Code 13 (21 page)

“Sir,” Jefferies said, “I'd first like you to meet Mr. Roger Cullipher. Mr. Cullipher is the AirFlite representative who taught us all how to fly these things, and who helps us maintain them when they're down.”

“So you're the manufacturer's guy?” Paul said, noting Cullipher's strong handshake.

“That's me, Captain. And I'm here to help in any way I can.”

“Tell ya what. Want to swap jobs? You go up to DC and wine and dine the admirals, and I'll come down here and breathe the salt air of the Atlantic and feel like I'm back where I belong. With the fleet.”

“Well, Captain, I hope we can get you out here soon. I've heard great things about you.”

“Thanks,” Paul said. “Okay, everybody. I'm enjoying the chitchat, but let's get this show on the road. Show me what I need to see so I can go back and try to sell this project to all those senators and congressmen up on the hill.”

Commander Jefferies spoke up. “Sir, as your OIC here at Pax River, it's my honor to serve as your tour guide. Here's the plan, if it's all right with you, sir. First, we'll take you down to the flight line so you can examine the drones up close. We'll have Mr. Cullipher here explain the technical components, including the aircraft's high surveillance capabilities. Then we'll put two of the birds up in the sky and let you observe the launch from the flight line. We'll bring one of the birds back in for a landing. After that, we'll come back up into flight control and establish the live video monitor for the birds already in the air, one over San Diego and one headed over toward DC. How's that sound, sir?”

“Sounds like a plan to me, Commander. Like I said, let's get this show on the road.”

“Aye, sir.”

ARLINGTON MEMORIAL BRIDGE

SPANNING THE POTOMAC RIVER

BETWEEN VIRGINIA AND WASHINGTON, DC

Under the warm midday sun, the sky above and river below sparkled in a bright light blue, a remarkable contrast to the great white marble of the Lincoln Memorial on the other side of the bridge. A warm breeze swooped in from the left, reminding her that while the sunshine and blue waters might have been reminiscent of San Diego, in DC the mild humidity, even in late spring, had a moist feel of its own, and she already felt the sweat beads dripping from her nose.

The pedestrian walkway alongside the traffic lanes of the historic memorial bridge was sufficiently wide, leaving enough room for three or four people to walk abreast without feeling threatened by traffic whizzing by in both directions. Caroline fell into single file behind P.J., jogging along at a comfortable seven-minute-mile pace. They hugged the right side of the walkway, jogging up next to the bridge railing to the right of the green gas-lamp-replica light poles erected between the walkway and the road.

Ahead of her, P.J. motioned with his left hand, and from all those months of jogging with him along the San Diego waterfront, she knew what that meant: pick up the pace.

He kicked it into higher gear and she followed, reaching the DC side of the river.

As they reached the end of the bridge, to the east of the Lincoln Memorial, they jogged past one of a pair of neoclassical bronze sculptures depicting a warrior on a horse, titled
The Arts of War
; the sculptures flanked each side of the bridge.

They crossed the street and came to the base of the white-marbled Lincoln Memorial. In front of the Memorial, P.J. slowed for a minute as Caroline caught up. As they began to run side by side, a sense of déjà vu overcame her. It was like she'd been here before.

“So what do you think of the run so far?” he asked.

“Beautiful. But more humidity than San Diego.”

“If you think it's humid now, wait till the middle of summer. This is nothing. But it's good for you. You'll get used to it.”

“We'll see. Where to now?”

“We're going to follow the circle here in front of the base of the Lincoln Memorial, then follow the walkway along the reflecting pool up to the monument, then loop it, then turn around and come back.”

“Let's do it,” she said.

“You okay with the pace?”

“I'm with you. Let's roll.”

OPERATIONAL HEADQUARTERS

U.S. NAVY DRONE COMMAND

U.S. NAVAL AIR STATION “PAX RIVER”

LEXINGTON PARK, MARYLAND

Following the lead of Commander John Jefferies and his civilian counterpart, Roger Cullipher, Paul and his entourage reentered the drone air traffic control center overlooking the long Pax River runway.

Down below, two F/A-18 Hornets were lined up on the flight line, preparing to take off. Two Blue Jay Navy drones followed in line, prepared to launch after the Hornets.

“All right, sir,” Jefferies said, “we're going to show you some aerial views now to give you an idea what these babies can do surveillance wise. The first will be a shot over the Atlantic, and the next two will be interior shots over land. Lieutenant Watson, your show.”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Captain, if you would turn your attention to screen one, and we should have that shot up in three . . . two . . . one . . . there.”

The screen flashed on, showing blue waters below. “All right, sir. You're looking at a shot of the open waters of the Chesapeake Bay, forty miles southeast of here. Now, if you'll stand by just a second . . . here we go!”

The screen now showed a full-length shot of a U.S. Navy warship, and Paul recognized it as being the same Ticonderoga
-
class type Aegis cruiser as his former ship, the USS
Cape St. George.

“What a beautiful sight,” Paul said.

“Just for you, sir,” Jefferies said. “We thought you might like our ship selection.”

“Making me homesick, Commander.”

“This is the USS
Monterey
, CG-61, served up especially for you, sir.”

