A Time for Patriots

by Dale Brown

  It was Leo Slotnick’s turn at the front gate. The air was already fairly hot and humid for this time of day, but he still wore his long-sleeved blouse with body armor underneath, and he was already damp with sweat. He had been sure to install a pair of foam earplugs to help preserve his hearing from the noisy crowd with their bullhorns, and he was wearing a pair of black Kevlar knife-proof gloves with steel knuckles. His trainee, Bobby Johnson, was back beside the patrol car, ready to take today’s designated volunteer arrestee into custody.

  When the protesters approached, Leo let them chant and sing for about fifteen minutes—he thought a few of them were actually looking at their watches, wondering why he was taking so long to confront them. At the next pause between songs, he filled his lungs and shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please. I am Sergeant Slotnick of the Nevada Highway Patrol. I am here to inform you that you are illegally blocking a state thoroughfare and interfering with normal traffic, in violation of Nevada Revised Statute four-eighty-four B point nine-twenty dash one. You are hereby ordered to clear the highway and allow traffic to proceed. Failure to obey a traffic officer is also a violation of Nevada Revised Statutes four-eighty-four B point one hundred, and could result in arrest and detainment. Please clear the highway immediately. Thank you.”

  Now it was time for the shouting and demands. Leo folded his hands in front of his body—these folks were mostly harmless, but he still had to be ready to protect himself—and he steeled himself to accept the amplified yelling and screaming that was about to occur. Sure enough, the bozo with the bullhorn began shouting just a couple feet away from his ear, and even with the earplugs firmly installed, the bastard was giving him a splitting . . .

  . . . and then he saw them: the same two tall guys he had seen at the first demonstration, but this time they were right up front, at the head of the crowd.

  He tilted his head so he could talk into his shoulder-mounted microphone: “Bobby, this is Leo. C’mon out here and cover me, will you?”

  “Roger,” came the immediate reply.

  Leo looked directly at the taller of the two men. They returned his gaze, not attempting to retreat or hide at all. Over the blaring bullhorn beside him, he waved two fingers at the man. “You, sir, would you come with me, please?” The man did not move. “I said, you, sir, come with me.” The crowd, sensing something unknown was unfolding, seemed to back away from the direct line between the two men. “Anyone here know this man?” Leo shouted.

  “He has a right to be here!” the guy with the bullhorn shouted. “What’s your beef, man?”

  “I want to talk with you, sir,” Leo said to the stranger. “I want you to come with me.”

  “What the hell’s going on, Leo?” the guy with the bullhorn asked. Leo recognized him as the night-shift clerk at the 7-Eleven in town. “Why are you dissin’ this guy?”

  “Do you know who he is, Tommy?” Leo asked him. “Have you met him before? Is he from around here?”

  The guy with the bullhorn looked at the stranger with a blank expression, but turned to Leo and said, “Hey, Leo, I don’t get it. I don’t know this dude, but he ain’t doin’ nuthin’. We don’t want no trouble, bro. He’s not the one we’re going to get arrested today with you, so don’t—”

  “I want you to come with me, sir, right now,” Leo shouted, and he put a hand on his sidearm . . .

  . . . and no one was exactly sure what happened first after that:

  There was the sound of gunshots, four in rapid succession. Screams, cries of surprise and fear, and an immediate retreat of the dozens of persons crowded around Leo and the stranger at the main gate, as if pushed aside by a mighty gust of wind. Then several loud explosions erupted behind the crowd, followed by an immense billowing mushroom cloud of green skin-burning gas. The crowd of protesters surged forward away from the noxious green chlorine-smelling gas directly at the base’s main gate. Almost the entire crowd of over a hundred protesters rushed onto the base, trampling anyone who was overcome by the gas or not quick enough to surge forward or get out of the way fast enough.

