by Dale Brown
“That’s Air Force and Department of Defense policy,” Boomer said. “I’m talking about company policy.”
“I don’t work for Sky Masters,” Patrick said. “Besides, what’s the difference? Sky Masters is a major defense contractor. They should follow DoD guidelines for operational security.”
“For DoD programs, yes, sir,” Boomer said. “But what if it wasn’t a DoD program?”
“I’m not following you, Boomer.”
Boomer thought for a moment, then nodded toward the cargo bay. “Let’s go up and take a look, sir.”
“Am I cleared?”
“As far as I’m concerned you are,” Boomer said. “Heck, after all, it was your idea—Jon just took all the credit for it, of course.”
Boomer ascended the boarding ladder, and Patrick followed. The Midnight’s cargo-bay doors atop the fuselage had been opened to help ventilate residual heat from reentry. Boomer climbed up onto the fuselage and motioned inside the cargo bay. “It was meant as a subscale test article for a nonreusable booster, but it’s been working so well that Jon told me to rewrite the entire proposal and submit it for spaceplane use. Remember the ‘Serviceman’ idea you developed?”
“What?” Patrick remarked, peering inside the cargo bay in surprise. What he saw resembled a large silver propane tank, with thruster nozzles on each end and two visible grappling arms on top. “That’s ‘Serviceman’?”
“That, sir, is a one-hundred-and-ten-million-dollar Navy—not Air Force, not Space Defense Force—contract to build three demonstration units of an autonomous, reusable satellite refueling, rearming, and space-debris cleanup system—the very one you proposed when you were still working for Sky Masters,” Boomer said stonily.
“I knew nothing about it,” Patrick said.
“Jon got the contract less than six months after you left the company,” Boomer said. “I think it became a Navy project because of Joseph Gardner . . . and because if it was Air Force, you might find out about it sooner.”
“Me?”
Boomer nodded solemnly. “Yeah . . . or about the two-point-seven-five-million-dollar bonus that belongs to the design team—in this case, you.” Patrick looked up at Boomer, who was looking back at him with a deathly serious expression. “Nowhere in the project proposals or design specs does it mention your name, but we both know you came up with the idea. I don’t know where the money is, but I don’t think you have any of it, do you?” Patrick said nothing—which was all the response Boomer needed. “If this goes to full deployment, I estimate it’ll be a two-billion-dollar contract over five years. That’s an additional fifty million dollars, if I’m not mistaken . . . and I’m not. And if the government doesn’t buy the system and we decide to set up our own service and space-debris cleanup system for other countries or companies, it could be worth hundreds of times more than that.”
“That’s not cash money, Boomer—that’s usually put right back into the company,” Patrick said.
“True, sir,” Boomer said. “Most of us take a small portion of it, pay the taxes, and then take stock or stock options on the rest and hope the capital-gains taxes remain at zero like they are now. Did Jon offer any of that to you?” Patrick said nothing. “I didn’t think so. Sir—”
“Enough,” Patrick said, holding up a hand. “Jon and I are friends. We go back a lot of years. He’s been bugging me for years to go back to Sky Masters—maybe he was going to bring it up then. Maybe he invested the money back into the company, knowing that’s what I’d do, or thought it would be better not to have it while I was going through the legal issues with the government.” Boomer lowered his head and nodded, not wanting to argue. Patrick took another look at the device in the Midnight’s cargo bay, then stepped toward the ladder. “Secure that cargo bay, Boomer,” he said as he headed down, “and let’s go find out what in hell’s happening topside.”
That same time
“Jesus, Masters, I thought you said we’d have this thing airborne this morning!” FBI special agent Chastain shouted as he strode into the hangar. “What’s the holdup this time?”
“No holdup—we’re ready to go,” Jon replied anxiously, clearly agitated that this first flight was way behind schedule. He waved to his ground crew, and one of them hit the switch to open the hangar doors. Inside the hangar was an unusual-looking vehicle on spindly landing gear. As the hangar doors opened, Jon gave another signal, and ground-crew members began to tow the vehicle out of the hangar.
