Drone Wars 1: Day of the Drone

by T. R. Harris

  Lemon could see the devious mind of Abdul-Shahid Almasi working behind the manic eyes. Jonas had touched a chord. “That would be acceptable,” the terrorist leader said. “I will send word out to make the death of Xander Moore a priority. Please remain where you are. Confirmation should come within the day.”

  “As always, it’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Almasi.”

  Without a return acknowledgement, the screen on the computer went dark.

  That went well, Lemon thought, even though now I’ll have to move up the timetable for my departure.

  He looked around at the luxurious suite he had in the Armani Hotel, ensconced within the lower floors of the tallest building in the world, and sighed. “It will be a shame to say goodbye,” he said aloud to the room, “yet I value my life more than I do your spectacular view and excellent room service. It’s a sacrifice I must make … if I intend to outlive Xander Moore.”

  ********

  “So you think this Jonas Lemon guy is the one who sold out the RDC?”

  Thirty minutes before, Tiffany Collins had come out of the bedroom looking as fresh and put together as when they’d first met at the Center, although now she was wearing a man’s long-sleeve flannel shirt and form-fitting jeans, along with a pair of white Reeboks. The two were seated at the cabin’s small dining table, finishing a serving of scrambled eggs and hash browns which Tiffany had fixed.

  “It has to be him. He had the access and the motivation.”

  “But to kill thousands of people just because you got fired? C’mon, that only happens in the movies.”

  “Jonas has always been a psycho case. He should never have been allowed in the program in the first place.”

  “So why was he?”

  “Because he was the best drone pilot we ever had, that’s why.”

  “Even better than you?” Tiffany asked with a mischievous smile.

  “Well, that’s up for debate. But he was one of the best.”

  “So what makes him a psycho, as you call him?”

  “Jonas had the most detached emotions I’d ever seen when it came to his job. He would kill any target put before him without question or remorse.”

  “Isn’t that the goal?”

  Xander pursed his lips. He felt like he was being interviewed again. He couldn’t blame Tiffany, this was her job and it was hard to turn it off. “I’ve known Jonas since the days of Drone Racing League and from other combat-based competitions. He eventually ended up working for the military, piloting the old MQ-1 Predators out of one of the Ground Control trailers at Creech Air Force Base. His condition—you might call it that—wasn’t apparent at first, since the brass didn’t consider killing the enemy a mental disorder. It was only after so many of his colleagues started having problems—and he didn’t—that people began to notice. Unfortunately, rather than worry about him, they made him their poster boy.”

  “I imagine finding people who could handle that line of work without going bonkers would be welcome. You acknowledge the necessity for the foreign drone program, yet then criticize the people who carry it out.”

  “You have me all wrong, Tiffany. I’m not knocking it, I do realize the necessity of it, and how difficult a job it can be. I could never do it, and I admire those who can. It’s just that Jonas Lemon was, well … different. When the military downsized and started using smaller drones, he was the first to volunteer, since he’d cut his teeth on that class of UAV. But because these compact units were able to operate in more crowded venues, with more potential for collateral damage, Jonas was a time bomb waiting to go off.

  “With today’s twenty-four hour news cycle, as well as armies of critics looking for any excuse to blame America first, Jonas soon become a liability rather than an asset. On several occasions, he leveled entire buildings just to get at one man. The collateral damage was horrific, and the PR problem he caused for the military was more than they could tolerate.”

  “I thought you fired him.”

  “Not the first time. In reality, he was forced to transfer to the RDC a few years after its creation. The brass figured he’d do less damage fighting other drones than he had against live targets.”

  “That didn’t happen, did it?”

  “Nope, he was still just as reckless and callous as before. He would still take out an entire city block just to neutralize one enemy drone, and he didn’t give a damn if civilians got in the way. To him, it was just a video game, with nothing being real beyond the screen. Suffering collateral damage in some mountain village in Pakistan was nothing compared to the fallout when innocent Americans died in a football stadium as a result of his actions.”

