A Time for Patriots

“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 tonight?” 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.”