Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  “Did you do any of this stuff,” I ask, holding up the cards.

  “We stole a plane and took off on the taxiway.”

  “Whoever owns this toy seems to think this list is pretty important.”

  “Read me some.”

  “Walk around inspection,” I recite.

  “Did it.”

  “Tire pressure?”

  “Wheels where round, they went around?”

  “Check fuel tanks for water?”

  He shrugs and says nothing, leaving me perplexed.

  “Why is that important?”

  “If there is water in the gas, the plane could stall.”

  “How do you check?”

  “There’s a thing that looks like a pen and you press it up into a valve under each wing, but I don’t know where this guy keeps his stuff.”

  “Well, that’s on you then,” I roll my eyes. “We got plenty of gas though right? The checklist has a line for manual inspection.”

  “I didn’t have time to crawl on the wings to manually check,” he complains. “Don’t worry, there are gauges.”

  He leans back and taps two gauges side by side. They’re located to the left of his knee. He pauses and taps them again, then forces a smile in my direction.

  “What?”

  “Right needle is stuck,” he shrugs, flicking it with his finger.

  “But they’re accurate?”

  “I’d feel it if one tank was dry,” he assures me. “Just an electrical malfunction.”

  I whack his shoulder with the check list then spend the next ten minutes running down every line, ending with him pulling it out of my hand and tossing it behind us.

  We fly along for the next half hour making small talk. Clay is a retired Air Force Colonel. He’s married with two grown sons back in San Diego. When asked about working for Hal he is illusive, suggesting flying private charters is just a way to earn a few extra bucks. I don’t doubt that Hal is unknown to Clay, but he has to understand this is Government work. What else would it be? I am likewise tight lipped, choosing not to go into detail about my lost husband and child, simply revealing that I do some consulting for Hal.

  Before I have to downright lie, we begin a turn, thankfully slowly. We bank left and when I gaze across Clay, out the left side, I’m looking almost straight down. Blue green water dotted with white caps runs along a sandy coastline. Tiny squares, that must be buildings and roads, dot the land.

  “Where are we?”

  “South, way south, Vero Beach maybe.”

  “How long?”

  “We should see the Key in the next ten minutes.”

  Flipping open the phone, I text Hal.

  ME: Any idea where the Drone is?

  There’s a long pause, causing me to wonder if the text got through. Possibly the Drone is jamming it. Moments later the familiar vibration precedes Hal’s answer.

  DADDY: North of Space Center; 9,000 feet.

  When I close the screen, an ember sets up shop in the back of my brain. How is he tracking the Drone to such a specific number? I thought it was invisible. I make a mental note to ask him about this when I get my feet back on solid ground.

  “The Drone’s north of the Space Center at 9,000 feet.”

  “That information, while helpful, is based on what?”

  “Text from my people.”

  “Your people are well connected.”

  “They are technically your people too.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  “Can we go that high?” I worry, noting the altimeter reading just over 6,000 feet. “Are we—?”

  “We don’t need to be pressurized until 12,000, but let’s try to get this done at nine.”

  I start to talk, but the plane jerks upward, pushing me back in my seat. Dexter suggested commercial airliners are pressurized to 8,000 feet. Will twelve be a problem?

  “Going up,” Clay crackles.

  “I’m pretty sure this thing will climb without it being an amusement park ride,” I complain, swallowing hard.

  “Probably, but where’s the fun in that?”

  A causeway connects the narrow channel of water between the Cape and the mainland. The launch pads appear like bicycle wheels, roads like spokes running out from the paved centers. The two largest were once used to send men to the moon on huge Saturn V rockets. Later, they were modified to fire a parade of space shuttles into the heavens. I know all this because I have been on the bus tour. When my daughter was four, Glen and I visited Cocoa Beach, spending a day at Kennedy Space Center. I start to pull the tattered photos out of my pocket, but am interrupted.

  “You ever been?” he blurts, nodding at the ground.

  “Yeah, once, although it looks entirely different from this vantage point.”

  “I wanted to be an astronaut.”

  “Why didn’t yah?”

  “I got married,” he sighs. “Then I had a child. Family will change things.”

  “It will do that,” I nod my head in agreement, then look away so I can wipe a tear from my cheek. I want to remark that lack of a family will change things as well, but I don’t share this out loud.

  We fly over the acres of land that hold the infrastructure of America’s Space Program. Perched on one of the larger pads, is a slim white rocket with a plump red nose. What looks like steam bleeds off the main section, although it’s actually cold air. The red section contains the first of a dozen components for a manned Mars mission, set for 2020. The SpaceX Falcon Heavy rocket engine is far bigger than the Saturn V, but still lacks the consumer confidence the Saturn name provided. We pass almost directly over the launch pad before I realize where we are.

  “Hey, this has to be restricted airspace. Why aren’t they shooting us down?”

  “The team in Venice called it in,” he crackles, turning in a slow circle. “It’s just us and him.”

  “Him? It’s not a he or a she,” I complain, but am cut off.

  “There. Back down the coast heading southeast.”

  “Coming right at us?”

  “Maybe he’s curious.”

  “Do any dogfighting in the service?”

