by Dale Brown
“Attorney General Horton told you that?”
“Yes, sir.”
The president leaned forward and looked directly into the camera on his desktop computer. “Listen to me carefully, General,” he said. “You will rescind this . . . this death threat immediately, and you will guarantee to me that those agents have nothing to fear from you, the CID, the Tin Man, or any technology or weapons you control.”
“As long as I’m still free to protect my family, my community, and myself . . .”
The president held up a finger. “No conditions, Patrick. None. Agree to this, or I’ll send the Marines to come get you, the CID, and the Tin Man. I’m not going to have anyone threaten a federal agent, even you.” Patrick still hesitated. “I’m serious about this, my friend. If you have evidence that these agents did something illegal, turn it over to me, and I’ll have the Justice Department’s internal affairs look into it. But you will not go around threatening federal agents as long as I’m president.” He paused, the anger level in his face slowly rising. “Well?”
“I guarantee no federal agents will be harmed, sir,” Patrick said finally.
The president sat back in his chair. “That’s better,” he said after a few moments. “Just wait until Gardner gets hold of this. It’ll be front-page news all around the world in no time. The only reason I don’t bust you now, Patrick, is because I believe you will send me clear and convincing evidence of what those agents did to Bradley, and that it was outside their legal authority. I was the attorney general, Patrick, remember? I believe the FBI is the finest law enforcement and investigative agency in the world. I’m not going to let anyone threaten an FBI agent, even you.”
“I’ll have Darrow Horton send you the recordings, sir. I turned everything over to her.”
“You do that—soonest.”
“She’s requested an interview of Special Agent Renaldo of Homeland Security to verify the plan to entrap my son,” Patrick said. “Renaldo invoked the Fifth Amendment and refused to cooperate.”
“Let them handle it,” the president said. “Next: you left a message with Ann saying you wanted to ask me something?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been conducting surveillance of suspected extremist compounds in the Battle Mountain area, and—”
“You’ve been doing what?” the president interrupted. “What kind of surveillance?”
“Exactly the same kind that Special Agent Chastain was supposed to be doing,” Patrick said, “but instead, he decided to trick my son into informing on me.”
“Has that desert heat fried your brain, Patrick?” the president asked. “Using what? The CID and Tin Man?”
“No, sir—Sky Masters sensors mounted on private aircraft.”
“First the Iranians, then the Turks, the Russians, and now Americans,” the president muttered. “Next you’ll be spying on me, I suppose? I regret putting you and Jonathan Masters in the same half of the country again—the trouble you two get into never ceases to aggravate me.” He thought for a moment; then: “I can think of a dozen different laws you’ve broken, but if anyone can keep you out of prison, it’ll be Darrow Horton.”
“At the risk of eating fruit from the forbidden tree,” Vice President Page asked off-camera, “what have you found, Patrick?”
“That the FBI was barking up the wrong tree, ma’am,” Patrick said. “I have a plan to try to fix the situation, Mr. President, and I need your permission to do a few things.”
That same time
“So the deal is: I teach you how to pilot the CID, and you teach me how to fly,” Charlie Turlock said. She, Jason Richter, and Brad were in the FBI hangar with the stowed Cybernetic Infantry Device. “Deal?”
“I’m not a licensed pilot yet,” Brad said, “let alone a flight instructor. But I’ll take you flying anytime as soon as I get my license, and as soon as I become a CFI, I’ll teach you.”
“Good enough,” Charlie said. “Okay, before we get started, we have some programming to do so the CID will respond to your—”
“Already did it this morning with Colonel Richter, just before I asked you if we could train together,” Brad said. “Voice prints and brain scans too. CID One, deploy.” To Charlie’s amazement, the CID unit began to unstow itself, and seconds later it had assumed its low crouching standby position.
“You did all that in just two hours?” Charlie remarked. “Usually it takes all day and a couple test runs to get it to respond properly.”
