“Thanks, Dad.”
“Have fun,” Patrick said. “I’m going to fly the Centurion tonight, if the weather holds. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He went over to an older gentleman who was walking around the table, ready to help when needed, and shook hands with him. “How’s it going, Todd?” he asked.
“Slicker’n goose snot, General,” Todd Bishop said happily. Even though he was age eighty-one, Todd was one of the more active seniors in the squadron, serving in the incident command center, the comm trailer, and as a glider-flight instructor and cadet-orientation pilot. “Those sensors are flippin’ amazing. I caught a glimpse of one of the cadets reading a newspaper through someone’s window! I nixed that right away, of course — you know he wasn’t just searchin’ for newspaper headlines — but I’m amazed we can do that.”
Patrick watched one of the fifteen-year-old female cadets named Roxanne study the images taken yesterday. She started with a wide-angle picture of an area about thirty miles southeast of the base, then punched a function key. Immediately there was a series of flashing red icons. She started at the upper-left corner of the screen, rolled the cursor over the icon, and pressed a button. The screen zoomed in to reveal a dirt road stretching from a ranch house westward until it intersected a paved road, which eventually led north to the town of Crescent Valley. “What have you got, Roxanne?” Patrick asked.
“A lot of new activity on this dirt road in the past few days, sir,” she explained, taking a sip of Red Bull. “This is the Kellerman ranch, except Mr. Fitzgerald says it’s been vacant for quite a while. I’ve looked at the house, and it doesn’t seem to be vandalized or anything.”
“Any patterns in the activity?” Patrick asked. “Types of vehicles, or when they come or go?”
“Not really, sir,” Roxanne replied. She hit another function key, and the image changed slightly. “This is real time. Most of the activity happens at night, but it’s everything from motorbikes to ATVs to pickups. No one seems to stay very long. It’s like they’re visiting or going out there to get something, but I don’t see any activity in the house otherwise. The corrals and barns are empty too.”
“So what do you think, Roxanne?” Patrick asked.
She thought for a moment, then replied, “They might be kids just joyriding, or maybe someone looking for the Kellermans — I don’t see any sign of a crime being committed. We should call the sheriff’s office to take a look on the ground. It’d be best if they were there between eleven P. M. and two A. M., but I don’t think the sheriff will put somebody out there for that long, on the off chance of catching someone out there.”
Patrick nodded, impressed with her analysis and recommendation. “I’ll keep on bugging the sheriff’s department,” he said, “but they don’t seem too interested in what we’re seeing.” He nodded at her energy drink. “How long have you been here today, Roxanne?”
“Since eight.”
“Five hours already?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when do you usually quit?”
“I have to be back home by four so I can finish feeding the animals and cleaning out the stables and pens by six,” she said. “Dad always wants dinner right at six.”
“What do your folks say about all this?”
“I don’t think they care much,” Roxanne said. “As long as I do my chores and stay out of trouble, they think it’s okay.”
“What do they think of you analyzing drone imagery?”
“I don’t think they know, or if they do, they don’t care,” she said. “I tell them I’m going to the squadron to work with you, and they just say, ‘Have fun.’ ”
“And how do you like it?”
“I think it’s neat,” Roxanne replied. “Mr. Bishop has made it a sort of contest: whoever turns in the most detailed analyses wins a Baskin-Robbins gift certificate. The boys think they can win just because they play more video games than girls, but their reports are nothing but junk — they’re just trying to turn in the most reports.”
That was interesting, Patrick thought: it wasn’t work, but a game. “Thanks for explaining all this, Roxanne,” he said. “Good work. Carry on.”
“Okay,” Roxanne replied, but she was already twirling the trackball and fixating on the next red blinking icon, ignoring the senior beside her.
He scanned around the room. “Hey, you got Ralph Markham here too?” he remarked to Brad.
“The kid’s a computer freak, Dad,” Brad said. “Uncle Jon hardly had to explain how to work anything — he just sat in front of the computer and started working. He’s been here since seven A. M. He actually found a crash site that hadn’t been found before. Mr. Fitzgerald went out there and found a victim that had been reported missing for six years . Do you believe it?”
“Ralph’s a natural Civil Air Patrol guy, that’s for sure,” Patrick said. He went over to the boy’s workstation. “Hi, Ralph.” Ralph immediately tried to shoot to his feet, but Patrick held up a hand to stop him. “Carry on, Ralph. This isn’t Civil Air Patrol, just us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you looking at?”
“Las Vegas grids six and seven, sir,” Ralph replied. “Right on the border between central Lander and Eureka Counties.”
“About as far south as the patrols fly so far,” Patrick observed. “Anything happening?” He looked at Ralph’s screen. “A lot of flashing icons in this area.”
“Those are mines, sir,” Ralph said. “A lot of trucks going in and out.” He hit some function keys and the display changed. “We don’t have a plane in that area right now, so this isn’t real time, but less than an hour old, from your last patrol sortie.” It was a huge terraced strip mine, probably a mile in diameter and hundreds of feet deep.
“That’s one of Judah Andorsen’s mines,” a voice said next to him. It was Michael Fitzgerald, wearing what appeared to be deer-hunting clothing. “That might be Freedom-7. They all look alike to me.” He shook hands with Patrick. “How are you, sir?”
“Very good, Fid. What’s happening?”
“Still looking for work,” Fitzgerald said. “I was hoping there was something here on the base.”
“I heard you got laid off. Sorry. I can check with the base personnel office. I heard they were going to put a bunch of the trailers on foundations to make them more permanent. Sound good?”
“If it pays cash money, Patrick, I’ll pick up the trailers with my bare hands,” Fitzgerald said. “Thank you, General.” He nodded toward the screens. “How’s the surveillance going?”
“Pretty good. Congrats on making that find the other day.”
“The kids made the find — I just walked to where they told me,” Fitzgerald said. “Any more targets you need checked out? Roxanne mentioned the Kellerman ranch. You need that scoped out?”
“If the sheriff won’t send anyone, yes, I might have you go on out there,” Patrick said. “It certainly looks suspicious.” Just then he was alerted to an incoming phone call via his intraocular monitor, and he touched his left ear to answer the call. He spoke just a few words, then logged off. “Ralph’s mom is at the front gate, asking — no, demanding — she be let in. I’m going to escort her in.”
Several minutes later, Ralph’s mom, Amanda, was led into the squadron conference room. She went directly over to Ralph. “Hi, Mom,” Ralph greeted her. “I’m helping with—”
“Helping with what, Ralph?” she demanded. She looked at the images on the laptop, her eyes getting bigger and bigger by the second. “So it’s true — you are spying on people in Lander County?”