by JC Ryan
Ensconced in his lab in the JOCC hangar and working in four-hour time segments separated by only four hours of sleep in between, Roy had lost track of whether it was day or night as he returned to his station. He was there to inspect the drones that others had prepared with mock-ups of the bombs. He was about to star in the most important demonstration of his life until this point.
As soon as he’d ascertained that the four drones with their bomb mockups and two others of a different type had been properly prepared, he sent them all outside with aides and followed at a leisurely pace. Roy worked quickly with his mind, but his body didn’t care that the entire team leadership and the president of the United States were waiting for him – he walked to the beat of his own drum.
When he reached the assemblage, he nodded to the drone operators, each of whom sent their respective birds aloft. The object of this demonstration was to prove that his laser-equipped hummingbirds could differentiate between the bomb-carrying drones and the others, first. And then that they could correctly determine where the trigger would be within the bomb and then deactivate it. To the untrained eye, the little hummingbirds looked like flying models of the real bird. Roy was the only one who fully understood that it was the nanocomputer and highly miniaturized linked cameras inside that would rapidly assess the view, make decisions, and activate the laser cutter to accurately cut the trigger battery.
When the first drone had reached a height of five hundred yards, Roy deployed his hummingbird. No human eye could have tracked it as it homed in on the drone at a speed equivalent to two-hundred miles per hour. Within seconds, it had returned to land in Roy’s hand. The drone operator returned his drone to earth as well, where Roy inspected the bomb mock-up. A neat slice through the outer casing went straight through the lipstick-sized laser inside, cleaving its battery as well and rendering it useless.
Meanwhile, the other drones had risen even higher, and began circling, the two un-armed drones among the remaining three armed ones. As the assembled team members and the president watched, shading their eyes against the glare of the July mid-day sun, an all but invisible hummingbird swooped, made its decisions and returned to Roy. When all drones had been returned to base and examined, Roy determined that he’d achieved a one-hundred percent kill rate, with the unarmed drones unharmed. He acknowledged the applause and cheering with a shy smile, meeting only the eyes of his muse and lover, Salome Lane.
The final plan
July 26, 2020; D-day minus three, Washington, DC
The last training session had ended and the pilots, IT personnel and hummingbird operators were on their way to their respective stations. Some would arrive only hours before D-Day, while others chafed at the wait, eager to have their part over and done so they could celebrate being alive to celebrate. They were as ready as they could be, and confident that their missions would be successful. No one was unaware of the consequences if they weren’t successful. They’d be at ground zero, or rather in-air zero when the nanonukes detonated. They stood not only between the residents of the cities they were sworn to protect and death, but between themselves and death. Many had family, including young children, in those cities. No one could beat that incentive.
Lewis met with the heads of all law enforcement agencies, the National Guard standing in for local law enforcement agencies, as well as the heads of all involved foreign agencies by videoconference. They were to meet the expected attack with a standard counter-attack, which had been worked out beforehand with a handful of elite tactical experts and Roy acting as the expert in the behavior and handling of the drones and hummingbirds.
Even before the counterattack would be required, certain measures would prevent many of the terrorist operatives from entering their target areas. National Guard units, local SWAT teams and even plainclothes officers would patrol the streets from the stroke of midnight on D-Day morning to prevent entry to the city centers. People would be allowed to leave, but no one would be allowed to enter if it could be helped. Anyone protesting these orders would be arrested; anyone resisting arrest would be subject to a shoot-to-kill order at the discretion of the law enforcement officer. At six a.m. or earlier, all streets leading to the area of destruction as determined by the 10th Cycle pictures would be barricaded.
The counter-attack would be two-pronged. First, troops on the ground would be deployed early to the coordinates that had been determined as the most-likely places to find the MCUs, and to attempt to intercept before the drones were even launched. Second, if drones were launched, the Hawkeyes above the city would take control of them and fly them to coordinates they would report to hummingbird operators who would be standing by to disarm the laser triggers.
The plans weren’t perfect. If just one nuke was detonated, not only would the troops and hummingbird operators who happened to be within the blast zone be lost, but the EMP would render any electronics technology within the EMP’s effect useless. The mission was simple. Avoid detonation at all costs.
We’ve got one
July 26, 2020; D-day minus three, Washington, DC
Salome was shaking him awake, Roy realized, in the midst of a dream of being tossed around in a rowboat on a rough sea. As soon as he made the realization, he came fully awake and looked first at the bedside clock. Three a.m. He’d slept more than six hours. He jumped up in a panic, only to feel Salome’s hands on his shoulders, calming him.
“Roy, it’s okay. Sorry, but they need you at the JOCC again. They’ve located a drone operator.”
Roy kissed Salome quickly, pulled on a pair of pants and a shirt and headed for the door carrying his shoes. Outside stood an agent of some sort, he wasn’t sure whether FBI, CIA or some other alphabet soup agency, ready to drive him the few blocks to the JOCC. He put his shoes on as they raced through the darkened streets, siren silent but emergency beacons on. He barely noticed that Salome had followed him into the car at the last minute, but he did have his shoes on, without socks, when they arrived at the destination.