“We did it in less than an hour,” Brad said. Charlie turned to Jason in surprise, and Jason shrugged—he didn’t understand why either. “Colonel Richter said they need to study me at the BattleLab to figure out why I can program so fast.”
“I couldn’t believe it myself,” Jason said. “I thought we were just going to do a preliminary scan to get the input parameters set. We ended up running the entire routine.”
“Let’s see if it took. Keep going.”
“CID One, pilot up,” Brad spoke. The robot immediately assumed the boarding position, and the entry hatch opened on its back. Brad climbed up and slid inside as if he had been doing it all his life, as evidenced by the hatch closing on the robot’s back as the haptic interface connected Brad’s brain to the computers and sensors inside the robot. Moments later, the CID was up on its feet. Brad looked at his hands and body like a frog that had just been turned into a prince. “Man, this is incredible!”
“Not so loud, Brad,” Charlie said, smiling. “Well, this is a milestone. Savoy took two days to interface. Stand in the center of the hangar so you don’t go crashing into things.” Brad stepped forward, and Charlie saw no evidence of Brad’s feet or legs hitting each other, as was common in new CID pilots. “It takes a while for the haptic interface to adjust for the differences between where you think your hands are and where the robot’s hands are really—”
“Charlie, let’s see if it was a fluke or the real deal,” Jason said. He went over to the hangar wall and retrieved a cart with four bowling balls on it. “This is my favorite demonstration of the CID, Brad. Care to give it a try?”
“You bet, sir.” Brad came over to him, and Jason tossed him one of the bowling balls. It landed on his right hand, but slipped out before he could close his composite armored fingers around it.
“Feet and legs are one thing, but fingers are another,” Charlie said. “We have an exercise routine that’ll help with programming the haptic interface to—”
“Wait a second . . . I call a do-over,” Brad said. He picked up the bowling ball on the hangar floor with his fingers.
“Not too tightly,” Charlie warned him. But Brad was definitely getting the hang of it. He tossed the bowling ball up in the air and caught it with one hand. “Not bad. Try . . .” But Brad began tossing the ball between two hands, then doing it faster, and then higher. Then he took another bowling ball and juggled the two in one hand, tossing one up while catching the other.
“Know how to juggle three balls, Brad?” Jason asked.
“No . . . but I can do hacky sack,” Brad said . . . and to Jason and Charlie’s amazement, he dropped one of the bowling balls on the instep of his right armored foot, held it there for a moment, then began flipping it up and down. In moments he was using every portion of his foot to kick the ball back in the air. Still carrying the second bowling ball, he then kicked the ball back and forth between his feet, bounced it off his chest and back onto his feet, kicked it up onto his head and balanced it there for a moment, then even kicked it back over his head, spun around, and caught it with a foot again. Before long Brad was prancing around the hangar, bouncing the bowling ball off his feet, his thighs, his chest, and his head as he moved.
“A-mazing,” Jason breathed. “The guy’s a natural.”
“What else can you say: he’s a McLanahan,” Charlie said. “Definitely his father’s son. He can fly, and he’s a gadget nut.”
“Let’s bring it in, Brad,” Jason said.
“Can we do some outdoor training ton
ight?” Brad asked in his electronically synthesized voice. “I can’t wait to really open this baby up!”
“We’re going to use it tonight,” Charlie said. “And you have some studying to do on the electronics, electrical system, microhydraulics, sensors, and communications gear.”
“Okay,” Brad said. He stopped at the place where the CID was going to be stowed, flipped the bowling ball up into the air one last time, held his arms out straight with the second bowling ball in his left hand, then caught the first in his right hand without even looking. “Ta-daaa!” he cried out . . . then crushed both bowling balls in his armored hands, the balls exploding into clouds of dust with a loud BAANG!
“Definitely a McLanahan,” Jason said.
Knights of the True Republic’s Compound
That evening
“Intruder inbound! Intruder inbound!” the loudspeakers throughout the compound blared. Men, women, and even children ran to preplanned response positions inside and outside the fenced interior part of the compound. Men, women, and older boys carried weapons of all kinds, from small revolvers to heavy machine guns; children helped by carrying ammunition, lights, radios, and even water buckets in case they had to fight fires.
