Free A Time for Patriots by Dale Brown Page B

navigation system, which gave Patrick his direction of flight after takeoff.
    â€œTakeoff briefing,” Patrick began. “John, back me up on engine instruments; Leo, watch for traffic. Engine failure during takeoff roll: throttle to idle, max braking as needed, flaps up, secure the engine. Engine failure after takeoff but less than one thousand feet aboveground: trim for seventy-five knots, full flaps, secure the engine, land straight ahead; if above one thousand feet, we’ll attempt a turn back to the runway, but we have lots of better options for an off-airport landing—if the airplane breaks, it belongs to the insurance company, not us. Any questions?” No reply. “Everyone ready?”
    â€œObserver.”
    â€œScanner.”
    â€œHere we go.” Patrick taxied to the runway hold line, got takeoff clearance from the Battle Mountain control tower—actually a series of cameras and sensors all around the airfield, with controllers indoors watching on monitors—taxied onto the long reinforced concrete runway, and made the takeoff. The runway was so long that he could have made two more takeoffs and landings and still not have been in any danger of running out of concrete.
    â€œCAP 2722, airborne,” John reported on the FM radio.
    â€œBattle Mountain Base, roger,” Spara replied.
    A Remote Desert Playa, Central Nevada
    A short time later
    T he landing on the hard alkali desert surface was one of the worst the workers had ever seen, and they were sure they’d see the big twin-engine plane flip upside down or spin out of control across the playa. But the pilot managed to keep it under control, and soon the King Air was taxiing across the three-inch-deep alkali dust toward the drop-off point.
    â€œThought you’d ground-loop her for sure, Carl,” one of them said after boarding the King Air and making his way to the cockpit. The engines were still running at idle power, and a cloud of white dust swirled inside the plane. “You still got the touch, though. I shoulda warned you that the winds were squirrelly, but I didn’t want to—”
    The man stopped, and a chill ran up and down his spine. The pilot named Carl was slumped over the control wheel, still strapped in his seat, which was covered in bloody diarrhea, urine, and vomit. At first he thought Carl was dead . . . but a few moments later he saw him raise his head and look back. “Carl?” the man asked. “You look like shit, man.”
    â€œFunny,” Carl breathed. He coughed up more bloody substances, smiled, and sat up. “I feel like hell, not shit.”
    â€œYou gonna make it, Carl?” the man asked. “The commander said to unload all the casks if you don’t think you’ll make it.”
    â€œI’ll be okay,” Carl breathed. He wiped his mouth, looked at the bloody mess covering his legs, floor, seat, and most of his instrument panel, then shook his head. “Just great. A perfectly good breakfast, wasted.”
    â€œYou want me to clean all that up, Carl?”
    â€œScrew it,” Carl said. “Won’t matter anyway.” He seemed to doze off, then reawaken with a start, look around as if regaining his bearings, then turn back toward his comrade. “You got any whiskey, Joe?” he asked.
    â€œThought you weren’t supposed to fly and drink,” Joe said even as he thought, What a stupid thing to say, quoting FAA regulations at a time like this. But before Carl could repeat his request, he nodded. “You got it, Carl. Sit tight and relax.”
    About ten minutes later, the worker named Joe returned to the cockpit with a plastic canteen. Another worker was maneuvering one of the casks behind him. “Here ya go, Carl,” Joe said. “A little Black Jack for ya.” Carl took the canteen and drank—most of it dribbled out of his mouth, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. “We got the payload