As they pulled it forward, the vehicle started to transform itself: wings began to unfold from each side of the fuselage; from within each wing a turboprop engine unstowed itself; and from around each engine, propeller blades unfolded as the wings extended their full length. In less than two minutes, the ungainly vehicle had become a tilt-rotor aircraft. But unlike other tilt-rotor aircraft that had their engines on the wingtips, the turbo-diesel engines on the RQ-15 Sparrowhawk were mounted on swiveling mounts that connected the inner and outer portion of the wings, which gave the Sparrowhawk a much longer wingspan. The engines remained tilted at a forty-five-degree angle, allowing the propeller blades to clear the pavement.
“It’s about time,” Chastain said. “It’s finally looking like a real damned airplane.”
“It has twice the endurance and twice the payload of a Predator or Reaper, with the same airspeed,” Jon said. “If necessary, it can hover—that’s something the first-generation UAVs can’t do. Plus, you don’t have to disassemble them to transport them in a cargo—”
“You just can’t stop the snake-oil-salesman pitch, can you, Masters?” Chastain said. “Just get the damned thing airborne, will you?”
“Let’s go to the control room,” Jon said. He and Chastain went to the “control room”—a desk set up with three large-screen laptops, surrounded by partitions to block out ambient light. “Everything is done with the touch-screen laptops,” Jon said. “The Sparrowhawk has already been programmed with the airfield’s runways and taxiways, so it will steer itself to the proper runway for takeoff. After climb-out, you just touch the map on the laptop screen to tell it where to go—no need for a pilot or flight plan. If you see a target you want to look at closer, you just tell it to orbit or hover by touching the image on the screen.”
“So get it going already,” Chastain said irritably. “I want plenty of imagery on the Knights to see if we can link them to this new attack.” Jon nodded to his technicians, and moments later the turbo-diesel engines started up and the Sparrowhawk taxied away. As it started down the long taxiway to the active runway, Chastain shook his head. “Why in hell do you need to drive that thing all the way to the end of the runway? If you say it can hover, why not just take off right now?”
“Because it’s been programmed for all of the taxiways and . . .” But he looked at Chastain’s impatient face, then said to his technician, “You have enough taxiway there, Jeff?”
“I think so, Jon.”
Jon checked the engine readouts to make sure the engines were at operating temperature, then said, “Launch it from the taxiway, Jeff, and let’s get this mission under way.” The technician stopped the Sparrowhawk and entered commands into the center laptop’s keyboard. A few moments later they could see the taxiway rushing out of view, and the Sparrowhawk was airborne. It took a bit more taxiway than anticipated—they caught a glimpse of the blue taxiway lights missing the nose gear by just a few feet.
At the Civil Air Patrol Hangar
That same time
Michael Fitzgerald was testing the radios in the rear of the Civil Air Patrol’s communications trailer parked beside the hangar when he heard a booming voice say, “Well, well, look at all this fancy gear.” He turned to find none other than Judah Andorsen, dressed as he was the first time they met—leather flying jacket, work gloves, boots, and cowboy hat.
“Mr. Andorsen,” Fitzgerald said, surprised. He got out of the trailer and they shook hands. “How are you today, sir?”
“I’m doin’ just fine
. . . uh, the name’s Fitzgerald, right?”
“Yes, sir. Michael Fitzgerald. What brings you out here?”
“I just got done with another chat with the Homeland Security folks, including a hot and sassy agent who I’d let frisk me all day long, if you get my meanin’.”
“Cassandra Renaldo. She didn’t give me the time of day.”
“Renaldo. That’s the one.”
“I told her and her FBI pals to kiss my hairy ass until I got a lawyer,” Fitzgerald said.
“I know I shouldn’t be talkin’ to no federal agents without a lawyer, but what the hell, I don’t have anything to hide, so I just . . . holy bejeezus, what in hell is that?”
Fitzgerald turned to follow Andorsen’s surprised gaze and saw the Sparrowhawk flying across the airfield. “I don’t know planes myself, sir,” Fitzgerald said, “but if you hang around this place long enough, you’ll see all kinds.”