A lone four-door three-ton crew-cab pickup truck moved up the dirt road leading to the main entrance to the compound, stopped outside the cattle guard at the outer perimeter, and Patrick McLanahan got out of the driver’s side. Several spotlights were trained on him. “You’re on private property,” a man with a bullhorn spoke. “You are trespassing. Turn around and go back to the main highway immediately.”
“My name is Patrick McLanahan. I want to speak with Reverend Paulson.”
“The reverend doesn’t speak with strangers in the middle of the night. Go away.”
“Tell the reverend that I was responsible for the FBI pulling out of the surveillance of your property,” Patrick said. “Tell him I want to talk and make an offer to the residents of this compound to terminate the hostilities between you and the government.”
There was silence for several minutes; then a different voice on the bullhorn said, “Say your name again, stranger.”
“McLanahan. Patrick McLanahan.”
There was another long pause; then the first voice said, “Is there anyone in the car with you?”
“Yes.” Patrick turned toward the pickup. Brigadier-General Kurt Givens emerged from the right-rear passenger seat . . . and Wayne Macomber, dressed in the Tin Man battle armor, got out of the front passenger side.
“Raise your hands, all of you!” the first man shouted. Patrick, Kurt, and Whack complied. “Is this your idea of talk, mister—sending in another robot after us?”
“Wayne insisted on coming along, as my bodyguard,” Patrick said. “There is a Cybernetic Infantry Device, a manned robot, out there as well. Her job is to destroy the technicals and machine-gun emplacements if fighting breaks out. This is General Givens, the commander of Joint Air Base Battle Mountain.”
“You want to start a war, mister, you’ve come to the right place! Now go away!”
“The general and I want to talk with Reverend Paulson,” Patrick said. “Face-to-face. No one wants to start a war. I want to talk to Reverend Paulson about uniting our two communities.”
There was another long pause; then the second voice said, “Bring out the robot and have it join you at the entrance.” A few moments later they heard car horns beeping and floodlights illuminate all around the north side of the compound, and Charlie Turlock aboard the CID ran around the perimeter fence and joined Patrick and Whack.
“Is this how the government deals with fellow Americans?” the first voice blared angrily over the bullhorn. “Is this how—” And the voice abruptly cut off.
A few minutes later, Patrick saw a technical—a pickup truck with a heavy-gauge machine gun mounted in back, manned by a standing gunner—drive to the compound entrance, and a man emerged from the passenger side. He was tall and very thin, with long silver hair, wearing a black suit, white shirt, bolo tie—and, Patrick noticed, what appeared to be an Uzi slung on his shoulder. “Mr. McLanahan?” he asked.
Patrick stepped forward. Wayne moved forward with him. Patrick could feel dozens of gun muzzles swing in his direction, and he could see the technical on the pickup truck nervously switching aim between him, the CID, and the Tin Man. He held out a hand. “It’s okay, Whack.”
“That wasn’t the deal, General,” Wayne said, his electronically synthesized voice booming. “We agreed I was going to come with you at all times or we weren’t going to do this.”
“ ‘General’?” the newcomer called out. “General Patrick McLanahan?”
“Yes.”
The newcomer moved away from the compound entrance, stepped over to the Wrangler, and held out a hand. “I’m happy to meet you, General,” the man said. “I am Reverend Jeremiah Paulson.”
Patrick shook his hand. “Nice to meet you too, sir.”
“Your reputation precedes you, sir.” Paulson extended a hand to Givens. “We met many years ago, General, when you first took command of the base,” he said. “You held many community forums every year to address issues between the local area and the base, and you’ve hosted many open-house and other events for the community.”
“I think an important part of being base commander is open and frequent dialogue between the base and the community, Reverend,” Givens said, shaking hands. “Unfortunately, those kinds of activities had to be curtailed as our funding was cut, our operations were reduced, and the people lost interest in the base. But I intend to reverse that.”
