Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  Don’t look now,” Raymond nods at the long window running down the airstrip side of the café. “Your buddy is coming back.”

  Turning slowly on the stool, I watch Agent Katz jogging down a row of small planes. She’s waving at me through the glass, but I don’t move. Let her come to me for a change. I observe as she works her way through the lobby and into the café. Her ever present silent glare is interrupted by deep breathing.

  “Where’s the fire?” I shrug.

  “Time to go.”

  “Go where? Everything’s grounded. Come have something to eat. The eggs are pretty good.”

  She steps around a man trying to leave and frowns. I run possible objections over in my mind, but she pokes me in the shoulder with two fingers. With my hand over the injured area, I start to argue, but her face is very serious.

  “Fine, whatever,” I grumble, leaving a twenty on the counter and nodding at Raymond, who just filled my coffee. “All yours.”

  “Have a nice day,” he offers, clearing my cup.

  “It’s off to a rough start,” I grumble as Katz herds me out of the café.

  I follow as she marches into the hot Florida sun weaving through a parking lot littered with grounded planes. We pass all sorts of men leaning on wings and chatting. Ideas are tossed back and forth about the cause of the grounding, but from what I can make out they aren’t even close. Once we get to the end of airplane parking, a series of tiny hangers dot the right side of the runway. Outside a yellow one, three down from our position, I can see two men having a conversation. I’d ask for more info, but she is speed walking ahead of me.

  “You sure you can fly this?” Katz shouts ahead.

  A man I recall as our Gulfstream pilot walks around the wing of a small plane. He’s ditched his blue uniform jacket and Captain’s hat and is now sporting rolled up shirt sleeves over sweaty forearms. When I scan the small hangar, there is only myself, Agent Katz, and the pilot. One other Agent was on the plane, but he seems to have wandered away.

  “It’s a Cessna 172,” he laughs. “I trained on one just like it. Heck, everyone trains on one of these.”

  “So you’re sticking with yes?”

  He rolls his eyes and pushes a rolling ladder to the front. He’s chubby, not really fat, but more a fit person aging poorly.

  “And you can start it without keys?” Katz pesters him.

  He doesn’t reply, climbing the ladder and opening a cowl over one side of the engine. The Cessna’s wings are over the top of the cockpit, struts supporting them on either side. It’s white, but thick blue stripes split the difference. The pilot fishes around under the cowl, then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a set of wire cutters.

  “What is he doing?” I whisper to Katz, but am heard by the pilot.

  “Cutting the P-Lead,” he shouts over his shoulder.

  “What’s a P-Lead?” Katz demands.

  “A wire that runs from the ignition to the Magneto. When the ignition is off, the P-Lead is grounded, but cutting the wire ungrounds it, thus allowing it to produce a spark. By doing so—.”

  “Hey, Mr. Wizard,” Katz cuts him off. “We just need to know if you can start it.”

  “We’ll have to prop it by hand, but yes.”

  “Whose plane is this?” I ask quietly as the pilot pushes the rolling ladder away.

  “I’m not sure,” she admits, looking like she wants to lie.

  “Are we stealing it?”

  “Stealing has such an ugly connotation. I prefer the term commandeering.”

  “Might I ask why?” I beg, all the while watching the pilot struggle to remove two chunks of wood blocking the wheels. “Don’t we already have a better one than this?”

  “One of you want to help me push this out.”

  “Start it in here,” Katz barks, both of them ignoring me.

  To this, the pilot pauses, then begins to speak, but never gets any words out.

  “You push it out there and the locals are going to take notice,” she contends. “People know each other here.”

  “It won’t just jump into the air from the hangar door. I’ll have to at least get to the runway.”

  “I doubt anyone will stand in front of it with the propeller spinning,” she grunts, then backs up slowly to peek out.

  “We haven’t been introduced,” the pilot remarks, holding out his hand. “I’m Clay.”

  “Lydia,” I reply, shaking his sweaty hand.

  “Nice to meet you, now hop in.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I need you to press down on the brake so I can spin the prop from out here. Just relax.”

