“No, sir, I do not.”
“Nothing.”
“Not even a phone call?”
“I got people on the inside of the FAA. They didn’t even notice, Red. They knew we had filed for a permit, of course. But if the shells were picked up on radar, no one was looking at the screen.”
“It wouldn’t move like the bogey from an airplane.”
“Nah. It goes straight up! So on a radar screen it doesn’t even move. Probably just looks like a dead pixel.”
“What about when the shell is gliding down?”
“Moves differently then, of course. But we do that mostly over Mexican airspace. I’m working out an understanding with our friends south of the border. On final approach, after the shell has dropped below the radar, only then do we let it glide north over the Rio Grande. It re-enters U.S. airspace below the altitude where the FAA gives a shit and lands on Flying S property.”
Rufus considered it. “How about military radar? They gotta know.”
T.R. checked his watch and Rufus knew he’d gone somewhere he shouldn’t have. “None of my business,” Rufus conceded, “just working it out in my head.”
“You’re army. Not air force. A ground pounder. Not a flyboy. Let’s talk about that.”
“Okay, let’s do.”
“I want you to go to the Flying S Ranch—assuming I can make it worth your while, of course. I would feel better if you were there keeping an eye on things. I want you to be the Drone Ranger.”
T.R. had coined that term earlier and Rufus had gotten the feeling that it might stick. He smiled. “You want ol’ Red to keep an eye on, what, a couple of thousand square miles?”
“I got other resources, as you know. Imaging satellites passing over at all hours. Plenty of boots on the ground.”
“Brown hats and black hats.”
T.R. nodded. “Brown hats you could think of as cops. Black hats are your mercenaries—the equivalent of the military. But the Lone Ranger—he was neither fish nor fowl!”
Rufus laughed. “You want me in a white hat?”
“Wear whatever you want. The black mask and the blue jumpsuit are optional. I imagine you’ll be in an earthsuit much of the time.”
“What do you imagine I could do that ain’t being done already with the resources you got on hand?”
“Roam around and notice anything that don’t feel right. Respond to inquiries. Just keep an eye on things. It’s a burden, Red, to own property.”
“I farmed fifty acres,” Rufus said. “I know.”
“You lie awake at night wondering what the hell’s going on there.”
“Yup, you do.”
“That’s why we have caretakers. Ranch hands. Oh, sure there’s always chores to keep that kinda person busy. But the real reason to hire people like that is so we can sleep better at night. Because then we know that there is intelligence—active intelligent minds—right there on the ground.”
Rufus nodded. “Now, let’s talk straight about one thing. You ain’t worried about no wild pigs. Coyotes. Rattlesnakes.”
T.R. managed to look as if he were glad Rufus had finally brought this topic up. “Pina2bo is going to change the world, Red. It’s gonna change it for the better, overall. The people of places like Houston, Venice, Singapore—they’ll feel the most benefit. It will benefit those places unambiguously by stopping sea level rise in its tracks. Now, there’s other countries in this world that are gonna have more pros and cons to think about.” T.R. set his coffee mug down so that he could make a scale pan juggling motion with empty hands. “Less coastal flooding—great! Colder winters. Not so great. But, overall”—he let one hand drop to his knee as the other floated up—“an acceptable trade. But. But. There is going to be a third category of country. Hopefully a small category.” He reversed the positions of his hands, letting the high one drop to his knee, raising the other and turning it into a fist. “They are gonna run the numbers. By which I mean they are gonna run big computer sims to evaluate the effect that Pina2bo will have on their climate. Their economy.” T.R. paused for a second and blinked. “And they are gonna be pissed.”
Rufus nodded. “And depending on what kind of country they are, maybe it’s limited to, I don’t know, filing a complaint with the United Nations.”
“Which wouldn’t do shit,” T.R. said. “But other countries—who knows, maybe they got snake eaters of their own.”