Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  “Come in,” I yell, mockingly giving her permission after the fact.

  “Got you some breakfast,” she announces, as if my humor is lost on her. “Stick close until we figure something out.”

  “That’s what you said yesterday,” Kara complains.

  Steam bleeds out of the tiny holes in the lid of the cups. Katz removes one, then starts back to the door.

  “Care to join us?” I offer.

  She pauses, looking unsure.

  “We don’t bite,” I joke, then try to reach the bag, but wind up fighting my towel.

  “I got it,” Katz frowns, tossing it on the bed.

  “Me, me,” Kara whines, putting out her hand without taking her eyes off the screen.

  I remove a cruller, then roll up the top of the bag and throw it at Kara. In a not surprising turn of events, it passes between her outstretched hands and the bag hits her in the face. She is a nerd after all. Once she acquires a cruller, she hands the bag to Katz, who takes one and sits in a tattered chair next to the wall mounted A/C unit. The room is small, so none of us are more than 10 feet away from each other.

  “Anything interesting?” Katz pokes Kara in the back.

  “Nothing on the news.”

  “No news in good news,” she replies, taking a sip of her coffee.

  “It’s funny,” Kara mutters. “He’s not moving his stuff around.”

  “Meaning,” I ask through a mouthful of sugar coated lard.

  “He’s just sitting there.”

  “He did blow up a hotel yesterday,” Katz remarks in a dark way. “Maybe he’s resting.”

  “You’re missing the point,” Kara huffs, bouncing around in her chair. “This is a game. He is part of a game. None of his arsenal is active. It’s a frigging game, but he’s not playing.”

  “Maybe he’s busy stealing airplanes or messing with ATM’s,” Katz argues, slouching in her chair and crossing her feet. “Possibly he’s got some important villain business you don’t know about.”

  “Maybe, but he’s awfully quiet.”

  “Speaking of stealing planes. I haven’t seen any news about the airliners turned submarines? Did we cover that up or has it been dropped to the back page?”

  Katz shrugs, chewing her cruller. It’s about the reaction I was expecting.

  “Why aren’t you playing?” Kara mutters at the screen.

  “You should get his attention,” I suggest. “Did you build any stuff for me with the cheat code gold?”

  “Oh yeah,” she grins over her shoulder. “I built a whole mess of stuff, but he’s not playing.”

  “What’s stopping you from playing?”

  “I’m waiting to see what he does,” she shrugs. “But he’s not doing anything.”

  “That’s not what I asked. What is stopping you from attacking him?”

  “Common sense,” she laughs, but sees me looking serious. “What?”

  “It’s a game,” I suggest, then point a finger at her. “Why aren’t you playing?”

  “He’d crush me. He’s basically WW2 Germany and we are the Falkland islands.”

  “You don’t need to win, just peck away at him. Pick off targets at the fringe of his empire.”

  “I would lose a bunch of units that way. It’s a poor strategy.”

  “Who cares, build more. We aren’t trying to win.”

  “We aren’t?” Katz cuts in. “Can I get a little clarification on that?”

  “We aren’t trying to win a video game,” I assert.

  “But, we are trying not to get dead?” Katz asks, lifting one eyebrow. “Just so we are all on the same page.”

  I nod.

  “Lose the battles, but win the war,” Kara mutters, then begins pecking fast and furious.

  I stuff the last of my cruller in my mouth and roll off the bed. Agent Katz averts her eyes when I fumble with the towel. Watching over Kara’s shoulder, I observe her launching a flock of airplanes off an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean. Propeller sounds fill the room.

  “Don’t you have some jets?” I ask. “Darius has them already.

  “He had a big head start,” she complains. “I’ll catch up at some point.”

  Her planes angle along the coast of mother Africa, but a box opens over the screen revealing the glowing mirror I assume is Darius. Why doesn’t he use an avatar like King Doug?

  “Your breach of Persian airspace has created a state of war between our countries,” the computer voice barks.

