Drone (A Troy Pearce Novel)

by Mike Maden

  César grabbed his son by the testicles with his left hand and crushed them as hard as he could while clutching his son’s throat with his right hand. The pain exploded in Ulises’s scrotum, but his scream only came out as a yelp because his windpipe was blocked. César charged into his son like a bull, toppling the bigger man backward until they reached the edge of the pool, where he tossed the boy into the water with a splash.

  Ali watched the battle intently. He redistributed his body weight so that he was equally balanced on both feet as he slowly, carefully, slipped his hands behind his back, clasping them together just above the pistol holstered in his lower back. He had never seen either son raise a hand to their father, but he was prepared for anything with these two wild wolves. He knew exactly how dangerous the boys were in hand-to-hand combat because he had trained them himself. It had taken Ali over eight months to work his way into his current position as Castillo’s head of security, the first step of many more to come. Ali wasn’t about to let either boy derail his plan by killing their father, even if he deserved it.

  Aquiles watched the lopsided battle in amused horror as he yanked on his swim trunks. He stifled the urge to laugh at his brother.

  “To answer your question, Father, we put a hit on Los Tokers,” Aquiles said, tying the string on his bathing suit. “They were throwing a party on our turf. Those punks are like roaches. If you don’t squash them, they just keep spreading. Isn’t that what you taught us to do?”

  “Who told you it was Los Tokers?” César asked as he stomped back over to Aquiles.

  “We got a phone call. A Mara named Hater,” Aquiles said. “He’s one of our meth dealers and an enforcer.”

  “And you trust this Hater guy?”

  “Yes. Why?” Ulises asked.

  “Because either he got it wrong or he screwed us,” César replied.

  “What are you talking about?” Aquiles asked.

  “Because there weren’t any Tokers at the party.”

  Aquiles frowned, thoughtfully. “And why is that a problem?”

  César suppressed the urge to strike his son across the face. He’d killed better men for less offense. “Tell me how it’s not a problem.”

  “A hit is a hit, Father. We put the word out on the street that we thought Los Tokers were muscling in, so we smashed them. The message was sent. Mess with us and you die. And the message still makes sense even though Los Tokers weren’t there. People died just because we thought Tokers were there. Nobody’s even going to think about setting up shop on our turf again, at least not for a while,” Aquiles bragged.

  César slapped his son’s grinning face. The sound echoed around the courtyard like a gunshot. Aquiles didn’t flinch, but his eyes watered. Whether from rage or pain, Ali couldn’t be certain. Probably both.

  Ulises tread water in the pool, remaining a safe distance from his father’s reach. “Why are you so upset with us, Father? You told us to mind the store while you were away. We did.”

  César wagged a thick finger at both of them. “You lazy bastards. You think all you have to do is pick up a phone and order people killed? You should have done the advance work yourselves. You never want to get your hands dirty yourselves, do you?”

  Ulises glared at his father. He’d grown up with the endless stories of his grandfather’s backbreaking work in the tomato fields. To be accused of not wanting to get his hands dirty was the moral equivalent of accusing a soldier of cowardice in the face of battle. The verbal jab was worse than his father’s physical slap.

  “But you’re wrong, Father. We did get our hands dirty.” Ulises glanced at his brother for moral support. Aquiles nodded for him to continue. “We’re the ones who pulled the trigger. We’re the ones who sent the message.”

  César fell into a lounger. He buried his head in his massive hands and moaned aloud. “What have you two idiots done?”

  “We took care of business. Those punks were just collateral damage. It happens.” Aquiles had lowered his voice to a near whisper, fearing another slap by his father. He sat down on the lounger next to him.

  César looked up. “Collateral damage? Are you insane? You think Ryan Martinez is just ‘collateral damage’?”

  “Who’s that?” Ulises asked.

  César howled with laughter. “How paradoxical! A stupid tomato picker like me knows more than a college-educated fairy. Don’t either of you listen to the news?”

  “Only ESPN,” Ulises said. “And hardly that.”

  “So who is Ryan Martinez?” Aquiles asked.

  “Ryan Martinez was a schoolteacher at that party you shot up,” César said. He wiped his thick mustache with one of his monstrous hands.

  “And . . . ?” Ulises asked, cringing, half expecting another blow.

  “Ryan Martinez was the son of the president of the United States! And now she is going to unleash holy hell on us for murdering her only child.”

  The boys glanced at each other, frightened and confused. “We didn’t know,” they said to each other, as if talking to themselves in a mirror.

  César leaped to his feet, reaching for the chromed .45 caliber Desert Eagle in his waistband. Screaming with maniacal rage, he opened fire at the nearest statue, a goat-legged Pan with a great golden phallus thrusting up to his midsection. Pan’s marble head exploded with the first hit. The next rounds tore away the god’s massive pectorals and mashed his silver shepherd’s flute. César kept firing until he emptied the magazine. He dropped the clip and slammed a new one home, then chambered the first round.

  César pointed the gun at each of his sons like an accusing finger.

  “Tell me, smartasses. What should I do with the two of you now?”

