As the Sparrowhawk unmanned aircraft turned on course, Chastain pointed to a spot on the left laptop. The screen displayed a sectional chart that showed details of landmarks on the ground — roads, power lines, terrain, and cultural points. “Zoom in on that,” he said. The technician did so, and Chastain pointed to a tiny square at the base of a mountain marked simply ranch . “This is highly classified,” he said. “That’s the ranch I want pictures of.” The technician hit a function key on the center laptop and touched the left screen, and a magenta line indicated that the Sparrowhawk’s course was set. “The Knights have expanded that ranch considerably over the past year and a half. They started out with two families and a half-dozen hands residing there — now it’s sixty families and almost a hundred hands. They add another two or three families almost every week.”
“What do they do there?” Jon asked.
“It’s like a commune: whatever income they have goes to the collective; they contribute skills and manual labor for food and water,” Chastain said. “The ranch hands act as security. Several of the hands are ex-military, and we believe they have the skills to pull off these attacks.”
“Jon, we’re going to have to move the orbit to the northwest or southeast a little to keep the Sparrowhawk off the airway,” the technician named Jeff said. He studied the sectional chart for a moment, then said, “About four miles southeast looks best, with a northeast-southwest orbit.”
Jon nodded. “Go ahead and—”
“Negative, Masters,” Chastain interrupted. “I want an orbit right over the center of the compound.”
“We can’t do that, Agent Chastain,” Jon said, pointing at the sectional chart. “The compound sits almost directly under the center of this Victor airway.”
“What in hell is that?”
“It’s a charted electronic corridor that pilots flying under eighteen thousand feet use,” Jon explained. “It guarantees radio- and navigation-aid reception at or above certain altitudes.”
“So?”
“It’s dangerous for unmanned aircraft that can’t look for other aircraft to fly on an airway,” Jon said. “We just offset ourselves four miles away from the center of the airway, outside the corridor. It’s not a problem — the Sparrowhawk’s sensors can scan the entire compound on one leg easily from that distance. Then we’ll switch sides of the airway and scan it from the other direction so we can—”
“That’s bullshit, Masters,” Chastain snapped. “I want it orbiting right over the compound.”
“That’s not safe.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass, Masters,” Chastain said. “First of all, there’s not supposed to be any other aircraft out there unless they’re on an approved flight plan.”
“That’s not true,” Jon said. “Only aircraft flying in or transiting within fifty miles of Alpha-, Bravo-, or Charlie-controlled airspace have to be on IFR flight plans. If you’re flying under eighteen thousand feet and not flying into or near busy controlled airspace, you can still legally fly anywhere.”
Chastain pointed to the right laptop, which was displaying a radar traffic display similar-looking to an air traffic control system. “Isn’t this supposed to tell us if there are any other planes in the area?”
“This only shows us the aircraft that are on IFR flight plans or are using air traffic control flight-following advisory services,” Jon said. “If there are other planes out there not using FAA radar services, we won’t see them.”
“Aren’t these planes supposed to have beacons or something to locate other planes?”
“Some do, but small light planes or light-sport aircraft that don’t fly in controlled airspace probably won’t,” Jon said. “Besides, those beacons interrogate other planes’ beacons to locate them, and you ordered the Sparrowhawk’s transponder shut off.”
“Because you told me anyone on the ground can identify an aircraft flying overhead with that beacon on the Internet, or even with a camera phone!”
“That’s true.”
“So I’m not going to reveal the drone’s position with a beacon on the wild-ass off chance that another aircraft might be in the exact same location and altitude,” Chastain said. “That’ll tip off the Knights that they’re under surveillance for sure. Besides, pilots are supposed to be looking out for other planes, right? What are the chances of two planes colliding?”
“If the drone is on an airway below eighteen thousand feet, the chances are much greater,” Jon said. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you: if you put the Sparrowhawk right on the airway, the chances of a disaster are greatly increased. If you move it just a few miles away, the chances don’t go to zero, but they are much, much more favorable.”
“So even if we turn on the beacon and move the drone away, it can still be hit by another plane?”
“Unlikely… but yes, it…”
“Masters, I think the odds of something happening are much lower than you’re telling me,” Chastain interjected. “The drone is out in the middle of nowhere, more than a hundred miles from the nearest city; people aren’t flying anyway because of the shitty economy; and even if they were, the odds of two planes being at the same spot at the same time are astronomical. You people that whine all day about safety, safety, safety drive guys who are trying to get the job done, like me, absolutely crazy . Now quit your damned bitching and orbit that compound.”
Jon finally gave up, and he nodded to Jeff to have the Sparrowhawk orbit the ranch. “Make the altitude seventeen thousand feet,” he told his technician. “If they’re on an IFR flight plan, they’ll be at either sixteen or seventeen, so we should be able to see them on the FAA feed.”
“Is that too high?” Chastain asked. “I want detailed imagery of that compound.”
“The sensors on the Sparrowhawk are optimized for ten thousand feet aboveground, which is fifteen thousand feet above mean sea level,” Jon said, “but the resolution is perfectly fine at—”
“Then put the damned drone at fifteen thousand,” Chastain said. “Why in hell would you have it fly higher?”
“Because…” He was going to say, It’s safer, but it was obvious that Chastain didn’t much care for the “safety” argument. Jon turned to Jeff. “Put Sparrowhawk at fifteen thousand,” he said. “Let’s notify Oakland, Seattle, and Salt Lake Centers of the altitude change.”
“Do what?” Chastain asked.
“We coordinate all flight activities with Seattle, Oakland, and Salt Lake air traffic control centers,” Jon said. “They don’t disseminate the information without telling us first, but we have to tell them. They can see most primary-target traffic on radar so they—”
“Primary targets?”
“Radar returns that don’t have transponder data such as altitude and identification codes.”
“Speak English, would you please, Masters?”
“It’s important we coordinate with them,” Jon said. “If they’re in radio contact with other traffic, they can advise them of the Sparrowhawk’s position so they can help them avoid it.”
“Fine, fine,” Chastain said dismissively. “As long as they don’t interfere.”
This was incredibly risky, Jon thought, but he issued the orders to put the Sparrowhawk at fifteen thousand feet, then put in a call to air traffic control facilities in Sacramento and Salt Lake City, advising them of the Sparrowhawk’s orbit.
Jon was soon able to relax as the day went on. It looked like Chastain was probably going to be correct: there was very little traffic in the Sparrowhawk’s orbital area. Only once did they have to steer the unmanned aircraft off the airway for a bizjet descending into Reno, and the two aircraft passed well clear of each other without the bizjet’s crew having to turn to avoid the UAV.