“Oh yeah.” Paul battled a flash of nostalgia, wishing for the moment that he was aboard the bridge of the
Cape St. George
on her way to the Western Pacific. “Beautiful piece of floating firepower. Under the command of Captain Scott Basnight, as I recall.”

“Your memory serves you correctly, Captain. Not only that, but keeping in mind that we're flying three thousand feet over the ship, meaning that they can barely see or notice us, the
Monterey
's crew has a special message for you. Ensign Simpson, close-up.”

“Aye, sir.”

The screen blinked. A second later the camera showed a close-up of six sailors on the forward deck, looking up, smiling, and giving a thumbs-up. One sailor held up a small sign proclaiming, “Welcome, Captain Paul Kriete, Commander, U.S. Navy Drone Command!”

“That's some pretty impressive photography, Commander Jefferies. You can almost see the hairs up their noses.”

“Remember, this is from three thousand feet. And actually, Skipper, if you wanted to see the hairs up their noses, I can have Ensign Simpson here do a next-level close-up. Would you like to see, sir?”

“No.” Paul laughed. “I trust you, Commander. That's a little too up close and personal for me.”

“Aye, sir,” Jefferies said. “Next we're going to switch over to one of our West Coast drones, and we'll start over navigable waters and then transition over land so we can practice, and you can observe, the switch from U.S. Navy to TSA air traffic control.”

“Fair enough.”

“Okay, Skipper, if I could invite you to have a look at screen four
here and, Ensign Simpson, go ahead and see if you can get a shot up there.”

“Aye, Commander.”

Screen four blinked, and a second later rolling blue waves appeared, much like the scene that had initially appeared on screen one.

“Okay. Ensign, give us a wider angle for a second so the skipper can get a better view.”

“Aye, sir.”

The screen widened, and suddenly a gray warship, larger than the
Monterey
and with a large helo pad in the aft, came into view. The ship had triangular twin stacks, one over the bridge and one just forward of the aft helo pad, the distinct look of the new amphibious support ships belonging to the San Antonio class.

“Looks like one of our LPDs,” Paul said.

“Correct, sir. This is the USS
Green Bay.
She's steamed out of port for the afternoon. Ensign, widen her out a little more.”

“Aye, sir.”

The next level wide-angle showed a geographic landmark all too familiar to any American sailor who ever served on the American West Coast. To the left, the large, mountainous, thumb-like peninsula stretched from the north into the ocean, overshadowing the other flat peninsula stretching, with a large air strip on the end, to the north.

The visually contrasting tips of the Gibraltar-like Point Loma peninsula from the north and the flat Coronado peninsula from the south came close enough together in the water to form the majestic entrance into San Diego Bay, which was now, after base closures in the early nineties, the only remaining major U.S. Naval facility in California.

Paul knew this harbor like the back of his hand. He could navigate it in his sleep.

“You guys are taking the old man on a sentimental journey, aren't you?”

“Thought you might like this, Skipper. Okay, so here's what we're going to do. We're bringing the bird down low, to five hundred feet, to
avoid air traffic out of Lindbergh Field and North Island. Then we'll fly her straight down the center of the bay, making the same turns any warship entering the harbor would make. We'll fly over the San Diego–Coronado Bridge and then fly her down to the beginning of the 32nd Street Naval Station, and when we're even with Pier 1, we'll turn her inward, flying east over the base. Once we cross the border from the base to civilian airspace, we'll switch to the Homeland Security controllers so you can see how we do the transition over civilian airspace, still subject, of course, to our overall supervision. Questions, sir?”

“Negative, Commander. Let's do it.”

“Aye, sir. Ensign?”

“Moving forward, sir.”

On the screen, the shadow of the drone could be seen skimming over the sunlit morning waves of the bay as the drone turned right, catching a glimpse of the supercarrier USS
Ronald Reagan
, moored at Naval Air Station North Island to the right. Sailboats and several small craft crisscrossed out in the bay, cutting wakes in their sterns. Off to the left, Paul recognized Shelter Island and the U.S. Coast Guard facility. And with another turn to the right, the downtown San Diego waterfront came into view on the left. Farther up to the left, the clipper ship
Star of India
came into view, followed by the World War II carrier USS
Midway
, permanently moored along the waterfront as a military museum.

A moment later, the familiar, curve-shaped San Diego–Coronado Bridge came into view. A second after that, the first of some thirteen piers of the San Diego Naval Station, known as the 32nd Street Naval Station.

“Very well, prepare to execute turn niner-zero degrees,” Jefferies said.

“Preparing to execute. Aye, sir.”

“Execute turn niner-zero degrees.”

“Executing turn niner-zero. Aye, sir.”

The drone turned and began crossing over the government buildings of the naval station, its shadow passing from building to building.

“Prepare to switch to DHS control.”

“Preparing to switch. Aye, sir.”

“Switch to DHS control.”

“Switching to DHS control.”

“Homeland Security now has control of the aircraft.”

“We have control of the aircraft.”

Paul watched as the U.S. Navy controllers leaned back from their monitors and the white, short-sleeved air-traffic controllers from Homeland Security leaned forward, pushing a variety of buttons and turning knobs.

“Okay, got it,” a bald-headed man said.

“Your bird, boss,” another DHS controller said.

“This should be fun,” said the lead DHS controller.