A Time for Patriots

“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.”

But it was soon apparent that the layers of defenses set up around the compound were gone, replaced by residents with little more than walkie-talkies and flashlights. Patrick and David were not challenged — in fact, some of the residents left their post and followed Patrick’s pickup toward the inner compound.

The gates to the inner compound were wide open, and David drove right up to the church and outdoor meeting area. There was several sheriffs’ patrol cars parked there as well. Patrick and David got out of the pickup and were met moments later by Whack. The meeting area was about half full. The residents seated there were silent, not moving — no one turned to look at them. “This is weird — kinda Jonestown-like,” Whack radioed.

The three walked up the main aisle toward the dais. Again, no one made a motion to stop them or even looked up. Reverend Jeremiah Paulson was standing at the lectern, dressed all in black, his head bowed, a Bible in one hand, his Uzi still slung on his shoulder.