Drone Threat

11

Norman Pike was in a foul mood.

The group charter he was supposed to take out for chinook salmon this morning was running an hour late already when they called and canceled on him. Sure, they’d lose their deposit and they were apologetic, but the Ayasi, his thirty-six-foot Tiara, was kitted out and ready to go, and so was he. He loved to fish and was disappointed he wouldn’t be heading out.

But Pike’s mood brightened when a late-model Ford Taurus pulled up to the curb and a man came strolling down the pier and straight for his dock. He was built like an athlete. He flashed a broad smile with gleaming white teeth. Pike thought maybe he was Italian or Greek, or maybe even from the Middle East.

“I’m looking for a day charter. I don’t suppose you’re available?”

Pike noticed the man’s West Coast accent. He had a polished L.A. vibe about him, too. Merrell boots, Oakley sunglasses, Columbia fishing shirt, and a Tag Heuer wristwatch. Typical yuppie tourist, Pike thought. More money than sense. He’d hauled a thousand of them out onto the lake over the years for good money.

“Your timing is impeccable. It just so happens I am.”

The man extended his hand. Pike shook it. The man had a strong grip. “Great, man.”

Pike glanced around. All of the other charter boats were already out on the water. “I’m usually all booked up this time of year. I had a last-minute cancellation.”

“Then it’s my lucky day.”

“Climb aboard. I’m all ready to go. Even have five box lunches if you get that hungry.”

“Awesome. Let’s get going.”

Pike quoted a full-day rate and the man counted off five Benjamins from a stack of ten in his wallet. Pike asked for ID and the man showed him a California driver’s license. His name was Daniel Brody. Twenty-seven years old. Los Angeles, California. Just as Pike had guessed.

“Got a fishing license, Mr. Brody?” Pike asked.

“No. Do I need one?”

“Yes, but I can sell you one, no problem. A twenty-four-hour license is only… twenty dollars.” Ten for the license, and ten for my trouble, Pike told himself.

“Sounds good.”

The man pulled out a twenty and Pike pocketed it. “I’ll write that up as soon as we get under way.”

“Awesome. So we can get going now?”

“Soon as we untie. You’re in kind of a hurry, I take it?”

“Just excited, I guess.”

More like nervous, Pike thought. Maybe he’s afraid of the water. Probably means he’s going to be hurling his guts out, too. Should’ve charged him more.

The water was choppy but Captain Pike was trolling with the swell and Brody hadn’t complained, even after devouring a roast beef sandwich with horseradish.

Pike had fished these waters for fifteen years, first as a hobby and then as a paying gig. He was a good fisherman. He knew all of the tricks that all of the other charter captains knew as well, and his charter boat carried state-of-the-art fish-finding radar. Pike knew Lake Michigan like the back of his hand, and he knew chinook, and that this late in the morning the big salmon would be running around 120 feet deep in the cold, dark water. To get the bait rigs down to that strike zone he fitted Brody’s rod with copper line and down riggers and trolled at twelve miles per hour, about the speed the fish ran, especially with the current.

Pike was a loner by nature and wasn’t the talkative type, but Brody asked the same questions that the beginners always asked about bait and reels and how to hook the big ones, and Pike was happy to answer them because the answers never changed. He also liked the kid’s enthusiasm. Brody pulled in his first fish within an hour and seemed genuinely thrilled. Pike reset the hook and showed him how to cast and Brody was back at it while Pike cleaned the five-pound fish.

And then Brody’s questions turned personal. How long have you been a charter captain? How long have you lived in Michigan? Any kids? Were you in the service?

It started to feel like an interrogation instead of friendly chatter. There was something about the guy that bothered Pike. He couldn’t put his finger on it. When the next fish struck Brody got distracted trying to reel it in. The pole bent nearly in half, as if a bowling ball were hooked to the other end. Pike fetched the net. A twenty-three-pounder — big fish. Not a record, but respectable. At this rate, Brody would hit his legal limit of fish in a few hours, and then they’d be heading back to the marina.

“Can I use the restroom?”

Pike pointed at the cabin door with his filet knife. “Right down there. Hard to miss.”

“Thanks.” Brody flashed a smile and descended the short stairs, closing the door behind him.

Pike stood at the cleaning station, thinking. He cut the chinook’s head off with a single pass of the razor-sharp blade, then took off the tail.

He didn’t like personal questions.

It was late. Pike’s boat was the last one to tie up for the night. Nobody around.

The high-speed grinder shrieked beneath the stainless-steel tub, mulching the carcass into a fine slurry that ran straight back into the lake. The sound bounced off the blue cinder-block walls. A real racket. But the enclosed fish-cleaning station was always neat and clean whenever he came into it, and Pike intended to leave it that way, too. Always had. He used the sprayer to push the last little bits of flesh and bone into the drain. The city of Cheboygan had built the handy little facility in order to make the fishing experience that much more convenient for the public. They knew how to treat sportsmen right up here, especially in the UP. It’s why he loved living in Michigan — for six months out of the year, anyway.

Pike’s phone rang. He checked the number. A call he’d been waiting for. He hung up the sprayer and punched the grinder motor’s red Stop button. It quieted instantly.

“Pike here.”

Pike listened to the urgent voice on the other end but kept spraying the tub, washing away the last drops of blood.

“I understand. The charter is all ready. I’m just waiting for your last deposit.”

He nodded, listening. A smile creased his face. “Excellent. I appreciate the vote of confidence. Then we can get started right away. It should be a lot of fun.”

Pike rang off. He checked the sink. Spotless, just the way he’d found it.