Drone Wars 1: Day of the Drone

by T. R. Harris

  Now these mostly inexperienced pilots were about to get a crash course in drone defensive tactics. The terrorists had been planning this for months—if not years—so it was a good bet their pilots and auto drones would come at America with skill and overwhelming force, a reversal of the Shock and Awe campaign from thirty years before.

  It was going to be a slaughter.

  ********

  At just over seven thousand feet, they began skimming along the treetops, and after a few minutes Xander spotted a windy road below and followed it south for another five minutes.

  “So, where are we going?” he asked.

  Tiffany had her head pressed against the plastic side of the dome, intently watching the ground below. “I’m not quite sure,” she said after a moment. “I’ve never had to find the place from the air before.”

  “That’s Highway 243 down there. We’re just north of Idyllwild, I believe.”

  “Good. When we get to the town center, I can find my way from there.”

  A few minutes later they came to a sprinkling of commercial buildings lining SR 243—the Banning-Idyllwild Highway—with a couple of other roads splintering off from it. “Follow that one, it should be Pine Crest.” Thirty seconds later the road made a steep turn to the left. Tiffany pointed down. “There’s a dirt road—see it? My cabin’s up there. It’s rather steep going up that way … by car anyway.”

  Xander obeyed, and soon the tiny copter was again riding the treetops, with very few roofs visible.

  “To the right now, we’re almost there.”

  The tiny cabin came into view, and Xander circled it twice before selecting a safe place to land. The cabin was set on a narrow ledge jutting out from the steep slope without much flat land around. The hovercopter didn’t require the clearance of a traditional helo, so he set it down right at the front door, in the only place reserved for a vehicle.

  Tiffany climbed out of the aircraft and Xander met her a moment later at the front door to the cabin.

  “I don’t have my purse … or the keys. Damn, everything was back at the Center.”

  “Do you mind?” He gently pushed her to one side and then placed his shoulder against the roughhewn wood of the door. He pushed and the door jamb easily splintered. The door swung open.

  “You’re going to pay for that,” Tiffany said, smiling.

  “Bill it to the U.S. Government.”

  The cabin was what one would expect to find at the end of a dirt road high in the mountains, basic and rural, with one large room combining the kitchen and living area, and a single bedroom to one side with a small bathroom next to it. It was constructed out of half-logs and had a potbelly stove for warmth placed at one side of the living room. There was a wood-frame couch and a well-worn leather recliner facing the stove, along with a forty-two inch LCD TV resting on a cabinet next to it. The windows were covered with paisley-print curtains, and there was a round area rug taking up most of the living area. A small dining table was the only separation between the living room and the kitchen area. All in all, Xander liked the place. It spoke of a simpler time, a more peaceful time.

  “I’m impressed, Ms. Collins. Not something I would have expected.”

  “You mean with my glamorous job and flashy lifestyle? I told you I’m from Kentucky. Sometimes I just want to escape the rat race and relax. The house has been in my family for years, yet none of the people I work with even know about it. My folks used it as a vacation home after they moved to California when I sixteen.”

  Xander pointed at the T.V. “Do you get reception up here?”

  “Direct TV, with about a billion channels. I said I wanted to relax, but I still have to keep up on current affairs.”

  “That’s what I’m interested in. I need to see how all this is being reported. Do you mind?”

  “No, go ahead. I’ll get the heat going and fix us some tea. After all, it is December. We don’t get as much snow as we used to when I was younger, but still enough now and then for a real Thomas Kinkade Christmas.”

  Xander turned on the TV, which to no surprise was already tuned to Fox News. There was a scene of a burning building, with a red-framed banner running across the bottom of the screen that read: Major Terrorist Attack Strikes Las Vegas. He sat on the edge of the recliner and watched the report until Tiffany handed him a cup of hot tea.

  The room was small enough that she had heard the report as well.

  “So far it’s just Las Vegas,” she said.

  “Wait until tomorrow. Even if the terrorists don’t begin hitting every target on their wish list, some of our homegrown groups surely will, if only so they can blame it on foreigners.”

  “That’s what the talking-heads are saying. This certainly will panic the public, especially right here at Christmas. Who’s going to go to a mall if the terrorists can strike at anything they want?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Tiffany went into the bathroom and cleaned the caked blood off the side of her face. She came back in the living room with a damp towel. “Here, let me clean the blood off of you.”

  “Blood?”

  “Yeah, you have some on your nose and upper lip. Are you hurting anywhere?”

  “Anywhere … how about everywhere? And you?”

  “The same. I took some aspirin for the headache. I’ll get you some in a minute.” She gently dabbed at the blood on his face, leaning in close as she did so. Xander noticed her perfume was still present, even after all they’d been through, and for a moment was distracted from the seriousness of their situation.

  That changed when the scene on the TV changed.

