‘That’s all, gentlemen.’
The meeting was over.
Since then Rick had revisited the avionics data what seemed like a thousand times. And he was always presented with the same result. At 23.37.20 local the GPS positional data jumped. At one moment it read 4°51'20.1" north and 67°46'40.8” west. The next: 4°53'42.9"; 67°52'26.9”.
He remembered checking synchronisation about 20 minutes before the jump. At that point the on-board gyroscopes matched the original GPS signal to within a few seconds - maybe 40 feet. Then, without warning, they were 13 miles out of sync. It was that significant.
At 23.37.21 the autopilot dramatically changed the course of the Reaper. In its mind it had about 13 miles to make up, and it wasn’t hanging about to cover that distance. Before Rick knew it, they were in Colombia. That is, if you believed the UAV’s gyroscopes. If, on the other hand, you believed the GPS, they had remained in Venezuela throughout. It was doing his head in.
He couldn’t reconcile the diversion. No matter which way he looked at it. He was screwed.
At the time of the incident Rick decided not to believe either of the readings and made a gross error correction. He brought the Reaper well within Venezuelan airspace, took her up to 42,000 feet, the UAV’s maximum altitude, turned her about and put her on a trajectory for home.
He was then faced with a bigger problem. Landing with a conflicting navigational system.
First up he had to find Creech. Which of his navigational aids should he trust? GPS or gyroscopes? Ideally neither. If he were in a single-seat Cessna, he’d fly ‘old-school’: pick up a known landmark and use bearing and speed to get the bird home. But there were very few, if any, landmarks on the preferred route back to Creech. And it was dark. Their flight plan was designed to be as incognito as possible. It avoided all major hubs. And with thickening cloud cover over the southern US east of The Rockies, picking out decent known points was going to be tricky, even if he aimed for them.
Within a couple of minutes the Reaper’s GPS receiver answered the question for him. As the drone hit the Venezuelan coast, it jumped again. This time correcting its original movement. Rick checked both readings. The GPS and gyroscopic displays were within a tenth of a second of each other.
How does that happen?
He and Lance had a brief conversation about it. Lance had been scouring all of the base’s navigational literature for possible beacons. He was looking for anything that could help them get the Reaper safely back to Creech. The latest jump confused the hell out of him too.
At least now, Rick had two navigational aids whose readings were on the same map.
‘I’m going to run with GPS. When we get her home we’ll carry out a fly-past of Runway II first off. And if that all looks good, I’ll bring her round to land.’
And that’s what he’d done. The GPS signal was definitely back. Accurate to within 2 metres. Good enough to land a Boeing 777 at Bullhead International in thick fog.
So why the jump?
Why?
He needed to find out. Soon.
Rick put some creamer in his coffee. Brought the mug to his nose and smelt it.
I need this …
He had tonight, tomorrow and all of the next night to solve this. If he didn’t, then he guessed he’d be back at the 737th in Lackland, training recruits.
He sat back behind his desk. Took a sip of his coffee. Scratched his chin.
What now?
What he hadn’t done was look over any of the imagery. That was Lance’s arena. At Pueblo the trainee pilots spent just a couple of weeks having a poke around the sensor suite on the Reaper, whilst having the technology explained to them in the classroom. They then had a further two weeks studying the output. It was cursory. Enough to understand the Sensor Operator’s role, but not much more.
It was complex stuff, and Rick wasn’t sure he understood all of it. Reapers were fitted with Raytheon’s MTS-B sensor suite. This included an infrared (IR) camera, colour daytime TV, and an image intensifier (II) for very low-light operations. The most expensive bit of kit was a multi-mode radar, which produced high-resolution photo-quality images in all weather. It did two things extremely well. First, the two-strip synthetic aperture radar (SAR) used clever algorithms to detect man-made objects. Second, the moving target indicator (MTI) radar could pick out a non-stationary human at anything from as slow as one mile-an-hour. A trundling tank, for which it had been originally designed to find, was a turkey shoot for Raytheon’s MTI.
