scissors and get a haircut. Seriously, what are you going to do?”
“Put it in a ponytail.”
“I mean your future,” Zee clarified. “The drone project is finished. There’s nothing more to do except negotiate with NASA, and neither of us has any say in . . . wait, you won the lottery?”
Jones slowly picked each note of a D chord and heard a slight offkey wave. He gently twisted the tuning knob of the stubborn B string and set the guitar in its case.
“Yep. I get to move to a place where I can work on my tan and sing for the women. Someplace warm and sunny with the Padres and Chargers.”
Zee set the drone wing down and put his glasses on. “Space and Naval Warfare Systems Center Pacific? In San Diego?”
Jones smiled. “I’m in.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Dude, congratulations. That’s awesome. Which one?”
“The New Professional Program,” Jones replied. “I wanted to tell you, but I felt guilty. I was hoping there were two openings.”
“I’ll be fine,” Zee said, the disappointment obvious on his face. “What project?”
“Robotics and marine mammal research.”
“I’m proud of you, man. You earned it,” Zee said, hugging Jones tightly. “That’s Christy Liepmann’s team. One of her dolphins found that Howell torpedo. I’m really happy for you.”
A US Navy dolphin looking for mines off the coast of San Diego found a museum-worthy, nineteenth-century torpedo on the seafloor. The brass-coated torpedo was invented by Lieutenant Commander John Howell in 1870. The Howell torpedo could travel four hundred yards at twenty-five knots and carry a one-hundred-pound warhead that detonated on contact. Only fifty were ever made.
Jones gave his friend an impish smile. “I’m happy you’re happy. Pick a color.”
Zee froze suspiciously. “Kevin Jones, don’t you dare.”
“Relax. Just pick one.”
“Kevin, no. You might not think so, but we carry a certain level of prestige on this research team. Not to mention working our butts off. We can’t afford a negative background check. We could get in a lot of trouble, especially with your new job and now with this Pirelli exposure. I need things to look good on my résumé.”
“Please?” Jones begged. “Consider it operational training for one last pizza. I’m leaving tomorrow forever. You gotta give me one more chance.”
Zee exhaled a deep breath. “Black.”
“You chose wisely, my son.”
Zee cursed to himself. “I hate it when I do that.”
Jones walked to a large metal cabinet and turned a combination dial. He slid a plastic case from a shelf and brought it to the table. Inside, twelve colored drone frames rested between forty-eight sets of matching wings: blue, yellow, red, and black. He lifted a set and turnclipped four together, twisting each pair into locking slots on the rear and front sections of the drone’s thorax. Next, he inserted four pliable legs coated with rubberized silicone into the frame’s underside. Each leg tip had a textured pad that, when pressed toward its counterpart, locked into position to grip and hold.
Assembly took less than a minute.
Jones placed the drone upright on the table. It looked like some evil queen hornet. He plucked a thin plastic cartridge from the case and held it up to the light. Next, he inserted a syringe into a container of bright-orange liquid labeled “polynitrogen propellant” and drew back the plunger. He injected the liquid and snapped the cartridge cover shut. He turned the drone upside down and removed a thin plastic shield from the tip of a camera lens. Finished, Jones inserted the fuel cartridge. The wings twitched once, twice, then instantly blurred.
Zee opened a laptop and connected a USB cable. “I need you to focus.”
Jones gently tossed the drone into the air and quickly moved a toggle on the controller-transmitter. When he rolled the toggle’s tip between his fingers, the drone obediently turned, pointing its camera at Zee.
Zee’s screen showed
“Put it in a ponytail.”
“I mean your future,” Zee clarified. “The drone project is finished. There’s nothing more to do except negotiate with NASA, and neither of us has any say in . . . wait, you won the lottery?”
Jones slowly picked each note of a D chord and heard a slight offkey wave. He gently twisted the tuning knob of the stubborn B string and set the guitar in its case.
“Yep. I get to move to a place where I can work on my tan and sing for the women. Someplace warm and sunny with the Padres and Chargers.”
Zee set the drone wing down and put his glasses on. “Space and Naval Warfare Systems Center Pacific? In San Diego?”
Jones smiled. “I’m in.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Dude, congratulations. That’s awesome. Which one?”
“The New Professional Program,” Jones replied. “I wanted to tell you, but I felt guilty. I was hoping there were two openings.”
“I’ll be fine,” Zee said, the disappointment obvious on his face. “What project?”
“Robotics and marine mammal research.”
“I’m proud of you, man. You earned it,” Zee said, hugging Jones tightly. “That’s Christy Liepmann’s team. One of her dolphins found that Howell torpedo. I’m really happy for you.”
A US Navy dolphin looking for mines off the coast of San Diego found a museum-worthy, nineteenth-century torpedo on the seafloor. The brass-coated torpedo was invented by Lieutenant Commander John Howell in 1870. The Howell torpedo could travel four hundred yards at twenty-five knots and carry a one-hundred-pound warhead that detonated on contact. Only fifty were ever made.
Jones gave his friend an impish smile. “I’m happy you’re happy. Pick a color.”
Zee froze suspiciously. “Kevin Jones, don’t you dare.”
“Relax. Just pick one.”
“Kevin, no. You might not think so, but we carry a certain level of prestige on this research team. Not to mention working our butts off. We can’t afford a negative background check. We could get in a lot of trouble, especially with your new job and now with this Pirelli exposure. I need things to look good on my résumé.”
“Please?” Jones begged. “Consider it operational training for one last pizza. I’m leaving tomorrow forever. You gotta give me one more chance.”
Zee exhaled a deep breath. “Black.”
“You chose wisely, my son.”
Zee cursed to himself. “I hate it when I do that.”
Jones walked to a large metal cabinet and turned a combination dial. He slid a plastic case from a shelf and brought it to the table. Inside, twelve colored drone frames rested between forty-eight sets of matching wings: blue, yellow, red, and black. He lifted a set and turnclipped four together, twisting each pair into locking slots on the rear and front sections of the drone’s thorax. Next, he inserted four pliable legs coated with rubberized silicone into the frame’s underside. Each leg tip had a textured pad that, when pressed toward its counterpart, locked into position to grip and hold.
Assembly took less than a minute.
Jones placed the drone upright on the table. It looked like some evil queen hornet. He plucked a thin plastic cartridge from the case and held it up to the light. Next, he inserted a syringe into a container of bright-orange liquid labeled “polynitrogen propellant” and drew back the plunger. He injected the liquid and snapped the cartridge cover shut. He turned the drone upside down and removed a thin plastic shield from the tip of a camera lens. Finished, Jones inserted the fuel cartridge. The wings twitched once, twice, then instantly blurred.
Zee opened a laptop and connected a USB cable. “I need you to focus.”
Jones gently tossed the drone into the air and quickly moved a toggle on the controller-transmitter. When he rolled the toggle’s tip between his fingers, the drone obediently turned, pointing its camera at Zee.
Zee’s screen showed
Similar Books
