A terminal case of bureaucracy
The terminal was a giant ribcage of steel and glass, humming with fluorescent light. People shuffled under it in the usual trance of travel: briefcases bumping into prams, duty-free bags rustling like tired flags, the constant ripple of announcements in five languages, none of them understood but all obeyed. For a moment it was perfect — civilization as choreography, flights rising and landing with the grace of a clockwork ballet.
Then came the whine.
Thin, nasal, the sort of buzzing you might ignore if it came from a wasp or an old electric toothbrush. But the acoustics of the place amplified it until everyone felt it in their skulls. Out on the tarmac, beneath the sodium lamps, something hung in the air. A wobbling insect made of plastic. A drone. Its propellers chewed at the silence with an insolent little grin.
In the control tower, red lights blinked awake. Sirens burst through the concourses. The board of departures bled cancellations one after another, like dominoes falling into an abyss. Attention, the voice said, calm and metallic, due to unauthorized aerial activity all flights are suspended until further notice.
And that was it. A continent’s order undone by a shoebox with wings.
About 3000 passengers howled in chorus. Some demanded refunds, some cursed governments, most just stared, open-mouthed, at the idea that a toy could paralyze them. Families bedded down on the tiled floors, businessmen tapped angrily at phones that had nothing left to connect them with, children cried until they fell asleep on chairs too hard for sleep. Above it all the drone wobbled, recording the chaos, as if delighted with its own absurdity.
It had already happened in Copenhagen, in Oslo, in city after city. Each time the same grotesque sequence: a buzzing, then paralysis. Aircraft rerouted like panicked pigeons, terminals locked, ministers summoned to explain how entire airports had been bested by what looked like a Christmas present from a cheap catalog. Each time, millions lost in an afternoon.
And what did the great guardians of Europe do? Nato puffed itself up, rolled tanks across muddy fields, flew jets in intimidating circles. All very impressive, until you noticed the detail: when the drone appeared, those same guardians simply froze. They had guns for bombers, shields for missiles, strategies for invasions — but against a buzzing insect, they blinked and waited for the intruder to get bored.
It was like watching a knight in polished armor discover that he couldn’t bend down to tie his shoes.
The European Union, meanwhile, dreamt on. “Yes,” it murmured, “drones are regulated. Hobbyist drones, the friendly ones. They must carry registration numbers, follow height restrictions, have insurance.” The officials smiled, satisfied with their binders. But when told about hostile drones, their faces went blank. That was international law, they said, and international law was like a bureaucratic swamp where nothing ever returned alive. So the EU turned over in its sleep while passengers boiled and airports closed.
There is tragedy in bombs. There is horror in missiles. But drones are farce, and farce is crueller than tragedy. Citizens accept that some disasters cannot be stopped. They do not accept that an entire continent can be humiliated by a buzzing toy. They do not forgive that.
And the logic is obscene. A single drone bought for the price of a washing machine can cause airlines and governments millions in losses before its battery dies. One euro for chaos, 1000 euro to defend against it. The palace guard slashes at the pigeon, the pigeon flutters and wins. It is economics written as mockery.
Yes, there are proposals. A “drone wall,” a continental shield of sensors, jammers, lasers. Grand speeches, glowing slideshows, maps covered in arrows. But for now the wall exists only on screens. A wall that can watch the intruder but not touch it is not a wall; it’s a very expensive spectator. The drones drift past and snicker.
Every closed airport becomes a theatre of slapstick. Uniformed soldiers stand around uselessly while tourists sleep on the floor. Ministers appear on television with grave faces, their dignity dripping away with every word. The passengers are no longer citizens; they are the audience, trapped in seats they didn’t choose, watching their leaders improvise lines in a play that has no ending.
The drones are the directors. They don’t drop bombs. They drop punchlines. And the punchline is always the same: look how ridiculous you are.
Sometimes the worst part is the silence that follows. Long after the drone has drifted away, long after flights resume, the echo of that buzzing remains in the terminal’s bones. The fluorescent lights buzz back, a cruel parody. People board planes with the unease of actors forced to repeat a scene they know is absurd. Officials issue promises with the air of magicians who’ve lost track of their trick.
Europe remains exposed, not for lack of power but for lack of imagination. It built fortresses for the grand and spectacular and forgot the small and cheap. And now it slips again and again on the same banana peel, while the rest of the world laughs.
The drones don’t care. They are toys, insects, ghosts. They hover with indifference, amused that so much can be undone by so little. Each whine of their rotors sounds like a chuckle, each drift across the sky like a finger pointing.
And below, we wait — passengers, citizens, leaders alike — for the next one to appear.
(Photo: Inmortal Producciones)