  Kara tilts her head back and looks at me. Apparently, she is unsure how to respond. I lean over and type with one arm over her shoulder, then hit send.

  I thought when you tried to kill me that was assumed.

  “Point taken,” he replies, then the dialogue screen snaps shut, revealing a swarm of jets launching from the middle east.

  “You might want to turn those planes around,” Katz advises, now standing behind us both.

  “Won’t matter,” Kara answers. “My planes aren’t fast enough to escape his jets. Might as well go in guns hot.”

  “To the last, I grapple with thee,” Katz mutters.

  I wrinkle my eyebrows, looking back at her.

  “It’s Melville,” she reveals, watching the screen.

  “Melville, like Moby Dick?”

  “Yeah,” she balks. “I read.”

  “It’s from Wrath of Khan,” Kara argues.

  “Chicken or the egg,” Katz mutters.

  On the screen, Persia’s jets cut our poor bi-planes to ribbons. When they are done several of them strafe the ocean for no apparent reason.

  “What’s that about?” Katz leans over and points at the screen.

  “He’s shooting down anyone who parachuted to safety.”

  “Is that part of the game? I ask, thinking that’s an odd thing to include.

  Kara shakes her head.

  “Would eliminating the survivors advance his bid to become Overlord?” I ask.

  “Overlord?” Katz mumbles as she chews.

  “No, when a unit is destroyed it just ceases to be,” Kara states. “I have never seen parachutes before.”

  “Makes you wonder if Weiss was right,” I suggest, sipping my coffee.

  “About what?”

  “What sort of programs did the military have loaded on the QC?”

  Over the next twenty minutes Kara sends all sorts of vehicles and tiny airplanes buzzing about. Each time it would appear they are destroyed, but then she moves in on another spot left open by Darius while defending the first attack.

  “How long can you keep this up?” I ask.

  “Since I can use the gold cheat it’s just a matter of how long I can stay awake.”

  “Good,” I mutter, slipping my arm over her shoulder and setting my coffee down next to hers. “Start drinking.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ll get her more if she needs it,” Katz offers, tossing the last bite of her cruller in a small waste can under the desk.

  “And my clothes,” I blurt out, weary of being naked in a crowd.

  “Right,” she frowns. “Forgot I was a maid.”

  “Relax. I’m a good tipper.”

  Katz starts to go, then pauses in the doorway.

  “This is none of my business,” she starts, pausing to put her comments in order. “I mean, Hal never talked to me about your sister, but I overhear a lot of his phone conversations. I get that your sister’s a hopeless drunk and she has no chance to make parole next month.”

  “You don’t know anything about it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I don’t know what she did to piss you off,” she groans, rolling her eyes. “I do know she’ll never get parole without some family showing up and taking an interest.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, and the people she hurt will show up in droves and try to convince the parole board to keep her in a box forever. Her attorney is just trying to even the playing field a little by getting a family member to show up,” she argues.
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  I don’t open my mouth, simply frown.

  “Just saying.”

  “Well thanks for your opinion,” I shake my head, then look down at the carpet.

  “I’m not suggesting you absolutely have to go, but you could take the call.”

  “Do yourself a favor and stay out of it,” I snap, pushing her shoulder to move her out of the way, then slam the door. “You don’t know anything about my sister.”

  Kara watches me pace the room for ten minutes, then takes a hint and goes back to her game. She’s smart enough to stay out of my personal business, which is more than I can say for Hal. I eat another cruller to soothe my anger, then Kara eats the last one plus the left over that Katz put in the trash. Where does this girl put it?

  I observe a rousing game of catch me if you can between Darius and Kara, each ending in the destruction of her meager forces. In the following encounters, Darius ends them much quicker, forcing Kara to abort on several occasions when even a suicide mission seems unwise.

  “I am getting killed,” she whines, covering her head with her hands.

  “It’s okay,” I pat her back. “Just keep him busy.”