Remembering to keep a sedate pace, Roy searched his pants pocket for his ID badge, then picked up the pace when he found it and hung the lanyard around his neck. At the operations center, he was met by another agent, who led him to an interrogation room. In the center, strapped down to a chair and surrounded by Sam Lewis along with several other agency leaders, sat an unimpressive-looking man in his early twenties. The most remarkable thing about him, in Roy’s opinion, was that he had a mop of blonde curls, along with a long blonde beard and hate-filled blue eyes. What was this? This guy was no Arab.
“Glad you could make it, Roy. Here’s the guy you wanted to talk to. Our team found a drone in his apartment, complete with what looks like one of their nasty little bombs. It’s waiting for you in your lab. Anything you want to ask this fuck?”
Roy had never seen Sam so distraught. Normally, he wouldn’t have called the kid a name, no matter what the provocation. Now was not the time to question it, though. He marshaled his thoughts to ask an intelligent question, though what he really wanted to know was what an American kid was doing working for the enemy. That’s probably what had Sam worked up, come to think of it. He’d let the spooks ask that question. His was more urgent.
“Tell me exactly how the bombs will be triggered.” he demanded, his voice betraying his tension.
The kid spat at his feet. Roy jumped back as if the gob of spittle were radioactive. An agent stepped forward and backhanded the kid. Roy looked to Sam for direction. Sam was staring at the kid.
“Did you know that your friends meant for you to die?” Sam asked. The kid’s eyes darted left, then right. He spoke for the first time since Roy entered the room.
“That’s a fucking lie, infidel,” he said, then clamped his lips shut. Sam gave a tired half-smile.
“No, it isn’t. Play the tape, Jackson.” Roy hadn’t heard it before, and he didn’t know the name of the man whose Russian accent now filled the room, but he could guess who it was. He just hoped the kid knew, too.
‘Of course not. They will be martyrs in the cause.’
Jackson stopped the recording. The kid’s eyes were big, with white rims all around the pupils. “Who was that?”
“The guy who’s been emailing your instructions. The spymaster for the Sword of Cyrus. He’s told us everything.”
With that, the kid slumped in his seat. “What are you going to do with me?” he asked.
“Well, we won’t behead you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Sam said with heavy sarcasm. “That’s for your buddies in Iran to do. All we’ll do is keep you here with us until the bombs go off. If you want to live, you’ll answer Dr. James’s question.”
The kid looked questioningly at Roy, who nodded. He hung his head and started mumbling something that Roy didn’t catch. “What’s that? I didn’t hear you.”
The kid lifted his head, threw his blonde curls out of his eyes with a toss of his head and shouted. “The bombs are triggered automatically when they reach the target GPS coordinates. All I have to do is get the drone in the air and steer it to the target then it will explode when it gets there.”
Roy went cold when he heard that, but then he calmed down and analyzed everything with his usual insight.
The first thing that came to mind was that if the drone didn’t reach the target it wouldn’t detonate the bomb. So that was a second line of defense – if they could take control of the drone and keep it away from the target coordinates until the trigger was disarmed, they could prevent the bomb from going off. Since the coordinates were known through Raj and Sinclair’s efforts, that should be easy.
He then asked the boy, “So that means if the drone does not reach the coordinates it will not go off?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
But something bothered Roy. He’d heard the story of what happened when the Rosslers were attacked in the restaurant and the suicide bomber who got cold feet. His handler detonated the bomb remotely. Could the mastermind behind this plot have anticipated having one or more of the drones captured? Would he have built in a fail-safe to trigger it no matter what?
Roy had the drone brought to the lab and took it apart, noting with satisfaction that his earlier assumptions had been correct. As was this one. What he found was a tiny time switch built into the trigger that would explode the bomb five minutes after takeoff. Obviously, the drone operators did not know about that either. Oleg had been right. Nothing could stop this plot from unfolding exactly as planned. Except the defensive measures that Sam Lewis’s team had worked so tirelessly to fashion.
The discovery meant they had five minutes from launch to detect the drone and send the hummingbird to destroy the battery of the trigger device. It was a chilling thought, followed immediately by the realization that it changed nothing. At least he now knew how long they had to get it done. Lewis needed to know this, so it could be reported to all the defense teams.
Are you sure that’s a good idea?
July 27, 2020; D-day minus two, Washington, DC
A major concern now was the rest of the citizens of and visitors to his nation. Harper was second-guessing the decision not to evacuate the cities. Maybe they should have. Roy couldn’t guarantee that his little toys could intercept every bomb. The worst-case scenario would be if they didn’t work at all, but the best case was probably that they got perhaps 90% of the bombs. That was still a lot of destruction and a lot of human lives lost. It was almost a certainty that some would slip through the defenses; however, no one knew where.