Feeling that he was wasting his time, but with little else to occupy himself, Rick opened the imagery file. He discounted the more pedestrian sensor equipment: the IR and II cameras, and the daytime TV. Instead, he went straight for one of the big-boys and clicked on the ‘SAR’ file. After a couple of minutes he had the time-appropriate SAR imaging on his laptop - that taken either side of the jump. The resolution was fabulous; sort of sideward looking and monochrome, giving the images a 3-D effect. But his screen was too small, and it wasn’t touch-sensitive. Zooming in and out had to be done using his mouse. It was tiresome.
He looked at his watch. It was 7.46 pm.
Is this a waste of time?
He’d give it an hour - as planned. Then he'd have some food. Then he’d go back to the navigational outputs again and see if he had missed anything.
Rick’s stomach shouted at him, telling him to check his watch. It was 10.37 pm. He was still studying the imagery, and he still hadn’t eaten. And there was a good reason for that.
He’d now had a good look over all of the imagery. The TV pictures were hopeless; they had shown what he, the pilot, had been looking at - lots of night-time jungle. The II, which amplifies ambient light and delivers imagery in shades of green, was a sea of dark green. There was a partial moon during the flight which had given very little light for the II to work with; the canopy reflected nothing of consequence. The IR was also fruitless. The jungle’s temperature differentials were small. The imagery was a sea of dark orange.
The SAR imagery was equally as dull. The stills afforded much more resolution of the ground beneath the canopy, but the results were uncluttered and uninteresting.
On his first look-see, the moving MTI imagery taken either side of the jump displayed no movement. There was nothing in the radar’s field of vision. Rick had half-expected to pick up something below, or in a gap in the jungle’s canopy. The place must have been alive with all manner of creatures moving about. But the video showed zip.
He had taken a second look and was about to give up when he spotted something: a fleeting image in the top-left corner of screen - within the blurring of the radar’s maximum range. A small rectangular object moving at about three miles-an-hour. Difficult to see; easy to miss. Then, as the drone flew on, it was gone. It was in shot for about a second, maybe two.
As far as he knew God had yet to make anything rectangular. What he had seen, or thought he had seen, was man-made.
He took a screenshot of the image, noted the date/time stamp and went back to the navigational data. He needed to check that the object was in Venezuela. Was it before the jump? After a couple of minutes he had an answer: it was. It didn’t matter whether he believed the GPS (which he didn’t), or the gyroscopes. They both gave the same answer: the slow-moving rectangle was in Venezuela on the original flight path.
That would definitely make it ‘new activity’, a big tick against the mission’s objectives. The boss needed to know this.
He went back to the MTI shots.
The problem Rick had was that he wasn’t an image analyst. As a result, it was tricky to work out what the object might be. As it was at the edge of the radar’s range, it would be distorted - by how much he didn’t know. Somehow, he needed to take account of that. He couldn’t establish its size nor, from what he could see, make a reasoned judgement as to what it might be.
So, he took a guess.
His untrained eye said: truck.
His stomach churned. He had to eat something before hi
s belly took out a chunk of its own lining.
First, one more look at the static, SAR imaging.
Rick reopened the appropriate folder and scrolled the images forward until he had a set of photos two seconds either side of the MTI’s shot of the truck.
He played with the pictures, zooming in and zooming out.
Nothing.
Hang on ...
There it was - top right. Was it?
No … Yes … No …
There was definitely something box-like among the trees, the SAR making its best attempt to look beneath the canopy. But at this range it was very fuzzy. It could be the truck?
Rick moved the image so its top-right was centre screen. He enlarged what was in front of him. It pixelated.
He stared at it.
That’s odd.
He was too close. He was seeing too many pixels. He needed to make sense of the blur. He stood up and walked away from the screen.
Rick stared back at the laptop from a couple of metres - at the SAR image taken at the same time the MTI had spotted a truck.
There it was. Well, there something was.
