The whole view is like one gigantic IMAX screen. The wind whips Mom’s hair. When we stop and look down, I’m asleep.
Nothing can wake me tonight, except maybe a bomb. And that’s exactly what happens. I jerk awake at the sound of explosions. Dad’s sitting at the foot of our bed, sipping a beer and watching Battleground.
“C’mon, man,” I groan. “Turn it off.”
He grabs the remote and lowers the volume. “Sorry, must be all those pineapples. You know what a pineapples is?”
“Grenade,” I say. “Now turn it off.”
“Just one more minute,” Dad says. “There’s a great scene coming up.”
I crush a couple of pillows against my ears and try to will myself back to Burro Mesa, but the ongoing barrage of pineapples makes sleep impossible. So I give up and open my eyes on a snow-covered forest.
Dad glances back. “Let me catch you up,” he says. “Battle of the Bulge. Winter of ’44–’45. Pivotal time for the allies. What a great cast! See that dog face—the guy playing Pop?—Wait, here comes the scene.”
The GIs are chipping foxholes in the ice. One thing about World War II soldiers, they were baggier, grimier, and less ripped than soldiers of today—the guys out in the hardscrabble hills and war holes of the world, like the Swat Valley. But maybe that’s because I’m looking at actors of long ago—who went home to swimming pools and barbecues. No wonder they’re so chubby.
The GIs curl up in their foxholes and fall asleep. How they can do this is beyond me. I can’t even fall asleep in my Travelodge bed.
Now it’s the darkest hour. A Nazi patrol creeps through the trees in crunchless snow. It’s a scene of stealth and fog. And no music—just silence and rat-a-tat-a-tat. One GI rolls out of his foxhole and flanks around to the back. Another joins him, and together they mow down or capture all the Nazis.
“Hey, it’s been a lot more than a minute,” I say.
“Hold on,” Dad says. “This isn’t just about you. I’m entitled to some R and R.”
I hammer my pillow.
Now it’s daytime, and the GIs are marching down a road. The glare off the snow lights up their smudged faces. It flickers brightly in our room. I glance over at Siouxsie.
“Psst! Dad, turn it off.”
I ram a foot against him. He scowls over his shoulder. But when I point out Siouxsie—at the buried-in-blankets-sobbing mound she has become—he gets up, goes over, and sits on the edge of her bed.
“Siouxsie. Ah, poor Siouxsie,” he says, slurring his words. “You’ve gone through so much. More than anybody. What can I . . . ? How can I—?”
She flings off the blankets and glares at him, her face soaked with tears.
“You can’t!” she cries. “You don’t know how!”
Dad reaches out to her, but she slaps his arm away. Then she goes at him, pounding her fists against his chest and shoulders like a maniac. Dad does nothing to defend himself, so I jump up, grab her, and toss her to the far side of the bed.
“Turn that damn thing off!” I say to Dad.
He just sits there, the movie flickering on his face—shadow . . . light . . . shadow . . . light.
I grab the remote and snap off the TV.
Dad stumbles in the dark to the foot of our bed and lowers himself to the floor. I fling a blanket and pillow at him.
For a while, Siouxsie sniffles from the depths of her covers. Dad begins to snore.
Me, I can’t sleep. A foxhole would be more comfortable than this place.
I finally drift off around five a.m.
Chapter 19
AT SEVEN-THIRTY A.M., Kenya Man raps me awake.
I’m used to feeling sleep deprived, but not like this.
Maximum Efficiency. I roll to my feet. It has to be ME today.
I glance at the comatose form of Dad curled on the floor and count six empty beer bottles.
All I can see of Siouxsie is her hair mopped across her pillow.
I crank out a shower. Get dressed and slip into the hall, easing the door shut.
At the free-breakfast counter, I grab a dinky blueberry muffin and a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Stir in lots of sugar and powdered cream. I’m just dozing off in the lobby when Mullins pulls up in his flatbed. It’s one minute to eight. I refill my coffee and go outside.
“Mornin’, ace,” he says, cheerfully.
“Mornin’,” I mumble.
“Day two, Arlo. Not many people make it this far. What I hear is, only you and one other.”