  6

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  Ambassador Konstantin Britnev was ushered into the Oval Office where he was greeted by the warm smile and firm handshake of President Myers. A White House press camera flashed three times.

  “I hate having my picture taken,” Myers whispered to Britnev under her breath.

  Britnev nearly laughed as he widened his alluring smile. “You should see my passport photo. It’s terrible.” They held hands as several more shots were snapped.

  “That will be all. Thank you,” Myers said to the photographer.

  “Thank you, Madame President, Ambassador Britnev. Excuse me.” The female photographer cast a brief, leering glance at the handsome Russian as she exited through the secretary’s office door.

  “Dr. Strasburg, so good to see you again.” Britnev nodded cordially as he extended his well-manicured hand. Strasburg was on the couch. He struggled to rise.

  “No, please, Doctor, remain seated.” Britnev stepped closer to the couch and shook Strasburg’s veiny hand. The Russian, thirty years younger than Strasburg, had studied the famed security advisor’s illustrious career at the Institute for USA and Canadian Studies years ago. Now Britnev was one of the key players in the Titov administration, handpicked by the Russian president personally for the Washington post.

  “It’s good to see you as well, Ambassador Britnev. At my age, it’s good to see anybody.”

  Britnev politely laughed at the old man’s threadbare joke.

  “What would you like to drink, Konstantin?” Myers asked. She’d dismissed the waitstaff for this morning’s private meeting.

  “A coffee, please, black, no sugar, if it’s not too inconvenient.” What he really craved was a cigarette.

  “No, not at all.” Myers crossed over to a credenza. She poured him a cup of coffee from a freshly brewed pot. Britnev was a huge coffee fan. He had even helped broker the first Starbucks franchise in Moscow. She handed him a cup and saucer imprinted with the presidential seal.

  “Thank you, Madame President.” Britnev took a sip.

  “How about you, Karl?”

  “None for me, thank you. Doctor’s orders.�
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  Britnev’s eyes drifted over to a side table. An antique chess set was on it. He stepped over to it.

  “It’s a lovely set. May I?” Britnev asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Myers said as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

  Britnev set his cup down and picked up a white knight, faded to yellow. “Hand-carved ivory?”

  “Yes, elephant tusk, unfortunately. It’s actually a set that belonged to President Jefferson. He was quite an avid player.”

  “He was a very talented man. Many gifts.” Britnev gently returned the piece to its position. “It appears as if White has opened with a queen’s gambit.”

  Myers crossed over to Britnev, coffee in hand. She glanced at the board.

  “You’re very observant. Do you still play?” She took a sip of coffee.

  “Not with any real skill,” he said. He exuded a boyish charm, despite having just turned fifty. His hand-tailored Italian suit perfectly complemented his athletic frame, though a back injury at university had ended a promising ice hockey career.

  “You were a grandmaster at the age of sixteen, Mr. Ambassador. That sounds pretty good to me,” Myers said.

  “But never a world champion. As I recall, that’s about the same age you were when you wrote your first AI program, isn’t it?”

  “Hardly an AI program. Just a program for playing chess. Please, shall we sit?”

  “Yes, of course.” Britnev took the couch opposite Strasburg while Myers took a chair.

  “Where did you learn to play the game, Mr. Ambassador?” Strasburg asked.

  “My father taught it to me when I was a boy while he was stationed in Tehran. We used to play every evening together. I suppose it’s why I have such a strong emotional bond to the game. You know, chess was invented by the Persians, but the mindless mullahs banned it for years after the revolution. Do you play, Dr. Strasburg?”

  “On occasion, but poorly. I believe it was Bobby Fischer who said that one only becomes good at chess if one love the game.”

  “I do still love it, but I seldom have the time,” Britnev said.

  Strasburg paused, lost in a painful memory. “My brother loved the game. He said that he could tell a lot about a man after he played three games of chess with him. Do you find that to be true, Mr. Ambassador?”

  “I find that one match is usually enough.” Britnev chuckled. “But perhaps that is because it is a Russian’s game. We understand the virtues of sacrifice and taking the long view. You Americans have no patience for such things. That’s why the Russian players are the best in the world.”

  “Until IBM’s Deep Blue defeated Garry Kasparov.” Strasburg smiled. The old cold warrior couldn’t resist the dig. “Of course, there are other ways to defeat a grandmaster.” Both men were well aware that Kasparov had been a vicious opponent of President Titov and had been recently arrested for his political activities.

  Britnev turned back to President Myers. “Is it true you never actually played chess in your youth?”

  Myers nodded. “Never a full game, no.”

  “Remarkable. Then how in the world did you manage to write a piece of chess-playing software?”

  Myers shrugged. “Chess is a function of finite mathematics: sixty-four squares, thirty-two pieces, and a maximum of five million possible moves. The longest championship game ever played was under three hundred moves. It was simply a matter of finding the right decision algorithms.”

  Britnev smiled playfully. “I suppose, then, that everything you need to know about a person is contained in the software programs he writes?”

  “Depends upon the person. Or the software.” She flashed her most charming smile back at him.