There was a box (could be the truck?). And … his mind paused. He squinted his eyes, desperately trying to find some focus.
Ahead of it is a building?
Maybe two buildings? A truck and two buildings.
Wait …
On top of one of the buildings was an oval shape - more accurately, one side of an oval shape. Like half an egg; side on.
Rick titled his head to one side. And then the other.
Untrained eye.
His very untrained eye was looking at a truck heading towards two buildings. And on top of one of the buildings was a big satellite dish.
He rushed to sit down. He screen-captured what he had, then he minimised the sensor tabs he had opened and maximised the navigational ones. He reached for a pad and a pencil and made a few calculations.
Shit.
He was in a rush. He needed to check the Reaper’s flight path using the computer’s navigational planning tool. And he needed to do that right now.
If his broad-order calculations were right, what he’d almost missed from the imagery would have been directly under their original flight path on the next pass. If the autopilot hadn’t veered them off into another country, Lance would have had a ringside seat at what was, as far as Rick was now concerned, the greatest show on earth. Certainly the greatest show in Venezuela seen from a drone.
But they didn’t get a chance to overfly what his untrained eye had assumed was a truck, two buildings and a big satellite dish
Because someone had messed with their GPS. Someone, who didn’t want them to fly over their, whatever it was - with its two buildings and a satellite dish, had messed with their GPS.
How does that happen?
Samostan Monastery, Punat Bay, Krk, Croatia
Jakov felt himself coming to. Before he opened his eyes he sensed an ache in his right arm - all over. But his brain was full of cotton wool. He couldn’t hold his consciousness and drifted back to sleep.
He woke again. This time his eyes opened and the light - all bright white and shiny silver - was too much for his mind to cope with. He shut his eyes, tried to banish the fog and focused on what might be happening to him.
What’s going on? Where am I?
It came back to him in a shot: he’d caught a crab; arms hurt like nothing else; out of the boat; swam to shore; freezing cold; climbed the wall … got chased down by an attack dog!
What?!
That made him open his eyes. And he forced them to stay open. The bright white and the silver coalesced into recognisable shapes. Walls and cupboards. Bed posts and technical machines. He was in what he assumed was a hospital ward. Or a single room in a hospital.
Relief.
Jakov was lying on his back, surrounded by medical instruments. He had two drips in his left forearm and there were bandages up his right. The room was clinical - no windows, but it had a door with some glass in it. Everything was immaculate and, surprising for his country, it all looked new and ordered.
And there was someone else in the room with him.
The ‘someone else’ was a man. He was sitting on a tall stool by the door. Clean jeans, a light-blue open-necked collared shirt. Fair-skinned, but dark hair, cut short. Late-30s. He didn’t look like a doctor - more like an IT professional, straight from Google. He was sipping a drink from a Styrofoam cup.
‘Hi …’ Jakov tried to raise his left hand to accompany his salutation, but realised that it was tied to the bed. With leather straps.
‘What the fuck?’ The expletive left his lips before he had time to check himself. He stared at the man, and then at his restraints. He tried to move again but the leather straps and a shot of pain, which overrode the dull ache, put paid to that.
‘What’s going on? Where am I?’ Any relief he might have felt a couple of seconds ago was now gone. It had been replaced by fear.
The man stood, placed the cup on a surface - it immediately looked incongruous against the shiny, silver medical equipment, and walked to Jakov’s bedside. He stood still and then smiled. It was the smile of a man in charge. Confident and calm.
The man spoke; slowly - in English. Each word pronounced very clearly. As he spoke he used a finger to trace Jakov’s body. From his knee to his forehead.
‘What - are - we - going - to - do - with - you - Jakov - Vuković?’ The man tapped Jakov’s forehead in time to his name.
Jakov felt the question was rhetorical, but it was definitely for his benefit. He was struggling to compute everything that had and was happening to him. The man spoke in English - authoritatively. Jakov spoke good English. It was his foreign language of choice at school, and international rowing events were all conducted in English. He had to be good. He had improved his schoolboy English by continuing his language studies at Zagreb University. He was pretty fluent.
