Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  “They disappeared,” Cam mutters. “Nothing but their clothes left behind. Maybe it’s the Rapture. Mom always told me to go to church.”

  “Just stop it,” Dexter grunts. “His uniform is just tangled in the safety belt. No one disappeared.”

  “Fish food,” Cam mumbles.

  “Something ate him?” I blurt, my mouth running dry.

  “If that were the case, his jacket wouldn’t look so pristine,” Dexter recites, taking a sip of his coffee as if he’s watching Saturday morning cartoons. “He’s been down here awhile. There’s probably bones in there somewhere.”

  Choosing not to enter the cockpit, the box maneuvers inside a first-class window at the front of the plane, then moves down the center aisle as if it were on the way to the restroom in the tail. Like the cockpit, the passengers’ clothes are tangled in the seatbelts, flowing in a slight current. As the shot pans, we are treated to more than one skull. Small clusters of loose bones are sprinkled along the seats and aisle. Some kind of greenish algae cover some of them, while others appear bright white. I swallow hard, flashes of a Nazi war crimes documentary from the History Channel haunt my thoughts. Is this what the Russian soldiers felt when they arrived at the death camps.

  The shot hangs over a plastic doll’s head floating by a strip of pinkish cloth. It’s tethered to the middle seat by the safety belt. There are piles of clothes on the seats to either side, the window seat holding a yellowish skull missing the jawbone. Wisps of fine hair hover in the current from a grey layer of skin. I wince as it dawns on me what I am seeing. There was a child sitting between her parents, and the material that made up the doll’s body must have been eaten away. The plastic head is just bobbing there, some tiny bit of air trapped inside.

  “This is wrong in so many ways,” Cam blurts, craning his head at an angle as the shot begins moving past. “You couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried.”

  “Is there a purpose to this macabre voyeurism?” I complain.

  “Why were they just sitting there?” Cam mutters, a hand scratching his cheek.

  “My guess,” Dexter shrugs and pauses.

  I nod for him to continue, but Cam cuts him off.

  “These people were dead before the plane hit the water,” he blurts out. “No way they just sit in their seats on the surface and wait to sink.”

  “Why would they be dead?”

  “Probably the Cuban’s,” Cam mutters, eyes glued on the screen. “There are secret Russian bases—.”

  “Cabin pressure,” Dexter cuts him off, rolling his eyes. “If there was a drop in cabin pressure, they would pass out.”

  “You mean like that golfer,” I ask, recalling a private jet that lost pressure on the news. “Something Stewart?”

  “Yes, although that was accidental.”

  “But that plane just flew in a straight line until it ran out of gas,” I point out. “These are in a cluster.”

  “Why would the pilots depressurize the cabin deliberately?” Cam grumbles.

  “Flight crew might have been trying to calm them down,” Dexter mutters. “Or they flew to high.”

  “Too high?” I ask.

  “The cabin is only pressurized to eight thousand feet.”

  “Don’t they fly higher than that?”

  “What I mean to say, is a passenger sitting in a cabin is already experiencing an altitude of eight thousand feet,” Dexter clarifies. “That’s why your ears pop on take-off.”

  “How high is that?”

  “Denver is around 5,200 feet,” Cam chimes in. So, a mile high.”

  “Eight thousand, so almost two miles,” Dexter corrects him. “Once the airliner passes eight thousand, the pressure is held there to keep people from passing out.”

  “How high do they fly?”

  “Depends on the type. Somewhere between thirty and forty, but a triple seven that broke, say forty-three would exceed the design’s ability to keep the pressure at eight thousand.”

  “Meaning,” I ask, unsure of the math.

  “If the crew took the plane into the mid forty’s, the cabin pressure would bleed off and the passengers might get hypoxic.”

  “And pass out,” Cam proclaims, nodding his head.

  “Dizzy and confused a first,” Dexter suggests, nodding at his partner. “Maybe euphoric, but they’d pass out if the pilots held that altitude for any length of time.”

