“Well, I’d be worried — if I already wasn’t the smartest guy in the company,” Jon said dismissively. “They can’t fire me or sue me — it’d tank the stock and we’d be lucky to get a contract to provide propeller beanies to Cub Scouts. Don’t worry about it.” He paused, looking in the direction of where Brad walked off. “I feel sorry for the kid,” he said. “What’s a scanner do?”
“His job is to search for mission targets or for hazards,” Patrick said. “Apparently Brad has trouble when he looks sideways out the window in a turn, or has to look downward or backward — we don’t quite know yet what triggers the motion sickness.”
“He looks out the window? That’s it ?”
“He’ll also take pictures, make records of what happens on a mission, run checklists, maybe talk to mission base or ground teams on the radio, but basically his job is to search outside the plane, from engine start to engine shutdown.”
“We have stuff that can more than take the place of a scanner,” Jon said. “We’ve developed sensor balls that can fit easily on the wings of a little bug smasher like your Cessnas. They’re a quarter of the size of a Predator’s sensor dome but do even more stuff and perform better. Plus, the scanner can operate the sensors from the ground. You save weight, the plane performs better, and you put fewer crewmembers at risk. Plus, once we install the video datalink, you can up- and download voice, data, telemetry — almost anything.”
“You know,” Patrick said after adopting that “ten-thousand-yard stare” expression for a moment, “the Civil Air Patrol flies missions called Predator Surrogate. They mount a Predator sensor ball on the Cessnas, and they fly around the Nellis Air Force Base ranges. The Army and Marine Corps use them to train sensor operators. It solves the problem of ‘see-and-avoid’ and loss of control that unmanned planes have — you have two guys in the plane that can look for traffic, and they can take the controls if the aircraft loses contact with remote operators.”
Jon was starting to adopt the same faraway expression as Patrick. “But our sensor domes are much better for the job than the Predator’s,” he said. “All we have to do is stick one on the Cessna… maybe one on each wing for better coverage and to even out the drag. Even with two, you’d have lower weight and better performance—”
“Jon, this is the Civil Air Patrol, not the U.S. Air Force or Space Defense Force,” Patrick said. “The whole idea of CAP was to have civilian volunteers helping their country by using their planes and skills. It defeats the purpose of the organization to start outfitting the planes like military aircraft. They’re—” But Patrick stopped… because the idea was starting to make total sense to him. “But… it would take years to get approval to put those sensors on the CAP Cessnas.”
“Maybe so,” Jon said. “So… let’s stick them on your Cessna. The CAP plane here with the bullet holes in it is out of commission, right? Let’s use yours, and anyone else’s plane who wants some toys to play with.”
“What?” But after a few moments, the idea made him smile. “You know, CAP once only used a member’s plane — they switched to using CAP-owned planes about twenty years ago.” But then he shook his head as reality set in. “It would take months, maybe years, to get a field approval from the FAA for that kind of major modification. We’d have to do engineering drawings, do controllability and flutter tests, get authorization for—”
“Blah blah blah blah blah,” Jon Masters said, shaking his head. “Sheesh, maybe living way the hell out here has softened you up. So you decertify your plane and turn it into an ‘Experimental.’ You’re worried about the FAA? Have you ever seen the FAA out here at Battle Mountain? Do they even have field inspectors anymore? What are the odds of getting ramp-checked these days? Besides, if they do catch you, so what? They’ll make you take the sensors off, so we’ll take them off. There are lots of options, Patrick. It seems to me you’re coming up with more excuses not to do it than ideas on how to do it.”
Patrick realized that was exactly what he was doing, and he nodded his head. “You’re right,” he said. But he looked at Jon seriously and added, “But we’re just going to grab a couple sensor balls from the company, again, like the Sparrowhawks? We can’t do that.”
“You’re right, we shouldn’t,” Jon said. He held out his hand. “Got a credit card? We’ll make it a straight-out purchase. The company will be happy.”
“But I don’t have enough money to—”
“There you go again with the negative waves, Patrick,” Jon said with a laugh. “Always with the reasons not to do it. C’mon, it’ll be fine. I just need the account number — I won’t run anything against it. If it works, we’ll work something out moneywise. I’ll order up the parts and bring a mechanic up from Vegas, and we’ll have you flying in no time.”
Brad changed out of his flight suit and into civilian clothes, then sat by himself outdoors at a picnic table beside the hangar. My first flight as mission scanner — on an actual mission, no less — and I can’t handle being a backseater, he lamented to himself. This really sucks.
He had reserved the entire day for flying, and now he had nothing to do. He pulled out his cell phone and was going to start calling his buddies to find out what they were up to when he found Cassandra Renaldo’s business card.
Should I do it? he asked himself. She was an older woman, but she was still hot as hell. Was she just stringing him along, being a cockteaser or trying to make a fool out of him, or was she serious about wanting to see him again? He wished he knew more about women, like Ron Spivey did — he always seemed to have a different girl every week, and even when he treated them like crap, they always seemed to come back. How did guys learn how to do that?
I guess this is one way, Brad thought as he commenced dialing her number…
“Renaldo.”
“It’s me. Brad.”
Cassandra looked up at Special Agent Chastain and nodded. “Let me finish up here and go somewhere where I can talk. Hang on.” She put the call on hold.
“Who is that?” Chastain asked.
“Bradley McLanahan,” she said, smiling evilly. “I told you he’d call.”
Chastain smiled back. “Reel him in,” he said.
She took the call off hold a few moments later. “I’m so glad you called, Brad,” she said in her sweetest, most heartfelt voice. Chastain shook his head and smiled at her performance. “I’ve missed seeing you. How are you?”
“I’ve been better.”
“What’s wrong, baby?”
“It’s an… an airsickness thing. I’m okay when I’m piloting, but not so good when I’m in back.”
“Oh no,” Renaldo said. “Are you all right now?”
“Oh yes, I’m good.”
“Then when can I see you?”
There was a bit of a pause; then: “Well, I was supposed to be flying all day, but that’s been canceled…”
“I heard — someone shot at a Civil Air Patrol plane,” she said. “You mean, you were on that plane?”
“Yes.”
“My God, Brad! How awful!”
“So I’m… I’m not doing anything for the rest of the day.”
“That’s perfect,” Renaldo said, giving Chastain a wink. “You’re at the Civil Air Patrol hangar now?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect. If you walk down Powell Avenue toward the base exchange, I’ll pick you up in about ten minutes. We can go to my place. How does that sound?”