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by Lucas Randolph
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Buddy the drone pilot was the Man’s best friend. The Man knew everything about his best friend—including that he was the type of drone pilot that first enlisted into the military as an aircraft mechanic, before he was selected to commission into the officer corps as a pilot. High. Fucking. Speed—he was that type. Buddy the drone pilot was the type that signed the black dotted line after the terrorists flew commercial planes into the twin towers killing thousands, because he thought it would be for something—nothing to do with having a kid on the way and no money to support them. Buddy the drone pilot was the type that wanted to fly military aircraft to defend his country from her enemies both foreign and domestic—forget his love for reading science fiction or playing video games late at night. He was the type of drone pilot who was ready to crash and burn for his country just to make sure that it would in fact be for something—red, white, and blue—if only he had a real plane and a real War to do it in.
Buddy was the type of drone pilot that when he got his chance to fire some futuristic ordnance from his multimillion-dollar UAV, he said he could see the target flinch from the sound of the rocket breaking the sound barrier, observed from his ultra-high-definition camera—his eyes burned from looking at the screen so hard like it did when he was a kid late at night. He was the type of drone pilot that before the target was disappeared into the dirt and gravel below them, his cameras recorded them looking up toward the sound, or if they were smart, choosing a direction to run for cover without bothering to look at all—which he said didn’t really matter anyway. Buddy was the type of drone pilot that always followed that story up by asking his best friend what he would do if he heard that sound above him—a rocket breaking the sound barrier—which way would they run? He had the same twisted smile whenever he asked this. The Man would shrug and say nothing, like there was no right answer—Buddy seemed to like that response. He was the type of drone pilot that gave high-fives all around to the other crew members sitting next to him after successfully annihilating the grey van with five targets inside after a positive ground confirmation and clearance from above—mission successful. Twenty-three seconds later though, another grey van with five targets pulls up to help give aid to the survivors from the first explosion—additional clearance from above and they pull the red trigger again because anyone caught within their blast zone is considered an active target, therefore eliminating the second grey van now also with five confirmed targets—everyone is killed on arrival. He laughs and says sometimes it’s a roller-coaster but all’s well that ends well. Buddy was the type of drone pilot that once when his team fired a rocket that ended up being a dud, and it sliced the target perfectly straight down the middle splitting them like a hot dog, he secretly sent one of the young guys out to the store to buy the ingredients for a cookout—hot dogs only. Buddy shows his teeth in a grin each time he repeats the hot dog story like he might take a bite out of it—it was a favorite of his for years, until it wasn’t.
Buddy the drone pilot was the type who was put in charge of an entire flight, responsible for the surveillance of targets twenty-four hours a day, until word came from above that their value as a target exceeded their value in life—eating, shitting, fucking, same shit as us, mostly, he said. And before his best friend gets the chance to ask, what if the target is with their kids when the order comes—Buddy shakes his head, his signature smile replaced with uncertain eyes and a face that looks like it’s in pain—we’re saving lives, right, it means something? The Man didn’t answer, instead he hands his best friend another drink. He was the type of drone pilot that would have to watch the film of everyone’s kills and near misses over and over again like he did when he was prepping for a high school football game, and because he was that type—High. Fucking. Speed—you know that his notes were always the best. Buddy was the type of drone pilot that had to go to a special War-time therapy and was told that everything he was doing was okay because he didn’t have a choice in the matter, and that it wouldn’t all be for nothing in the end. He told the Man that once, and that he knew it was a lie, but it still made him feel better to hear someone say it to him anyway. And so, his best friend said it also—it’s not all for nothing—Buddy knew that was a lie too. Buddy the drone pilot was the type who had a family that hosted a BBQ to celebrate his newest promotion, his kid proudly displaying the newest video game he’s been playing, the one where he shoots missiles out of planes and uses machine guns to kill terrorists—just like my dad! —eyes red from looking at the screen so hard. And then everyone started to give the kid nicknames like Grill Master and Little Dog, until later that same day when they found his dad alone and crying into his hands with a cold plate of food on his lap—no one exactly sure what set him off, though, not even his best friend.
Buddy was the type of drone pilot that they tried to diagnose with PTSD—he had already set the record for number of flying hours and mission logs in his unit and not a single person would bat an eye at him for taking a step back—but because he fought his War from behind a desk, nobody tried to stop him and he just kept on keeping on—fly, fight, win! He was the type of drone pilot who told that same War-time therapist that he had in fact seen the true horrors of War, down to the last pixel-perfect frame—over and over and over again—and that he was certain he had in no way shape or form been to any kind of real War while sitting from the comfort of his air-conditioned launch chair—PTSD was for the ones suffering on the ground, or so he said. He was the type of drone pilot, because he was prior enlisted, thought any misstep including an unfortunate mental health diagnosis, could potentially land him right back in the enlisted ranks and subsequently end his military career—then maybe all of it really would have been for fucking nothing. Buddy the drone pilot was the type that always had a new story to tell—Iraq—Afghanistan—Syria—Yemen—I’ve seen all the Wars! Buddy slaps his knee spilling a drink over his lap and his best friend hands him two more—the Man always had a drink ready for him. Have I told you about South America yet?! What a disaster, he begins. Fucking disaster.
What the Man didn’t know about his best friend—Buddy was the type of drone pilot who would find a way to crash and burn—red, white, and blue—even if it wasn’t with a real plane and the final War was only with himself.
Buddy the drone pilot would never fly, or tell his best friend, a drone story ever again—he was that type.
Buddy’s best friend once said—why not one more? You’ve earned it. The Man loved his War stories—he was that type.
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Lucas Randolph served nine years in the U.S. Air Force as aircraft maintenance, before bad luck and a bad back ended his military career. Outside of collecting stories and other writerly things, he spends the vast majority of his time raising his three young boys. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Antioch University Los Angeles. More writing from Lucas can be found online at Wrath-Bearing Tree (March 2023) and Unlikely Stories Mark V (June 2022).
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