Waterkill (Dave Henson Series) (6 page)

Chapter 8 (April 12, Wednesday 2:30pm, Alaska)

It was more of a dirt wedge cut into the rugged Alaskan wilderness than it was an airport. The gravel runway was only two thousand five hundred feet long and fifty feet wide. Other than the airstrip itself snow still blanketed the surrounding landscape. The airfield was located in the heart of the Mertie Mountains, an Alaskan mountain range named after the famed geologist John Beaver Mertie who crisscrossed the Yukon-Tanana area for thirty-nine years in the early 1900s. However, Chicken Airport in east-central Alaska was now command headquarters for the search and recovery operation of the Cessna 206 aircraft that had gone down ten days earlier. Several field tents were set up along the southwest side of the airstrip. Two dozen men dressed in winter border patrol clothing milled around the tents.  As many snow machines also surrounded the tents. On the airport ramp sat two UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters and four United States Air Force Light Lift Cessna 208 Caravans.

Dave and Ron Blackwell, along with several Department of Homeland Border Patrol Special Ops Group agents, had arrived from Fairbanks an hour earlier on one of the Cessna 208 Caravans. They were standing in the largest tent, which served as the command center for the operation, and were talking with the Chief Patrol Agent in charge of the search and recovery operation. The two were explaining to the chief a new high tech drone device that they had brought with them from NSurv.

“The Hunter-Falcon is specifically designed for locating small targets in a vast area,” said Ron, as Chief Patrol Agent Dwight Davis listened with focused interest. Ron was pointing at a large open plastic shipping box and holding one of the Hunter-Falcons in his hands. In the box were hundreds of small fist size translucent objects with gossamer type wings attached to them.

Each Hunter-Falcon was approximately the size of a tennis ball, however, they were football shaped rather than round. The translucent gossamer wings wrapped around the body of the small drone in a curved shape. On one end of the Hunter-Falcon was a small clear plastic propeller, and inside its translucent body was a grayish looking material that appeared to float.

“The Hunter-Falcon is designed to be capable of being released from an aircraft or from a mother missile,” continued Ron. “Each Hunter-Falcon can fly a prescribed course or fly its own autonomous flight path. At any time an operator of a Hunter-Falcon can manually override the prescribed flight mission and remotely direct its flight path.”

“What is the gray material in it?” asked Davis in a gruff voice. Chief Davis was a giant of a man, standing six feet six inches tall and weighing two hundred and seventy five pounds, most of which was bone and muscle.  He cut a figure that looked like he had been chiseled out of a granite cliff. He returned the Havana cigar to his lips and his steel blue eyes stared at Ron as he waited impatiently for an answer to his question.

“The grayish material inside the Hunter-Falcon’s body is a form of nano-dust that can be configured prior to launch to operate as a specific sensor type or types,” interrupted Dave. Dave could sense that Chief Davis was not overly impressed with what he was looking at and decided he needed to step in with the description of NSurv’s latest nano technology drone.

Picking up one of the small drones from the box and examining it up close Davis asked, “What kind of sensors?”  

“Acoustical and image sensing,” replied Dave. “The nano-dust can even be configured to operate as a passive infrared sensor, similar to what is used on outdoor home security light sensors.”

“So how can we use these little toys to help locate the 206 aircraft?” the Chief asked contemptuously.

“Well, our plan is to drop them out of one of your aircraft at a prescribed altitude over one end of the target search area,” responded Dave.  “Preferably on the upwind edge of the search area. Once released each Hunter-Falcon will begin to fly a prescribed course across its sector of the target field. While doing so it will scan the area below it and maintain proper separation from adjacent devices. The data from each Hunter-Falcon sensor will be transmitted back to our computers here at base camp where it will be processed and compared against likely target characteristics for a small downed aircraft. When any possible targets are detected we will manually fly the appropriate Hunter-Falcon into the target area for closer inspection.”

