Free A Time for Patriots by Dale Brown

get some turbulence, so let me know if anyone feels queasy. Flat terrain except for Adam Peak, good visibility, and a half-mile track separation gives us a probability of detection of eighty-five percent, so let’s get this one. Questions?” Leo and John shook their heads. “Okay. I’ll do an airplane preflight. You guys preflight the radios, camera, and DF, copy the airplane hours into the logbook and the mission forms, and get a good radio check with the IC and ground team.”
    Patrick put on a pair of Nomex fireproof gloves and began to work on preflighting the four-seat Cessna, working with a plastic-laminated checklist. John met up with him a few minutes later. “Comm is good,” he said, “and the DF self-tests okay.”
    â€œWhich means it’ll be almost useless?” Patrick deadpanned.
    â€œIf you talk badly about the DF, it will hear you and act badly,” John deadpanned back. “I thought 406 megahertz satellite ELTs were required on all planes.”
    â€œThey are,” Patrick said. “But everyone is cutting corners to cut costs these days, and ELTs are one of those things that you never think you’ll ever use. The owner was probably waiting until his ELT battery replacement was due before buying the new one.”
    â€œWell, hopefully it’ll keep on working long enough to get a good steer,” John said. He nodded to Patrick. “I’m always amazed watching you work, Patrick.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou’re the guy who’s flown all sorts of heavy iron, from B-52s to spaceplanes,” John said, “and here you are, preflighting a plane that probably weighs less than one of the bomb-bay doors on a B-52, and you’re using a paper checklist. You can probably preflight a Cessna 182 blindfolded.”
    â€œI probably could,” Patrick said, “but when I think I know it all, that’ll be the time to quit flying.”
    â€œTrue enough,” John said. He paused for a moment, then commented, “I . . . I’m not sure if I’ve said this to you before, Patrick, and if I have, I apologize, but . . .”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI just can’t believe you are here,” John said, his eyes filled with unabashed wonder—one might even describe it as amazement. “I mean, you are Patrick McLanahan. The Patrick McLanahan. It seems like one day you’re leading a group of bombers against Russia to avenge America for the American Holocaust, then the next you’re on the space station, and then you’re in Iraq stopping a major war from breaking out between Turkey and America. The next day, you’re in little Battle Mountain, Nevada, flying Cessna 182s and 206s for the Civil Air Patrol. With all due respect, sir . . . what in hell are you doing here? I mean, here ?”
    â€œI explained this to the squadron when I first joined, John,” Patrick began. “I retired from the Air Force—”
    â€œYou mean, you were forced to retire.”
    â€œPresident Phoenix put his political life on the line during his campaign when he supported me and stood against President Gardner prosecuting me for the Aden and Socotra Island incidents,” Patrick said. “I felt I had no choice but to retire. President Gardner still decided to prosecute the others and myself. I was lucky: the case hadn’t gone to the jury by the time President Phoenix was sworn in, and he pardoned me.”
    â€œThe others weren’t so lucky.”
    â€œI know,” Patrick said somberly. “A lot of good people had their lives turned inside out because of the orders I issued, even though no one spent any time in prison.” He straightened his shoulders. “Okay, let’s get our heads back in the game, John.”
    â€œBut wait, Patrick,” the retired Coast Guard officer said quietly. He put a hand on Patrick’s arm in earnest. “You still didn’t