  “Why would they do that?” I inquire. “Can’t they just dial down the pressure?”

  “I suppose they could.”

  “You two are missing the obvious,” Cam interjects. “Why would the pilots turn off their own air?”

  “They wouldn’t,” Dexter answers stoically.

  “These people were already dead when the planes went down,” Cam contends. “Eighteen sets of pilots didn’t commit suicide. Something else turned off the air.”

  “Or flew the planes too high,” Dexter repeats.

  “Some, thing?” I ponder aloud. “This is a white hot, smoking, tire fire.”

  Subtle nods of agreement circle the cabin.

  On the screen, the box has maneuvered out a rear window and disappeared into darkness. After five minutes, during which no one speaks, it encounters yet another airliner. The camera view moves up, catching letters in blue. We watch as it passes over the word Malaysia, then floats over the wing. Here, the fuselage is broken open, schools of fish swimming in and out at will. The bodies are sparse, but the morbid reality that the bodies were most likely eaten darkens my thoughts. This opening is big enough to allow a pretty good size predator access. At the tail 9-M-MRO is stenciled in white over red.

  “You can use that to identify the plane?” I exclaim, pointing at the screen.

  “We already did,” Dexter crosses his arms. “Malaysia 370.”

  Mystery solved I guess, but wait. Didn’t Hal suggest this plane was here on the phone? If these guys just found it, then how did he know? How honest is he being with me? I’m lost in thought for some time gazing at the underwater carnage, then Dexter inhales loudly, drawing me back to the group. He raises an eyebrow in my direction and I return it with a nod of affirmation. Something is rotten in Denmark.

  “Okay, that’s military,” Cam exclaims. “It’s a frigging government operation. Probably the Saudi’s, they—.”

  “Please shut up,” Dexter groans.

  The shot hovers over what looks like a fighter jet. Memories of the movie Top Gun or another one with Louis Gosset, Jr. that I favor, but can’t recall the title, pop into my thoughts.

  “Whose toy are we are looking at?” Dexter asks, putting a hand on Cam’s shoulder.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he pecks away on the laptop.

  A red matrix of lines appears, overlaying the fighter jet sunk into the sand. The screen splits and begins flashing through other pictures, reminding me of the fingerprint search popular in TV and movies. It’s only takes a dozen or so to slam to a stop on a match.

  “J-16,” Cam announces. “This sucker is Chinese.”

  The video returns, and as it passes over the top, we see the canopy and pilot are missing.

  “This guy bailed out before he hit the water,” Dexter comments. “Nothing turned off the air.”

  The idea that I should inform Hal of these discoveries pops into my head. I pull out my phone, but get no bars. Dexter watches me and smirks.

  “You guys don’t mind if I step outside and drop my boss a text do you?”

  “What’s the number? I’ll have Cam freeze some still pictures and forward them to your guy.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Sure, this mess is all yours.”

  “It is a mess.”

  “If it’s not,” Cam sighs. “It will do until the mess gets here.”

  On that note, I extricate myself, heading out onto the open deck. I text Hal what I know, then advise him pictures will be forth coming. I suddenly wonder if they have a way to text from out here, then realize how stupid that is. Given the
robot and the swimming camera I’d imagine they have anything they want. Watching them is like seeing a magic show.

  Chapter Nine

  I spend the day waiting for either a recorded flash drive or the case to appear topside, but neither event occurs. John quarrels with the dive guys the better part of the day, ending in them taking dinner alone in their room. The tension is thick between them, leaving me suffering from second-hand annoyance. I’m not actually one of them, but John is operating under this misconception. I eat in the conference room with Todd, then wander out on deck for a smoke. I find John sitting in a folding chair with his feet up on the railing. He doesn’t notice me until I am almost on top of him.

  “Got another chair or is it seating for one?”

  “Hey you,” he grunts, shaking his head as if he were deep in thought. “Feel free.”

  “If only there was another seat at the bar.”

  “I think that can be arranged,” he jumps up, sliding his over for me to sit down.