  “In the simulator, but I can hand—.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” I cut him off. “I doubt they have a training simulation featuring two idiots in a Cessna with an AR-15.”

  “Maybe they will add one after today.”

  “Fade right so I can open the window and shoot,” I suggest, digging in the back seat for the gun.

  I toss off the shoulder harness which enables me to retrieve the gun from the back area. It’s too long to stand up in my lap, so I lay it across my thighs, the butt still between the seats. When I reach for the lever Clay intervenes, a hand on my leg.

  “Let me slow down a bit first.”

  The engine seems to smooth out as he lets off the throttle a bit. We watch the speed drop below 100 knots, then he motions at the window.

  I turn the handle, pushing the window out. It takes a few minutes to get the long silencer tip out, but once it is, I can hold it on my shoulder and look down the site. I am faced with a forty-five-degree line of fire. Too far forward and I’d hit the propeller, too much to the side and I’d cut off the strut. The line of fire is also restricted to parallel with the wing or downward. I move it back and forth getting used to the range of motion, then my phone vibrates in my pocket. What does Hal want now?

  “Try not to disable the plane,” Clay chuckles. “The spinney thing up front is important.”

  “Check that,” I mutter, scanning the sky for our target.

  “You do a lot of shooting in the Navy?”

  “I wasn’t in the Navy.”

  “Oh, Katz mentioned something about—.”

  “My husband was Navy,” I interrupt, then change the subject. “Alright, where is it?”

  He points off to our left, where the Drone circles around the launch pad, still at a great distance. We begin a gradual bank to bring the Drone in line with my shot.
I’m watching it, then struggle to find the extra clip, but can’t move enough to make an effective search. It’s so cramped in here.

  “Did you see what I did with—,” I ask over the microphone, but then a popping sound turns the sound off abruptly.

  “That’s the pulse,” Clay shouts over the propeller.

  All the lights on the instrument panel wink out simultaneously. Houston, we have a problem. Apparently unharmed, the Cessna keeps right on flying. It is odd after sitting there for nearly an hour looking at all the lights and numbers to see it like this. I notice some of the instruments are still functioning. I tap on the altimeter with a fingertip.

  “It has mechanical instruments for airspeed, altitude and pitch,” he reassures me. “It’s a redundancy precaution.”

  Nice,” I nod, tapping it again, then hoisting the rifle to my shoulder. “Let’s shoot this sucker down and go have a drink.”

  “You’re a bit more bloodthirsty that was apparent at first glance,” he chuckles, making a slight turn to put us on a near collision course.

  “Does it make me more or less attractive?” I ask, putting my cheek on the stock so I can squint down the site.

  “I’m married.”

  “So was I,” I whisper, flipping down the safety. “Once upon a time.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Drone slowly alters its course away from us and Clay has to keep turning. He taps me on the shoulder, then speeds up to close the gap. I don’t think the Drone is afraid of us, but rather some airborne avoidance program is guiding it. At least that’s what I’d prefer to think.

  “This is going to be like shooting at a sideways postcard,” I suggest. “Pull up so I can fire down on it.”

  “Whatever the lady prefers,” he agrees, pulling the nose up.

  “This lady would prefer to be elsewhere.”

  The Drone itself looks white, but it’s actually translucent. The blue sky paints the wings light blue, but when it passes between cloud banks it turns white. When it moves through my firing window, I press the trigger and fire three short bursts. The butt pounds my shoulder, throwing the last burst well off my intended placement. It’s been a while since I fired a gun this big.

  The cabin fills with a barking sound that shakes the entire plane. Flashes of yellow and orange paint the Lexan window on my side. Hot cartridges are ejected, bouncing around the interior. One lands between my legs and I can feel the heat through my jeans.

  We pass by the Drone, zooming over the top at a higher altitude. Clay banks hard and I have to hang onto the rifle with both hands as I bounce into the door. The turn brings us around 90 degrees, then we float along, looking out the left side for our quarry.

  “Did we get it?” I cough, flicking the hot cartridge out from between my legs.

  “You tell me,” he shouts, turning farther and scanning the horizon.

  Unable to focus after the unbelievable echo of the rifle, I flip open my phone to see what Hal wanted. The screen is blank, then a dial starts spinning to indicate it’s re-booting. The pulse may not have killed the super phone, but it’s offline for now. We turn in a slow circle searching, but come up empty. Did we shoot it down?

  “Wouldn’t we have seen it go down,” I shout, pulling off the ear muffs that no longer function.

  “I can drop lower so we can look for debris on the water.”

  “Worth a sh—-,” I start, but am interrupted by the vibration of my phone.

  “What did you say?” he yells.

  I flip open the screen and read the text as we bank again.

  DADDY: Due east at 8,000

  “Turn east and drop to 8,000.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s where the Drone went,” I shout over the engine noise, then reply to the text. “My phone’s still working.”

  ME: Thought we hit it

  DADDY: Maybe, heading east at 120 knots

  “We need more speed,” I shout, checking the air speed. “It’s moving away at 120 knots.”

  “That’s about all we have, but shut the window and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “How fast will our stolen plane fly?”

