“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Brad,” Patrick said. “I can’t allow it. It’s too dangerous. I need you to—”
“I’m an adult now, Dad,” Brad interrupted, finding it a little amusing to be arguing with a twelve-foot-tall robot. “Unless you take my constitutional rights away from me by force, I’m free to do whatever I want to do. Besides, I’m not afraid. Now that I know what’s going on—at least a little bit more than what I knew just a couple hours ago—I’ll be more careful.”
Kevin Martindale leaned toward Patrick and said, “Sounds like a damned McLanahan to me, all right,” he commented with a smile. “What are you going to do now, General? Looks like the immovable object has met the irresistible force.”
Patrick remained silent for several long moments. Finally: “Sergeant Major?”
“Sir?” Wohl responded immediately.
“Meet with Bradley and your team and come up with a resolution to this dilemma,” Patrick said. “I want to know the risks and your assessments as to how to reduce or mitigate those risks to Bradley’s person if he returns to that university campus. Report back to me as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir,” Wohl responded, pulling out his cell phone and getting to work.
“Brad, you are not going back to school until this is settled to my satisfaction, and if necessary, to ensure your compliance, I will hog-tie you and throw you in the baggage compartment—and it won’t be that plane’s compartment, but one a lot smaller,” Patrick went on. “Sorry, son, but that’s the way it’s going to be. Looks like we’re staying here for the foreseeable future.” He paused, silently scanning his onboard computer displays for information. “There’s a motel not far from here with a restaurant, Sergeant Major,” he said. “They’re showing plenty of vacancies. I’ll have Kylie get you rooms and send you the info. Stay there for tonight and we’ll come up with a game plan in the morning. Have one of the men bring back some food for Bradley, please.”
“Yes, sir,” Wohl responded, and he turned and departed.
“But what are you going to do, Dad?” Brad asked. “You can’t check into a motel.”
“I’ll be secure enough right here,” Patrick said. “I don’t need hotel beds or restaurants anymore, that’s for sure.”
“Then I’ll stay here with you,” Brad said. The CID was motionless and silent. “I’m staying here with you,” Brad insisted.
“The McLanahans getting reacquainted,” Martindale said. “Lovely.” He pulled out a smartphone and read the display. “My jet is landing. As soon as it taxies over, I’m going back to St. George and sleep in my own bed for a change. You can work out the details of how to deal with the younger McLanahan, General.” He paused, and everyone fell silent, and sure enough they could hear the sound of an approaching jet outside the hangar. “My ride has arrived. I wish you gents well. Keep me advised, General.”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick’s electronically synthesized voice replied.
“Good night, all,” sad Martindale, and he turned on a heel and departed, followed by his security detail.
Patrick spoke into midair through the CID unit’s extensive communications system: “Kylie?”
A few moments later: “Yes, sir?” replied “Kylie,” an automated voice-recognition electronic personal assistant that was given the same name as Patrick’s real-life assistant back at Sky Masters Inc.
“We need two motel or hotel rooms nearby for tonight, and maybe three more for tomorrow and the next day for the sergeant major’s team,” Patrick said. “I’ll be staying here tonight; ‘Policeman’ is heading back to headquarters.” “Policeman” was the code name for President Martindale.
“Yes, sir,” Kylie responded. “I have already received ‘Policeman’s’ updated itinerary. I will send lodging information to the sergeant major right away.”
“Thank you,” Patrick said. “Out.” To Brad he said, “Pull up a chair, son. I can’t wait to start getting caught up.” Brad found bottles of water in the small refrigerator. The CID extended a thick extension cord from a compartment on his waist, plugged it into a 220-volt outlet, stood up straight, then froze in place. Brad brought a chair and the water over to the CID. Inside the robot, Patrick couldn’t help but smile at his son’s expression. “Pretty weird, isn’t it, Brad?” he said.
“?‘Weird’ doesn’t even begin to describe it, Dad,” Brad said, shaking his head, then placing a cold bottle against the swelling bruise on his head. He studied the CID carefully. “Do you sleep okay in there?”