“That is long overdue, General Givens.” Paulson looked up at the CID and shook his head. “Such incredible technology,” he said in a low voice. “Too bad it’s being used against innocent American citizens.”
“That was the FBI’s idea, sir,” Patrick said. “The White House authorized their use because of the radiological attacks in Reno. The FBI is gone now.”
“But the robot and this man remain?”
“Yes, under my command.”
“And what is your ‘command,’ General?” Paulson asked. “Why were you sent to Nevada to talk to me?”
“I wasn’t sent, sir—I live here,” Patrick said. “I’ve lived on the air base since January. I previously commanded the air wing here.”
“Indeed? I was not aware of it. A man such as yourself, living out here in obscurity . . . interesting. What is it you do at the base?”
“I’m retired,” Patrick said. “I fly volunteer missions for the Civil Air Patrol, mostly search-and-rescue missions; I fly volunteer charity medical missions for Angel Flight West; and I raise an eighteen-year-old son.”
“Very good,” Paulson said. “Being a responsible, God-fearing parent and serving your community are two of the most noble things a man can do. But why is a retired military officer given devices such as these? Under what authority do you use them?”
“At first I wasn’t given any authority to use them, Reverend Paulson,” Patrick replied. “They’re here; my community and friends are in danger; I know how to employ them—so I acted. I’ve recently been given limited authority to use them by the president of the United States.”
“Against the residents of this community?”
“Against threats to our community, sir,” Patrick said. “The FBI believes you are a threat. I don’t. I have to prove to the president that I’m right.”
“Otherwise the war between us will continue.”
“Reverend Paulson, I’m willing and ready to do whatever it takes to safeguard my home,” Patrick said, “and I’m willing to battle anyone who wants to take away our freedom. So far, I haven’t seen any evidence that you are an enemy. You have weapons, you have a stronghold, you have followers ready to take up arms and defend their home . . . well, so do we at Joint Air Base Battle Mountain, and we’re not an enemy to the community either. We need to join together to find the common enemy and eliminate it.”
“I am
a minister, a spiritual leader only,” Paulson said. “The people of this community came to this place and built their homes around my original church because they felt safer living together. We are all sovereign citizens, followers of the original U.S. Constitution and the laws of God. I don’t give orders.”
“I have no followers, Reverend,” Patrick said. “As I said, I’m retired. I have no command or hold any office. But I am going to use the tools available to me to protect my family, my home, and my community. We share that goal. We should work together to accomplish that mission.”
Paulson looked Patrick up and down, then nodded. “What do you propose, General McLanahan?”
Patrick turned to Givens. “Kurt?”
“Come live with us,” Givens said to Paulson.
“Live with you? On the air base?”
“There’s plenty of room for everyone,” Givens said. “The base used to house almost six thousand, and we were in the process of expanding it to seven thousand—we have fewer than one thousand now. We have medical facilities, shopping, fitness, and recreation venues that are hardly used.”
“I think that is a very generous offer, General Givens,” Paulson said, “but most of the members of this community are distrustful of the government already—they won’t want to move right into its lap by moving onto a military base.”
“For those who don’t want to move, they can stay out here,” Buzz said. “But for those who are living in tents or those with young children, the base facilities might be better, at least temporarily. And even if you don’t choose to move, the base’s facilities will be open for everyone.”
“But . . . how can this be possible?” Paulson said. “We have no money for any of this.”
“President Kenneth Phoenix has issued a presidential order, directing the commanders of military installations all over the world to help struggling people in their local area however they can, consistent with the military mission and security, until the economic crisis is over,” Patrick said. “Joint Air Base Battle Mountain will be one of the first to implement the policy.”
“All persons who are able to work will be asked to work,” Givens went on. “If paid jobs are available, they’ll be paid, and some of the money used to defray expenses; otherwise, everyone able to work will be asked to contribute their skills and abilities to do jobs around the base that need to be done. The Department of Defense will provide subsidized food, shelter, utilities, education, job training, and health care.”