Chief Davis was looking down at the small drone in his hand and nodding his head in skeptical understanding when he questioned, “Quite the impressive little device, however, how does this thing get its power?”

“Both the body and the wings of the Hunter-Falcon include photovoltaic properties to effectively operate like a solar panel,” responded Ron. “Using nano-carbon materials, rather than silicon based solar photovoltaic technology, they are much more efficient in converting sunlight into electricity. Consequently, even on a cloudy day these small drones can easily produce sufficient electrical energy to keep their propellers continuously turning.”

“And keep transmitting their sensor information back to us,” interjected Dave.

Chief Davis raised the drone he was holding in his hand up to eye level and examined it closely. “So you really think this little thing, along with its brothers in that box, are going to be able to locate the aircraft wreckage in this rugged terrain?”

“With any luck we should be able to locate the crash site before nightfall,” responded Dave with a slight grin on his face as he stared back at Davis. He could see that the Chief was becoming impressed with the little “toy” object he was holding in his hand.

The Chief began to nod his head in acceptance. “Okay, then lets load up one of the 208 Caravans immediately with your Hunter-Falcons and get them deployed ASAP. We have had no luck so far finding any trace of the aircraft with our conventional methods, and Washington has already made it quite clear to me that they are getting impatient. No doubt, that’s why they sent the two of you.”

Ron looked over at Dave and gave him a quick grin. As he did, the Chief looked up from the drone he was holding to see Ron’s smirk. “You have a lot of confidence in your little toy here buddy,” said the Chief as he pointed his cigar at Ron. “We shall soon see if it is warranted.”

“You shall see Chief,” responded Ron smugly. “You shall see and learn.”

Thirty minutes later Ron was on his knees in the back of one of the 208 Caravans, dropping out of the open cargo bay door of the aircraft the first Hunter-Falcon. He was bundled in a heavy winter parka coat and wearing a hat pulled low over his ears. Though it was technically spring, the outside air temperature was only twenty degrees Fahrenheit and icy cold air whipped through the interior of the aircraft’s fuselage due to the open cargo bay door.

The aircraft flew along the upwind leg of the target search area. As it did, every twenty seconds a Border Patrol Special Ops agent kneeling beside Ron handed him another Hunter-Falcon from one of the shipping boxes that sat next to them. On Dave’s mark, Ron dropped the device from the aircraft. In between drops, Ron blew into his bare hands to warm them from the frigid air.

They were flying at an altitude of seven thousand feet to avoid hitting any mountain peaks and to release the devices at a consistent altitude. However, as each Hunter-Falcon drone was released it descended downward and flew a flight path one thousand feet above the ground for its prescribed flight mission.

Dave was seated in one of the back seats of the aircraft, next to Ron and the Border Patrol agent, with a laptop opened up and sitting on his knees. As each small drone was released he confirmed that it was operational and flying its prescribed vector course. In addition, he periodically switched to another screen on the laptop to see the entire field of deployed drones.

It took them nearly an hour to release all of the required Hunter-Falcons along the upwind leg of the target search field area. After releasing the last one, Ron reported into the headset lip mic he was wearing that all the birds were deployed.

The pilot of the Caravan made a wide arcing one hundred and eighty degree turn back over the target area to return to Chicken Airport. Ron put on his gloves to warm his nearly frozen hands and looked out at the mountainous terrain below. It was a vast snow draped wilderness void of any roads or villages. As he continued to look out of the aircraft’s open cargo bay door he saw the occasional hunter’s cabin, along with an elk herd and two moose, but little else of interest.

The pilot announced over the intercom that they were ten minutes out from the airfield. As the pilot finished his sentence, Ron noticed four snow machines racing through the forest below him. The snow machines were all the same make and color. They were black and looked to be Polaris snowmobiles. A single person rode on each one of them and they were headed northwest, directly away from the airfield.