“Nah, man, don’t mess with me,” I say, and climb into the flatbed.
Mullins gets behind the wheel and fires her up. “Guess you sang on key yesterday. You don’t look too happy about it.”
“Just trying to wake up,” I say.
We pull out of the Travelodge parking lot and lurch along the boulevard until it smoothes into Highway 70. I sip my coffee, remembering yesterday and last night—white sand and glaring snow, drones and pineapples. It all gloms together like the glue in my cup—the glue in my belly. I welcome Mullins’s yammer.
“Disgust and gratitude, Arlo,” he’s telling me. “That’s how I feel about the United States military. I enlisted because I wanted to specialize in helicopter mechanics. I’m a damn good mechanic. I would say great, but, hey, I’m modest. My recruiter says, ‘Sure, you can be all that and more.’ Beware of recruiters, Arlo. I was willing to go to a war zone. But they sent me here—to Toe Suck, Egypt—instead. To drive a flatbed truck. Go figure.”
“What about the gratitude part?” I ask, egging him on. It’s easier not to talk.
Mullins shrugs. “Pays the bills. The benefits are good too. And the bonuses, oh, man—”
“Bonuses?”
“The looks you get when you wear this uniform. Just walking down the street. Or inside Safeway. Or at the ballpark. Or the airport. That’s real respect, man. Last year, I flew to San Antonio, and this guy in first class swapped seats with me. This uniform means something to people. They see me, and they think of their grandpa at Khe Sanh. Or their great-grandpa at Omaha Beach. I’m part of something big. Driving a flatbed? Hey, somebody’s gotta be low man on the totem pole. Just ask that guy.” He points to a coyote trotting across the scrub about two hundred yards on our left.
I’m tempted to tell him about yesterday—how I hitched a ride on his flatbed out to the Organ Mountains, then fired up, tilted my wing, and caught the updraft. I want to thank him. He saved my ass. But cool can be cruel. Plus, I probably shouldn’t have taken those pictures of him napping.
I let it go.
We drive onto the post and park outside the Skunkworks. Mullins guides me to a small room. The sign on the door says GROUND CONTROL.
“Short day today, Arlo. You’ll be done at two-thirty. I’ll be waiting right here. On the dot. And don’t forget, when you’re up there—”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “T-FOG for you.”
“T-FOG for both of us, Arlo.”
“Do my best,” I say.
“I know you will.”
We bump fist, and I go into Ground Control.
Like yesterday, Major Anderson is standing behind a tinted-glass wall.
“Good morning, Arlo,” he says through the mike. “Take a seat and log on—you know the password.”
I drop into a leather armchair and face a bank of flatscreens. Punch in swatvalley. The sign above my station reads:
WARNING! RESTRICTED AREA.
USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED.
I’m messing around, tinkering and customizing, when one of the pilots from yesterday walks in. I’ve been wondering who it will be, hoping it won’t be him. But damn, it is—the officer with the bulging eyes of a Gila monster. Lipless. Desert-faced. Bald. He sits at the station one row ahead of mine, one to the left. I have a clear view of his screens, and he knows it.
Major Anderson mikes in:
“Gentlemen, yesterday was mainly about approach and recon-naissance. Today is about the hit. You will be flying an MQ-1 Predator
in a video-simulated environment. The Predator is a true alpha MALE—Medium Altitude Long Endurance. It’s an extremely lethal weapons system. Whether you shoot skeet, squirrel, man, or MiG, the principles are the same. We will throw targets at you. Some will sit still. Some will move. And some will move so fast you won’t see them. Conditions may be that a target’s shadow looks more real than the target itself. We will blind you with sun, and we will blind you with rain. Your job is easy—just track, lock, and fire. Do not attempt to think with your head. This game will outfly your head every time. Think with your gut. Questions?”
Gila shakes his head.
I shake mine.
“Game on,” Major Anderson says. “Launch at will.”
I take a deep breath and rally all the molecules I can. They feel heavy and slow today. It’s going to be a long one.
I thumb my button and am gone.
Into the blue of the Swat Valley. Spruce forest. Granite cliffs. Arghandab River. I can practically smell the trout. Man, it’s pretty country. Everything looks like the river canyons of western Orphan County. Like the Front Range of the Rockies.