  Northern Nevada Veterans Memorial Cemetery, Fernley, Nevada

  Three days later

  Following the hearse and the limousine carrying the family members of Nevada Highway Patrol sergeant Leo Slotnick were three dark blue armored Suburbans and several other limousines. Behind the limousines was a truly awe-inspiring sight: a long line of police cars from all over the United States, stretching for miles along Interstate 80, with lights flashing, slowly making their way to the cemetery. The police cars were followed by hundreds of other cars, some with Civil Air Patrol flags affixed to their roofs. The Nevada Highway Patrol troopers who were blocking crossroads and directing the impossibly long procession of cars saluted the hearse as it drove past. At Exit 48 on the freeway, the lead group continued on to the Northern Nevada Veterans Memorial Cemetery, while the hundreds of police cruisers and Civil Air Patrol members that were part of the procession lined up and stopped in the number two lane. The passengers got out of the cars, and they held salutes or hands over their hearts until the hearse was out of sight.

  The flag-draped casket was brought to the center of the visitors’ center, escorted by an honor guard composed of Air Force, Highway Patrol, and Civil Air Patrol officers and cadets. Since the facility was so small, only a small fraction of the thousands of attendees could be seated inside, but hundreds of others stood outside to listen to the service on loudspeakers. The family members—Leo’s wife, three young children, his parents, and his wife’s parents—were escorted to their seats, followed by the invited VIP guests: the vice president of the United States, the secretary of the Air Force, the governor of Nevada, the commandant of the Nevada Highway Patrol, and the national commander of the Civil Air Patrol, among many other dignitaries.

  After the service was over, the vice president’s motorcade departed first, heading west on Interstate 80 toward Reno with two armored Suburbans as escorts, where her C-32 transport, a VIP-modified Boeing 757-200, was waiting at Reno-Tahoe International Airport. “Patrick, it’s good to see you again,” Vice President Ann Page said. “You need to come to Washington more often—it seems I only get to see you at funerals.”

  “Thank you, Madam Vice President,” Patrick McLanahan said. “It’s good to see you too.”

  “And I never would have recognized young Bradley here,” the vice president said to Brad, seated beside his father, “although you’re certainly not so young anymore. Congratulations on the Civil Air Patrol save.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You know who Mr. Dobson is, don’t you, Brad?” the vice president asked, motioning to the man seated beside her.

  “I think so,” Brad said, but it was obvious he didn’t remember—and that was the way Patrick had wanted it, at the time, when Dobson delivered the message that Russian hit men had been sent to target his father for assassination in retaliation for the attacks on Russian installations in the Middle East and East Africa. They left Henderson, Nevada, soon after President Kenneth Phoenix’s inauguration, went to Washington to support Gia Cazzotto in her trial and to await Patrick’s trial, then moved to Battle Mountain after Gia’s sentence was commuted and Patrick was pardoned.

  “Mr. Dobson has some information for your father,” Ann said, “but I thought it was okay if you hear it too, because it concerns both of you, and I think you’re old enough to know everything. Tim?”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Timothy Dobson said. Dobson, a fifteen-year veteran of the Central Intelligence Agency, had served with then–vice president Ken Phoenix on a panel to rewrite the national space policy. But when China and Russia began a cooperative plan to attack American space-defense satellites, Phoenix assigned Dobson to work with Patrick on a covert strike plan to destroy the Chinese antisatellite-missile sites and Russian intelligence radar sites that were damaging the American antisatellite-weapon garages. In the aftermath of Patrick’s attacks, Dobson had discovered that Russia was s
ending assassination squads into the United States, targeting Patrick for reprisals.

  “We’ve analyzed photos and videos taken at the demonstrations in front of Battle Mountain air base,” Dobson said, “and my team has identified two and possibly four foreign agents that have been moving closer and closer to the air base at Battle Mountain.”

  “They’re getting bolder by the day,” the vice president said. “They’re moving right to your doorstep. You’re not safe.”

  “We think Sergeant Slotnick detected the agents about two weeks ago at one of the demonstrations,” Dobson went on, “and actually confronted one the day he was killed. Most likely it was one of the agents that killed Slotnick, and the backups in the crowd set off the tear-gas bombs that caused the protesters to panic and rush the base.”