But, how did the IT consultant know that? How did he know that he would understand every word?
And, where was he? Why was he strapped onto the bed? What was happening? And how did the man know my name? So many frustrating questions.
There was an impasse. Jakov didn’t reply, and the man just stood there - his expression turning from impassive calmness to one of concern. He tilted his head to one side. His look of concern deepened and he pulled up one side of his mouth.
Jakov decided to speak.
‘Where am I? How come you know my name?’
The man now had a bored look on his face.
How many emotions has the IT consultant got left?
The man looked at the machines that Jakov was plugged into. He placed a hand gently on the metal box which Jakov assumed was reading his pulse. It displayed a big ‘58’. The man then raised his hand and touched the drips. Almost caressing them.
He spoke, the same slow, well-enunciated tone; complete control.
‘I’m not a doctor, you understand. But I do know what these things do.’ He was looking at Jakov now, whilst resting a finger on the larger of the two bags of fluid that hung close to Jakov’s bed.
‘This one is saline, to rehydrate you. Which seems odd to me as you didn’t lose a lot of blood, and you spent most of the time in the water. But, as I said, I am not a doctor. They know best.’ He then took a finger and pointed to the smaller drip. ‘This. Now, this is much more interesting.’ The man was smiling now. There was something odd about the smile. Sardonic? Was the man playing with him?
‘This contains morphine. It’s the drug that has been keeping you calm and pain free for about …’, he put a finger to his lips as if in thought, ‘... let me see. That’s it: about four hours.’ He eyes shot across to the red butterfly clip at the bottom of the drip. ‘If I turn this lever here …’, he paused, ‘... I can increase the morphine levels. If I open it fully, you’d be out cold in a couple of minutes.’ And then he added whimsically. ‘Dead in ten.’
Jakov was speechless. H
is mouth opened to say something, but nothing came out. He was scared. More scared than he had ever been in his life. He’d been launched from his scull, smashing his shoulder to bits. He’d then been mauled by an attack dog. Now, this man, with the flick of a switch, could end his life. All of this coming from an early-morning training session.
‘Please don’t.’ Jakov found some words. Pleading ones. He hated them as soon as they left his lips.
The man pulled his hand away from the switch, as if it were red hot. ‘Oops! Mustn't touch that!’ He smiled again. Jakov thought it was the smile of a deranged man.
‘Now, we do need to work out what to do with you.’ The man walked back to his stool picking up his coffee cup as he did. He sat down, his shoulders relaxing. He seemed bored again, staring around the room. All of a sudden Jakov felt less threatened.
‘Let’s sort something out, Jakov. Are you listening?’
Jakov nodded. He had no idea where this was going.
‘If we decide to keep you, the authorities will find a body in a week or so’s time - easily mistakable as yours. It’ll be a hobo - we’ll find one from somewhere. Anyway, the body will be unrecognisable. The damage of salt water can be perishing. We will bribe the mortician to say the dental records are yours. There will be a funeral, and you will be remembered for being the only son of Mr and Mrs Vuković, Punat’s most successful rower. Fluent in English[RJ14] with a first in economics. One of Croatia’s brightest and best … who died tragically whilst training in the bay.’ He emphasised ‘tragically’ by putting on a sad face. ‘There will be some tears and a brief period of mourning. But, soon enough, everybody will move on. Blah-di-blah.’
The man was using his hands to help tell the story. And he was enjoying himself. Jakov, on the other hand, wasn’t enjoying it at all.
If we decide to keep you? There is another option?
‘If, on the other hand, you become problematic. Or we quickly realise that you are of no further use – although I grant you that a first in economics has its draw - they will find the real body of Jakov Vuković.’ He pointed at Jakov accusingly. ‘Yours. The one you’re wearing now.’ He put one hand round his neck, and the other above his head, signifying a noose - his eyes out on stalks. He swung his shoulder as if he were hanging.
For Good Men to Do Nothing Page 6