  The president was speaking, addressing the nation from a secure room within the White House. Gone were the days of stepping up to a podium on the South Lawn; the danger was too real to take the chance. Now he was trying to reassure a terrified nation that the crisis was coming to an end, and that the limited battery life of the drones meant that the terror couldn’t last. He acknowledged that the raid—as well as the information revealed on the Internet—was harmful to the mission of the RDC, but that measures were being taken to assure that the facility would be back in operation within days. He also explained that most of the other remote drone bunkers across the country were still intact and functioning—which Xander knew to be a falsehood. Without a fully-operational Rapid Defense Center, the drones in those bunkers were just collecting dust, and would be for a long time to come. The president concluded his brief remarks with a reassurance that the United States still had plenty of capability to fight off any future attacks, and that people should go about their normal activities and enjoy the holiday season. America was strong … the American people were strong…

  “… and we’re not about to let terrorists weaken us in any way.”

  “Do you think anyone believes that?” Xander asked Tiffany.

  “They still needed to hear it. Besides you’re too close to the subject. Most people will believe it because they want to believe it. The alternative is not something they want to dwell on.”

  Xander watched as President Rene Ortega made a quick exit from the podium, refusing to answer the barrage of questions shouted at him by the press corps. Xander knew the man was as lame duck as a president could get, and now he had to deal with the largest national crisis since 9/11, and with only a little over thirty days left in his term to bring it to a successful close, otherwise it would tarnish his entire legacy as chief executive.

  Ortega had served two terms as the first Hispanic-American president, after sixteen consecutive years that a Republican had controlled the White House. Even then his party had lost first the Senate, and then the House, in subsequent midterms, and gridlock now infected the halls of government like never before.

  His predecessor had enjoyed substantial majorities in all three branches of government; the nation had prospered like never before, and Ortega had waltzed into the office expecting to enjoy the same legacy. Yet, ironically, it was the nation’s newfound prosperity
that caused him to lose control of the government. With the coffers full and business prospering, there came renewed demand for the government to give some of the prosperity back to the people in the form of more generous welfare programs and a resurrection of the national health care debate. When the Republicans in Congress refused to extend or expand many of these outdated and frankly unnecessary programs, the Democrats had once again been successful in portraying the opposition as heartless and uncaring. Soon the dominoes began to fall.

  Ortega’s Vice President, Peter Newman, had run on a platform of continuing with the prosperity of the past sixteen years, and had ended up losing by a mere one-and-half percentage points, and only two through the Electoral College. Newman was humiliated, and blamed Ortega’s failure to hold Congress as the reason he’d lost.

  Now Owen Murphy was set to take over on January twentieth. Xander had considered the transition period between administrations as a major factor in the timing of the attack on the RDC, and even though he was a big supporter of Ortega, he knew the man was operating with a skeleton crew, a vindictive VP, and an incoming president who hated his guts.

  What worried Xander the most was that Ortega might not even try to resolve this new crisis, and instead put in place some stopgap action that would carry it beyond his time in office, laying the final resolution squarely at the feet of Owen Murphy. Xander had met the president a couple of times during his time with DARPA, and suspected that Ortega wasn’t beyond such an act. In fact, he might consider it a fitting reward for the bombastic and condescending president-elect. From what Xander knew of Murphy and his politics, he had no doubt the man was not up to the task.

  Once Ortega was off the screen and replaced with more talking-heads, Xander sighed deeply and said quietly, “This is going to be a fucking disaster.”

  Tiffany looked at him, waiting for more to be said. When he remained silent, she asked, “What do you think will happen next?”

  He shrugged. “First of all, we have to accept the fact that the RDC is gone, out of commission for at least six months. In the meantime, crews are going to have to get into the bunkers and start reprogramming all the flight controllers to accept new transponder codes. Then another facility will have to be set up where responses can be coordinated and acted upon, while they round up a couple of thousand qualified pilots and sensor-operators for the job. Oh, and did I mention we’ll all be living in caves and hunting with bows and arrows by then because there won’t be much of society left after the drones get through with us.”

  “I thank you for that bright and cheerful dissertation, Mr. Moore,” said Tiffany with a bite in her tone. “But what I meant is what do you think will happen over the next couple days with regards to terrorist attacks.”

  “Sorry,” Xander said, feeling embarrassed for his emotional outburst. He glanced at his watch. “It’s just past eight on the west coast, which means the sun will be coming up on the east in about eight hours. I would guess there are already terrorist units in place and ready to strike, just waiting for the outcome of the raid on the RDC. Now they’ll be given the go-ahead. It all starts tomorrow, Ms. Collins. If ever we could place a date and time for the beginning of Armageddon, this would be it.”

  “All because one government agency was attacked?” Tiffany wasn’t sold on Xander’s grim view of the future. “I agree we’re going to see an increase in terrorist activities, and the Christmas shopping season may be impacted, but I have to believe we’re tougher than that, and that others will step up to fill the void left by the RDC. We still have all the military, the National Guard, local police, the FBI, CIA, NSA and a whole lot more.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Xander said, “but the biggest question mark in this whole affair is what will Ortega do—what can he do—to make a difference? These terrorists know Americans and they know our institutions. It’s no accident that the attack happened when it did, and they couldn’t have picked a better time for their purposes.”

