“We tried calling Andorsen to get permission for us to drive onto his property — there was no answer.”
“Then I’ll land, find a vehicle, and do it myself.”
“You can’t do that, Patrick,” Spara said. “The Hasty team will be fine until the sheriff and an ambulance makes it out there. RTB, now .”
“I can go back to the van, cut off the lock on the gate, and drive the van back,” Fitzgerald radioed.
“Everybody, just shut up for a minute,” Spara said. “I’m not going to split up a ground team, especially with a survivor with them. Dave, prepare to keep the survivor comfortable until help arrives. Keep your team together . Patrick, RTB right now .”
“I won’t make it back to Battle Mountain in time to meet the deadline, Rob,” Patrick said. “The closest landing strip is the Andorsen ranch. I’m heading that way now.”
“Negative, McLanahan,” Spara said. “Return to base. We’ll advise ATC of your destination and ETA.”
Patrick reached up and shut off the FM radio. “Damn FM,” he said on intercom. “It’s so old, it goes out all the time, just when you really need it.” He looked around at John and Leo. “Doesn’t it?”
John looked back at Leo, then turned at Patrick and shrugged. “It seemed to be working fine, and all of a sudden — poof, it went out,” he said.
“And that’s not all,” Leo said. “I distinctly heard that engine running a little rough all of a sudden.”
“I was going to mention that too,” John said with a smile.
“Well then, we’d better get this thing on the ground and check it out,” Patrick said. He looked around outside for his landmarks, then made a turn to the right. “I have the Andorsen ranch strip in sight. I think we should land there immediately. And while we’re waiting for further assistance, we can help the ground team.”
“Sounds like a good plan, sir,” Leo said.
John patted Patrick on the shoulder, smiled, and nodded. “That’s the Patrick S. McLanahan I’ve always heard about,” he said. “Looks like the Mac is back.”
After making a low pass over the strip to check for any hazards — it was by far the nicest dirt strip any of them had ever seen, as clean, flat, and straight as an asphalt runway — Patrick landed the Cessna. Being careful to keep the power up and the control yoke back without braking, all to avoid digging the nose tire into the dirt, he taxied over to the parking area next to two fuel tanks and a storage-and-pump building. Beside the fuel farm was a half-mile-long asphalt road leading to what looked like the main house; on the other side of the asphalt road was an aircraft hangar.
“Nice little airport Andorsen’s got here,” John commented.
“Andorsen owns a large percentage of the land in northern Nevada not owned by the government,” Leo said. “He’s probably got a half dozen of these private airstrips scattered all over the state. They may be dirt, but they’re built to handle a bizjet. Ever meet him? Great guy. Throws parties and fund-raisers for law enforcement all the time.”
After climbing out of the plane, Patrick searched around and found a bicycle propped up next to the pump building. “I’ll be back as quick as I can,” he said, and he pedaled toward the main house.
The main house was a large, attractive, single-story building with a comfortable-looking wraparound porch, surrounded by desert landscaping. A three-car garage was adjacent, and a pickup truck was parked beside it. The place was deserted except for a couple dogs that came up to him, sniffed, decided he was no threat, and went back to search for some shade. Patrick knocked on the door and waited for an answer — nothing. He went over and looked through a window into the garage and saw one Hummer SUV inside, along with a dressed-out Harley-Davidson Road King and Harley Softail Deluxe motorcycle, all in immaculate condition considering they were in the middle of the desert. The garage was locked. Patrick then went to the pickup and found it unlocked and the keys tucked in the driver’s-side sun visor — perfect. He pulled his Form 104 mission briefing card out of a flight-suit pocket, wrote the phone number of the Battle Mountain squadron on it, stuck it in the front door of the house, then started up the pickup and drove back to the airstrip.
“No one home?” Leo asked.
“No,” Patrick said, “but I’ll bet he’s got security cameras all over the place, so I’d expect someone will be along shortly. I left my Form 104 in his door. Grab the survival kit and your flight bags and let’s go.” They pulled the twenty-five-pound orange survival kit and their personal flight bags from the plane, along with all the bottles of water they had in the cockpit. Patrick found tie-downs and secured the plane, and they clambered into the pickup, with Patrick driving. All three crewmembers had small portable GPS receivers in their flight bags, so it was simple for them to punch in the coordinates of the ground team to get a bearing and distance, and they headed off across the desert.
The long, bumpy, dusty drive was less than fifteen miles but lasted almost an hour. It was getting dark and decidedly cooler by the time they reached the ground team. Patrick was surprised when Bradley ran over to the truck and wrapped his arms around his father as soon as he stepped out of the pickup. “Dad!” he exclaimed. “You’re here!”
Patrick hugged him tightly in return — it had been a long, long time since they had embraced like that. “I’m glad you’re okay, Brad,” he said in a low voice. He took a look at his son’s sunburned, dust-streaked face and smiled, remarking to himself how much taller and more mature he looked just since they spoke back at the base a few hours ago. “You’ve had a really big day, haven’t you, big guy? Congratulations on finding the survivor.”
“Colonel Spara is really pissed at you,” Brad said with a wide grin. “I don’t think he stopped yelling on the radio until a few minutes ago.”
“I wasn’t going to leave my son out here in the desert,” Patrick said in a whisper. “The colonel is wacky if he thought I’d just fly back to base and leave you behind.” They walked back to Bellville and Fitzgerald. The cadets had set up two dome-shaped tents. They had been eating from self-heating bags of military MREs when they arrived, but now they excitedly ran over to the newcomers. The survivor was resting on a stretcher, covered with a silver space blanket, his head and face bandaged. “Is that the survivor, Dave?” Patrick said to David Bellville with surprise after shaking hands. “The sheriff hasn’t shown up yet?”
“No, and we don’t know what the delay is,” Bellville said. “I can’t believe you landed out here, sir.”
“ I can believe it,” Fitzgerald said, striding up and pumping Patrick’s hand enthusiastically. “Damn commanders always kowtowing to the regs and ignoring the real situation on the ground. But not this guy!” He thumped Patrick on the shoulder hard enough to tilt him onto one foot. “This is Patrick freakin’ McLanahan, the guy who kicked the Russians’ butts after the American Holocaust. He wasn’t about to leave his mates behind. About time someone said to hell with the damn book and looked out for his troops.” He turned to Spivey and Markham and jabbed a thumb toward Patrick. “He’s a real war hero, you guys, and don’t you forget it.”
“Thanks, Fid,” Patrick said. “Dave, how’s the survivor?”
Bellville turned to Markham. “Ralph?”
“His name is Jeremy, sir,” Ralph said. “Same condition as previously reported. We’re letting him sleep but waking him every hour or so as a precaution because of his possible concussion. He’s alert and responsive. He hasn’t eaten but has had a little water.”