Dan Fesperman - Unmanned

“I won’t lose her,” Cole said.

They strolled to their places. The reporters followed, tentative at first, but ready for the show. Even Steve was with them. Hell, what else was he going to do?

The engine powered up, loud enough to stir birds from the trees. Cole wondered if the cops were still at their post at the end of the driveway, and if so, what they’d make of the commotion? He put on the goggles and snugged them up. The image flashed on. He held the controls in his hand, then watched with a lift to his stomach as their bird took flight.

“Passing her over to you on three!” Sharpe called out. Cole knew the others would be gathered around Sharpe by now, watching the proceedings on his iPad from the view of the second camera.

“One… two… three. She’s all yours!”

The wind was tricky, bouncing the drone like a balsa glider. It took some getting used to, but he easily cleared the tree line at the end of the drive and soared her up to a few hundred feet. He swung around for a view of the upper end of the property. The police car was gone. So that was one potential problem out of the way.

“Set me that course on the GPS,” he called out to Sharpe. “I’ll keep a hand in because of the wind, but we might as well let the chips do the initial navigation.”

“As you wish.”

He could see the leading edge of storm better now, because they were flying straight toward it. Icy fingerlings of moisture and turbulence. The drone was out over the water, on a beeline toward IntelPro’s real estate, a few peninsulas over. Below, spray was blowing off the whitecaps.

“Pretty stiff breeze already,” he said.

“Fourteen knots, gusting to twenty. But you’re doing fine. And she’s built for it.”

He gradually took it up to a thousand feet, and after fifteen minutes the whole training area, all two thousand acres, loomed just ahead. Most of it was wooded, but as they moved closer he spotted clearings here and there. Gun ranges and parade grounds, or whatever they were. He then saw the biggest open area, which, as they already knew from their plats and architectural plans, was the freshly paved airstrip with its brand-new hangars and outbuildings.

The real surprise was parked on a taxiway to one side. The morning sunlight glinted and gleamed on what appeared to be an entire row of aircraft.

“Do you see that?” Cole said, his excitement building.

“My God!” Sharpe said. “Take her closer. Take her down now!”

The sight took his breath away. There must have been two dozen aircraft in all, and they were of all shapes and sizes. Short wings, long wings, no wings at all. There was a silver craft with a delta shape and a sawtooth back edge that resembled an undersized stealth bomber. An odd six-rotor model looked a little bit like the hobbyist quadcopters, but it was three times as large. Straight wings and backswept wings, and eerily designed craft that, for all their sleekness, hardly looked flyable. And, for whatever reason, everything was out on full display.

“It’s got to be almost everything they have,” Cole said.

“Washing day,” Castle said. “Look, see those two guys with steam hoses, cleaning equipment? Christ, it’s their fucking washing day. Unbelievable.”

“Or maybe they do this every morning.”

Sharpe was exultant.

“It’s like Pearl Harbor, when the Japs caught all our shit out on the runway, wing to wing. It’s their whole damn arsenal, just waiting for its close-up.”

“What a goddamn toy store,” Castle said.

“All that’s missing are the minis. They probably test those indoors, anyway. In that big hangar down at the end, if I had to guess. A micro-aviary, like the one at Wright-Patterson in Ohio. And if you think the ones I flew down your chimney the other night were hot stuff, well they’ve probably got a few not much bigger than a Florida mosquito. Swarms of them.”

“In theory,” Cole said.

“No. In practice. I’ve seen them. Hey, look at that big one, off at the far end of the runway? Approximately the same wingspan as an Avenger, I’m guessing. Sixty-six feet. Can fly up to fifty thousand feet, top speed of four sixty. A match for the fastest drone the Air Force has right now. But no match for that smaller one two slots down, with the red wingtips. Looks just like our X90 prototype. Air speed of eight hundred, if you can believe it.”

“Hot shit,” Cole said.

“And it can outfight anything comparable. A true combat drone. Armed with two small missiles and a rapid-fire cannon. A sight to behold. Fire away, Captain Cole! Keep making passes and I’ll keep shooting it. Video, stills, the works!”

“Will do. By the way, there’s radar. I’ve seen at least two dishes already.”

“Saw those as well.”

“Think they’ve picked us up?”

“Maybe. Although I did employ into the design a little, well…”

“Stealth technology?”

“A touch or two. Nothing too elaborate.”

“Jesus. How much did this thing cost?”

“Enough that you’d better watch yourself on those treetops. We want her close, but not a catastrophe.”

“I don’t plan on going in low enough for them to eyeball us. Besides, this wind’s a bitch.”

“Fine. But at some point we’ll just have to say damn the security and go straight in. This opportunity’s too good to miss.”

“Look!” Steve said. “Over to the left!” Even he was caught up in the enthusiasm. “There’s a bunch of guys running. They’re pointing up at us.”

“How’s that possible?” Sharpe said

“I guess better radar tech can be stolen, too,” Cole said.

“Good guess. Yes, that’s probably it exactly.”

Cole swung his camera to port so that the men came into view on his own screen. Two of them were pushing one of the parked aircraft onto the runway, and they were moving fast. The others had dropped their cleaning equipment.

“Looks like they’re scrambling one to intercept you,” Castle said.

“I see it. When it’s airborne I’ll head upwind and into the sun.”

“Fighter tactics,” Sharpe said.

“Won’t mean shit if this stuff’s half as hot as you say.”

“I doubt they’d risk one of their better models. From the looks of that one, it might even be a trainer. But that also means they won’t just be trying to follow you, or take your picture. They’ll be out for blood.”

“Looking for a collision?”

“Whatever it takes.”

Sharpe said it with relish. He was enjoying this. Cole was, too. The idea of having an actual air-to-air opponent was certainly a thrilling change from his Predator missions, when the biggest danger apart from equipment failures and the elements was the occasional clumsy potshot fired by mujahideen with rocket-propelled grenade launchers, and even that had only occurred twice, and at very low altitudes.

Besides, the craft he was piloting now was much faster and more maneuverable. It was nimble, fun to fly. And with the full-surround view offered by the headset he practically had to stamp his feet on solid ground to remind himself that he wasn’t actually airborne.

Cole spent the next few minutes making passes over the airstrip so Sharpe could collect as many images as possible, and from every conceivable angle. All the while he remained aware of the craft being readied for takeoff, which flashed into view on each pass.

“We’re good on the imaging!” Sharpe called out after the fourth pass. “And they’re airborne now, so watch yourself.”

“Keep him in view on your iPad. I’m blind to him right now.”

“He’s coming up on your starboard side, already up past the tree line and banking around on a course to intercept you.”

“We’ll see about that.”