again, maybe heâd believe them a little. Of course, heâd already proved them wrong by standing and walking on his own two legs. That had also been a never-again, so screw them.
So now he flew SkyHi surveillance drones. They looked like the model airplanes he used to fly around the backyard as a kid, but on steroids. Instead of weighing a couple pounds, having a two-foot wingspan, and costing about thirty bucks, the drone weighed fifty pounds, had a ten-foot wingspan, and cost about a hundred thousand. But it was a long damn way from walking a fire.
âWhat can this do that I canât?â Carly wasnât looking at him but continued to focus her attention on the truck. Maybe it wasnât him she was crossing her arms at.
âHard to answer, because I donât know what you can do.â With any other woman, that would have come out smooth and easy, a flirty, teasing pickup line.
With Carly Thomas, it came out of his mouth a bit awkwardly and as a strictly factual statement, which made it sound even worse.
Her glare shifted from the truck to him, showing that sheâd picked up the connotation even if he hadnât managed to give voice to it.
He shrugged it off and moved toward the truck. He did have a purpose here. He did have a way to join the firefight, at least peripherally.
âIt can see in infrared, would have found TJ faster than I did. It also can remain on-site while other craft canât. The drone can stay aloft for twenty hours without refueling. We could have seen that the ground crew was headed the wrong way and warned them just that much sooner that the ridge behind them was a false retreat. It canâ¦â
âWhoa. I get the idea already.â
Okay, he had been sounding a bit defensive, but it was all he had left. Flying a drone. Pathetic.
He unlocked the padlock on the truckâs rear door. Pulling up sharply on the handle, he nearly dislocated his shoulder when the door didnât move. He must be more frustrated than heâd thought and shook out the hand that heâd scraped up on the unmoving handle. He tugged again, more gingerly, but it didnât budge in the slightest.
A quick inspection revealed a keypad on the side of the truck. Theyâd never told him about a key code. But he did have his user-level password that was registered in the SkyHi system. He tried that, rather than having to look stupid and call support just to open the damned door.
The door rolled upward on quiet electric motors. Theyâd programmed the truck just for him. That was unusual. It hadnât been that way on any of the training vehicles.
Carly moved to stand beside him as the truckâs contents were revealed. One side was a long service bench where he could perform all except the most advanced maintenance. These drones were almost completely modular. If a part broke, all he had to do was insert a spare and send the original back to the factory for service. A clear space on the bench at the end closest to the door allowed for setup of a flight control console.
On the other side, a tall rack of cases was revealed row by row as the door rose. Two shelves for the birds in heavy, gray plastic boxes a foot high, two feet wide, and about six feet long. Two smaller cases fit together on the next shelf; theyâd have the command consoles. The antenna rig on the next. Just what heâd expected.
What he didnât expect were the two large black cases at the top of the stack. The birds and gear were always packed in gray.
Except once. His last day at SkyHi for training, heâd seen black-encased birds.
He stepped up on the low bed and turned on the light inside the cargo bay to be sure. They were definitely black, not merely shadowed by the early morning light. He inspected them more closely. A glance at the codes stenciled on the side stopped him cold. Then, as casually as he could, he reached for the straps holding the antenna rig.
Steve started to
So now he flew SkyHi surveillance drones. They looked like the model airplanes he used to fly around the backyard as a kid, but on steroids. Instead of weighing a couple pounds, having a two-foot wingspan, and costing about thirty bucks, the drone weighed fifty pounds, had a ten-foot wingspan, and cost about a hundred thousand. But it was a long damn way from walking a fire.
âWhat can this do that I canât?â Carly wasnât looking at him but continued to focus her attention on the truck. Maybe it wasnât him she was crossing her arms at.
âHard to answer, because I donât know what you can do.â With any other woman, that would have come out smooth and easy, a flirty, teasing pickup line.
With Carly Thomas, it came out of his mouth a bit awkwardly and as a strictly factual statement, which made it sound even worse.
Her glare shifted from the truck to him, showing that sheâd picked up the connotation even if he hadnât managed to give voice to it.
He shrugged it off and moved toward the truck. He did have a purpose here. He did have a way to join the firefight, at least peripherally.
âIt can see in infrared, would have found TJ faster than I did. It also can remain on-site while other craft canât. The drone can stay aloft for twenty hours without refueling. We could have seen that the ground crew was headed the wrong way and warned them just that much sooner that the ridge behind them was a false retreat. It canâ¦â
âWhoa. I get the idea already.â
Okay, he had been sounding a bit defensive, but it was all he had left. Flying a drone. Pathetic.
He unlocked the padlock on the truckâs rear door. Pulling up sharply on the handle, he nearly dislocated his shoulder when the door didnât move. He must be more frustrated than heâd thought and shook out the hand that heâd scraped up on the unmoving handle. He tugged again, more gingerly, but it didnât budge in the slightest.
A quick inspection revealed a keypad on the side of the truck. Theyâd never told him about a key code. But he did have his user-level password that was registered in the SkyHi system. He tried that, rather than having to look stupid and call support just to open the damned door.
The door rolled upward on quiet electric motors. Theyâd programmed the truck just for him. That was unusual. It hadnât been that way on any of the training vehicles.
Carly moved to stand beside him as the truckâs contents were revealed. One side was a long service bench where he could perform all except the most advanced maintenance. These drones were almost completely modular. If a part broke, all he had to do was insert a spare and send the original back to the factory for service. A clear space on the bench at the end closest to the door allowed for setup of a flight control console.
On the other side, a tall rack of cases was revealed row by row as the door rose. Two shelves for the birds in heavy, gray plastic boxes a foot high, two feet wide, and about six feet long. Two smaller cases fit together on the next shelf; theyâd have the command consoles. The antenna rig on the next. Just what heâd expected.
What he didnât expect were the two large black cases at the top of the stack. The birds and gear were always packed in gray.
Except once. His last day at SkyHi for training, heâd seen black-encased birds.
He stepped up on the low bed and turned on the light inside the cargo bay to be sure. They were definitely black, not merely shadowed by the early morning light. He inspected them more closely. A glance at the codes stenciled on the side stopped him cold. Then, as casually as he could, he reached for the straps holding the antenna rig.
Steve started to
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