A Time for Patriots

The man trotted to the door to the office that was being used as the command post and dropped to one knee just as Hardison dashed out, weapon drawn, rushing to see what caused the horrific explosion outside. His bulletproof vest saved him, but the force of the three bullets hitting his chest dropped him. The man calmly looked down at the agent and shot him in the head twice, then turned and headed out.

* * *

The hangar door was almost open enough to drive the van inside when Riley noticed a Yuba County Sheriff’s Department SWAT armored Suburban roar down the taxiway toward them. Shit, he thought, they’re early ! Where in hell are the helicopters? The vehicle screeched to a halt in front of the hangar, and two officers in black battle-dress uniforms and Kevlar helmets dashed out and a third emerged from the back of the vehicle, carrying the two suitcases of money !

“Hey!” Riley shouted, holding up his hands in surrender. “What the hell is…?” At that moment he heard the explosion and the sounds of screeching and ripping metal from the direction of the warehouse complex, and he realized that the operation was blown — even before the driver of the Suburban pulled a pistol from his holster, aimed, and fired three rounds into the FBI agent’s face.

“Report,” the man named Sullivan said.

“The SWAT teams were eliminated, sir,” the driver said. “The sheriff’s department vehicles were placed to block ingress to the airport as much as possible, and the Bravo and Charlie strike teams are reporting to their postmission rally points. No casualties.”

“Very well,” Sullivan said. “Excellent work. Help the Alpha team get the casks on board the plane and secured, then report to your rally points.”

“Yes, sir .” The three men trotted inside the hangar, where the radioactive waste casks were already being unloaded by a forklift. Sullivan followed them inside, where he met up with Carl, who was looking over a sectional aviation chart. Sullivan noticed Carl’s pale, sweaty skin and trembling hand as he took a sip of water. “Are you okay, Carl?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine, sir,” Carl replied. “I took the last of the meds a few minutes ago — that’ll last me for several hours. Long enough.”

Sullivan nodded and clasped Carl on the shoulder again. “You’re a true patriot, Carl,” he said. “A real hero.”

“Thank you, sir,” Carl replied. He tapped the sectional chart. “I’ll be in constant radar contact in the valley at any altitude — no way to avoid that,” he said. “But once I get over the Sierra, they’ll lose me. I’ll ridge-hop to the south, change courses, stay away from population centers, and make my way to the airstrip to off-load the three casks and refuel.”

“Very well,” Sullivan said. “You’ve planned this operation well.”

“It was my honor and pleasure, sir,” Carl said, “as will be the last phase. The strike teams all performed brilliantly.”

“They did, thanks to your inspiration.”

“Thank you, sir.” Carl stood at attention and saluted. “It has been an honor to serve you, sir,” he said.

Sullivan returned his salute. “Not me, Carl — we serve the True Republic,” he said. He embraced the pilot, and he could feel the trembling throughout Carl’s thin body. The doctors had given him less than six months before the leukemia would consume him; the cataracts would blind him well before that. “Job well done, soldier. Carry on.”

“For the True Republic, sir,” Carl said, and he folded up his charts and headed for the King Air.

Long before the first FBI agents and police units arrived at the airport, the King Air was loaded up and airborne, heading east at low altitude. The men at the airport scattered via cars, motorcycles, and even boats, escaping to secure safe houses throughout the area to wait for nightfall and stay on the lookout for any sign of pursuit.

One

I hear many condemn these men because they were so few. When were the good and brave ever in a majority?

— Henry David Thoreau

Battle Mountain, Nevada

That same time

The recent thunderstorms had turned the yard — if you could call their little patch of dirt, grass, and rocks a yard — into a brown crumbly paste, like soggy half-baked green-colored brownies. The unpaved streets were in a little better shape, having been compacted by automobile and construction traffic, but it was still a wet, sloppy mess that sunshine hadn’t yet been able to ameliorate.

This could have been war-torn Iraq or Afghanistan, or some remote Chinese village… instead, it was a relatively new subdivision in the community of Battle Mountain, in north-central Nevada.