  “It’s just that I don’t know anything about planes.”

  “I’m not asking you to fly it.”

  “I don’t feel comfortable—.”

  Rather than argue with me, he puts a hand on my elbow and gently leads me around to the passenger side. The door, which is under the wing, opens out. A tiny step pad is attached to the strut that runs from the bottom of the fuselage to the wing.

  “Put a foot there and back in,” he explains, turning me around. “Watch your head.”

  I frown, but do as instructed. The inside is claustrophobically small. I’m glad I don’t have to actually fly anywhere in this rubber band powered matchbox. I turn, pressing my knees together so he can shut the door. In front of me is an identical steering wheel, although I doubt they call it that, on the pilot’s side. He raps a knuckle on the window, then points down and mouths something about the latch. I turn a tiny chrome arm, like the ones on triangle quarter windows in seventies cars, then push the window up. It’s hinged at the top and opens out, maybe three quarters of the way. Clay gives me a thumbs up, then he circles behind and climbs in the other side.

  “Look down,” he instructs, as he’s fiddling with a knob on the instrument panel. “On the top of the rudder pedal is a brake. Press it down.”

  I find the pedal, then arch my foot to hold it down. Clay turns his attention to the control panel. Suddenly, it lights up, yellow numbers spinning on four separate windows. A GPS, like the one you’d see in a car, flashes to the loading screen, the words Garmin glowing over a blue background. I’m drawn away from Clay’s preparation by a new arrival.

  A black sedan jerks to a stop in front of the hangar door, the chirping of rubber on hot asphalt. The missing Agent from the Gulfstream pops out. He and Katz meet up at the trunk, the lid popping up. I’m focused on their exchange, but notice Clay has climbed out to join them. I peer out the curved Lexan trying to see what they are up to.

  From inside the trunk, Agent Katz removes what would appear to be a very large gun. Confused about this odd turn of events, I struggle to open the door and slide out, bumping my head on the door frame. They don’t even notice me until I come around the wing into the sunlight at the edge of the hangar.

  “Take this,” Katz blurts, holding out the military looking riffle with a long-vented noise suppresser on the end of the barrel.

  “Don’t I have to wait two weeks for a background check?” I groan, backing up a step.

  “I’m expediting your request,” she barks, trying to push it into my hands.

  “Possibly someone could give me some context?”

  “You two,” Katz begins, looking first at Clay and then back to me,” are going to fly over to Canaveral and shoot down the Tesla drone before it drops the United flight full of innocent people into an orange grove.”

  “Excuse me,” I argue, then pause to exhale deeply. “Looking past the obvious issue that it’s not 1910 and I’m not the Red Baron, why would this be a better option than a Military strike? It’s feels a little low tech for the last remaining super power to hijack a tiny plane, then send two everyday citizens up with a machine gun.”

  “He’s not an everyday anything,” Katz grunts, wagging a thumb as Clay. “He’s retired Air Force.”

  “I’m not, why don’t you go?”

  “I don’t like guns,” she rolls her eyes, han
ding me the rifle, which I take reluctantly. “Plus, Hal said to send you.”

  I pull out my phone and flip it open to call him myself, but pause to reframe my argument.

  “Won’t the drone simply hijack this thing mid-air?”

  “It’s too simple,” Clay explains. “There isn’t any way to control the plane remotely and the EMP won’t prevent it from flying.”

  “The EMP?” I moan. “When did that get on the table?”

  “Drone’s equipped with a starburst pod,” Katz explains. “It charges from the solar panels if it needs to short-out radar or something chasing it. The pulse fries the electronics.”

  “Is that why we are stealing,” I blurt, then pause as Agent Katz frowns. “I mean commandeering this as opposed to taking the Gulfstream?”

  “That’s one reason,” Clay nods. Also, the windows on the Gulfstream don’t roll down.”

  “Cute,” I force a smile, then point back at the Cessna. “There’s a bunch of electronics in there.”

  “We’ll lose the radios and the GPS, but it won’t affect the flying part,” Clay promises.