  Tiffany got up from the couch and collected the empty teacups. Then she brought out a stack of thick cotton blankets and handed them to Xander.

  “I take it I’m on the couch tonight,” he said, trying to act hurt.

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “You did a pretty decent job of keeping me alive today, but yes, you get the couch. But seriously, thank you. I’m sure that if you hadn’t literally landed in my lap, I’d be just another name on the casualty list at the RDC.”

  Xander grinned. “I couldn’t let that happen, at least not until I learned the name of your perfume.”

  “Bella Faito—Beautiful Breath—I know, weird name, but it is pretty awesome, isn’t it.”

  “That it is.”

  With a seductive smile, Tiffany retreated to the solitary bedroom, and Xander Moore was asleep within minutes of the lights going out.

  Chapter 11

  After making the brief statement to the nation, President Rene Ortega walked back to the Oval Office with an angry and purposeful stride. His aides had trouble keeping up with him.

  Why now? he kept repeating in his head. He was so close to making a clean getaway after a rather lackluster term. With no great accomplishments to offset this tragedy, he was about to be labeled for all eternity as the president who lost the drone wars to the terrorists.

  As he entered the iconic circular room—now full of people from cabinet members all the way down to porters—he was determined not to go down alone. That bastard Owen Murphy was due in the Oval Office any moment, and Ortega was going to get that SOB directly involved in every decision his lame-duck administration would make during the crisis. Just let him try to weasel out after that.

  He already could hear the conversation:

  “I inherited a mess left over from the Ortega Administration, so it’s not my fault that things are so shitty. Blame Ortega!”

  “But, Mr. President, weren’t you directly involved in all the decisions made following the attack on the RDC? Didn’t you sign off on the actions taken by the prior administration?”

  As he slipped into his large executive leather chair behind the Resolute Desk, Ortega let the fantasy fade away. Even though he would continue to consider politics in every move he made, he still had a major crisis to deal with. He was known for his level-headed decisiveness, yet even this early into the crisis he knew he had to make some drastic moves.

  “Everyone not cleared for Level One, get the hell out,” he said in a normal talking voice. He didn’t need to repeat himself. When the President of the United State spoke, people listened. Within seconds only eight people remained.

  “Admiral, what’s the latest?”

  Ortega was amazed that here, at almost midnight, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Gregory Hagar, was decked out in full dress attire, sporting an almost obscene stack of service ribbons on his left coat pocket and six-inch wide series of gold rings on each sleeve of his navy blue uniform.

  “The RDC is a complete loss, which compromises our ability to activate the units in the response bunkers. We’re calling up every capable drone operator we can find within the service ranks and placing them on standby to assist civilian defense assets once an event is initiated.”

  “So you also anticipate a surge in terrorist activity?” Ortega asked.

  “Yes, sir, without a doubt. The field is clear—at least temporarily. It would be foolish to have taken such action against the RDC and then not act on it.”

  “How soon can we have a replacement to the RDC up and running?”

  Acting Secretary of Defense Alice Grimes spoke next. She had been Ian Graves’ assistant for only two years, and with him leaving the administration only two weeks before to pursue a consulting job in private industry, she was a placeholder appointment until Murphy replaced her.

  “Each branch of the military has a small drone program of their own going, yet after the consolidation debate of four years ago, all major operations were shifted to the RDC.” She looked to Admiral H
agar for moral support. “The most we can expect is about ten percent of the capacity of the RDC for civil defense, and that’s through four specific chains of command.”

  “Bullshit! There’s only one chain of command, and it ends right here,” Ortega barked. “Admiral, assign your most competent senior officer to coordinate all military drone activity. All branches, everyone, will answer to him … or her. If you hear any grumblings from anyone, can their asses and get someone in who will follow orders.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go ahead, Alice. Is there more?”

  Just as Grimes was about to continue, the thick entry door to the Oval Office flew open and President-Elect Owen Murphy strode in as if it were his office already. He was followed by no fewer than six aides and advisors. Even though Ortega had invited him to the strategy meeting, his jaw still clenched at the arrogance and disruptive nature of his entrance.

  Murphy walked up to the president’s desk and extended an arm across the wide expanse almost before Ortega could get to his feet. The two men shook hands—briefly.

  “Welcome, Governor, we were just starting.”

  “Thanks for inviting me, Rene.”

  Only Ortega’s dark complexion kept the rest of the room from noticing the heat that rushed to his face as Murphy used Ortega’s first name rather than his title. He hesitated a moment before speaking to let his nerves calm down. “With the seriousness and scope of this crisis, I thought it appropriate that the president-elect should be involved from the beginning.”

  Their eyes locked for a moment, which was confirmation that Murphy knew exactly what Ortega was up to. Whether he would let himself get trapped in a situation from which he couldn’t escape was another question. It would take some deft politicking on the president’s part to make sure he did.