by T. R. Harris
He dialed another number. The phone rang several times before a strange voice answered.
“Who is this?” Almasi demanded.
“Who is this? the deep voice echoed.
“Almasi.”
“Forgive me, Abdul-Shahid, it is Faisal Haddad, with the surveillance team on Jonas Lemon.”
“Why are you answering the phone?”
“We received instructions to watch Lemon closely. We assumed it came from you.”
“It did. I believed he was planning something.”
“Your suspicions were correct. We caught him leaving the Burj Kahlifa through a service entrance and in disguise.”
“Was he harmed?” Almasi’s heart skipped a beat as he awaited the answer.
“No, he’s fine. He is here with me if you wish to speak with him.”
“Give him the phone.”
“Yo, Abdul!” Jonas Lemon said a few seconds later. “I guess there’s no outfoxing the fox.”
“I have dealt with merchants of information before. You have done nothing that hasn’t been tried before.”
“So no hard feelings? I was just looking to cover my ass—”
“Shut up! We have a problem.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. Our plan is falling apart.”
When Jonas spoke next his voice was serious and lacking his normal flippant attitude.
“Moore is still alive?”
“This is much worse than your obsession with Xander Moore. The other groups are abandoning their missions and withdrawing from the operation.”
“Why in the hell would they do that?”
“Pressure brought forth from China has forced their host nations to threaten the coalition with loss of support if the assaults on America continue.”
“Because China fears for their precious investments in the United States,” Jonas said, finishing the line of thought. “And they’re going along with the demands, of course.”
“Most are, and others will follow once they see the operation failing.”
“Dammit!” Jonas yelled through the phone. “I gave you America on a silver platter—all of you—and now none of you bastards have the balls to see it through.”
“I am committed,” Almasi said between clenched teeth.
“You’re just one small organization, and you weren’t planning on having to pick up the slack. I told you we only have a narrow timeframe to win this war. Without America brought all the way to her knees, we’ve gained nothing.”
“There’s still one operation that can be carried out.”
The long silence on the phone told Almasi that Lemon knew what he was talking about.
“You’ll need the transponder codes for that.”
“That’s right, Jonas, and I am through playing games with you. Give me the codes so we can salvage what we can from all our efforts.”
“But Moore is still alive.”
“Fuck Moore! He does not matter at this point. Your revenge can come later, yet mine is still possible. Now give me the damn codes … or do I order my men there to bring your head to me on a silver platter?”
“Don’t threaten me, Almasi,” Jonas growled.
“Give me the codes!”
“Transfer the money, and then call off your men.”
“Give me the codes first. I will keep my word. What happens to you after this, I do not care. Your death will provide me with no satisfaction, no redemption, yet along my other path I will find both. I will give you your money. Now give me the codes.”
A few tense heartbeats passed. “All right, but transfer the money now, and have your goons get me a computer with Internet access.”
“Return the phone to Faisal.”
Ten minutes later, Jonas Lemon had confirmation of the funds transfer and emailed Abdul-Shahid Almasi a file containing an algorithmic series of numbers.
“These will work?”
“They should. The modified master frequency generator you have will be able to reverse the process and broadcast a blast once the channel is open. After the new bounce-back codes are accepted, the rest will fall into place. You’ll have no problem gaining access, and at that point you won’t need any of the others from your cowardly coalition of the unwilling.”
“With how this day has progressed, I cannot share in your confidence that the codes will work. You should know that if this information is found to be false or unworkable, I will seek you out—even on your South Pacific island hideaway. You see, Jonas, there are no secrets you can keep from me.”
“Only the transponder codes, and trust me, they are good. Just make sure you have at least forty-five seconds for the initial upload. Once started, the signal will lock and begin to filter throughout the entire grid. It’s the ultimate computer virus…”
“You never said anything about needing time to upload the codes! What if we do not have forty-five seconds?”
“All programs take time to upload. I thought you knew that. But relax, Abdul. Use the broken link back at the RDC to gain entry. The techs who open the source won’t be expecting someone else waiting to slip in.”
“You had better hope we are given the time, because if this mission fails—whether by your fault or mine—I will gain satisfaction and redemption in your death.”
“Do what you have to do, Almasi … and I will do the same.”
“Goodbye, Jonas Lemon. Let us both pray that this is the last time we speak with one another.” Almasi pressed the “end” button on the phone.
He quickly dialed another number. After thirty seconds the phone began to ring and was answered immediately.
“I am sending you the transponder codes now.”
“Now?” said the American voice on the other end of the line. “I thought we weren’t going for another two days, at the soonest?”
“Everything is in place, is it not?”
“Sure, it has been for weeks.”
“Then what is your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem.” The man’s voice conveyed frustration and insult. “Just send the damn codes. I assume you’ll be controlling the master feed from there?”
“I will. When can you be ready?”
There was a pause on the line, and then: “One p.m. tomorrow, at the soonest. That’s a little over twenty-four hours. I need to round up the last members of my team. They weren’t expecting to be needed so soon.”