“It looks like it’s unmanned—I don’t see no cockpit on the thing!”
“It’s probably a surveillance aircraft, like a really big Predator,” Fitzgerald said. “They fly a lot of unmanned planes out of here, although I don’t recall seeing that one before.” He jabbed a finger toward one of the hangars surrounded by a tall barbed-wire fence off in the distance. “Came from one of those hangars over there, in the restricted area, I think.”
“Is that right?” Andorsen watched the Sparrowhawk until it flew out of sight, then shook his head and turned his attention to the trailer. “So, what do you got here?”
“This is our Civil Air Patrol communications trailer,” Fitzgerald said. “It’s a thirty-foot ‘toy hauler’ that we converted into a mobile incident command post.” He stepped inside. “This is a high-frequency radio; those two are tactical VHF base stations; that’s a VHF airband base station; that’s a computer terminal that we can link up with the global satellite Internet network; and we carry several portable radios. The front of the trailer has a galley, latrine, bunks, and a small planning area, big enough for two guys. We have a telescoping thirty-foot antenna mounted on the roof for the radios, and we can pull in satellite broadcasts as well. We have enough fresh water, power generators, propane, supplies, and gray water storage for two men to deploy for as long as a week without any hookups. We can communicate with just about any local, state, or federal agency even with power knocked out.” Fitzgerald tapped a wood-and-brass plaque attached to the bulkhead over the desk. “In fact, sir, we have you to thank for the trailer—you donated it to Civil Air Patrol a couple years ago.”
“You don’t say!” Andorsen exclaimed. “When you get to be my age, you forget a lot of stuff. I’m happy to help out.” He was silent for a few moments, then said, “You spend a lot of time with the Civil Air Patrol, do you?”
“More nowadays,” Fitzgerald said in a low voice. “I got laid off from the Department of Wildlife.”
“Sorry to hear that, son.”
“They said it was ‘budget cutbacks,’ but I’m sure the FBI complained to my boss that I wasn’t answering their questions, and told them to can me,” Fitzgerald said bitterly. “Now that I can’t afford a lawyer, the FBI probably thinks I’ll talk. They can kiss my ass.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. “Fucking feds. They don’t give a shit about personal freedom or individual rights—they just want answers, and they’ll do whatever they feel like, and fuck the Constitution. I was less than a year from retiring from the department. I’m screwed. I got no savings, and now no retirement, thanks to the feds.”
“Sounds like you might have a case against the Department of Forestry, son,” Andorsen said. He pulled out his wallet and handed Fitzgerald a card. “Call that number. I set up a legal defense fund for Nevada and California ranchers to help them keep their land if they’re getting foreclosed on or if the state or county comes after them for back property taxes. I’m sure they can help you, or if they can’t, at least get you pointed in the right direction.”
“Thank you, sir,” Fitzgerald said, looking at the business card in awe. “I appreciate that very much.”
“It’s my pleasure, son,” Andorsen said. “Us folks gotta stay together in these tough times, especially when the government thinks they can run roughshod over us.”
“Damned right,” Fitzgerald said.
“And if the Department of Forestry doesn’t do right by you,” Andorsen said, “I’ll make sure my people tell me. I might have a position for someone with your skills in my organization.”
“Working for you?”
“No promises,” Andorsen said, holding up a hand in caution, “but you seem like a squared-away guy that has his priorities straight: tell the government to back off, and get busy taking care of the things that matter. You volunteer your time for the Civil Air Patrol when most guys out of work would either be out breaking into houses, beating their wives, kids, or girlfriends, or drinking themselves into a stupor. I like that attitude, and I try to surround myself with men and women that have that same can-do, will-do attitude.”
“Yes, sir, that’s me,” Fitzgerald said. “Screw the government. Hardworking guys can take care of their families and communities just fine.”
“Amen,” Andorsen said. “Hey, Fitz, I gotta go. Nice to talk to you.” He shook hands with Fitzgerald. “Give my folks a call. They’ll help you out. And thank you for doing this Civil Air Patrol stuff. It’s pretty darned cool.”