  “The base is still a safe place for you,” the vice president said. “The security there is the best in the nation. But it’s closing soon, and you’ll lose that protection. And I’m concerned about young Brad here. You go to high school off base, and I know you have off-base jobs and activities, and that’s where they could get to you. It won’t be much of a life stuck on the base.” She turned to Patrick. “That’s why I want to suggest you come to Washington, Patrick.”

  “Ma’am . . .”

  Page held up a hand. “I understand all about Colonel Cazzotto, how angry she was at President Phoenix for not pardoning her. But have you seen her lately?”

  “Yes, I have, ma’am,” Patrick said. “In fact, she’s at my trailer right now.”

  Ann turned a horrified expression to Tim, who had a look of concern on his face that made Patrick’s fingertips tingle. “The FBI has had her under observation ever since she started applying for work at defense contractors in Southern California, General,” Dobson said. “With her felony conviction she can’t get a security clearance, and with the bad economy few firms are hiring anyway.”

  “That’s what she told me,” Patrick said.

  “High-profile individual, highly skilled and intelligent, formerly had a top-secret security clearance but out of work with a federal felony conviction, angry at the government, an alcohol problem, possibly emotional problems—the textbook example of a disgruntled worker,” Ann said. “And a woman to boot. A perfect target for recruitment by a foreign or enemy power.”

  “What?” Patrick exclaimed.

  “She met a guy in one of her twelve-step meetings that was helping her out, befriending her, hiring her part-time, maybe . . . maybe something more intimate,” Dobson said hesitantly.

  “She said all that too,” Patrick said perturbedly. Dobson paused. “Spit it out, Tim,” he said.

  “We’re having . . . trouble, difficulties, identifying the guy, sir,” Dobson said uncomfortably. “His neighbors and acquaintances have the same story about him: he’s a building contractor, he’s been in the area for years, he’s dependable, he’s a good guy. His license is real. But when we dig one or two levels lower, we start to lose continuity. His Social Security number and his previous addresses on his contractor’s license application don’t correlate.”

  “So what are you saying, Tim?” Patrick asked.

  “Agent more-than-polite Dobson here is trying to say that your girlfriend’s new boyfriend doesn’t check out, and he thinks he’s a sleeper agent working for the Russian Federal Security Bureau, targeting Cazzotto to get close to you to set you up for a hit,” Vice President Page interjected impatiently. “C’mon, Patrick, wake up and smell the damned coffee. Someone got to your alkie girlfriend for the express purpose of getting close to you. Get with the program, will you? You’re a former Air Force intelligence chief, for Christ’s sake.” She saw Patrick’s eyes flare in indignation, which only egged her on: “Don’t give me that ‘I’m shocked! Shocked!’ expression, McLanahan,” Ann retorted before he could speak. She stuck a finger directly into Patrick’s face. “Don’t try to tell me you didn’t have some suspicions when this woman suddenly turns up on your doorstep after being gone for seven weeks.”

  “I thought she was just returning home,” Patrick said. “This is her home, ever since she left the service . . .”

  “Yeah, right—and you thought she was going to come back to the armpit of the world and sit on the porch of your little double-wide trailer in one-hundred-degree desert heat and wait for you to come back from your heroic Civil Air Patrol and Angel Flight West flying missions and snuggle close to her,” Ann retorted. “Can you possibly be that blind or galactically stupid, Patrick? In her mind, Phoenix screwed her, but saved you. That means you screwed her in her twisted crazy fevered head. With that mind-set, she’ll shack up with anyone who wants to get close to you, for whatever reason imaginable. Wake up, damn it. This is serious. Are you paying attention to me, General?”

  Patrick didn’t answer, which to Vice President Page meant that he was certainly paying attention. “I invited you to ride with me because, in essence, this is a kidnapping—for both of you gentlemen,” she said. “Battle Mountain is getting too dangerous for you and Brad. I think you’ll both be safer in Washington. The entire District of Columbia is all about counterintelligence and counter-counterintelligence. I think you’d be safer there, no matter how many hoods the Russian Federal Security Bureau sends over. Besides, the president wants to start ramping up the Space Defense Force program again, and he wants you to head that program, be the out-front guy, the face of the entire push for military space. You can’t do that from a base that’s going to be a ghost town in a few months.”

