The phone was ringing as Brad dashed out the door — no one he wanted to talk to right now used the home phone, so the quicker he could get away, the better. He had made it to the car and was just opening the driver’s door when he heard the front door to the trailer open and his dad shouted, “Brad!”
“Gotta go, Dad,” he shouted, not stopping. Sheesh, he thought, who calls the home number for him on a Saturday afternoon? All his friends used his cell number. “I’m meeting Ron and he needs—”
“Squadron recall,” Patrick said. “Actual. Everyone. Seventy-two hours.”
They did. All thoughts of freedom disappeared as he dashed back into the house. Hanging out with his friends, driving, playing computer games… all good, but they were all pretty lame compared to this .
Patrick and Brad raced back into the trailer, and within moments reemerged from their bedrooms dressed in completely different clothes. Patrick wore a sage-green flight suit and black leather flying boots. The black leather nameplate above his left pocket had a set of Civil Air Patrol wings, his name, the letters CAP in one lower corner and his Civil Air Patrol rank, COL , on the other (even though Patrick retired from the Air Force as a lieutenant-general, the highest rank he could attain in Civil Air Patrol without earning advancement points was colonel), along with Civil Air Patrol and Nevada Wing patches. Brad wore a camouflaged battle-dress uniform with blue-and-white cloth name tapes with MCLANAHAN on one side and CIVIL AIR PATROL on the other, along with a green camouflage cap, an orange safety vest, and black leather combat boots. Both carried backpacks with extra gear; Brad carried a smaller pack on his web belt. “Ready to go, big guy?” Patrick asked.
“Ready.” Like the costumed heroes Batman and Robin heading to the Batmobile, the two raced to Patrick’s four-door Jeep Wrangler and drove off.
The roads in the trailer subdivision were muddy from the recent thunderstorms, but the Wrangler handled them with ease. The subdivision was a temporary trailer housing settlement built during the expansion of the air base located nearby — at least it was meant to be temporary, until the sudden and dramatic downturn in the economy and the new president’s response to the crisis made the trailers permanent. The roads were still unpaved, and now half of the trailers were empty.
It took about five minutes to get back on paved surfaces, and then another ten minutes before reaching the outer perimeter of the airfield. The perimeter was a simple sign and chain-link fence, designed more to keep tumbleweeds and coyotes out, and an unmanned guard gate. But Patrick and Brad both knew that their identities were already being remotely determined and recorded, and their movements carefully tracked by the air base’s high-tech security sensors. Joint Air Base Battle Mountain didn’t look much different from the surrounding high desert, but at this place, looks were deceiving.
What was now Joint Air Base Battle Mountain had a colorful past, most of which the public was unaware of, or at best indifferent to. It started life as Tuscarora Army Air Corps Field in 1942 to train bomber and pursuit crews for service in World War II. After the war, the airfield was turned over to Lander County, and some of the government land south of the field sold to mining companies. A few businesses and an air museum tried to make a go of it at the isolated airfield, but there simply wasn’t that much business in remote north-central Nevada, and the airfield seemed to languish.
But the underground elevators, buildings, rail lines, power distributors, and ventilation systems that popped up around the airfield were never meant for miners: the U.S. government secretly constructed a vast underground cave network beneath Tuscarora Army Air Corps Base. The facility was designed to be a government reconstitution command center, a base far from population centers to which the heads of the U.S. government and military would escape and ride out a Soviet or Chinese nuclear-missile attack. After the attack was over, the officials at Battle Mountain would broadcast instructions to the survivors and begin rescue and regeneration efforts for the people of the western United States.
The facility was the ultimate in 1950s technology: it made its own power, air, and water; it was built to withstand anything but a direct hit with a one-megaton nuclear warhead; it even boasted an underground hangar with elevators that would take aircraft as large as a B-52 bomber belowground to safety. The base was so isolated that most miners and ranchers never realized the facility existed.
But when the Cold War ended, Battle Mountain was shuttered… until it was reactivated in the early twenty-first century by General Patrick McLanahan as the headquarters for a new high-tech aerial attack unit called the Air Battle Force. The Air Battle Force contained some of the most secret and amazing air-combat machines ever built: two-hundred-ton bombers with the radar cross section of a flea; bombers fitted with lasers that could shoot down ballistic missiles and satellites in low Earth orbit; even multiple flights of unmanned bombers that could fly supersonic combat missions halfway around the world. Still, the little community and its mysterious underground base went almost completely unnoticed by the rest of the world…
… until the American Holocaust, when the United States was attacked by waves of Russian bombers launching hypersonic nuclear-tipped missiles. Almost the entire fleet of American long-range bombers and more than half of America’s intercontinental-ballistic-missile arsenal was wiped out in a matter of hours. But Battle Mountain’s little fleet of high-tech bombers, led by Patrick McLanahan, survived and formed the spearhead of the American counterattack that destroyed most of Russia’s ground-launched intercontinental nuclear missiles and restored a tenuous sort of parity in nuclear forces between the two nations.
Battle Mountain emerged from the horrific tragedy of the American Holocaust to become the center of American air-breathing strategic combat operations. All of America’s surviving heavy bombers, intelligence-gathering planes, and airborne command posts were relocated to Battle Mountain, and a fleet of long-range unmanned combat aircraft began to grow there. The base even became a staging area for America’s fleet of manned and unmanned spaceplanes — aircraft that could take off and land like conventional aircraft but boost themselves into low Earth orbit.
Even during the deep global economic recession that began in 2008, Battle Mountain grew, although the community around it barely noticed. Because of its isolation and dirt-low cost of living, many bases around the world were closed and relocated to Battle Mountain. Soon Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base became JAB (Joint Air Base) Battle Mountain, hosting air units from all the military services, the Air Reserve Forces, the Central Intelligence Agency, and even the Space Defense Force.
But then the economic crash of December 2012 happened, and everything changed.
Newly elected president Kenneth Phoenix, politically exhausted from a bruising and divisive election that saw yet another president being chosen in effect by the U.S. Supreme Court, ordered a series of massive tax cuts as well as cuts in all government services. Such government cuts had not been seen since the Thomas Thorn administration: entire cabinet-level departments, such as education, commerce, transportation, energy, and veterans affairs, were consolidated with other departments or closed outright; all entitlement-program outlays were cut in half or defunded completely; American military units and even entire bases around the world disappeared virtually overnight. Despite howls of protest from both the political left and right, Congress had no choice but to agree to the severe austerity measures.