Six
In nature there are few sharp lines.
—A. R. Ammons
That same time
As the Sparrowhawk unmanned aircraft turned on course, Chastain pointed to a spot on the left laptop. The screen displayed a sectional chart that showed details of landmarks on the ground—roads, power lines, terrain, and cultural points. “Zoom in on that,” he said. The technician did so, and Chastain pointed to a tiny square at the base of a mountain marked simply ranch. “This is highly classified,” he said. “That’s the ranch I want pictures of.” The technician hit a function key on the center laptop and touched the left screen, and a magenta line indicated that the Sparrowhawk’s course was set. “The Knights have expanded that ranch considerably over the past year and a half. They started out with two families and a half-dozen hands residing there—now it’s sixty families and almost a hundred hands. They add another two or three families almost every week.”
“What do they do there?” Jon asked.
“It’s like a commune: whatever income they have goes to the collective; they contribute skills and manual labor for food and water,” Chastain said. “The ranch hands act as security. Several of the hands are ex-military, and we believe they have the skills to pull off these attacks.”
“Jon, we’re going to have to move the orbit to the northwest or southeast a little to keep the Sparrowhawk off the airway,” the technician named Jeff said. He studied the sectional chart for a moment, then said, “About four miles southeast looks best, with a northeast-southwest orbit.”
Jon nodded. “Go ahead and—”
“Negative, Masters,” Chastain interrupted. “I want an orbit right over the center of the compound.”
“We can’t do that, Agent Chastain,” Jon said, pointing at the sectional chart. “The compound sits almost directly under the center of this Victor airway.”
“What in hell is that?”
“It’s a charted electronic corridor that pilots flying under eighteen thousand feet use,” Jon explained. “It guarantees radio- and navigation-aid reception at or above certain altitudes.”
“So?”
“It’s dangerous for unmanned aircraft that can’t look for other aircraft to fly on an airway,” Jon said. “We just offset ourselves four miles away from the center of the airway, outside the corridor. It’s not a problem—the Sparrowhawk’s sensors can scan the entire compound on one leg easily from that distance. Then we’ll switch sides of the airway and scan it from the other direction so we can—”
“That’s bullshit, Masters,” Chastain snapped. “I want it o
rbiting right over the compound.”
“That’s not safe.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass, Masters,” Chastain said. “First of all, there’s not supposed to be any other aircraft out there unless they’re on an approved flight plan.”
“That’s not true,” Jon said. “Only aircraft flying in or transiting within fifty miles of Alpha-, Bravo-, or Charlie-controlled airspace have to be on IFR flight plans. If you’re flying under eighteen thousand feet and not flying into or near busy controlled airspace, you can still legally fly anywhere.”
Chastain pointed to the right laptop, which was displaying a radar traffic display similar-looking to an air traffic control system. “Isn’t this supposed to tell us if there are any other planes in the area?”
“This only shows us the aircraft that are on IFR flight plans or are using air traffic control flight-following advisory services,” Jon said. “If there are other planes out there not using FAA radar services, we won’t see them.”
“Aren’t these planes supposed to have beacons or something to locate other planes?”
“Some do, but small light planes or light-sport aircraft that don’t fly in controlled airspace probably won’t,” Jon said. “Besides, those beacons interrogate other planes’ beacons to locate them, and you ordered the Sparrowhawk’s transponder shut off.”
“Because you told me anyone on the ground can identify an aircraft flying overhead with that beacon on the Internet, or even with a camera phone!”
“That’s true.”
“So I’m not going to reveal the drone’s position with a beacon on the wild-ass off chance that another aircraft might be in the exact same location and altitude,” Chastain said. “That’ll tip off the Knights that they’re under surveillance for sure. Besides, pilots are supposed to be looking out for other planes, right? What are the chances of two planes colliding?”
“If the drone is on an airway below eighteen thousand feet, the chances are much greater,” Jon said. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you: if you put the Sparrowhawk right on the airway, the chances of a disaster are greatly increased. If you move it just a few miles away, the chances don’t go to zero, but they are much, much more favorable.”