“If they ever let us call anyone,” Bellville remarked. “How long can they keep us here incommunicado like this? They took our cell phones and even the squadron’s computers.”
“They said we couldn’t use cell phones,” Patrick said. “Let me see what I can do.” He motioned to Brad to follow him, then walked over to an isolated corner of the hangar as far from the break room as he could. “Keep an eye out for guys talking into their sleeves,” he told his son. He raised his right hand, then activated his personal satellite Internet portal, his artificial lens monitors, and his virtual keyboard.
His first VoIP phone call was to Darrow Horton in Washington. “Patrick!” Darrow said excitedly. Darrow — named after famed libertarian and criminal attorney Clarence Darrow, a distant relative — was a bit older than Patrick, tall and slender, with long dark hair and sparkling blue eyes, an avid outdoor-sports enthusiast as well as a brilliant attorney. At that moment she was outdoors on a video-enabled laptop — obviously not in her Washington office. “Things are a little busy since the attack in Reno, but it’s nice to hear from you. Wish I could see you. Your webcam not working?”
“Hi, Darrow,” Patrick said, pronouncing her name “Darra” in the proper North Carolina way, which was where she was originally from. “No, I’m on a… different machine right now. This is a business call.”
“Uh-oh,” Darrow said. “What did you do now?”
“I’m here in Battle Mountain, Nevada,” Patrick explained. “I was airborne during the nationwide airspace closure, and now I’m being detained.”
“Ouch,” Darrow said. “Homeland Security — that’s going to be tough until things calm down, if they ever do. Where’s Battle Mountain?”
“North-central Nevada.”
“Good. I’m up in Friday Harbor, Washington, on vacation, so it won’t take that long to get to you. Who’s got you? FAA? Homeland Security? Customs and Border Protection?”
“FBI.”
“Another ouch.” He could see her thinking, planning strategies; then: “Okay, I’ll get my staff on the case back in D.C., and I’ll get a car and start heading in your direction. I should be there in a couple days. What in the world is in Battle Mountain, Nevada?”
“What’s left of the Space Defense Force, and my son.”
“How’s Bradley doing?”
“He and his Civil Air Patrol strike team found an airplane-crash survivor yesterday,” Patrick said proudly. “He’s turning into a young man. You won’t recognize him when you see him.”
“And Gia?”
“MIA.”
“Again?” Patrick wasn’t sure, but he thought Darrow didn’t really sound concerned or empathetic. She spent as much time on canoeing trips and rock-climbing expeditions as she did in courtrooms — Patrick knew few men who had a chance in keeping up with her, including himself. Darrow did not like weakness, in herself or in others. She always felt that Gia Cazzotto had been too quick to blame others for her downfall, and it left a bad mark on all women. But men were a different issue. Patrick always felt that Darrow wasn’t looking for a man who could keep up with her, but one who was strong in other areas. “Sorry. We’ll have a chance to talk when I get there.”
“Thanks. I’m looking forward to seeing you.”
“Dad?” Brad touched his father’s shoulder. “Someone heading this way.”
“Gotta go, Darrow. Thank you.” He terminated the call and turned. It was the female FBI agent who’d been with Chastain in the break room. Patrick got to his feet as she approached. She was a bit taller than he was, probably about ten years younger, with long dark hair, dark eyes, and an athletic body. She wore a dark gray suit with a low-cut cream blouse under the jacket that accentuated her breasts very well. Her eyes were narrow and inquisitive as she crossed the hangar, but when she noticed Patrick standing, she immediately put on a friendly smile.
Patrick held out a hand to her as she approached. “We were never introduced,” he said. “Patrick.”
“Everyone knows who you are, sir,” she said. She took his hand and shook it with a very firm grip. “Special Agent Cassandra Renaldo, U.S. Department of Homeland Security, antiterrorist unit. Everyone calls me Cassie.”
Patrick smiled as she released his hand. “That must be your shooting hand,” he said with a smile, shaking his hand in mock pain.
“Sorry,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I spend too much time with guy agents who do that to me all the time.”
“My son, Brad,” Patrick said, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder.
They shook hands, and she saw it immediately: that adolescent smitten expression. Brad McLanahan was in love. She gave him a big smile and an appreciative glance. “You’re in the Civil Air Patrol too?” she asked, admiring his camouflage field uniform. “I think that is so exciting for a young man.” Brad didn’t answer, but continued to gaze at her, casting glances at her cleavage. Cassandra gave him another approving smile, then turned back to Patrick. “Both of you, working together. How cool is that?”
“Agent Renaldo…”