  “So what was the final straw?”

  “Atlanta, ‘31.”

  “Oh my God, he was involved in that?”

  “That’s right. Forty-three civilians riddled with bullets, caught in the crossfire between two combat drones. Sure, the target was taken out, but the cost was too high. I was the lead pilot of the backup team on-site that day, and witnessed what he did. As a matter of fact, it was my drone that took out his before he could do even more damage. And as the senior pilot at the Center, I was also the one who recommended his firing.”

  “So what happened to him? After such a tragedy you didn’t just let him walk out the door, did you?”

  “Of course not. Charges of criminal intent were filed and he faced up to twenty-five to life for his actions. He fought the charges, however, bringing in some high-powered civilian attorneys to defend him. They turned the narrative around and accused the government of making him the scapegoat for their poor planning and mismanagement of the operation. In the end, Jonas was stripped of his retirement, had his clearance revoked and then sent packing, leaving him with a stack of attorney fees that could choke a horse. He was married at the time, and she left in the middle of all this, too, taking their six-year-old daughter with her. The last I heard of him he was facing foreclosure and trying to file bankruptcy, which his own attorneys were fighting. His life was pretty much a wreck after that.”

  “So where’s he now?”

  “I don’t really know. He left Vegas and disappeared—that was six months ago—and now this. I can’t think of anyone else who could have done this, at least the inside part of the operation.”

  Tiffany stopped her questioning and looked askew at Xander. “You know him, don’t you? This goes beyond the RDC, doesn’t it?”

  Xander took a long gulp of lukewarm coffee before answering. “You remember I told you about the Drone Olympics, and how I got three gold and two silver medals? I got the golds in the team events, but lost out twice in the individual competitions … to Jonas Lemon.”

  “So he is better than you,” Tiffany said, smiling.

  “The man has an uncanny sense of tactics and spatial awareness, even when looking through a pair of 3-D FPV goggles. He could visualize the entire battlefield and place himself in the drone itself. He and the UAV became one, and his reactions were just a fraction of a second quicker than mine. In the seek-and-evade event, I thought I had his drone cornered, when in fact he’d lured me into his killing field. It wasn’t pretty. And in the head-to-head combat competition he was firing before I could even detect his drone, and then his ability to lead the target with his shots was, well, freaky. I scored one point against him before he snookered me. The whole individual competition was rather humiliating. That’s when Jonas was recruited by the military. He was better than me—at that time—and they saw more value in someone with his particular skill set. I was more of the cerebral kind of guy, so I fit in better at DARPA. My time with the RDC would come a couple of years later, and only because they needed my knowledge, not my skills as a pilot.”

  “Now you think he’s hatched this grandiose plan to take out the RDC and get revenge on you at the same time?”

  “Well, I hate to admit it, but the plan that was carried out against the RDC wasn’t his … it was mine.”

  Tiffany recoiled from the unexpec
ted admission. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It was just a scenario I worked up when I was at DARPA, a what-if plan to take out enemy control centers, not our own. Remember, a spent a couple of years in D.C. just thinking up the worse things that could be done with drones. Jonas must have read my report, and when the shit hit the fan over Atlanta, he saw the writing on the wall and began planning for the attack before he lost his clearance or access to the RDC.”

  “Okay, so you’ve narrowed down how the RDC computers were breached, and you’ve even said who came up with the plan for the attack, but you still haven’t said who’s partnering with Lemon. He couldn’t do this by himself. I’m pretty sure it’s not Al Qaeda or ISIS, so I would put my money on the Arm of Allah.”

  “I see you’ve done your homework.”

  “Remember, I was preparing for an hour-long special about drone warfare, and the A-of-A is the fastest growing terrorist organization around these days to use drones almost exclusively in their operations. But this was huge, even for them.”

