Hold my fists to the mirror, open and close them.
The thing about Oxy blues is, they reinforce how I see myself these days. Looking into the mirror, I see:
Dark lost eyes.
Dark lost mind.
Fact is, mirrors obstruct the view. They are like the shiny surface of the well you toss the coin into. The truth is what the coin sees as it sinks to the bottom.
Who am I?
“Dinner!” Dad shouts.
Who am I? I ask again.
“Drone pilot,” I say to my reflection.
I grab my laptop and plant myself at the kitchen table. Over salsa scramble and pesto-slapped English muffins, I search for Colonel Kincaid’s old e-mails and memos. The memos total a couple dozen pages. I cut and paste highlights of the unredacted text onto a blank page.
I’m trying to put all this information into some kind of logical order. To make the most sense of it. Pretty soon I have this:
TO: Mideast High Command and Coalition UAV Strategic Units
FROM: Col. (Ret.) Carl Kincaid, ARI
RE: Operation Brave Panther
I. Since last summer, the number of attacks on our personnel has sharply increased.
II. Insurgency forces have initiated attacks from steep outposts ringing the Swat Valley, the most dangerous being Compounds 52 and 117. Previous attempts to neutralize these outposts have failed.
III. Intelligence reports suggest that Caracal is masterminding these attacks. This is despite the fact that he was presumed dead following a drone strike last year outside Peshawar. The attacks contain his signature traits of surprise, boldness, and surgical precision.
IV. Caracal has always been externally focused. We must assume that his primary goal is strategic and that he plans to strike another heavy blow against our interests, most likely on the U.S. mainland, as soon as possible.
V. Setbacks involving civilian and friendly fire casualties have fueled cries in Washington, DC, and other world capitals for the termination of Brave Panther.
VI. We recently began looking beyond our traditional military sources for the best and brightest pilots.
VII. Recent gains can be attributed to the performance of one pilot in particular, Rope Thrower.
VIII. Rope Thrower possesses extensive knowledge of local terrain and exceptional flying ability. On three occasions he piloted a drone over Compounds 52 and 117 and gathered crucial photographic and video intelligence. He was able to commence mapping of human activities using real-time video imagery; commence tracking of courier travel patterns to, from, and between the compounds; and glide undetected throughout these missions.
IX. The success of Brave Panther depends upon consistent high-performance piloting. I believe we have found our pilot in Rope Thrower.
X. Next step: Escalate recon sorties to complete the mapping and tracking initiative in and around Compounds 52 and 117.
At the bottom of one of Colonel Kincaid’s memos—at the end of a thick paragraph of blacked-out text—is a single sentence that boggles me. I’m pretty sure he meant to hide it. Then I wonder, maybe not.
It remains to be seen whether we can transition Rope Thrower from the role of forward observer to that of hangman.
I soak it all in.
Every last word.
Chapter 37
DAD AND I ARE PARKED behind the Shell station. Dad’s tuned the radio to a blues channel out of Denver. Some guitar player is bustin’ a slide called “Come Back, Little Mama.” Dad’s tapping in time on the wheel.
I watch cars rush up the interstate. I’m looking for a turn signal, but they all whoosh by. Then a light pricks the horizon and gets bright fast. Only it’s not on the freeway.
“Jeez, Arlo,” Dad says, “did they send a chopper for you? Are you that big a deal?”
A few minutes later, a helicopter lands in the field behind the Shell station. The door opens, and Specialist Mullins climbs out.
Dad and I bend into all that whop-whop-whop.
I bump fist with Specialist Mullins, and he salutes Dad.
“What happened to your flatbed?” I shout over the noise.
“What can I say, Arlo? I hang out with you and they treat me like a king. Ever fly in one of these?”
“Nah, never.”
Dad starts to hug me, but my sling gets in the way, so he settles for a look—proud, sad, and “watch out.”
“We’ll have him back bright and early, sir,” Mullins shouts to Dad.