  “You’re quite the gentleman,” I curtsy, then sit.

  “We both know that’s not true,” he snorts, disappearing in search of a second chair.

  I put my feet up on the rail and feel the boat roll on the waves. It’s dark, but the moon’s bright and I can see the white caps dancing about on the dark sea. To one side, ash litters the deck, but there are no butts. Someone’s been littering in the ocean.

  John returns with a second chair in one hand and two bottles of beer in the other. He dangles the beers over me until I take one, the cold condensation running down my arm. I pull my pack of smokes out and use my lips to snag one. He sits, then reaches over with a shabby looking Zippo, the smell of lighter fluid filling my nostrils. I lean over the side of the chair, winking when he’s finished. At least he doesn’t look upset now.

  “Nice lighter.”

  “Handed down from my great grandfather. He swiped it off a dead Italian in WW2.”

  “Aussies fought in WW2?”

  “Grand Dad was Dutch.”

  “Nice.”

  “Your buddies keep telling me to wait, but it seems like we would have something by now.

  “Give it a day,” I reassure him. “If Dexter thinks it will be fine, then trust him.”

  “Forgive my saying so, but he’s sort of a prick.”

  “Noted, no offense taken.”

  “You two ever a number?” he raises an eyebrow.

  “Not that I am aware,” I answer vaguely, yet honestly.

  “Not that I—.”

  “Relax,” I cut him off. “Just be patient. If he says it’s coming, then it is.”

  “Easy for you to say,” he sighs, tipping up his beer. “I’ve been trapped out here for over a month.”

  “Ah, that explains why I look so good to you.”

  He leans his head back and frowns. I hold out my beer and he taps lightly with his. It’s an endearing expression, but it dawns on me he didn’t argue my inference. Is he polite, honest, or just cocky?

  “Where are you from originally?” I ask, looking back to the sea.

  “Australia.”

  “Really? I’m not detecting an accent?”

  “Parents split up when I was young. Grew up in the States with my grandparents mostly.”

  “And now?”

  “Perth, dear old Dad left me a ratty little beach house south of there in a place called Two Rocks.”

  “Two Rocks?”

  “A post office, a bar and a stop sign,” he chuckles.

  “You make it sound irresistible.”

  “It’s not much, but the location is spectacular.”

  “How so?”

  “The house sits on a triangular peninsula. There’s a lighthouse within spitting distance. It’s automated now, but you can’t beat the view at night.”

  “Sounds quaint, but not very Metropolitan.”

  “That’s right, but it’s quiet,” he remarks, lighting his own smoke. “Solitude is highly underrated.”

  “I’ll have to try it sometime.”

  He nods, eyes scanning the waves. Would I be attracted to him had we met back on dry land? This entire situation is so strange. How I went from a shopping mall in South Carolina to here is astonishing. We sit in silence while I contemplate my true motivation. Am I asking questions to collect information for Hal or because I want to know more about him? Before the answer becomes clear, he turns and looks my way. An awkward silence prompts me to fill it.

  “How’d you wind up working for these guys?” I toss out.

  “I do mostly consulting. People come here needing boats or logistics for something and then call me. This guy Bates hired me to get him a couple boats to do some deep water salvage. I tried to send him to a friend who specializes in that sort of thing, but he wouldn’t have it.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “That would be the million-dollar question,” he rolls his eyes and blows smoke to one side, “but if your boys can finish the job, I can go home and spend my money.”

  “They paying you well then?”

  “Better than most,” he raises an eye brow, then takes a swig. “What about you? What went wrong in your life that has you out here all alone?”

  “Why did anything have to go wrong?” I protest. And I’m not alone.”

  “You indicated that you were not with either of these nerds,” he argues, pulling himself up by the railing and putting his hand out for my empty beer bottle. “I mean not with them as in—.”

  “I know what you meant,” I cut him off, but let him take the bottle. “No need to be so direct.”

  “Sorry, I’ll try and beat around the bush a bit more,” he replies in a serious voice, but then chuckles.