  “Exactly.” Xander finished off his cup of coffee and went for another. “Contrary to popular belief, it does require boots on the ground to set up an effective drone attack, and this was the biggest ever staged. As a rule, the receivers on the units are very weak, so the main transmitter needs to be within a ten mile radius or so, if not closer. Technology is advancing, but that’s more or less the limit at this time.”

  “But then these transmitters can be remotely operated themselves, can’t they?”

  He returned to the table with his fresh cup of coffee. He looked at his watch: 6:41 a.m. He knew he had to get moving soon, but the prospect of facing the uncertainty of the outside world made him reluctant to end the conversation. Besides, the scenery was pretty awesome inside the cabin, even if the smooth coating of virgin snow outside had its own appeal.

  “That’s right, and that’s where the biggest obstacle comes in. For the major terror strikes, it’s all done through satellites, and that requires heavy duty receivers and transmitters, along with a solid link with the control center, which, by the way, can be located just about anywhere these days. It wouldn’t do for the operators to lose contact with their UAVs right in the middle of an op, even using random frequency generators. So some of the larger organizations—with the help of Iran and North Korea primarily—have been placing their own satellites in orbit just so they can maintain these designated links.”

  “But you could take them out?”

  “Off the record, we’re working on that, but like so many other areas of dispute with these rogue nations, they claim the satellites are up there for peaceful purposes and not being used for terrorist activities. It wouldn’t do for us to start shooting down satellites and then have all the cellphones in North Korea stop working—which they’d make happen even if the signals weren’t being routed through that particular satellite. Everyone knows what’s going on, but the game still has to be played.”

  “Even after this latest attack?”

  “That remains to be seen. So far, most of the damage has been to a semi-secret government facility and a small military base, but when the terrorists use this opportunity to increase their attacks on civilians, then public opinion may leave us no choice. Of course, after that, then our satellites will start being shot down, which just sends the whole thing tumbling over the cliff. I have to be honest with you, Tiffany, we’re on the edge of the cliff right now, and it won’t take much to push us over.”

  Xander could see the worry in the reporter’s crystal blue eyes. For a time yesterday he’d noticed a detachment in her from the consequences of the attack, even as she was experiencing it. Yet now she realized everyone was at risk, along with everything she held dear. Yesterday she was a reporter on the scene of a major news event. Today she could see how that event could consume them all.

  “Sorry to lay all this heavy stuff on you,” Xander said to fill the tense silence in the room.

  Tiffany flashed him a brilliant smile. “Hey, I’m a big girl. And my job is to seek out the most newsworthy and impactful things happening in the world. I actually go out of my way looking for heaping piles of shit to report on.” Although her smile was forced, at least she tried. “So what’s your plan—beyond surviving another day, of course?”

  He snorted. “Yeah, survival would be a priority. Like I said, terrorists have long memories. I’ve also noticed your cabin doesn’t have a phone, and neither one of us appear to have our cells on us. I need to get a hold of, well, anyone who may have survived. Like all government agencies, we have our bosses back in D.C. Bottom line: I need a phone.”

  “Landlines are so passé these days, but you’re right. So do I. I need to let the network know I’m still alive, but I was so exhausted last night that I didn’t want to bother with it. I can go over to the Nash’s house next door and use their phone. They’re old and retired and home most of the time; however, next door around here is about a half mile hike up the mountain and through the forest.”

  “No problem, I’ll come with you. A walk in the morning air will do me good.”

  “I’ll get us a couple of jackets, I’m sure one of my dad’s will fit you.”

  Chapter 13

  Damien Winslow tried to hold the computer steady as the huge Chevy Suburban negotiated the narrow, two-lane mountain road. As an aid, he used his thumb and pointer finger to expand the picture so he could see it better.

  It was a satellite image of a tiny log cabin nestled in the forest not too far from his present location. The three vehicle caravan had left for the address before the image was available, anticipating that this was where the target had fled. It was a risk, but calculated. Besides, the twenty thousand dollar bonus they’d been promised made it worth taking.