Lewis and Clark would’ve felt at home here. Kit Carson too. And probably Clay Allison himself.
We blast out of the Swat into the broken desert. Standing on the horizon are the Hindu Kush mountains—the snowy humps of the world. It feels right. It feels good. I’m waking up.
Gila fires a missile. I track his POV camera and watch a military truck levitate. Crystallize. Shower down.
Perfect strike.
Gila doesn’t flinch.
Never waste a motion—that’s what he’s about. And he’s right. You can be wasteful in your ground life, litter it up—just like my room at home. But in the air it’s different. You can’t be messy. Every millisecond, you’re either going to live or die. So you’ve got to keep it clean.
An arsenal of crates appears. I track, lock, and fire.
A missile arches up. Fades into the sun. I track, lock, and fire.
Gila and I go on like this for half an hour. Pulverizing everything. He scores the points. He does not miss. I’m sure he knows that I’m aware of this.
I score the points too. My gut tells me not quite as many, but close.
After a while, my eyelids get heavy.
I wiggle my toes, scratch my face, clench my sphincter. Do anything I can to stay awake. But the whole environment inside Ground Control conspires against me. The whirs, hums, and pings soothe like a lullaby. My leather seat molds to me like the softest bed.
My eyelids droop.
I track, lock, and fire.
Track, lock, and fire.
DURING A PISS BREAK, Gila and I stand at the urinals. I’m hoping he’ll say something to humanize himself, but he pisses like a statue.
At the sink, splashing water on my face, I look up and see him staring at me in the mirror.
“Do you know who I am?” his reflected self says.
A shudder goes through me. “Yeah—I mean, yes. Sort of.”
“Let me tell you,” the reflection says. “I was flying interceptors before you were born! I’ve flown eighty-one combat missions. Look here.” He taps a patch on his shoulder. “This is for conspicuous gallantry. Do you have the slightest idea what that means?”
My reflection does not answer.
“It means I’ve risked my life for my country,” he says, stepping beside me in the mirror. “Gone above and beyond the call of duty. Lost good men along the way. Do the words gallantry, duty, or sacrifice mean anything to you?”
I turn and face him. Stare into those bulging eyes. “The last one does,” I say.
Gila rips a paper towel from the dispenser. Places it on the counter. Pulls out a pen and does a quick drawing.
“See here,” he says, flapping the drawing in my face. “This is a flight pyramid. I’m here.” He points to the top. “You’re there.” He jabs the bottom. “And why you’re even there is beyond me. It’s insanity that you’re here to begin with. What the hell are they thinking? Go home and play with your damn Xbox . . . or Tonka toys . . . or whatever it is you play with. Or just go suck on your mommy’s tits.”
He crushes the paper towel and flings it in my face.
I blink, and he’s gone.
Track, lock, and fire.
Perfect hit.
Now when I sit at my station in Ground Control, I’m not drowsy.
Not one bit.
Chapter 20
DAD AND I ARE SITTING at a table in the Tularosa Café, a few miles north of Alamogordo. The waitress sets a platter of hot churros between us. And little bowls of chocolate and raspberry dipping sauce, plus cinnamon dust.
We should be moaning in ecstasy—the churros are that good. But we dip, dust, and chomp in silence.
Dad tilts his head toward the window. We can see Siouxsie sitting in the pickup, slumped against the door. She’s hasn’t spoken all day.
“God, what a fool I was,” he says, chewing sullenly. “Wish I could do last night all over again.”
“Wish we could do the last six months all over again,” I say, crunching into my churro.
“You and me both, Arlo.”
We glance out at the pickup.
“It’s a lot harder for her,” Dad says. “She’s fighting two battles—your mother’s death and Huntington’s. You and I, we’re just fighting one.”
A car pulls into the parking lot, blocking our view of the pickup. It’s a shiny black Crown Victoria LX, government plates. The back door opens and Colonel Kincaid steps out.
“Whoa!” I say.
“You got that right,” Dad says.
Colonel Kincaid strides into the café, spots us, signals a waitress, barks “Coffee!” and pulls up a chair.