  He goes for two more and I cross my legs on the railing, tapping my sneakers together. I’m trying to decide if there’s any scenario that ends with me not naked. Do I even mind? Other than Jarrod and a few drunken mistakes, I haven’t been with anyone besides Glen. Lord, I wish I could go back in time and avoid Jarrod all together. I flip my cigarette butt over the railing and frown, but John dangles a fresh beer over my head.

  “So, is there a guy back home, wherever that might be?”

  “Yeah,” I admit, looking at the white band on my finger where my wedding ring used to be.”

  A month ago, I was forced to pawn my precious keepsake. I didn’t get much for it, but when a simple check engine light turned into a complete set of fuel injectors, my options were limited. The rent was also two months past due and the two grand I got from the pawn shop covered almost all of my misfortune. An ember lights up in my brain. I could get the ring back easily with the money Hal gave me, but I’m pretty sure the pawn ticket was abandoned at my apartment. Do I want to get the ring back?

  “Just yeah?” he remarks, when I fail to finish my thought. “So, there’s a guy?”

  “I mean no. It’s complicated.”

  “It always is.”

  “What about you?” I ask, trying to shift the uncomfortable conversation back in his direction. “Is there a Miss Two Rocks?”

  “Sybil,” he nods, taking a sip.

  “Serious?”

  “Been together going on eight years now.”

  “Congrats,” I shrug, wondering how this fits in with last night’s wrestling match.

  “Yup, she’s the girl for me.”

  “I don’t suppose you have a picture?”

  “No way, she hates cameras,” he shakes his head in a cartoonish way. “Last time I tried to take a picture she crawled behind the couch and didn’t come out for two days.”

  “She what?”

  “Hid behind the couch,” he repeats, as if I didn’t hear him the first time.

  I stare out at the sea and ponder his answer. It feels the slightest bit like he’s pulling my leg. I stare at the moon and drink, pondering a follow up question. Digging out my smokes, I place one in the corner of my mouth. He leans over to light it, but I put up a hand and just suck on the filter. He�
�s almost certainly pulling my leg.

  “This Sybil sounds like a keeper,” I remark. “Any idea what you two are going to spend your windfall on?”

  “Speed boat.”

  “What sort do you fancy?”

  “As a kid, I wanted to be just like Don Johnson,” he sighs, then notices me looking confused. “Don Johnson, from that show Miami Vice.”

  I nod, trying not to smile. He must have seen it in syndication. He’s younger than me, and I’ve only seen it in re-runs. Is he actually younger?

  “They had one of those torpedo boats like the ones they smuggle dope on.”

  “I think you mean a cigar boat.”

  “Yeah, that’s the one,” he grins, pointing his beer in my direction. “They got one for sale down at the marina.”

  “And you’re going to buy it?”

  He nods, looking pleased at the thought. He’s got a man-crush on a boat. How typical of his gender. I scoot over and wiggle my cigarette for a light. Once he’s done, I lean back and return my eyes to the waves.

  “Does Sybil like boats?”

  “Hates the water,” he declares. “I’d never be able to hold her down long enough to get her on a boat.”

  “Sounds like a primal relationship.”

  “She’s an independent gal.”

  We share a half dozen beers making chit chat. While he’s talking, I notice the suffocating depression has lessened. The cloud in my brain crying out for blood vengeance, followed by a quick death is nearly non-existent. It’s not gone all together, but the constant pressure is fading. Is it possible Hal saved me from making a huge mistake? My phone vibrates with a text from him. I don’t reply, but simply enjoy the irony of the timing.

  Small talk and cold beers continue for several hours. John weaves all sorts of harrowing stories containing everything from kangaroos to bar fights. When pressed for tales of my life, I deflect as much as possible, then tell a series of mistruths loosely based on either my life or eighties sitcoms. The tidbits plagiarized from television shows are far more entertaining. The verbal autobiographies reach the point of logical exhaustion a little after midnight, the breeze having turned cold, giving me a shiver.