“That is not acceptable. We go with or without them,” Almasi said. “I will be back in contact with you in forty-five minutes. Have your team ready to move at that time.”
“Forty-five minutes! That’s not—”
Almasi cut the connection, and then in the deathly quiet of his underground bunker, he clenched his teeth and firmed his resolve. He could still salvage the events of the past few days—with something so huge that it would impact the United States of America for generations to come.
Within the day, Abdul-Shahid Almasi would make history … by destroying it.
Chapter 20
The reunion that afternoon at Andrews Air Force Base between Xander and the other Alphas was both touching and emotional. In most cases, these were people he’d known since his pre-teens. Together they’d discovered the joy of building and flying UAVs, and when the time came to test their skills against the best of the best, they had risen to the occasion in gold medal-winning fashion.
“I should have known the two of you would be right in the thick of things,” said the only woman on the Alpha Team, Karen Prado.
“Hey, don’t blame me,” Billy Jenkins protested. “Zan showed up at my door yesterday—a door that’s been shattered to pieces from about a thousand bullet holes, I might add—and now I’m in Washington, D.C., trying to figure out how to save the country from a deadly horde of ravenous drones.”
Karen smiled. “Yeah, he does have that effect on people.” She had been Xander’s first, even if he suspected Billy had been hers. When adolescents spend so much time together, sharing a commo
n passion, things are bound to happen. It hadn’t lasted; they seldom do at that age.
“So, Karen, you got married … and divorced?”
She snorted. “I got the first one out of the way early so I could make way for Mr. Right.” She looked at Billy and winked. “Now someone with shitloads of money would be just the ticket.”
Billy wrinkled his nose at her. “When will I find a woman who loves me for me and not my money?”
Hugh Barden slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t knock it. Once they get to know the real Billy Jenkins, money’s about the only thing you have going for you.”
Hugh was the true lady’s man of the group. Crowding six-foot-five, the slender, mixed Hispanic and Caucasian man had a perpetual tan, curly black hair, and a brilliant white smile. He was the least technically-proficient of the group, yet he was a ruthless bastard when it came to drone piloting. Given a small nudge, he would have turned into a taller and better-looking version of Jonas Lemon.
Xander hugged the other two members of the team in turn. Jeremy Fenton was short, plump, with the stereotypical look of the tech geek. He and Xander were the first to discover UAVs, and it was through the obvious joy they’d both displayed when at the controls of their small quadcopters that the others thought they’d give it a try. And the rest was history.
“Curt, they let you out?” Xander asked the last member of the team—the tallish and stocky Curt Tharp.
“Not really, but your friends here obviously have some clout. They said if I play nice they could even make it permanent.”
“Dude, I was only kidding!” Xander said with shock and embarrassment.
“I wish I was, but that’s what you get for running with the wrong crowd. Wouldn’t you know it, that with so many drugs being legal these days, I would get caught dealing in the one that wasn’t.”
“How long have you been in?”
“Six months.” Curt noticed the concerned looks on the faces of the other team members. “Don’t worry. I understand they want us to fly some drones. Up until the day I reported to Lompoc, I had a controller in my hand. It’s like riding a bike, right?”
“A quarter-of-a-million dollar bike, Mr. Tharp,” Nathan commented. By now, Xander had pried a last name out of him—if it truly was his last name. It was Hall. Nathan Hall.
“No shit?” Curt said, looking with anticipation at Xander and Billy. “They’re going to let us play with quarter-mill toys?”
Xander nodded with a smile. “That’s what you get when you spend other people’s money. Kind of lose perspective about the true value of things.”
“That may be so, Mr. Moore. Still, try not to break anything,” Nathan said. “If you do, you’ll be billed for it.”
Curt threw up his hands. “Then I’m outta here. Take me back to prison, boys. At least there, if I break something it’s just a couple of skulls that needed it in the first place.”
Xander stepped up and assumed command of Team Alpha, just as he had so many times in the past. “Okay, fun and games are over. This is some serious shit we’re facing. I’m sure you’ve all been keeping up on recent events…”
“Hard not to, it’s all that’s on these days,” Karen said.
“Unfortunately, you’re only seeing the tip of the iceberg. This is more than just a series of random terrorist attacks against the evil Western Empire. We believe there are people who want to ruin America economically, and they mean to do it by destroying Christmas.”
“Are the people you speak of green-skinned with pointed ears and a mangy dog as a companion?” Hugh asked.
“I’d take the Grinch any day over these bastards, but here’s what we have: the RDC has been taken out, and even though there may be a fair number of combat-rated drones sitting idle in the rapid-response bunkers across the country, we don’t have time to reprogram them all to respond to secondary control. Thanks to Mr. Hall and DARPA—”
“DARPA? Karen asked. “You mean the bunch of super-smart guys and gals who get to play with all the most-advanced toys imaginable and with all the money the government can provide?”
“Where do I sign up for that gig?” Jeremy Fenton asked. “I’m a super-smart guy who likes to play with toys.”