Ron yelled out over his headset, “So where do you think those guys are headed?” as he pointed out to the Border Patrol agent the men and snow machines passing directly underneath them.

“No idea,” responded the agent. “Those machines are not ours.”

Dave overheard Ron’s transmission over his headset and looked out his window. He could see the four snow machines racing underneath the belly of their aircraft. He took a quick look at the GPS reading displayed on his computer screen and made a mental note of it. As he did, he felt a sudden chill run up his spine. He wondered to himself, was this the Al Qaeda competition that Eric McDonald and John Bates had warned him about.

Five minutes later the 208 Caravan landed at the gravel Chicken field airstrip. Dave quickly closed up his laptop and packed it away in his knapsack. He would pull it back out as soon as they got to the operations headquarters tent. Ron closed up the empty boxes that contained the Hunter-Falcons. When the aircraft came to a stop Dave, Ron and the Border Patrol agent immediately disembarked from the aircraft’s cargo bay door and made a beeline for the operations tent. Dave wanted to make sure he didn’t miss a beat on the status of his squadron of miniature drones, even though their transmitted flight data was automatically being backed up on a server back at NSurv headquarters.

Inside the warm operations tent, the three quickly shed their winter clothing. Dave then immediately walked over to a table, set his laptop down on it, flipped it open, and hit the ON button. While he did, Ron and the Border Patrol agent poured themselves steaming hot mugs of coffee. Chief Davis strode up to the three men red faced with anger.

“According to a report from the pilot who jut flew your mission we have some visitors in the target search area.”

“Yes, we saw them just before we landed,” responded Dave.

“We have had a temporary no trespassing restriction on the target search area posted since we arrived on the scene last week,” returned the Chief. “No one should be in that area without our prior knowledge and authorization.”

“Maybe it’s a group of locals who did not hear about the restriction or see the posted signs,” suggested Dave.

“No. There may be some hermits living in this area, but all of them have radio communications,” replied the Chief tersely.

“They didn’t look like locals,” commented Ron. “Those snow machines were all of the same make and color, and they looked new.”

“Then most likely we have some competition Chief,” said Dave.

“Affirmative. I had briefly considered sending out one of my teams to track them down and bring them back here for questioning. However, with night fall nearly upon us I decided to hold off until morning. They won’t get far this evening. Not in this rough mountainous terrain.”

The chief looked down at Dave’s computer on the table. “So how did the release of your drones go?” asked the Chief.

“Excellent,” responded Dave. “I was just about to sit down and check on their status.” Dave turned his attention to the laptop and pulled up a chair. “Let’s have a look.”

The Chief, Ron and the other Border Patrol agent made their way to the table where Dave was sitting. Ron handed Dave a mug of hot coffee. Dave took a sip from it and then placed the steaming mug next to his computer. He then typed a few key strokes into the laptop. Five seconds later an aerial view of the target search area came up on the screen. From left to right across the display were horizontal dashed lines representing the prescribed flight paths of the released Hunter-Falcons. The first released device was already nearly two thirds of the way across the flight course. The last device still had about ninety percent to go.

“So what happens when these birds complete their prescribed flight over the target area?” asked Chief Davis as he looked over Dave’s shoulder. “Do they self-destruct or just fall out of the sky?”

While staring at the computer screen Dave responded dryly, “They have the GPS coordinates for this tent stored in their memory. They will fly a direct path back to us.”

“We can also send them a self-destruct sequence if necessary,” chimed in Ron.

“Impressive,” responded the Chief with a slight touch of sarcasm.

A small red marker started blinking on the computer screen. One of the Hunter-Falcons had located a potential target.  It was in the northeast corner of the search area.

“It looks like we might have a hot spot,” commented Dave in a clinical voice.

Dave moused over the red marker and doubled-clicked the right button on the mouse. Immediately the screen zoomed into the target search area. Dave typed in the Hunter-Falcon ID number on the keyboard and a green dot lit up on the screen.