I squeeze into a seat behind Mullins and the pilot. Strap in. All that rotor-turb makes it too loud to talk. As we lift off and fly south, I gaze down at the lone interstate travelers tunneling into the dark, and beyond into the blackness that veils New Mexico—the Navajo smoke and Kit Carson dreams.
Mullins hands me a pair of night-vision goggles. I put them on and the ground lights up like an x-ray. Now it’s all boring scab-scarred plains and chunky hills. I take off the goggles. Better to see the darkness and the dream.
I want to be here, flying into the night.
I want to be heading somewhere, which is better than heading nowhere.
Heading toward, which is better than heading away.
“WELCOME BACK, ARLO!”
Major Anderson waves from behind the glass wall inside the Skunkworks.
“How’s your arm feeling?” he says through the mike.
“No problem,” I say.
“That sling going to cramp your style?”
“Nah, my touch is pretty light.”
“Good. Let’s get started. You know the password.”
I drop into the leather armchair and log on. Major Anderson opens the mike again.
“Tonight we’ll continue mapping human activities in and around Compounds 52 and 117. You’ll need to get in closer than last time. To see farther and deeper. Am I being too metaphysical for you?”
“No, sir,” I say.
“Arlo, let’s go over our mission. Can you explain it to me?”
I can’t see Major Anderson all that clearly through the tinted glass. He’s just a shadowy shape. I speak to it.
“Well,” I say, “I’m looking for signs that somebody’s hiding. Like maybe I see two people, and from how they stand I can tell there’s a third person there, only I can’t see him because he doesn’t want to be seen. So I’m looking for, like, hints and traces, or reactions from others—stuff like that. ’Cuz that’s all we’ll ever see of him. ’Cuz he’s aware. He’s super aware. He’s thinking about us the way we’re thinking about him. He’s safe as long as he doesn’t make a mistake.”
Major Anderson opens the mike. “Assuming he’s there in the first place.”
“Yeah, correct,” I say. “Assuming that.”
“What does your gut tell you, Arlo?”
“He’s there,” I say.
The mike clicks open. “It would be easy to drop Hellfires on these compounds, wouldn’t it, Arlo?”
“Big mistake,” I say.
“How so?”
“Because,” I say, “if you’re wrong about him being there, or if you miss, he’ll just go into deeper hiding. And then you’ll never find him. First, make sure he’s there. Then once you’re sure, hit him. But don’t miss. You can’t miss. You totally can’t miss. And you can’t hit anybody else, either. Believe me, I’ve done this before. It’s how you score the big points.”
“We’re not scoring points here, Arlo.”
“Yeah, sorry,” I say. “Bad choice of words.”
“Remember,” Major Anderson says, “every action you take here causes a reaction twelve thousand miles away.”
“Exactly,” I say.
“Now let’s get in tight and get those images.”
Tonight I’m at the controls of a Mini-Shadow—just a bird, hardly bigger than a hawk.
Mullins slips in and places a cup of coffee beside me.
“Brought you three flavors of creamer, Arlo. Take your pick.”
“All three,” I say.
He
winks. “Don’t forget to T-FOG.”
“Do my best,” I say.
Major Anderson opens the mike. “Launch at will.”
I launch from a catapult on a flatbed truck parked on a concrete slab twelve thousand miles from my cozy leather seat in White Sands, New Mexico.
It’s nearly ten p.m. here at White Sands—nearly nine a.m. on Pakistan’s North-West Frontier.
The Arghandab River shimmers in the distance. I glide over a village of stone huts. Look down on boys fishing from a bridge. Girls scrubbing clothes on the bank. Ponder their lives, which are so different from mine—no Safeway, no freeway, no Maytag, no Drone Pilot—though you can never be sure.
Still, I know what it’s like, kind of. Cam, Lobo, and I have fished the Rio Loco, sitting on the Amtrak bridge. And on hot days, we’ve soaked our shirts in the river. Maybe it’s a good life on the North-West Frontier, if you don’t count the war. Maybe it’s better than my life in New Mexico. I don’t want to judge.
If they glanced up, they’d see me for who I am: an unmanned aerial vehicle—a drone. Property of the United States of America. Mission: covert tactical military reconnaissance.