  “I don’t like the idea of running from these hit-man goons, Madam Vice President,” Patrick said. He sat back, thought for a few moments, then looked at Brad. “But the most important thing is your safety, son.”

  “But what about my friends, my team, the squadron?” Brad asked. “We can’t just disappear. And if I’d be in danger, wouldn’t all my friends be in danger too?”

  Dobson looked at the vice president. “He’s right, ma’am,” he said. “Any one of Brad’s friends—maybe even their entire families—could be targets.”

  “One problem at a time here, guys,” Ann said irritably. “I don’t mean to scare you, Brad, but it would be an immense blow to the entire nation to lose your father to an assassin’s bullet. I know you’d be missing out on your senior year in high school with your friends, but Mr. Dobson and I feel it would be too dangerous for you to go back. You can enroll in high school in Washington. I know you’re accustomed to military moves, so this shouldn’t be too much of a shock to your system, right?” She didn’t wait for a reply; to Patrick, she said, “In Washington, you’d be working in the White House again as my special adviser for space affairs—unfortunately not a salaried position, but all of your housing would be provided as well as stipends for living expenses.” She looked at him carefully. “I don’t expect you to go back to Battle Mountain, guys. I’ll send some folks to get your things, but you and Brad are coming with me to Washington, today.”

  Patrick thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I appreciate the concern, Madam Vice President,” Patrick said, “but Brad is right: if they couldn’t get to me through Brad, they’d try it with someone else. And if we moved to Washington, they’d just start the whole hunt over again, and the FBI and CIA would have to start looking all over again. The whole reason to send me to Battle Mountain in the first place was not just to hide out, but to draw the assassins in to a place where it would be easier to detect their presence. And with all due respect, ma’am, I’m not running out on my friends to save my own neck—especially Gia. She’s in the greatest danger of all next to Brad, and she’s the most vulnerable.”

  “You’re insane, General,” Ann said. “You actually think you’re safer in Battle Mountain than in Washington?” She shook her head, then looked at him directly. “I could order you to leave, in the interest of national security.”

  “You wouldn’t do that, Ann,” Patrick said. “Besides, you know I’m right.” She didn’t answer him. He smiled at her, which o
nly made her scowl darken. “But I appreciate the try.”

  “You’re wrong—I would do that, Patrick, and you know it,” Ann said. She leaned forward toward him. “Let me ask you a direct question, Patrick: this woman, the one that left you many times, the one who shacked up with some guy, the one who is probably leading another hit squad up here to target you—you still care about her?”

  “I not only care for her, Ann—I love her,” Patrick replied. “When she first told me about the other guy, I was furious. But she still came back to me. I wasn’t sure if she would stay, but I decided that if she left I’d carry on, and maybe she’d be happier. But now that you’ve told me this guy might be a sleeper, I know he doesn’t really care about her. That just makes me want to help her even more. And if she leaves again anyway . . . well, Brad and I will deal with that later.”

  Ann Page nodded. “You’re a good guy, Patrick,” she said. “You are. Sometimes you’re dumber than a bag of doorknobs and sappier than a maple tree in the fall, but you’re a good guy.”

  “Thank you, Madam Vice President.”

  “Bite me, McLanahan,” she said with a faint smile. “And you’re still coming to Washington—the president has already ordered it. You’re working for me, in the White House, to spearhead the charge to get the Space Defense Force fully funded, set up, and running. President Phoenix agreed to wait until next summer, after Brad was on his way to college.”

  “That sounds fine, Madam Vice President,” Patrick said. “I think I’d enjoy working for you.”

  “You’re damned right, you will,” Ann said. “You’re damned right.”

  Eight

  Be good and you will be lonesome.