  As it turned out, the satellite image confirmed that they’d made the right decision. The strange-looking helicopter was in plain sight, resting near the front of the small cabin. The image was only sixteen minutes old, and according to GPS, the team was six minutes from the destination. It would be an unfortunate stroke of bad luck for the helicopter to take off within that narrow timeframe, leaving them empty-handed. To narrow the chances of that happening, Jacques St. Claire, the driver, was pushing the huge SUV to its limits around the sharp curves, made even more treacherous by the recent snowfall and Caltrans’ failure to clear the roads by this early hour. The other two vehicles were falling behind, but they would soon catch up, as St. Claire made an abrupt turn to the right and onto a street called Pine Crest, within the small mountain town of Idyllwild.

  Two minutes later, the caravan reached the steep dirt road that led to the cabin. The heavy lead SUV turned onto the mushy surface and immediately ran into trouble. Even though four-wheel drive was an option on this model, the L.A.-based owners of the vehicle had opted only for standard front-wheel drive. A quick radio check of the other two vehicles found that none of the others had four-wheel drive either.

  Damien gnashed his teeth out of frustration. There was no other option. They parked the vehicles at the base of the road—looking conspicuous in the quiet rural town—and set out on foot for the half-mile hike up the steep, snow-covered slope.

  Even though the vehicle caravan and his eight-man team stood out like neon signs, fortunately there were no buildings facing the sharp turn in the road where they parked, and soon the men were obscured by the tall pine and cedar trees. All his men were ex-military, well-trained, and armed with either Beretta ARX-160 assault rifles or the old standby Uzi submachine gun. They were each a prime specimen of male physical conditioning, and so even at an altitude of one mile, they scaled the slope with ease, if not with stealth. They were in two groups, trailing one after the other to either side of the snow-covered road, and even though they tried, it was impossible to cover their tracks in the snow and slush.

  Damien had been provided with a brief file on each of the targets, so he wasn’t worried. The man was literally an armchair warrior—an expert at drone
combat, rather than the real thing. The other was a plastic-looking Barbie doll he’d seen before on T.V. On paper, neither posed much of a threat, even though taking out the woman would be shame—not because Damien had any qualms about killing a woman, but because she was so hot.

  It wasn’t long before they crested the slope and came upon the rustic cabin with the futuristic hovercopter sitting out front. It was nearing seven a.m. and the late-rising sun of mid-December was just beginning to peek over the mountaintop to the east and touch the tallest of the pines. There was a light on inside the cabin, and as the team approached and flanked the front entrance, Damien spotted tracks in the virgin snow, indicating that someone had already been outside this morning. That’s when he noticed the orange extension cord running from the aircraft and into the cabin, with the front door slightly ajar to allow for the cable’s entry.

  The only reason he didn’t order a full-on frontal assault of the cabin was the fact that its occupants knew they were targets and might be prepared for more attempts on their lives. In addition, most rural cabins like this one had a weapon of some sort lying around, and Damien wasn’t about to get one of his men killed simply because he was impatient.

  Damien Winslow produced his own miniature drone. It was a tiny, six-inch-diameter spy drone running on four, almost-silent rotors, and linked to the small screen of his cellphone. He handed the drone to his second-in-command, Jacques St. Claire, and then activated the small controller.

  The tiny, bird-like device spun off toward the cabin, coming in low under the solitary front window before slowly rising to look inside. St. Claire and Damien studied the tiny image on the phone. There were curtains on the window, yet a small gap allowed for a restricted view of the interior. When this proved to be inconclusive, the drone moved to the front door. One of Damien’s men crouched on the front porch and gently pushed the door open wide enough for the drone to enter. The device stayed low, using its wide angle lens to do a quick survey of the interior. No one could be seen, yet there was a doorway to the left. The drone moved in that direction, entering through the open doorway into what was the cabin’s solitary bedroom.