by Dale Brown
“We have to start thinking about one community rather than separate civilian and military ones,” Patrick said. “The separate communities only cause distrust and resentment.”
“Won’t some soldiers resent having outsiders on their base, eating their food and using their facilities without having to swear an oath, put on a uniform, or pick up a gun?” Paulson asked.
“Perhaps,” Patrick said. “But I don’t see the people in your community as malingerers—they seem ready to work if a task is needed. The military respects hard work and dedication. If everyone pulls together, this can work.”
Paulson half turned toward the technical behind him. “I assume things such as that won’t be allowed.”
“You’ll be treated like every other soldier and civilian employee on base,” Givens said. “Legal firearms on base must be registered and stored in our armory, and will be fitted with an identification and tracking tag that assures they’re not kept or carried on base; illegal or unregistered weapons won’t be allowed. You will be allowed access to your firearms at any time as long as they are immediately taken off the base, and the ID tag will monitor that.”
“What other limitations to personal freedoms will be imposed on us by the government?” Paulson asked.
“I don’t know, Reverend—we’re just starting this thing tonight,” Givens said honestly. “We’re starting from the standpoint that civilian residents on base will be given all the responsibilities and freedoms afforded to military residents. Our military members do give up a lot of their constitutional freedoms in the interest of base security and accomplishing the mission.”
“This will be a work in progress, Reverend,” Patrick said. “But the idea is not to limit your freedom, but to support you during tough economic times. You are free to leave at any time if you feel the loss of your rights outweighs the benefits extended to you by the government.”
“I don’t think this will be of much interest to the members of this community, General,” Paulson said. “Living out here means freedom for these people, even if the conditions are sometimes harsh.”
“We think they might be worse than harsh, Reverend,” Patrick said. “We’ve noticed that two of your crop circles are dying.”
“How would you know this, General?”
“I have been conducting aerial surveillance of about three thousand square miles around the air base, including this compound,” Patrick replied. “My sensors detected the dying crops and the malfunctioning irrigation sprinklers.”
“More of using whatever devices are at hand for your own purposes, General McLanahan?” Paulson asked suspiciously. He straightened his shoulders. “I do not approve of this, sir, and I do not approve of you,” he said acidly. “General Givens, I thank you and the president for your offer, and I will present the idea to the people of this community tomorrow morning at community breakfast. If anyone wishes to move, they will be allowed to do so at any time. I will place them in contact with you and arrange a time for the transfer.
“But I will also advise them of General McLanahan’s use of this combat technology and surveillance operations,” Paulson went on, “and I will be candid with them: I believe General McLanahan to be as much an extremist as the others who roam this state and harm law-abiding citizens, and placing yourselves under his protection is the moral equivalent of endorsing his anticonstitutional actions. He is violating his oath to serve and defend the Constitution, and as such is a criminal in the eyes of the people and of God almighty.
“If anyone wants to leave this place, they are welcome, but I believe you, General McLanahan, to be an affront to the United States Constitution and the laws of God, and those who leave us and join you will be considered traitors to our community and faith. Never come back here, General McLanahan—you are hereby declared an enemy of the Knights of the True Republic. You have fifteen minutes to get off of our property or you will be considered criminal trespassers and dealt with accordingly.” And he spun on a heel and walked back to the technical.
“Well, I think that went swimmingly,” Charlie Turlock deadpanned in her electronically synthesized voice from inside the Cybernetic Infantry Device. After Paulson and the technical departed, the CID assumed the dismount position, and Charlie climbed out and ordered the CID to fold itself up for transport. “Think anyone will take us up on the offer?”
“And be excommunicated from Paulson’s church? I don’t think so,” Whack said. He helped Charlie stow the CID in the back of the pickup. “Are you sure the FBI was wrong about these people, Patrick? Paulson’s definitely got a one-track mind—and it’s not a very peaceful track.”
“I’m not a cop—I could be completely wrong about them,” Patrick said. “Paulson may be a zealot and even an extremist, but a homicidal maniac using planes and radiological dirty bombs? I don’t know.”
“He could have an entire faction within his community doing the attacks, with Paulson’s blessing,” Whack said.
“I suggest we get out of here before we find out Paulson’s watch is running fast,” Buzz said. They climbed into the pickup and headed off back to Battle Mountain.
Elko, Nevada
Later that night
Ron Spivey made liberal use of his employee discount to buy energy drinks to help stay awake during these graveyard shifts working at the convenience store outside of town. Well, he thought, only a couple more months of this, and then I’ll concentrate on the new path. He was anxious to get started on it.
The night-shift manager, a woman named Matilda, was behind the counter. Ron took a broom and dustpan and headed out the door. “I’m going on parking-lot patrol, Matilda,” he said.
“Bathrooms must be next, Ron,” she said.
“Okay.” Matilda insisted on spotless bathrooms, so he was sent back to do them after almost every customer used them. Another good reason to get the heck out and start a real career, he thought. He had a lot of newfound respect for persons who cleaned johns for a living.
