As they all turned to depart, Patrick said to Richter: “One moment, Colonel.” Jason went back, looking directly at Patrick, his hands behind his back in an attitude that was both respectful and dismissive. “Have I done something to tick you off, Colonel?” Patrick asked.
“With all due respect, sir: I object to the way you take things and personnel and act as you please, as if you answer to no other authority but your own,” Jason said as matter-of-factly as if he were describing a sunny day. “Dr. Masters’s sensors and computers; the CID and Tin Man; Charlie Turlock and Macomber; and all of those Civil Air Patrol people — you treat them as if they’ve been assigned to you, and you have an unlimited budget to direct them to do anything you wish. And you literally tortured and terrorized those federal agents with the CID and Tin Man, not to mention threatening their lives. I’m just trying to decide if I have a responsibility and duty to report you to someone so a proper authority can evaluate your actions — and stop you.”
Patrick thought for a moment, matching Jason’s direct glare; then: “Tell me, Coloneclass="underline" Where do you live?”
“I’m currently assigned to the Army Infantry Transformational BattleLab at—”
“No, I mean, where’s your hometown?”
Richter blinked at the question. “I’m from western Pennsylvania, General.”
“Still no mention of a hometown,” Patrick observed. “I think that’s the key to why you don’t understand what I’m trying to do, Coloneclass="underline" you don’t seem to have a hometown.”
“I’m in the U.S. Army, General,” Jason said. “I travel two hundred days a year to bases and laboratories all over the world; I visit a half-dozen defense contractors and engineering firms a month; and the rest of the time I’m working in my lab a minimum of twelve hours a day.”
“How about your folks?”
“They live near Wilmington, North Carolina, surrounded by kids and grandkids,” Jason said. “I’ve never been there.”
“Interesting. So you don’t really have a home, do you?” Jason didn’t respond. “But if Fort Polk was attacked by extremists, you’d certainly defend it, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course, sir. That’s obvious. What’s your point?”
“And if there were no military police when the attack began, you’d certainly pick up a gun and do your best to fight off the attackers, right?”
“Yes.”
“You’d even climb aboard a Cybernetic Infantry Device and use it to defend the base, correct? Maybe even put on a weapon backpack if you felt you needed it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Even if the Army didn’t order you to do anything?” Patrick asked. “Even if the military police were already responding?”
Jason thought for a moment; then: “If the CID could get the job done and prevent loss of life and property… yes, sir, I would. It would be crazy to have a weapon system like that and not use it in a crisis.”
“But the CID doesn’t belong to you,” Patrick pointed out. “You have access to it, but you don’t own it.” Again, Jason said nothing. “So what’s the difference between you and me, Colonel? Battle Mountain is my home. I live on this base, and my son goes to school in town, and my friends and Civil Air Patrol squadron mates live all throughout this area. I’d certainly do all I could to defend my home, same as you — even convince my neighbors to join me to do whatever we could to stop the bad guys.”
Jason still had not responded, so Patrick took a step toward him. “So get your head out of your ass and get with the program, Colonel,” he snapped. “The situation here is real, and it’s serious. It’s not someone else’s problem — it’s our problem.
“Now, if you want, you can call anyone you feel you need to call, and I’ll respond in the same way,” Patrick went on. “You can take the CID and leave, and I’ll find a way to get the job done without it. But if it’s here, I’m going to use it, because I can . And I’m not going to let you or anyone else short of the president of the United States stop me, and I might even argue with him over it. Is that clear?”
Jason stared back at Patrick, matching his determined glare — but after a few moments, he nodded. “Yes, General, it’s clear.”
“Good. Now, why don’t you meet with us in my office in the morning and suggest ways we can best utilize the CID. If you don’t care to do that, then load up the CID and get the hell out of my face so I can do the job.”
Patrick walked into the Civil Air Patrol squadron conference room after flying another sensor shift around the area. Six cadets were seated at the table, using laptop computers and trackballs, with cans of soda or energy drinks ready at hand. On the whiteboard at the head of the room there were drawings of various things to watch for: tire tracks, disturbed earth, days-old campfires, and patterns of debris or discarded objects.
Brad was also there, in front of his laptop, acting as the second senior required in any cadet formation. “How’s it going, big guy?” Patrick asked his son.
“Great,” Brad said. “I’ve got some interesting observations.”
“How do you feel?” Patrick asked.
“I feel fine — good enough to fly some scans.” The bruises on his face had all but gone away, but Patrick could see him still limping in the house when he thought his father wasn’t watching.
“It’s not my call, Brad — it’s the flight doc’s,” Patrick said. “We’ll get you flying again soonest. Until then, I appreciate you helping out here.”
“Uncle Jon’s sensors and analysis technology stuff is pretty cool,” Brad admitted, “but I want to fly, Dad. I’m a pilot. Maybe not a licensed pilot yet, but I want to fly.”
“And you will, big guy,” Patrick said, “when the doc says so.” But he was not encouraging a return to flying status one bit, and he’d told the doctor so.
“How was flying?”
“Good,” Patrick said. “We’ve got six pilots trained to fly the P21 °Centurion and C-172 Skyhawk. You’ll be number seven as soon as the flight doc clears you. Bill Barton’s C-182 Skylane is being fitted with Sky Masters, Inc.’s sensors, so we’ll have three planes. Dave Preston is interested in having his G36 Bonanza fitted too.” He motioned to the images on Brad’s laptop. “What are you looking at that’s so interesting?”
“I’ve been assigned to scan the Knights’ compound,” Brad said, “and there seems to be a lot of people congregating in the main compound — a lot more than usual, outside of their prayer sessions and meetings. Also, I think the irrigation system on a couple of their crop circles has gone out. Wonder what’s going on.”
“I don’t know,” Patrick said, “but that doesn’t sound good. Rob Spara and David Bellville have been trying to call the leaders of the group, but there’s been no answer. What are you up to the rest of the day?”
“Since you don’t want me to go to practice or work, and I can’t fly yet, I’m going to stay here if they need me,” Brad said. “Might as well make myself useful.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “Hey, Dad, mind if I ask Colonel Richter and Miss Turlock to check me out in the CID?”
“You want to pilot the robot?” Patrick asked. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Brad admitted. “It’s still here, right?” Patrick nodded. “And nobody’s using it. So I thought I’d give it a try. If I can’t fly the Centurion, I might as well learn how to pilot the robot.”
Patrick hesitated, but only for a moment. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “Sure. I’ll call Colonel Richter and ask him — it’s not my device, but his — and I’ll call Charlie to see if she’d be willing.”