  Chapter Thirty

  A few hours later, Katz and I abandon Kara with a Grande Mocha something, and join Hal in the lounge. Katz doesn’t speak to me, but we share a silent glance that suggests regret. I am willing to accept her offering as my own temper played a key role in the incident. I don’t need the words, just stop asking me about Vicky.

  Hal sits under a hanging veil of cigarette smoke in a corner booth. He’s not smoking, but virtually everyone else is. My kinda place. It’s a weekday and while the stools around the bar are full along both sides, the rest of the place is sparse. He’s talking on the phone and waves when he catches a glimpse of us wandering aimlessly.

  “That’s not really the issue,” he growls into the phone, then pauses and changes his angle. “What I meant to say is, I believe that to be an incorrect evaluation.”

  Katz slips in on Hal’s side, while I take the other. A fifty something waitress, skinny enough to blow away in a slight breeze, hobbles over in tall wedges to take our order. Her hair is a red dye job, clipped up in a Pebbles Flintstone high top ponytail. She pulls up the right side of her dingy white blouse, then forces a smile.

  “What can I get for ya?” she croaks, her voice like a gravel road.

  “What’s the house wine?” I inquire in jest, but receive a confused look from the poor woman.

  “Dewar’s, a double,” Katz commands, then holds her thumb and index finger 2 inches apart to re-enforce her order. “Rocks glass, two ice cubes.”

  “And you?” the waitress asks as I squint at a stained name tag pinned to her blouse.

  “Suzie?” I mutter, then receive a head bob indicating I have guessed correctly. “Bud Light, bottle please.”

  She shuffles off to the crowded bar to procure our drinks. In front of Hal, sit two other cell phones and several empty rocks glasses. Apparently, Suzie doesn’t always remove the empties. He keeps right on talking, then notices me looking at the extra phones and shoves one in my direction. On closer inspection, it would seem to be the phone I gave to Agent Noble. Scanning the table, I see the battery on the other side of the empty glasses. I probably shouldn’t turn it on and risk being bombed. We receive our drinks, then Agent Katz pays for both with a twenty, waving off change.

  “Drinking on the job,” I joke. “Shall I assume this is your day off.”

  “Yeah,” she shrugs, pausing to look at Hal, but he’s deep in a conversation. “Technically, it’s everyone’s day off.”

  “What do you mean?

  “We’re off it.”

  I tilt my head and wait, hoping for clarification.

  “After yesterday this thing can’t be dealt with quietly,” she explains, leaning forward and lowering her tone. “No amount of backwater maneuvering and media misdirection can overcome a F-22 flying through Carlsbad and blowing up a hotel full of innocent people.”

  “Don’t be so sure. There’s a flotilla of airliners under six-thousand feet of water that say different.”

  “The Government’s stepping in. We,” she points her glass at Hal, then myself, “are out of the game.”

  “Aren’t we the Government,” I laugh, but receive only a curious grin. “You know what I mean. Hal works for some branch of Homeland, doesn’t he?”

  “The T.V. show or the Government Agency?”

  “You work for the CIA,” I argue. “You showed me your badge.”

  “Oops,” she smirks, looking over at Hal who’s not paying attention to us. “I suppose we are loosely affiliated with them.”

  “How loosely?”

  She tips her drink up, finishing it, then sets the rocks glass down with a thud. Reaching inside her jacket pocket, she pulls out her black leather ID holder and hands it to me.

  “Have a look.”

  I open it and inside are the CIA credentials I saw previously. It all looks perfect to me. I start to hand it back, but she stops me with an outstretched hand.

  “Look closer,” she winks, tapping a finger on the picture ID slipped under a clear plastic sleeve.

  She’s acting strange. Maybe she’s had more than one drink. I pull the leather wallet back and dig under the clear plastic, pulling out the ID.

  “Looks pretty good.”

  “It’s the best,” she nods, then twirls her finger in a circle.

  It’s very thick and printed on the backside, is a second ID.

