A Time for Patriots by Dale Brown Read Free Book Online Page B

lonely, Dad,” Brad said. “Aren’t they ever going to finish those buildings?”
    â€œThere’s no money in the budget right now,” Patrick said. He nodded toward several trailers set up nearby. “Those will do for now.” If the Space Defense Force survived the economic downturn, he silently added. President Phoenix was a big supporter, but like every other government program, it had been cut by at least 50 percent.
    â€œBattle Mountain’s town flower: the trailer,” Brad said, reciting the oft-repeated joke.
    The flight line was built up much more than the rest of the base because of all the flying activity before the 2012 crash, but now it appeared just as vacant as the rest of the base. Each large hangar had just one or two planes parked there—the rest were either in the hangars being cannibalized or on the south parking ramp encased in shrink-wrap. The most active flying units on the base were the RQ-4 Global Hawk reconnaissance planes, which had transferred here from Beale Air Force Base in Marysville, California; and the three surviving Air Force E-4B National Airborne Operations Center airborne command post planes, which along with the Navy’s Mercury sea-launched ballistic-missile airborne command posts resumed around-the-clock operations after the American Holocaust.
    Patrick drove to the older western side of the flight line, parked in front of a large cube-shaped hangar, and he and Brad retrieved their gear and headed inside. The hangar was shared with several nonmilitary organizations, everyone from the Lander County Sheriff’s Department to the Nevada Department of Wildlife, so there was an assortment of fixed- and rotary-wing aircraft parked inside. They found two men at a large table inside the hangar, looking over topographic charts. One was wearing an Air Force–style green Nomex flight suit, similar to Patrick’s; the other was wearing a camouflaged battle-dress utility uniform with an orange vest over the jacket. They looked up when Patrick and Brad came over to them.
    â€œThe McLanahans: first to arrive, as usual,” the man in the flight suit, Civil Air Patrol Lieutenant Colonel Rob Spara, said. Spara was a retired Army Kiowa Scout helicopter pilot and commanded an Army helicopter training squadron before retiring; he held a variety of helicopter-related jobs now, doing everything from flying skiers to fresh powder on mountaintops, to air ambulance, to maintenance and repair. He shook hands with Patrick, then handed him a clipboard with a sign-in roster. “You’re the first pilot to arrive, sir.” Even though rank in the squadron was rarely observed, everyone called Patrick “General” or “sir.” “Feel like flying the 182 today?”
    â€œAbsolutely,” Patrick said immediately. He completed the sign-in, then had Brad sign in.
    â€œGood,” the other man, CAP Captain David Bellville, said. Bellville was the vice commander of the squadron and the commander of cadets, a ten-year veteran of the Civil Air Patrol, a twenty-two-year veteran of the U.S. Air Force, and a physician’s assistant. “I’ll be your flight release officer. I’ll enter you into the ICU and give your crew a face-to-face when you’re done preflighting.” The ICU, or incident commander utility, was the computerized data-input system for the Civil Air Patrol, which did away with a lot of the paperwork required by the Air Force.
    â€œI’d like to fly as scanner, sir,” Brad said.
    â€œYou know you’re not old enough, Brad,” Spara said.
    â€œBut I finished all the training, and—”
    â€œAnd you know how I feel about father and son flying together: if there was an accident, it would be an even greater tragedy,” Spara interrupted.
    â€œThen can I be on the DF on the ground team, sir?”
    Spara had turned back to his incident planning and looked a little peeved at the