A Time for Patriots

“Good. And while we’re at the store, I want to get a really good laptop. I’ve got some studying to do.”

Ten

A community is like a ship; everyone ought to be prepared to take the helm.

— Henrik Ibsen

Patrick’s Office, Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

Late that evening

Patrick was reviewing the hundreds of gigabytes of sensor data that David Bellville had copied onto flash drives before their laptops were seized by the FBI. Brad was asleep in a sleeping bag on a cot just a few feet away. Patrick had been staring at sensor images for six hours and nothing was jumping out at him. He had the last twelve hours of images in front of him from two different sensor passes. The computer was flagging about a dozen points of interest, but when Patrick zoomed in on those particular spots, nothing was apparent. The computer could tell him when something had changed, but it couldn’t tell him if that particular something was relevant to anything. Besides, even if he wanted to take a look, he couldn’t — he had no planes.

Patrick activated his subcutaneous transceiver: “Jon?”

“Hey, dude,” Jon Masters replied a few moments later. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad. The FBI showed up and took all the laptops and downlinks.”

“They’ve been calling every hour on the hour, the pricks. They’d like to speak to me, Charlie, and Wayne, and they say they have a warrant to seize my plane, the CID, and the Tin Man. I referred their butts to the legal department.”

“That’ll delay them a little bit, but not for long. Where are you?”

“Classified. Hush-hush.”

“We’re secure.”

“You think so? I don’t.”

Patrick paused. “The comparative analysis that your sensor software does: it looks for changes, right?”

“I told you that already. It flags unusual changes in travel patterns over time. Where are you?”

“In my office. We’re camping out here for the night. You heard about my trailer?”

“On the news,” Jon said. “If you need anything, let me know. Gia is okay racking out in your office with Brad?”

“She’s MIA.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“Sorry, bro.”

“All this was too much for her, I guess.”

“If she wants to hang with the McLanahans, she’s got to toughen up her act more than a few notches,” Jon said. “I’ve worked with you for fifteen years and I’m still trying to upshift.”

“Your middle name is ‘upshift,’ ” Patrick said. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For being there,” Patrick said. “For standing beside me.”

“I stand for nothing but the science and the profit, my friend,” Jon said. “Everything else is… oh, hell, I don’t know. If I’m standing anywhere, it’s with my hand out, expecting renumeration. Ideas, gadgets, and juicy contracts, that’s what I’m all about. You want anything else — well, pay me first, and then we’ll talk.”

“Sure,” Patrick said.

“You see anything interesting in those sensor images?” Jon asked.

“No — I don’t get it,” Patrick said, frowning at the laptop. “I mean, I see the flags, but there’s nothing there that I can see.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the biggest cluster of flags is around one of the copper mines around here that belongs to Judah Andorsen,” Patrick said. “It’s called Freedom-7. But why the flags? It’s a mine. They have trucks coming and going all the time. They take ore to a railroad spur that takes it to a main rail line and on to the smelters.”

“But remember, Patrick, that the computer records and compares normal activity, and then flags unusual activity.”

“I know. I get it.”

“Then you’ve got unusual activity out there, my friend,” Jon said. “Normal truck or rail movements wouldn’t be flagged after a few passes. Stop trying to rationalize it. If the computer flagged it, especially over several days, something’s going on down there, and you should go take a look.”

“That’s a problem too. They seized my plane and all the other planes with the sensors on them.”

“Pricks. Can you send me some of those images and let me take a look?”

“Sure.” It took just a couple mouse clicks to send a series of sensor images to Jon’s secure e-mail address. “What are you going to do now?”

“I’m still talking with the legal beagles, but they’re saying I have to go and turn myself in eventually — sooner, rather than later,” Jon said. “I’ll probably fly the Skytrain back to Battle Mountain with the other gadgets. What about you?”

“Not a hell of a lot else I can do except hang around here.”

“Well, I’ll probably see you out there soon, maybe even tomorrow if the legal department arranges the surrender that quickly,” Jon said, “and then we can hang out together.”

“See you soon, then.” The connection was terminated.

Patrick stared at the sensor images for a few more minutes, then made another phone call. “Hello?”

“Hi, David. It’s Patrick McLanahan. Hope I’m not calling too late.”

“No, not at all, sir,” David Bellville said. “I was just watching the latest blasts from your good friend Joseph Gardner on the evening news. Where does that guy get off saying all that nonsense?”