“Hello, Arlo. Hello, Hector.”
“Hey, sir,” I say.
“How’d you find us?” Dad asks.
Colonel Kincaid launches an index finger. “One of your little friends, Arlo.”
“You mean—”
“Exactly,” he says. “A Red Dart 200. Our eye in the sky.”
Dad and I lean against the window and peer up. All I see are dirty clouds.
“So much for the Bill of Rights,” Dad mumbles.
The waitress sets a mug of coffee in front of the colonel.
“I’ll get right to the point,” he says. “Arlo, you are hot shit.” He looks at Dad. “Hector, your son is the drone pilot. What he did yesterday was pure rapture.”
Dad looks puzzled. “What did he do?”
“Loaves and fishes, Hector,” the colonel says, sipping his coffee. “He turned scarcity into plentitude.”
Dad lifts an eyebrow.
“And today,” Colonel Kincaid goes on, “he hit every target. The twelves, the thirteens—and he annihilated the fourteen. That’s deadeye.” He smacks the table. “Arlo, this weekend you outflew and outgutted some of the best combat pilots in the country. Others were good here and there, but you were good everywhere. Nobody topped you.”
“Not anybody?” I ask.
The colonel shakes his head. “Not even close.”
Relief glows inside me.
Dad looks impressed. “How did you do all this, Arlo?”
“Luck, I guess.”
“Hell no!” the colonel says. “Arlo, have you ever taken an IQ test?”
“Not that I know of,” I say.
“Definitely not,” Dad says. “My kids don’t take IQ tests. They’re the intellectual equivalent of taxidermy. They do not represent the heart, guts, or spirit of a person. I’ve written that editorial a dozen times.”
“How about psychological tests?” the colonel asks. “Ever taken one of those?”
“Pretty sure I haven’t,” I say.
“That would be correct,” Dad says.
Colonel Kincaid settles back in his chair. “Arlo, you have two advantages over the others. First, your primary language is drones; theirs is jet fighters. Second, you have outstanding situational awareness.�
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“Situational awareness?” Dad asks.
“Yes,” the colonel says. “Arlo sees things sooner. As a result, he comprehends them more quickly. Therefore, he’s able to act more decisively. And more precisely. Most of our top pilots possess superior situational awareness. But Arlo is off the charts.”
The colonel locks on me.
“Arlo, you’re the one I’m looking for. The whole package.”
I reel from the praise. “Yeah, but—”
He cuts me off.
“Arlo, you can’t build a bridge with ‘but.’ And you sure as hell can’t win a war. Stop thinking ‘but’ and start thinking ‘and.’”
“Hold on,” Dad says. “‘But’ can be useful to convey dissent and opposition.”
Dad and the colonel go eye to eye, ’nad to ’nad. The colonel blinks first.
“Bottom line, Hector, Arlo can help us. And we can help you.”
He slips an envelope from inside his jacket, places it between the bowls of dipping sauce. Dad’s eyes drift out the window.
“One thing, Carl,” Dad says. “We’ve had violence in our lives. Violence changes you. You can’t be who you were before.”
The colonel shrugs. “The world is a violent place, Hector.”
“Yes,” Dad says. “But Arlo is not a violent person.”
“Oh, really!” the colonel says. “He sure proved himself capable yesterday.”
“Hold up!” I say. “Yesterday was just games and simulations. If it’s real, forget it. I’m not gonna take anybody out. That’s totally not who I am.”
The colonel skews his head and studies me. “Who are you, Arlo?”
“Dunno,” I say. “Does anybody ever?”
Colonel Kincaid leans across the churros.
“Let me tell you who you are,” he says. “You’re our drone pilot. You’ll get up close—closer than anybody else can—and you’ll see. You’ll be our eagle eyes. We will plan and execute based upon the information—the intelligence—you bring back. At all times, you’ll be ten thousand miles from harm’s way. You’ll launch from our airbase in Pakistan, but in point of fact, you’ll be safe and remote in a soft chair in White Sands, New Mexico. Doing what you do best—flying drone.”
Dirt Bikes, Drones, and Other Ways to Fly Page 11