  “Why on Earth would I agree to do this?”

  Katz leads Clay to the Cessna with her eyes and he takes the hint, walking away.

  “There is the matter of kidnapping and arson charges back in South Carolina,” Katz threatens under her breath.

  “Is Hal blackmailing me now?”

  “He’d prefer not to.”

  “Meaning?”

  She doesn’t reply, simply staring back with her well-practiced blank stare.

  “Well?”

  “This is the safety,” she plows forward, pointing at the side of the gun. “It’s a semi-auto and the magazine holds 20 rounds. If I were you, I’d fire short bursts.”

  “If you were me, you’d refuse to go.”

  “I did refuse, try to keep up,” she smirks, then tilts her head when I don’t laugh. “You had plenty of gun training at Def-Tek. Stop acting like you’re a stay at home mom.”

  This strikes me dizzy. Visions of Glen making breakfast for our daughter as I rushed out the door for work spin past my eyes. I search for a memory where the situations were reversed, but find few to comfort me. Are the memories forgotten, or just buried under grief? Why did she have to use that analogy? In the background of my fuzzy thoughts her voice trails off, then I am drawn out of my daze by another two finger poke in the shoulder.

  “Try not to shoot off the propeller or the wing strut,” she instructs while slipping back into the trunk and coming out with a spare green magazine. “I doubt this will go on very long, but here’s a spare. Once the Drone figures out you’re shooting, it will disappear pretty quick.”

  “What are you going to do while I’m playing Woodstock to his Snoopy?” I sigh, eyeing Clay from a distance.

  “Wave my badge around to calm the locals, who will almost certainly riot when you steal the Cessna,” she remarks, then puts a hand on the rifle, lowering the barrel as I hold it carelessly. “Then drive like a bat out of hell to the other side of the state to pat you on the back after you end this mess.”

  “I don’t think—.”

  “Relax Princess,” she interrupts me. “The Drone doesn’t come with any guns. It can’t hurt you so relax.”

  “Nice sales pitch,” I shake my head as we walk to the passenger side of the Cessna.

  “Look,” she barks, then lowers her voice. “Forget about all the people who died on the planes under 6,000 feet of salt water in the Indian Ocean, let’s just focus on the 258 passengers in the triple-seven being dangled over jam packed hotels on the coast.”

  “You’re a real sweet talker,” I grumble, handing her the gun as I back into the co-pilot’s seat.

  “Happy hunting,” she glares, shoving the gun into my lap and slamming the door.

  I have to put the gun in the messy back seat before I can get my seatbelt on. Various bundles and half empty boxes litter the claustrophobic space. The harness is two pieces, a lap belt, then a clip-on shoulder harness reminding me of a forest green seventies impala driven by my father. Clay primes the engine, then opens the throttle a quarter of the way. I know this as he’s reciting the steps out loud as he completes them.

  “Stay here and hold down the brake,” he instructs, then hops out and stands, two hands on the prop. “Clear.”

  He pulls down hard and it turns in a jerky way, but stops. He repeats the yelling and the spinning until it coughs to life on the third try. Quick as a cat, he climbs back in and throttles the engine up, drowning out any other sounds.

  “Headset,” he shouts, then slips on his own.

  The earmuff headphones have a wire with a microphone that I have to bend in front of my mouth. There’s a tiny gumdrop of foam over it, which gets stuck in my teeth when I pull them on. Initial static is broken by Clay’s voice.

  “These will work until we get hit by the pulse.”

  “Perfect,” I mutter, but the microphone turns on automatically and picks up my words.

  “Ready to go save the world?” he jokes as he runs the engine up, rattling my seat.

  “When you put it like that, how can I say no?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Katz and Clay exchange a nod, then she steps out into the sun and scans the tarmac. How did I end up here? We receive a thumbs up, then she disappears to the left. We suddenly start moving forward, then turn left by some application of flaps and the roaring engine. There is a wide open paved area outside the hanger before it peels off into taxiways.