  “Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

  “I think there’s another one,” she remarks, then snatches the wallet , dropping another two-sided card out.

  “Stonewall Security,” I read, then flip the card over. “United States Secret Service.”

  She nods.

  “How often do you guard the President?”

  “Not as often as I’d like,” she sighs in a comical way, then slides out to chase down Suzie.

  This is unsettling to say the least. I have been working under the assumption that Hal was some sort of high ranking Government Operative. Have I been completely rouge without knowing it? I try to think back. I have never visited Hal in any Government building with the possible exception of the Embassy in Panama. It’s always hotels, bars and sedans with tinted windows. There weren’t any markings on any of the private jets and I do mean the inside, as most government Gulfstreams don’t have TEAM USA emblazoned down the side.

  I sit sipping my beer until Katz comes back, at which time Hal finally ends his call. Once he realizes Agent Katz’s identification is spread all over the table, his face turns from a moderately bad day to epic disappointment.

  “Was that really necessary?” he groans.

  No words from her, just a shrug.

  “Right, well, sorry about that.”

  “Who do I work for?”

  “Technically speaking, nobody.”

  “But who do you two work for?” I ask, wiggling a finger between them.

  “We are affiliated with all of these fine organizations,” he tells me, sweeping up the cards and handing them to Katz. “Currently we are working somewhat in-between the lines.”

  “Which lines?” I demand. “And I hope it’s not the line between right and wrong.”

  “Really,” he groans, pushing his empties to Agent Katz, who takes them to the bar. “Right and wrong,” he whispers after she’s gone. “I won’t argue the existence of either, but I have never seen an actual line.”

  “Help me out here. This started out as a quick boat ride,” I beg, trying to lower the tension level. “It was just me tagging along to keep an eye on some people.”

  “That’s true, although there was that pesky apocalyptic smallpox issue we had to iron out,” he grins, but I glare at him. “Sorry.”

  “This is where it gets confusing. I have been wondering about this for a while. That first time you called me.”

  “During your murderous rampage?”


  “Prior to,” I exhale, trying to remain calm. “When I asked what this was about, you mentioned Malaysian flight 370.”

  “And you sent me the pictures from the boat.”

  “Yes, but you referenced it before the dive guys found it. You already knew where it was,” I suggest, then pause as my face gets hot. “Oh, dear God, you knew all those planes were down there.”

  Katz wanders up, setting a fresh drink for Hal on the table. She glances back and forth between my face and Hal’s tormented expression.

  “Oh, it’s that conversation,” she winces. “Awkward.”

  There’s an uncomfortable pause as we wait for her to sit down. Apparently, I am the only one who didn’t know. Deciding to sit this one out, she points over her shoulder to a vintage pinball game. Hal nods, then she digs in her pockets for change as she drifts away.

  “Stacy,” he starts, holding his hands up. “This is—.”

  “Stacy died in an apartment fire.”

  “Right, sorry,” he plows forward, looking frustrated. “This is a complicated web. Trust me when I say you are not doing anything treasonous.”

  “You knew. The government knew all those planes were down there. Did you know it was your Drone run amok?”

  “Not precisely. Before 2012 we didn’t even know it was still flying.”

  “Then how’d you know the planes were there?” I demand, but then it comes to me as I watch Katz play pinball across the room. “Satellites. You have far better spy satellites than you let on. Are they military or private sector?”

  “I’d prefer not to be overly specific.”

  “Why not just tell the whole world you found the missing airliners? Good old Team USA, always willing to lending a hand.”

  “It’s tricky,” he pauses, rolling his eyes. “If we held a press conference and announced we know where a dozen lost planes are, the world would want to know how we knew.”

  “This is all a blame game then? Uncle Sam is just trying to avoid taking responsibility for it’s Drone?”

  “No, no, you’re missing the obvious,” he shakes his head, looking as if he tasted something sour. “Our enemies would want to know how we can see the planes, not how they got there. In the long run, some waterlogged planes won’t ruffle international feathers but—.”