I bank and throw my shadow downstream.
Flit across the Arghandab unseen.
Stretching before me are miles of orchards laid out in big squares. The valley breaks into foothills; the foothills split into canyons. Waterfalls slide down. I catch a thermal and ride it like an escalator.
Soon I’m high over the Swat Valley. On the horizon loom the Hindu Kush, the great frozen peaks of southern Asia. They look, as always, like the Front Range of the Rockies—the view you get from the north rim of Burro Mesa. That view from Burro is my all-time favorite on planet Earth.
Everything looks peaceful from up here. You’d never know there was a war.
Flying like this is easier than playing Drone Pilot. The game is relentless—constantly throwing ground flak and enemy fighters at you. Now it’s just fly, stay out of sight, take pictures.
I dive and sweep toward Compound 117. See the sandbag walls getting larger. The camouflage nets, bunkers, and gun emplacements.
The dots are soldiers of the insurgency. They don’t look too scary from up here. Sitting or standing at their stations. Probably grimy, itchy, cold, bored—who knows?
I aim my camera.
Zoom in on their tonsils.
Chapter 38
IT’S LATE AFTERNOON ON SATURDAY—two days after my trip to White Sands. We’re sprawled on the Denver Broncos couch in Uncle Sal’s den at Two Hole. Uncle Sal sits at his desk, swiveling meditatively. Out the window, the sun chills the mesa.
“Kids,” Uncle Sal says, “the question before us today is, what’s next for Jett Spence?”
Lee’s the first to speak. “I for one don’t think we should plan any next steps,” she says. “Arlo’s lucky to be alive.”
I stretch my free arm behind her and rest it on the back of the couch.
Lobo says, “Lucky, plus—no offense, dude—you gotta be spooked after biting all that dust. Just sayin’.”
“Any next step is up to Arlo,” Cam says. “It’s his life. Not yours or mine. I want what he wants.”
Uncle Sal steeples his fingers. “Arlo, what do you want?”
I start to answer, but Uncle Sal throws up a hand.
“Before you tell us, I’d like everyone to listen—listen without prejudice or scorn—because opportunity has knocked on our door.”
Uncle Sal raps his knuckles on his desk.
“Let’s consider our achievements,” he says. “One month ago, nobody outside this room had ever heard of Jett Spence. Today we are blessed with concentric circles of public awareness. First, the crowd at Rio Loco Field, which bore personal witness to Arlo’s jump. Second, the TV viewers, locally and statewide, who saw our video on the news. And third, the Internet, which has spread awareness of Jett Spence from Podunk to Paraguay. Kids, what Arlo has achieved with one signature leap is—in terms of peddling our brand—the sanest form of genius.”
“Wait—back up!” Lee says. “I can’t believe we’re having this discussion. Jett Spence doesn’t even exist. Arlo is real. Haven’t we learned anything? What’s the point of peddling our brand if it means Arlo gets hurt or killed?”
“Exactly,” I say, and my hand slips onto her shoulder.
“I don’t disagree, Lee,” Uncle Sal says. “However, what are we to do with our windfall of brand recognition? In the old days, you pressed a red-hot iron against the flank of a cow—that’s how you got your brand out there. The cost was just cowboy wages. Today, you spend a fortune to advertise your brand. Arlo accomplished this with a single leap on his dirt bike. Didn’t cost us a penny.”
“Cost me a clavicle,” I say.
“And a punctured lung,” Cam adds.
“Two broken ribs,” Lee says.
“That scar, dude,” Lobo says.
“Yes,” Uncle Sal says. “Arlo did pay a heavy price. And we need to take that under advisement. But let’s face it, we’ve been handed a million dollars’ worth of free publicity. What are we to do with it?”
Just then, Aunt Portia waddles into the study tilting a tray loaded with foaming glasses of hoja santa. Cam leaps up and rescues her. The rest of us stand.
“Look at you!” she says, handing Lee the first glass. “You could dance with a prince.”
Lee blushes.