  Every eye turns on us as we taxi out into the sun. Whether it’s because everything’s grounded or they suspect we are stealing the plane, I cannot be sure. Several men in reflective vests begin moving our way and at least one pickup truck turns lazily in our direction. Clay suddenly applies the brakes hard.

  “No go?” I blurt.

  “The airport’s basically on lock-down,” he shrugs, gunning the engine as we sit frozen on the ground. “With a little extra flap we can do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Short field takeoff,” he mutters, releasing the brake.

  The Cessna lurches forward, picking up speed quickly. Katz, who had stepped into view waving her ID when the men noticed us, has to scurry out of the way as we zoom across the tarmac in the direction of the taxiway. The pickup truck, which has an orange triangle stuck on the driver’s door, slows. A hand waves out the window at us, but there are a dozen guys running our way so it’s not just him.

  “People might get of the way, but I don’t think the truck’s getting the hint,” I exhale into the tiny foam microphone.

  Clay doesn’t respond, clearly focused on the task at hand. We fly headlong in the direction of the truck, which looks bigger the closer we get to it.

  “Seriously?” I shout, pressing my arm on the door frame.

  I’m expecting a long drawn out liftoff, like the terrifying moments on a commercial flight as the wheels tap the runway before lifting. This isn’t the case as the Cessna jumps into the air all of sudden, floating lightly, like dandelion fluff on a stiff breeze. I hold my breath, every muscle in my body clenched tight, but the landing gear clears the truck’s roof and we flutter into blue skies. The engine wails as we fight to climb. Clay lowers our rate of assent until we pick up some speed, then angles up in a slow arc.

  “Ever do that in the Airforce?”

  “No, but a Cessna only needs 600 feet to get off the ground.”

  “I think you managed it in 598,” I needle him. “How far?”

  “Its 130 miles from here to the east coast. We can make that in less than an hour.”

  “That’s quick.”

  “The wind’s not bad. I’m just going to fly east until I see water, then turn north up the coast—.”

  “Until we see a rocket?”

  He nods.

  “How high?”

  He points to one of the many round gauges. It’s like a clock, but the numbers only run from one to nine, with zero at t
he top and five on the bottom. The long hand moves quickly, like a power meter on your house with all the Christmas lights turned on. The smaller hand goes up one number every time the long needle makes a revolution. The shorter of the two passes the three as we plow into a haze of white clouds momentarily, then burst into clear blue sky.

  “Will there be beverage service?”

  “Negative,” he remarks, then pulls the plane into a steep climb.

  “I hate you,” I groan, my stomach doing a flip.

  We level out a bit, although still climbing past 4,000 feet. My ears pop repeatedly, no matter how hard I pretend to chew. I wish had some gum. Looking down is mesmerizing. Out the window white puffy clouds float far below. The engine noise is overpowering, but the longer I am in here, the less it bothers me. We pass over what looks like orange groves, but at this altitude it’s hard to be sure.

  In my pocket, the phone vibrates on my thigh. I have to contort my body in the tight space to dig it out. As I suspected, it’s Hal. I doubt he will hear me over the engine, but I flip it open and yell, a hand over the foam gumdrop to keep from shouting in Clay’s ear.

  “I won’t be able to hear you, but we are on route to Cape Canaveral. If you can track the phone, I suggest you do.”

  I gaze down and see the call end. I’m wondering if he could make out any of my message, but then it vibrates again. This time it’s a text.

  DADDY: On route in what?

  ME: A Cessna Agent Katz helped me steal

  DADDY: Good

  ME: Can you track the phone?

  DADDY: Yes

  ME: Then do it

  There’s a long pause before a smile emoji pops on the screen. I reply back with a skull from the Halloween choices.

  DADDY: Tracking U now, Happy Hunting

  ME: Blackmailer

  I watch the circles turn, indicating that he is typing, but then no reply appears. I close the phone and try to be less surprised. As we gain altitude, I glance around the plane, but wind up looking at a set of laminated cards with a ring through one corner. They’re wedged in a sort of clipboard in the center of the steering wheel on my side. Each one has a grid of colored lists. I flip through them and deduce that it’s a takeoff checklist.