“Just for the record, Mr. Fenton,” Nathan Hall said, “I’ve looked at your resume, and if we survive—or more precisely, if you survive—you have a spot here with us.”
Jeremy’s mouth fell open for a moment. “I wonder if it’s too soon to talk about my salary requirements? You know I don’t come cheap?”
“We’ll certainly take into consideration your current pay scale at Best Buy when determining our offer, Mr. Fenton. We might be able to do a little better.”
“Excuse me, but can we get on with the task of saving the country from a horde of bloodthirsty extremists?” Xander asked. When no one else interrupted, he continued. “Thanks to Mr. Hall and the people at DARPA, we have a small fleet of highly-advanced prototype drones to send up against the attacking units. Also, his people have found a way to neutralize killboxes, so we’ll only have to go up against RPAs. Since it appears most of the major, coordinated attacks have been carried out mainly using killbox-equipped drones the terrorists may be unprepared for the loss of such a substantial amount of their force. Also, many of the opportunists jumping on the bandwagon are using remotely-controlled UAVs, yet they aren’t that sophisticated. These units can be easily jammed since few are equipped with RFGs. The bottom line: once we deploy the number of units we’ll have to engage should be drastically reduced. Now, the drones you’ll be flying are called Goliaths. They are the largest, most advanced combat drones ever built.”
“Is anyone else here getting a hard-on?” Hugh asked.
Karen raised her hand. “I’m not.”
Xander just shook his head and looked over at Billy and the silent Tiffany Collins. “You can dress ‘em up, you just can’t take ‘em anywhere.”
“We get the idea, Number One,” Curt Tharp said. “This is serious, and we’re the team of superheroes brought in to save the day. So where are these superdrones that we superheroes get to play with?”
“Follow me,” Nathan Hall said. “And don’t touch anything that says ‘Don’t Touch.’ It might explode.”
Chapter 21
The man in the yellow vest looked up from the pile of debris and frowned when he noticed the letters emblazoned across the breast pockets of the black jackets the six men were wearing.
Derrick Howard could almost hear the man thinking, What the hell is the EPA doing here?
Howard flashed his ID at the man. “How’s it going? We’re here to help.”
“Help? How is the EPA going to help sort through this mess?”
Derrick smiled. “Well, help might not be the right word. We’re here to monitor the release of toxic gases within the ruins, specifically mercury and asbestos. Is this the Communications Building—or what remains of it? We need to get down to the equipment bays.”
“Yeah, it is. There’s another group of techs down below. There’s an access over by the yellow tape. Good luck, though, not much survived. Those fucking drones…”
“I hear ya. Every last one of them should be banned.”
“You got that right. Watch your step going down. Most of the overhead is unstable.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
Derrick nodded to his team and they set off along a cleared path within the massive pile of rubble where a five-story building had once stood. They found the yellow tape and the surviving metal steps that led underground. Before descending, each man placed a white surgical mask over his face.
Below ground the damage wasn’t as bad as on the surface, but it was still a mess. The shattered remains of dozens of plastic drones lay everywhere along the wide corridor. Once the batteries had drained, the survivors of the RDC had emerged from hiding and systematically bashed the inert UAVs to pieces. The process was cathartic to a point, yet it did pose a problem for the forensic teams that came in afterw
ards, looking for serial numbers and other identifying markings.
Three floors down, the damage was even less, although it was apparent the killer drones had reached the main communication rooms for the Center. Here, strategically placed missiles, bullets and bombs had ripped the huge banks for sophisticated equipment to shreds. Add to this the complete destruction of the topside communication dishes, and the RDC had been effectively cut off from the outside world.
Yet this was just the exposed part of the comm center. Embedded within walls and floors, before running far below ground in fortified concrete tunnels, the main feed lines still survived. Some ran to power sources outside the Center, while others led to the graveyard of shattered satellite antennas and dishes.
Air Force techs had set up portable relay equipment outside, with a new arrangement of nine interlocking dishes pointing into the sky. Once-severed comm lines had already been reconnected to this temporary setup. Now all that remained was for the team below to finish their work before the array could be lit up.
In the underground comm room, eight Air Force techs were in the process of tracing broken coax cables, ethernet lines, and thick fiber-optic bundles, looking to make contact with the equipment on the surface. To help with the task, they’d brought in their own version of miniature mainframe computers, towers of server-holders rolled in on six-foot-long metal carts.
Two other airmen stood around the huge room holding M27 rifles and looking bored. They perked up momentarily when Derrick Howard and his group entered.
“Damn, the EPA,” said an airman whose name patch read G. Garner. “That’s a new one. We’ve had FEMA, the CIA, FBI, even the NTSB down here, but not the EPA.”
“Derrick smiled at the young man. “The Environmental Protection Agency is everywhere,” he said menacingly.
“So it seems. Just stay out of the way of the techs. They’re a touchy group when it comes to their equipment.”
“Don’t worry, we brought our own, air sniffers and such.”
“Dang, you mean you’ll be able to detect the tacos I had for lunch?”
