was a mistake. Instead of worrying about the American people panicking, I should have enlisted your help in tracking down the terrorists.

  “So this is what I’m charging all Americans to do right now and well after the terrorists are captured: be vigilant, be safe, be wary, be suspicious. We possibly could have caught the terrorists if I had released the info on the theft sooner, so don’t make the same mistake I did. Call the police or the FBI if you suspect something—don’t be afraid of bias, discrimination, or paranoia. That’s all for now. Vice President Page and Director Fuller will take a few questions, but I have plenty of work for both of them as well, so it’ll be short. Thank you.” And the president left the dais and headed for the Oval Office.

  Because of all the cutbacks in every level of government following the severe double-dip recession of 2012, the West Wing of the White House was a much quieter place these days than it was during the Martindale and Gardner administrations under which Phoenix previously served: no staffers constantly running in and out of the Oval Office, no ringing telephones, no queue of cabinet officials waiting for yet another meeting. The Oval Office was actually a haven again. Ken Phoenix took off his jacket, hung it up on the stand behind the door to his private study, poured himself a mug of coffee, and turned on the four hidden Oval Office high-def wall monitors—no one around to do all those little things for him anymore.

  One satellite news channel was showing Vice President Page’s and FBI director Fuller’s press briefing—it looked to the president as if Ann was winding it up quickly, as they agreed to do beforehand—but
another monitor was showing more coverage of the search for survivors in the wreckage of the Thompson Federal Building in Reno by the two Cybernetic Infantry Device manned robots. The president winced when he saw the video of the plane crashing to the ground with the one robot clinging to the front of it, and he breathed a sigh of relief—he had seen the replay a half-dozen times now, but he always had the same reaction—when he saw the second robot pull the first out, and they walked away apparently unharmed.

  Minutes later there was a knock on the door to the Oval Office, and a moment after that Ann and Justin walked in. “I know you’d be willing to do a longer press conference, Director,” Ann was saying as they came in, “but believe me, less is more. Save the longer briefings for when you have something good to report.”

  “I agree with her, Justin,” Phoenix said as he watched his monitors.

  “And may I suggest, Mr. President,” Ann said, “that you not be quite so anxious to apologize for any executive decision you make. You made a tactical decision not to release any information about the FBI operation or stolen materials, and you had no way of knowing that the materials stolen would be used so soon after being stolen, or if public observation and reporting, however accurate or timely, could have helped stop the attack. You have nothing to apologize for, and you end up writing your critics’ copy for them.”

  “I believe the American people want honesty and sincerity from their leaders in times like this,” Phoenix said. “My critics don’t seem to have any problem writing copy about me, with or without my help.” Nonetheless, he nodded to Ann that he understood her recommendations, which she silently acknowledged, then motioned to his monitors. “Man, I never get tired of watching that video of those robots in action,” he said. “Wish we could afford an entire brigade full of them.”