  Strasburg shook his head. “The whole subject is depressing to me. Computers are taking over everything. The ‘singularity’ is nearly upon us, and humans will soon no longer be the highest form of intelligence on the planet.”

  “The highest form of intelligence? I’m afraid we lost that title the day the first human invented the war club,” Myers said. “Maybe computers will do a better job at politics than we have.”

  “Unless it’s the same politicians who are writing the software. As a trained software engineer, Madame President, I’m afraid you possess a distinct advantage over the rest of us.” Myers had been the CEO of her own software-engineering company before she ran for governor of Colorado.

  “Hardly. It won’t be long until we’ve developed software that can write its own software, so we poor humans will soon be out of the loop.”

  “That’s a frightening thought, Madame President,” Strasburg said. “I’m glad I won’t be here when that happens.”

  “It probably already has, Karl. They’re just not talking about it.” Myers took another sip of coffee, then set the cup down on the table in front of her. “So, Ambassador Britnev, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit today?”

  Britnev set his cup down, too. “First of all, President Titov asked me to send his personal condolences to you at your time of loss. The Russian people grieve with you.”

  “Please thank President Titov for me for his kind thoughts.”

  “He also pledges any assistance he can give you in your search for the murderers. We are not without some influence in Mexico and President Barraza seems to be a reasonable fellow.”

  “We would greatly appreciate any assistance he can provide,” Myers said.

  “We also understand borders. Unlike you, we have a thousand-year history of enemies violating ours.”

  “An ocean on either side is our distinct advantage.” She grinned. “And Canadians to the north. Couldn’t be better neighbors.”

  “Yes, Canadians. An amiable folk. Not like the Azeris.”

  Myers and Strasburg shared a glance. So that’s why he asked for this meeting. Oil-rich Azerbaijan had just changed regimes.

  “I should think you would welcome a peaceful, nonviolent, and secular revolution on your periphery,” Strasburg said.

  “With a curiously pro-democracy, pro-Western, and pro-NATO orientation,” Britnev countered. “They almost sound Canadian, don’t they?” He chuckled at his own joke. “But maybe they’re more like the Mexicans, also swimming in oceans of oil and instability.”

  “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we? But so far, the Azeris don’t seem to pose any problems for your government, or am I missing something?” Myers asked.

  “I believe Khrushchev said much the same thing to Eisenhower when Castro first came to power,” Britnev said.

  “It was the Soviet missiles Castro allowed onto his island that caused the problem, as I recall,” Myers said.

  “Ah, yes. I believe that is a correct understanding of the history, Madame President.” Britnev smiled.

  Myers held his gaze. Is he worried about NATO missiles being deployed in Azerbaijan?

  “And as I recall, the United States has a history of resolving its border issues with Mexico in a very direct way,” Britnev added. “Should I inform our government to expect a few fireworks? Frankly, we wouldn’t blame you. Sometimes the iron fist is the only solution. Don’t you agree, Dr. Strasburg?”

  “This administration is pursuing other options. As the proverb says, ‘If all one owns is a hammer, then every problem looks like a nail.’”

  “We’re committed to reducing our military footprint around the world,” Myers said. “The global community is becoming an increasingly complex and finely tuned mechanism, but war is a blunt-force instrument. We’re also trying to get our financial house in order. Our spending has been out of control and maintaining the Pax Americana is proving to be too expensive.”

  “Weakness is even more expensive, Madame President. As victims of international banditry ourselves, we can perfectly empathize with your dilemma. This is why we believe that the ultimate way forward is through mutual cooperation and u
nderstanding between our nations whenever it is possible.”

  “I quite agree, Ambassador. The United States is fully committed to mutual cooperation and understanding with the Russian Federation. How can our meeting today facilitate that process?”

  “As you are both well aware, there is a growing Islamist threat all over the world. So-called Arab Springs.”

  So it’s not about NATO missiles. “The world is changing,” Myers said. “The dialectic of history, I suppose.”

  Britnev shrugged. “But such uprisings don’t emerge victorious without intervention, particularly without modern weapons and military advisors, usually from the West. And unfortunately, the uprisings have been usurped by forces even more despotic than the regimes they have replaced, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “We’re no longer in the nation-building business, Mr. Ambassador, I assure you. We can’t control outcomes when regimes change,” Myers asserted. “But we can’t stand in the way of natural forces, either.”

  “But the West has played an active role in the toppling of several regimes in the past decade and continues to meddle in the Syrian civil war. Our fear is the Caucasus. Islamo-fascism is rearing its ugly head again on our borders.”

  “That is why you should welcome the Azeri revolution. Democracy is your best buffer,” Strasburg said.

  “Hitler was democratically elected,” Britnev countered, “which is why we’re not as confident as you are in the benevolence of democratically elected governments. We prefer reliable allies bound to us with mutual strategic interests. Syria, for example.”

  Syria had been Russia’s last great ally in the Middle East. The recent events there upset Russia’s security policy in the region.

  “We assure you that past Western support for emerging democratic movements against dictatorships has never been an attempt to undermine the strategic security of the Russian Federation. It was due strictly to humanitarian concerns.”