  “In a perfect world, maybe 150.”

  “What’s a perfect world?”

  “If I put the nose down and we drop like a rock.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Good choice. Hold on tight and I’ll see if we can make up ground.”

  We turn out to sea and race over dark blue water. A random cloud passes here and there, but it’s mostly clear. Flying at breakneck speed the ride is smooth. At slower speeds the wind buffeted us more. We travel for at least a half hour, then my phone goes off in my hand. Before looking down, I observe the Drone in front of us.

  “There it is,” Clay shouts, slapping his thigh with his palm. “Put your cannon back in the window.”

  I do, although the wind at this speed makes it unlikely I could do anything but fire randomly. Look out propeller. I struggle to put the site on target as the Drone makes several zig-zag maneuvers. It has the ability to move laterally at will. I am tossed to the right, then left, Clay uttering profanity. After one long 180 degree loop it moves away to the north. We follow after it, but the turn has given the Drone a bit of a head start.

  After pulling the rifle in from the window, I lift up the phone to read the text Hal sent a few minutes ago, but the signal indicator is flashing NO SIGNAL across the top. Since this phone has always had a signal, with the exception of inside the ship, it’s surprising. I hold it up and move my arm in a circle, but the message doesn’t change.

  “That’s great,” I mutter, then tilt my head to read the last text message.

  DADDY: Not running, leading you.

  “Leading us?” I mumble, the text possibly incomplete.

  The Drone suddenly drops down under 1,000 feet. We angle much slower, winding down like a cork screw. Maybe we can hit 150 knots. We get a close-up view of the ocean, but no Drone. I crane my head from side-to-side trying to locate our target, but find only water. Clay turns to an eastern heading, slowing to check all sides. A thought pops into my head, giving me an idea.

  “Clay,” I shout. “How are we doing on gas?”

  “Fine,” he replies, but looks at two gauges near his left knee and frowns. He leans forward and taps them with the tip of his finger.

  “What?”

  “The left needle is bouncing.”

  “Why would it,” I ask, but my voice trails off. He pulls his hand back revealing one tiny needle wiggling up and down, while the other is still frozen on three quarters of a tank. “What does that mean?”

  “If the gas gets to the bottom of the tanks, the floats bobs up and down, causing the gauges to bounce. There are two tanks, thus two gauges —.”

  “Yeah, yeah, fascinating. How much gas we got left?”

  “How long have we been flying since the pulse?” he remarks as if he didn’t hear me, then pauses to flick a finger on the gauges again.

  “Are those mechanical or electric?”

  “Huh?”

  “Would the pulse fry them?”

  “Electric, but even with the alternator gone, the battery should power them,” he explains, but his mind is clearly elsewhere.

  “Does that mean we might have more gas than it reads?”

  He doesn’t answer, simply looks down, then out the front ticking off some mental calculation in his head. I watch for two minutes, then get sick of waiting.

  “Care to share?”

  “I think the right tank was almost dry when we left Venice. The needle must be stuck at three quarters or just reading wrong.”

  “Okay?”

  “We have been drawing gas out of the left tank only,” he explains. “Cutting the overall flight time in two.”

  “So, the gauge is broken?”

  “Interesting fact about fuel gauges,” he grunts, beginning a slow arching turn. “They are regulated by the FAA and have to be rigorously tested.”

 
“Is that good for us, or bad for us?” I demand, adrenaline flowing freely through my arms and legs.

  “That depends,” he rolls his eyes as we complete the wide circle and head back to what I estimate to be west. “The FAA’s standard only requires they be accurate when empty.”

  “Ours are reading empty.”

  “The left one is,” he explains. “They only bounce when the fuel’s almost gone.”

  “So, bad for us,” I stammer.

  “How long have we been flying since the pulse?” he asks, studying his watch.

  The Cessna begins climbing, pushing me back in the seat. I stare down at my cell, reading the last text from Hal.

  DADDY: Not running, leading you.

  “Not running, leading you,” I mutter. “Out to sea, leading you out to sea. The Drone led us out here to drown and we were stupid enough to follow.”

  “You’re giving him too much credit for our misfortune.”

  “He earned it. Hey, how far can this thing glide?”

  “It’s a ten-to-one ratio,” he replies, still climbing. “For every ten feet we glide, we lose one foot of altitude.”

  “Is that why you’re going higher?”

  “Yes, but I suspect we are too far out for that to matter.”

  We argue loudly, over the propeller noise for several minutes. He keeps our heading due west by the compass, which is all the navigation we have. The dispute is exactly how long we flew away from the coast. We arrive at the identical conclusion together. The Cessna is not going to make it to land.

  Inside of five minutes, the engine sputters momentarily. When it does, a cold wave runs up my spine. Glancing around the cramped space, I weigh the chances of being able to crawl out before the plane goes under? If I am even conscious. Clay tips us sideways in hopes of improving the gravity feed off the left tank, the angle pinning me slightly to the right side.

  “Does tilting us actually get more gas to the engine?”

  “I thought it might.”

  “And?”

  He shakes his head, a grimace on his face. I check my phone but still have no signal. If only we could call someone. Another ember lights up in my brain.