4Runner Ruby

18.

I take the key fob from the pack’s zippered front pouch and press the keyless remote system button. I now appreciate the effort it took several months ago to program a second press to start the engine and open the driver side door. This, as they say, isn’t your grandmother’s Toyota 4Runner. 

We, Ruby the Toyota and I, are off. She is so intuitively dialed-in that by the first interaction we have displayed GPS coordinates and three choices for fastest route to destination as determined by local traffic, road construction and any number of other circumstances, such as number of traffic cams and proximity to police radar systems along the twenty-five miles from current location to destination. I use the system to update my ETA to HQ of twenty-four minutes. They reply with a return code of “Roger, bird is fueling.” 

I can feel the adrenalin flowing. Cars, trucks, buses, a couple of kids on BMX bikes all share this stretch of road. The goal of speed is essential, but nowhere near the responsibility of connecting the dots between the current location and that of its termination, without incident. I assume the immediate challenge of keeping my presence in hyper-aware mode. A chore made exponentially more difficult when extended to the others along this path. Every driver in every car. All the kids on their bikes and each inch of every mile. This includes - demands - the skill of anticipation. A prescience of the actions of others, finding the flow in one’s self and the supporting cast in this scene, one that now includes a purpose and a running clock. Relax, watch, flow, anticipate. 

I take an inventory of myself, my emotions, my status as we slide through a yellow light at 60. A bored gentleman, real-estate salesman or CPA I guess, follows Ruby through the intersection with his eyes reddened with apathetic boredom. I wonder if he wonders. Ruby beeps an update showing a traffic bottle-neck a mile ahead and recommends an immediate right onto an arterial side street. I have ten seconds to react and respond. As I move to the right lane for the turn I see a woman talking on a cell phone about the cross the intersection from the opposite direction. I can brake, cut her off or continue on and take the next street. I continue on, passing her as she trades cellular gossip totally oblivious of her physical reality. 

We update HQ to an eleven minute arrival. Roger Bogart is the two-word coded response, followed by their update of bird ready for flight. 

I feel comfortable enough to multitask a review of the next few steps. Have ID ready at the gate, drop Ruby in the upper parking lot, grab the field bag from the hidden storage locker under the spare tire, leave the key fob on the front seat, and trot to the bird. Make it look like this was all a piece of cake. 

And should the chopper pilot be one of the regulars, make him think that we got this under complete control. Inspire confidence in others I recall once telling Davis. 

I take the final right turn into the lot of a very pedestrian looking ten-story building. There is a medium sized, nondescript concrete sign welcoming visitors to Petersen Controls with a sub identifier as Petersen Controls being an AMBRIT COMPANY. 

I flash high-beams at the security guard and stop briefly as he raises the gate. I reach for my ID but he gives me the go-ahead with a chin jerk and nod. We spiral up the ten floors with rubber screeching. I see the parking spot and dive in. Grabbing the pack and tossing the keys on the seat I compliment Ruby on her skill and grace under fire. 

Softly the horn sounds twice in reciprocal appreciation.