“Okay, your call,” Glenn replied with a baffled expression across his face. “I can’t wait to hear about all that, but the weird stuff could all be in your head. What we’ve seen at NSA makes you paranoid for life. When’d you reserve the racquetball court?”
“We’re on in about half an hour. Let’s get going.”
Glenn grabbed a duffel bag strapped to the back of his fat motorcycle, and I drove him to the gym. We spoke about co-workers who were promoted, forced out, or trapped in their current jobs like woolly mammoths slowly sinking in a tar pit. Some got married, others divorced. Our former chief supervisor had taken an unexpected thirty-day sabbatical in August, which Glenn speculated was for alcohol rehab.
Five minutes into the drive, Glenn pointed to a trailer on the side of the highway. “Hey, Bryce, slow down. Speed camera. Aw, man, too late.”
I was driving about seventy miles per hour, but my radar detector did not screech. The app on my phone gave no warning of speed cameras in Chester County. On the back of the trailer sat a white cylinder with a black window through which a camera photographed license plates. Glenn was right. They nailed me. I would get a citation in the mail before the end of the month.
Glenn said, “I hate those things. There was another one on the highway just outside of Bridgeford.”
“My paralegal got a ticket from one earlier this week … over on Cafferty Road, I think. They’re all over the place.”
“We live in a surveillance state. You never see ‘em ‘til it’s too late.”
“But there’s usually a warning sign,” I said. “State regulations require one at least a hundred yards before the camera.”
“I didn’t see any. You’re the lawyer. I’d fight it, if I were you.”
I considered going back to make a video to show there was no warning sign, but we were going to be late for racquetball. I figured I could do that later. The lack of notice was strange and could provide a defense to the citation. I grabbed my phone and tapped the app for speed cameras. None were displayed anywhere in the county. Tomorrow, I would have to contact the software company and demand a refund.
The parking lot of the gym was empty, as expected. Reserving the court was unnecessary, but it was gym policy. Inside the entrance, I ran my membership card through the scanner and typed a fake name for Glenn as my guest on a computer terminal. I had not made many friends in Bridgeford or used any guest passes since I had joined here. The second door buzzed open. No one worked the front desk, now that the gym was fully automated. Except for Glenn and me, the entire place was deserted.
We changed into workout clothes in the locker room and then entered the racquetball court. I sealed the heavy door behind us. “Hardly anyone comes here in the afternoons, and even if someone drops by, they can’t hear anything in here. Nearly soundproof. Bare walls and floors. Nowhere to hide a microphone.”
Glenn arched a single eyebrow, but he said nothing as he stretched his arms and shoulders. I smacked the blue ball against the front wall to warm up. After hitting the ball back and forth to each other a few times, Glenn asked, “Volley for serve?”
“Yeah, let’s do this. Been playing lately?”
“No, not really,” he said. “We’re both going to be rusty.”
“Closest to the second red line without going over serves first.”
Glenn hit the ball against the front wall and it landed about a yard before the red line. I went next and overshot the target. He stepped into the service box, crouched down, and fired the ball hard toward the back left corner. I could not return it, so he scored the first point.
I said, “It’ll all come back soon.”
Glenn scoffed. He served again, this time an arching lob that dropped against the back wall out of bounds. His second serve was a fault as well, so I went to the service box. He bounced the ball to me.
Before serving, I asked, “You ready to talk about Benton Dynamics?”
“Trying to distract me, huh, Bryce?”
“No, just multitasking. It’s safe to talk here. What did you find out?”
Glenn replied, “Some pretty interesting stuff. Benton Dynamics does a lot of defense contracting, but it also pitches independent research and development to the Pentagon.”
“Mostly to the Navy, right?”
“Yup,” Glenn replied. “When you called, I thought you wanted me to hack into Benton Dynamics, even though you said not to, but there’s plenty online. Project Transparrior, to be precise. That anti-secrecy website has information about the company on public display. Benton Dynamics can’t be too pleased about that.”
“Project Transparrior?”
“Uh-huh,” Glenn said with a doleful nod of his head. “So called ‘Transparency Warriors.’ I printed the article for you, but I can give you an overview.”
“Okay, after this serve.”
I slammed the ball hard, hoping to strike on the floor and then ricochet it off the back wall. Glenn would have to chase the shot far out of position, but it was a fault. I served again. This time the ball stayed in bounds and after exchanging a few volleys, I tied the game at one point each.
“So here you go,” Glenn said. “Benton Dynamics has built an underwater drone called the Remora Shadow. At least that’s the working name. It’s pretty cool when you hear about it.”
I moved to the left service box and fired the ball to the back right corner. Glenn could not return it. The score was two to one.
“Was Benton Dynamics under a Navy contract for it?”
“Not that I could determine. I’ve not sorted it all out yet. But I don’t think so. If it were, the feds would’ve been all over this case from the start. Looked like this underwater drone was independent
