Dunwood looked briefly at his watch and frowned.
"May I please ask you to give me thirty minutes before going to lunch? I forgot a conference call that I have in about four minutes."
"Ah, sure, don't worry about it; I'll get out of your way."
"Feel free to look around, don't touch anything, though. Do you remember where my office was?"
"I–I think so," Alex responded, hesitantly.
"If not, you can ask anyone. Can you meet me there in half an hour?"
"Sure, will do. Thank you for the tour, it was amazing!"
"It's not over yet," Dunwood said, leaving in his agile step.
Left alone, Alex wondered what she could do best with the thirty minutes of freedom she had gained. She started toward the start of the assembly line for the CX model, and then she backtracked. No, instead let's talk to some people.
She made her way to the cafeteria, the one place guaranteed to have human traffic any time of day. She had almost reached the cafeteria door, when she ran into Janet Templeton. Despite all the time they had spent together discussing Rottweiler puppies, Janet didn't seem to recognize her. Alex smiled and prepared to greet Janet. Seeing her approach, Janet looked down, then suddenly turned right and disappeared behind a door marked Authorized Personnel Only. Alex was sure Janet had recognized her, yet refused to be seen talking with her. What the hell is going on here?
She grabbed a can of Coke from the vending machine and took it outside to the designated smoking area. She took out her e-cig and slowly walked around, hoping to spark a conversation with someone. There were a couple of people, smoking quietly, nervously, not interacting with her or with each other.
She approached one of them. "Hi."
"Hi," the man responded, lacking any interest in her or the conversation. He was pale, with eyes deep set in their sockets, giving him an appearance of sickness and famine. Maybe smoking wasn't the best thing for this guy.
"How's today treating you?" Alex asked.
"Just like any day, I guess," he answered, showing just as little enthusiasm as before.
"I'm Alex Hoffmann, visiting from corporate," she said, extending her hand to greet him.
"Hank Baker." He briefly grasped her hand, and then eagerly let it go. His hand was cold and sweaty, unusual in the 102-degree heat. "Corporate, huh?"
"Yes, I'm here to visit the plant. I'm fairly new, I just started mid-June. This place is amazing!"
"Yeah? Well, try working here for a while, then we'll talk amazing," he said grumpily.
"Why? What's wrong? Like I said, I am new, so I don't know much about anything."
"What's wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong. We, the workers, mean absolutely nothing to you corporate brass. Every time our boss goes to corporate, he comes back with more cuts, more changes, more cost reductions, or whatever the hell they want to call it when they suck the life out of us and this plant and put people in the street for no reason. That's what's wrong."
"I see. Well, has anyone tried to do anything about it?"
"Do you think I want to see a pink slip with my name on it? Do you think any of us wants that? We tried, and that's exactly what happened… Firing people, that's what corporate knows how to do. And it happens a lot. Since you're new and all, I hope you won't get me fired over our little chat, here—"
"Oh, no, don't worry about it," Alex said, reassuringly.
"Not this week, anyway," he said bitterly, throwing away his cigarette butt, and walking away without saying good-bye. Just before entering the building, he spat on the grass with a gesture that expressed the deepest contempt, rather than the need to get rid of a foreign particle in his mouth.
The other smoker had been watching silently, from a close-enough distance to be aware of what was discussed. Alex turned to him and smiled. The man started walking away, taking one more drag off his cigarette.
"Oh, no," he said, making rejection gestures with his hand, "I have nothing to talk to you about. How do I know you're not some fancy-dressed corporate rat sent here to spy on us? Hank's got three kids; I have two. Leave me alone, I have nothing to say to you," he said firmly, and went inside, slamming the door behind him.
OK, that was interesting, Alex thought. She looked at her watch and decided to head toward Dunwood's office. The thirty minutes he had requested were almost gone.
Dunwood was wrapping up his conference call. He waved her to come in and sit.
"Now, for the fun part," he said, after hanging up the phone, "we're going to take an electric cart and head out to the testing field. Let's see what we have going today," he said, flipping through his calendar. "In about twenty minutes, we have a couple of Hellfire missile launches scheduled, an air-to-ground attack on fixed and mobile targets. This will be fun to watch, but we'll need protective gear for our eyes and ears." He opened a cabinet and took out two hardhats, two sets of noise protection earmuffs, and two pairs of clear, protective plastic eye shields. "We're going to circle by the cafeteria on our way, to pick up a couple of sandwiches."
They headed out deep into the fields, behind the plant. Adjacent to the plant's main building, a few storage hangars housed the finished drones. A strip of asphalt road led from the plant to the field, running by each hangar. This was the taxiway for the UAVs, allowing them to commute between their allotted storage space, to the landing strip, and to the testing field. Dunwood maneuvered the cart with speed and precision, and as soon as they passed a small ridge, the landing strip became visible. It was fully equipped with complete landing lights and a windsock. The landing strip was long and wide, much longer than needed for UAV use.
"Does anyone else use this strip?" Alex asked.
"Yes, visiting military often land here, rather than go to John Wayne Airport and drive back here. It depends on the aircraft size — if we can accommodate, we will. It saves everyone a lot of time. ATC is there," he said, pointing at a small tower overseeing the strip.
"What's ATC?" Alex asked.
"Air Traffic Control. The control tower," Dunwood clarified. "We only staff it when we expect visitors. Drones don't need ATC, because they have the ground operators to supervise everything during testing. Here we are."
He stopped the cart next to a row of picnic tables, set in line along a fence. There were posted warnings every thirty feet or so, advising potential passersby that they are trespassing if they enter this testing area and testing takes place using live ammunition. Unlike other No Trespassing signs, which might indicate the legal consequences of trespassing, this one didn't mention any negative outcome of committing the trespassing crime. Just mentioning the live ammo was enough to scare anyone away.
They unwrapped their lunches, carefully prepared by the cafeteria. Double-sized sandwiches, cookies, and soft drinks. Before they were finished, the hum of a UAV engine drew their attention.
"This one is preparing for takeoff. It came out of the hangar there," he said, pointing at the only hangar that had a door open, "and it's moving toward the runway. It will take off momentarily. Time to put on the gear," he said, handing her the hardhat, glasses, and earmuffs. "According to the testing schedule," Dunwood added, consulting briefly a printed schedule, "the drone will self-guide today, acquire the fixed land target represented by that concrete bunker there," he said, pointing at a distant structure, barely visible, "and blow it up. We are outside the drone's perimeter, but we're close enough to see all the action."