It was a perfect summer evening—clear as a bell, not too hot, not too cold, no thunderstorms, and gentle breezes. The store was pretty quiet, but the truck stop about a quarter of a mile down the frontage road seemed busier than usual. Another sign that the economy was turning around? You wouldn’t know it by business at the convenience store, but more truckers seemed to be on the road these days. The express shipping business was definitely hiring, so maybe things were starting to look up?
Ron laughed at himself. Sheesh, when did he ever think about stuff like the economy before? Maybe having a baby and a future wife changes a guy’s perspective—even a brainless skirt-chasing jock’s.
Finally, a customer. The car pulled up to the gas pump island farthest from the store, the one with the burned-out overhead fluorescents—he would have to get the big ladder out to change those. One guy got out, while the other guy stayed in the car. They were talking to each other through the windows, but Ron couldn’t make out what they were saying. The parking lot was in pretty good shape, no broken beer bottles or the puddles of vomit that were more common on the weekends. The two guys’ voices over on the far island were getting a bit louder. Uh-oh, he thought, boyfriends having a little late-night to-do? At last, some entertainment . . .
. . . and just then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it—the gesture made by the guy pumping gas, his hand like a knife, jabbing at the guy in the car . . . exactly like the guy he saw in the car that hit Brad had been doing! Holy shit, he thought, could it be them, the same car . . . ?
Sweeping as he moved, Ron casually moved across the front of the store, trying to take his time but anxious to get a look before these guys drove off. It took him almost two minutes to move around, and it was a little hard to see because of the burned-out lights, but he finally saw it—the cracks in the windshield where he had hit it with his football helmet! Jesus Christ, they’re here! He quickly headed back toward the store entrance, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.
“Hello?”
“Brad, it’s me.”
“Ron? It’s almost three A.M., you dork. What’s—”
“Shut up, dude. Those guys that hit you after practice? They’re here, man.”
Brad was now fully awake. “They are? Are you sure?”
“I saw the cracked windshield where I hit it with my helmet!”
“Holy crap! Did you call the cops?”
“No, not yet. I’ll do it right . . . oh, shit, oh, shit, Brad, they’re coming into the store!”
“What?”
“They’re wearing hats and sunglasses, and they—” Now Ron was screaming, in a tone of voice Brad had never heard before: “Wait a minute, wait, no, no, no . . . !” And just then, Brad heard two gunshots, the clattering of the phone hitting the floor, a woman’s scream, and two more gunshots. He then heard footsteps, murmured voices in an unintelligible language, and then a loud crunching sound, followed by chilling silence.
Joint Air Base Battle Mountain
Several days later
“Dozens of families a day from all over northern Nevada, California, Utah, and southern Oregon are making their way to Joint Air Base Battle Mountain here in the high desert of north-central Nevada to take part in a new government program to provide shelter, food, medical care, and jobs to the neediest among us,” the television reporter was saying. Viewers could see three school buses approaching the base’s main gate. “This is day three of President Phoenix’s controversial new executive order that opens the gates, and the purses, of military bases around the world to civilians desperately in need of help.”
Patrick was watching the television in his office, with Brad beside him. He didn’t want his son out of sight for more than a couple minutes. The funeral for Ron Spivey, yet another Civil Air Patrol member gunned down by shadowy unknown assassins in just the past few weeks, was hard on everyone, but especially on Brad. His son rarely spoke and, as now, mostly sat staring off into space. His appetite was nonexistent, and he stayed mostly in his bedroom in their trailer, lying in bed but not sleeping.
There was a knock on the office door, and Timothy Dobson entered. He stood in front of Patrick’s desk. “I’m so very sorry, Brad,” he said in a quiet voice. “I wish I could’ve stopped them.” Brad did not move a muscle.
“Were you able to identify them, Tim?” Patrick asked.
Dobson nodded. “Officially they are security officers assigned to the Russian consulate in Vancouver, British Columbia,” he replied, “but Interpol says they are direct-action operatives of the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye, or GRU, the Russian military foreign-intelligence service. The Russian foreign ministry denies all this. When asked of their current whereabouts, the ministry claims the men are on their way back to Russia as scheduled.” Patrick nodded, his eyes filled with hate. “They are on all the no-fly and most-wanted lists. But they’ve been very successful so far in slipping away in plain sight.” He looked at Brad. “You two are not safe outside the base, and with all these civilians coming in now, you may not even be safe here. The vice president is urging you—”
“I’m not leaving,” Patrick said. “That’s final. I’m not running. I’ll find a way to locate these guys, and I’ll hunt them down and eliminate them myself.”
“They’re professional killers, General,” Dobson said. “They can move and blend in almost at will—”
“They may be professionals, but they made an amateurish mistake by being caught on a half-dozen security cameras that night,” Patrick said. “They’ve got their faces on thousands of computer screens and wanted posters all over North America. They’re under pressure to perform instead of missing their target, which will make them sloppy and vulnerable.”
“Maybe so, sir,” Dobson said, “but all the Russians have to do is bring in a different team. The chase starts all over again, with different faces.”
