“In U.S. air space? Even I don’t think they’ll get approval for that.”
“Who needs approval when you’ve got the PATRIOT Act? And they’ve definitely got the juice in Washington to influence those new FAA rules. Add it up, and you’ve got a pretty damn lucrative business model, plus the power to look inside every window in America. And if nobody can hear it or see it up there at twelve thousand feet — well, I don’t need to tell you what that means.”
No, he didn’t. Especially considering what Cole already knew about certain parties who were already willing to cheat beyond the supposed limits.
“How is Castle part of this?”
“From what I always heard he was one of the people pushing the envelope overseas on IntelPro’s behalf. A great advocate of sharing — sources, flight access, chat access, and just about any and all the tech they want to load up on. The way he saw it, the more people looking for bad guys, the better.”
“Do you think they were in it together on the fuckups, too? Like mine?”
“One way or another.”
“Then why would they be trying to ruin him now?”
“Maybe he spoke up. Maybe he’s just a scapegoat. Or maybe they realize he’s already a known quantity, so why not use him to divert a little attention, a little misery. To clear their own path to a more prosperous future. They also know the Agency won’t ever talk about anything, except for the cryptic stuff Bickell’s peddling. That makes Castle the perfect foil, and it would explain why they’re feeding your friends all that bullshit about how he’s back in the neighborhood. A means of scaring you, to throw you off the real story. Or this whole smear campaign could be cover, to help keep the Agency off their backs while they keep Castle under wraps.”
“In other words, you really have no fucking idea.”
“Which is another reason for bringing you here. To show you how we might find the answer. Because I’m convinced that Ground Zero of IntelPro’s drone program is out in those woods in the middle of their training acreage. And your reporter friends, with their new waterfront location, offer the perfect vantage point for taking a peek from above. That farm can be our passport into IntelPro’s great unknown.”
“You want to launch a drone from there? A spy drone?”
Sharpe smiled.
“Keira’s place must be thirty miles from the training center.”
“By road, yes. All those twists and turns, the bridges, a ferry, up one peninsula and down the next. But as the crow flies? Or a drone? Seven miles, tops.”
“What’s the range of your quadcopter?”
“Oh, hell, that thing? That’s a toy, and a damned noisy one. I’m way beyond that.”
“So you’ve got another one.”
“Of course. Too big to fit in any damn Jap car, even when I break it down. But I’ll bring her tomorrow, you’ll see. A range of fifty, sixty miles, air speed about seventy-five, max, with state-of-the-art noise reduction and stabilization. And it’s got two cameras. One mounted where the cockpit would be, so the pilot can see where he’s going, what’s ahead, with a one-hundred-eighty-degree range of visibility side to side. Pretty much what you’d see if you were flying it yourself, right up there in the sky. The other one’s below the nose cone, just like with a Predator. Full turret action and a complete field of vision, and it displays on my iPad. The pilot camera displays in a pair of goggles, sort of like the ones you were using to fly Bert’s quadcopter, only better.”
“Two sets of eyes.”
“It’s the way I wanted to configure the Predator. But I was overruled, of course. I’ve only got one problem, but it’s a big one.”
“What’s that?”
“The autopilot’s fine, as far as it goes. But without knowing the lay of the land over at IntelPro I’ll have to do most of the flying myself, and, well, I’m pretty damn awful at it. This thing needs a professional hand.”
“So you want me to do it.”
“It’s what you’re trained for. Hell, you even flew Bert’s wobbly little copter right off the bat, no problem at all. He was impressed, I could tell. So what do you say, Captain Cole? Ready to get back in the saddle? And believe me, this will be ergonomically better than any damn setup the Air Force ever built for you, and that’s the gospel. When they put together that shitpile of a GCS you ended up with out at Creech they ignored every last one of my recommendations. But what else is new.”
“You’re serious about this.”
“Hell, yes, I’m serious. I’m bringing it over tomorrow for a test flight, so you’d better prepare your friends for my arrival. While you’re at it, have someone make a bed for me at that country estate. My own house is going to be out of the question for a while. Too risky to go home now.”
“Oh, they’ll love that.”
Sharpe laughed.
“They’ll tolerate me, once they see what I can give them. A bird’s-eye view of forbidden territory. A reporter’s dream come true. No more public relations gatekeepers to bar the door.”
“And if they don’t go for it?”
A smile spread across Sharpe’s face and stayed there.
“What? What are you thinking?”
“Maybe your friends need to have the fear of God put in them to make them go for it.”
“What the hell’s that mean?”
“All in good time, Captain Cole. All in good time.”
Sharpe’s smile widened, as if the film version of whatever he was thinking was playing out across the windshield.
Whether the journalists would welcome the idea or not, Cole wasn’t sure he was ready for this. The old emotions from his Predator days were already stirring. Anxiety and edginess, the pressure to not fuck up, the long and lonely aftermath when you couldn’t tell anyone what you’d seen, what you’d done, what it felt like. The dying girl, propped on an elbow, mourning the loss of her arm. A scream emanating from the center of the earth.
“Pull over up here,” Sharpe said.
“Where?” They were back on Route 50, ripping along through farm country at sixty-plus, but they were nowhere near the convenience store that had served as their rendezvous point.
“Anywhere, goddammit!”
Cole looked in the mirror, wondering if Sharpe might be responding to someone in pursuit. Maybe Stan’s X8 was out there, buzzing along in their wake. But the sky was empty, the traffic routine. He braked and pulled onto the shoulder.
“Here?”
“As good a place as any. I’ve made arrangements.”
Just like before.
“Tomorrow you won’t have to ferry me around anymore. I’ll be driving a van, someone else’s. And I sure as hell won’t be using E-ZPass.” Sharpe gestured toward the white plastic transponder stuck to the windshield of Steve’s Honda. “They don’t call it a transponder for nothing, you know. If they ever connect you to the journalists, which I’m betting they’ve already done, it will only be a matter of days before they track you down.”
“Shit.” Cole stared at the device, wishing he’d thought of that himself.
“All the more reason for us to act quickly. Unlatch the trunk.”
Sharpe went to the back and hauled out his big drum case. Then he slammed the lid shut and began lumbering down the highway with his quadcopter, like an overage member of some washed-up rock band, hitching his way to a concert.