Everybody gets a glass, then Aunt Portia gives the order: “Drink up!”
We obey.
The hoja santa scalds my throat in the best way.
“Whaaaaaaaa!” Lobo gasps.
“Oh, yeah, great batch!” Cam says.
“Man-o-man!” Uncle Sal says, wiping his mouth.
“Drink up, dear,” Aunt Portia says to Lee.
Lee gulps it down. Her face reddens.
“A pinch of this, a pinch that,” Aunt Portia says. “Hoja santa is of the earth.”
We drain our glasses and settle into the depths of the couch. Gravity pulls me toward Lee. Or maybe it’s lust. All I know is, our bodies are pressed together. I feel drowsy, awake, wise, and stupid at the same time. I want to nestle my face in her neck. I want to inhale her hair. I want to kiss her.
Uncle Sal snaps his fingers. “Listen up, kids. Before we decide anything, I want to share an e-mail that I received yesterday. It’s the main reason I called this summit.”
He punches into his laptop and finds the e-mail. “This comes to us from Culver City, California—and as we all know Culver City is the hometown of—”
“Jeopardy!” Cam, Lobo, and I chorus.
Uncle Sal clucks. “Don’tcha just love coincidences.”
He clears his throat. Reads aloud:
“Dear Mr. Focazio,
“Your name and contact information were provided to me by the Office of the Mayor of Clay Allison, N.M.
“I am the executive producer of the hit reality TV series CrazyDirty&Extreme (CD&E). We showcase individuals performing outrageous and awesome stunts in a variety of panoramic locations.
“I recently viewed a video of a young man named Jett Spence performing a top-level motorcycle stunt at a high school football game in your community. Although this stunt did not end happily for Jett, it did evoke the same spine-tingling, jaw-dropping thrill that we seek to provide our viewers with each week on our show.
“I was relieved to learn that Jett was not seriously injured. It is my hope that he will consider performing a similar stunt on CD&E as soon as he is able. We command a 35 percent market share in our time slot. This translates to twenty-one million viewers each week.
“We are proud of the fact that we pay our performers at the most competitive rate in the business. A top-flight stunt can result in a dizzying paycheck. Compensation is based on several factors, including level of risk, originality, and—most important—‘DOA (Degree of Awesome).’
“To ensure trust and integrity, all stunts are videotaped by a CD&E-authorized crew and witnessed by a neutra
l third-party representative from the Price Waterhouse Company.
“If you are interested in discussing this opportunity, I would welcome a call.
“Sincerely,
“Bill-William Cooper, Jr.
“Executive Producer
“CrazyDirty&Extreme”
“Aww, man, I know that show,” Lobo says. “Half the time the last scenes are shot in the ER.”
“Or the cemetery,” Cam says.
Uncle Sal pulls a notepad out of his drawer. “I’ve done some research,” he says. “Wanna know how much a ‘dizzying paycheck’ is?”
He jots something on the pad. Holds it up for us to see:
$100,000
Lobo gasps.
“Oops,” Uncle Sal says. “Guess I forgot something.” He clicks his pen and makes one little change on the notepad. He holds it up again:
$100,000+
“Slam!” Lobo says. “That’s up in Hot Lotto country.”
“Arlo, it’s your turn to speak,” Uncle Sal says.
I lean my head on Lee’s shoulder. Thanks to the hoja santa, she seems just fine with that.
“Jett Spence is retired,” I say.
Uncle Sal slaps his notepad on the desk. “That’s all I needed to hear. Let’s hang up those gauntlets and move on with our lives. See how painless that was?”
“Good call, dude,” Cam says.
“Yeah, who wants to be dead anyway,” Lobo says.
Uncle Sal swivels around and studies the pinkening sky.
“Magic hour, kids!”
Chapter 39
MOST PEOPLE WHO PLAY Drone Pilot thin k flying ability is the supreme skill.
But patience can be the greatest skill of all.
Spiders know this.
Pythons know it.
Learn to wait—patiently, with your eyes and pores open—and something happens.
Dirt Bikes, Drones, and Other Ways to Fly Page 19