“That would happen if we were in Washington too,” Patrick said. “No, I’ll find a way to stop them.” He went back to watching the television; Dobson had nothing further to say, so he departed. A few minutes later, Patrick stood. “I’m going to meet the new group and help them get settled,” he said to Brad. “Come along with me.” After a moment’s hesitation, Brad stood, his head still lowered. But just then, there was a knock on the door. “Come.” Patrick was surprised to see Judah Andorsen come through the door, and he shot to his feet. “Mr. Andorsen! This is a surprise.”
“Hope I’m not botherin’ you, General,” Andorsen said in his big, booming voice. He was wearing his usual outfit, the only one Patrick had ever seen him in: leather flying jacket, jeans, boots, cowboy hat, and leather work gloves. He shook hands with Patrick, then looked over at Brad. “This is your son, right? The one that found that crash survivor?”
“I don’t believe you’ve met him, sir,” Patrick said. “Mr. Andorsen, this is my son, Brad. Brad, this is Mr. Judah Andorsen.” Brad raised his eyes just long enough to shake Andorsen’s hand.
“Hey, I’m sorry about your friend, son,” Andorsen said. “The news said it was an attempted robbery, and when your friend tried to call the cops, they went crazy.” Dobson had somehow managed to get control of the security-camera tapes, so no one knew that it was really an assassination rather than a botched robbery. “You doin’ okay, son?”
“Yes, sir,” Brad said.
“We were just on our way out to meet the new arrivals, Mr. Andorsen,” Patrick said.
“I don’t want to keep you, General,” Andorsen said. “I just wanted to stop in and say how proud I am to know you. Word has it that this whole program openin’ up the base to folks from these camps was your idea.”
“The base commander, Kurt Givens, and I came up with it,” Patrick said. “The White House and Department of Defense signed on quickly.”
“That’s fine work, General, fine work,” Andorsen said. “I want to help by hirin’ some of the men who will be staying here. Miners, ranch hands, drivers, general laborers—I’m sure I can find at least temporary work for a good many of the men.”
“That would be incredible, sir,” Patrick said. “Thank you.”
“It ain’t nuthin’, General,” Andorsen said. “Now, I know a lot of these men lived in religious-like camps and communities, and—nothin’ against God and religion and all—I don’t have much use for the real hard-core holy rollers, if you get my meanin’. I don’t want no illegals either. Nothin’ against Mexicans or other hardworkin’ folks from Guatemala or wherever, but if they sneaked across the border without botherin’ to register like you’re supposed to, they can starve, for all I care.”
“You’re the boss, Mr. Andorsen,” Patrick said. “You hire anyone you wish. Any help you can extend would be great.”
“If I could get a list with the names and work experience from you, General, I might be able to line up work for them within a week or two. No promises, mind you, but I think I can lend a hand. We’ll provide transportation to and from and meals on the job site, of course, and we can probably kick in a little for some work clothing.”
“I’ll start compiling a list of those who want to work and get it to you as soon as I can, sir,” Patrick said. He shook hands. “Thank you again.”
“Don’t mention it, General. Happy to help.” Andorsen’s attention was drawn to the TV screen. “Looks like someone called an ambulance.” Patrick watched as an ambulance from Andorsen Memorial Hospital made its way on the wrong side of the highway toward the base, lights and siren running. It was followed by a Battle Mountain Fire Department fire chief’s car, which stopped about thirty yards behind the ambulance. The ambulance stopped beside the middle of the three school buses. Curious passengers exiting the buses stopped to watch out the windows.
Patrick picked up his telephone and pressed a button. “Command post, this is Sierra Alpha Seven,” he spoke. “Who called an ambulance? What happened?”
“Where in hell are those bozos runnin’ off to?” Andorsen asked. The TV cameras showed two paramedics rush out of the ambulance
and run back to the fire chief’s car. “What, they gotta ask permission from the chief before they . . . hey, where’s he goin’?” They saw the fire chief’s car spin around and head away from the base. “What the hell is this? Why did they—”
And at that instant, a brilliant flash of light, a ball of fire, and a cloud of black smoke obscured the TV image. The middle school bus was blown apart almost instantly; the other two buses were tossed aside like toys and set ablaze.
Knights of the True Republic’s Compound
That night
Each gunner and driver manning the weaponized pickup trucks saw, heard, and felt the same thing before the lights went out: a hard thump beside the truck, a blur of motion, and a hard blow to the side of the head. “That’s the last technical,” Charlie Turlock radioed from within the Cybernetic Infantry Device after she neutralized both the gunner and the driver. She reached over and bent the barrel of the machine gun mounted on the technical in a right angle as easily as bending a straw.
“Machine-gun nests are neutralized as well,” Wayne Macomber, wearing the Tin Man armor, radioed. “They were only half manned, mostly by older guys.”
“We detected two less technicals than before,” Rob Spara, manning the bank of laptops at the squadron, radioed. John de Carteret was orbiting the Knights of the True Republic’s compound overhead at 9,500 feet, maintaining real-time surveillance and acting as a communications relay node for this operation. The sensor images were being beamed to Charlie and Whack as well as to Rob. “They must’ve lost more residents than we thought.”
“I’m moving in,” Patrick radioed. He was in the crew-cab pickup, with David Bellville driving, heading up the dirt road toward the compound. “Heads up, everyone.”