Harper thought about all of the people who didn’t have concrete-and-steel reinforced shelters to hide in. Why should he survive if he let anyone harm even one of the people he’d sworn to serve and protect. He called for his Chief of Staff and told him to make arrangements for an address to both houses of Congress, as soon as possible. The man who’d served him for more than seven years hesitated.
“Mr. President, are you sure that’s a good idea?” He was visibly shaking. Never before had he called his president’s decisions into question. But, the reasons why they hadn’t made this announcement as soon as the president had seen those pictures was no less valid now. It was his duty to remind the president of that fact, and that no doubt as many people would likely be killed by panic as by the bombs that got through. It wasn’t prudent to start a stampede, and besides, it was too late.
Harper saw red for a moment. He wasn’t used to having his judgment questioned, except of course in the media. He enjoyed a better rapport with the opposing party than most presidents had in recent decades, so disagreements were handled on a gentlemanly basis, privately rather than in the media. With no one else to create controversy, the Fourth Estate had sometimes willingly filled the gap, especially when any controversy involving the Rossler Foundation came up. Once the darling of the press, the Rosslers had had a bad run since the 9th Cycle virus had been discovered and inadvertently released into the world by their expedition.
Now Harper stared at his Chief of Staff, visibly defiant. Only long enough to think it through, though. When he’d come to the same conclusion, he slumped.
“You’re right. It isn’t a good idea, not now. The time would have been a month ago, but we all agreed, even the leaders of both parties in both Houses. All it would do is start a panic.” Relieved, the Chief nodded.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” He would gladly follow Harper to the gates of Hell, if he were asked. And it was because the president had a heart and a brain both.
“No, thank you. Let me know when the Rosslers arrive.” Daniel’s contingent from the Rossler Foundation and their brilliant borrowed scientist, Roy James were to have dinner at the White House, just a private affair, no others. Roy had been told he was welcome to invite a guest after someone dropped a hint to the president that a certain FBI agent had become very important to him. Salome Lane would also be joining them. Sam Lewis had declined with thanks, since he felt he needed to be with his team until the last moment.
Harper had taken a short trip to the JOCC earlier in the afternoon to get the answer to his most burning question. He waited in a private conference room for Sam Lewis, Roy James and a few key others to be brought to him. When they were assembled, he looked around and asked his question.
“Are we ready?” The answers were not the ringing affirmatives that he wanted, but given the short time they’d been working on it, they would have to do. It was Roy who’d given the firmest one.
“As we can be, Mr. President. We’ve done all we can.” His open and honest face convinced the president that it was indeed the truth. He could only hope that it was enough.
The most maddening thing about this whole business, Harper thought, was that, since the world had not been told, he and all the other leaders whose countries were at risk had to conduct business as usual. Here he was, facing the greatest crisis in a presidency known for constant turmoil, and he had to do a stupid ceremonial signing of a popular bill on animal rights this afternoon.
The leaders of half a dozen organizations that had worked to push the bill through were due in his office at any moment to watch him sign it, with six different pens that would be distributed among the excited guests as he finished with them.
At the dinner, Harper tried one more time to convince them all to stay behind and take shelter in the bunker under the White House. But all of them said no, they want to be with their families and the Rossler Foundation staff in Boulder.
When dinner was over and the guests were about to depart, the president, convinced that nothing he could say would change their minds, thanked them all for their hard work, with a special thanks to Daniel. ”Daniel, you and Sarah have been such good friends and supporters. Please tell Sarah thank you, and give her a hug from me, for that encouraging message from Isaiah she gave me on that day when I was so down.”
To Roy, clasping his hand with both of his own,
Harper said, “Young man, you have earned the undying gratitude of our nation, if not the world, for your work here. Do take care of the lovely woman you brought here with you. Assuming everything goes as planned, I’ll see you again soon.”
Don’t be a fool
July 28, 2020; D-day minus one, Washington, DC
“Roy, don’t be a fool. Let the military handle it,” Daniel urged. Salome had called him in a panic, saying Roy was insisting on being in one of the Hawkeye aircraft to control his hummingbird and take over any drones that they couldn’t prevent from being launched.
“I’m the one who knows my birds the best,” Roy insisted.
“But you can’t be everywhere. You’ve sent out the video that all of the radio operators in the aircraft have studied for the last two days. They know their business - they’ve been doing stuff like this for years.” Daniel’s argument wasn’t winning any points, he could see.
“Not just like this. There’s never been anything just like this,” said Roy, with a stubborn set to his jaw.
Daniel changed tactics. “I think you just want to go up in one of those weird planes, like a little kid. What if your presence there interferes with the mission? How would you feel if you miss one of the drones and the guy whose place you took might have disabled it?”
“I won’t miss, Daniel. That’s the point. I’m more prepared for this mission than anyone else.” With that, Roy turned and walked away, done with the conversation and his mind made up.
Daniel wasn’t through, though. He patted a frantic Salome on the arm and went looking for Sam Lewis, who turned out to be on break.
“Let me know when he’s available,” he told the aide who gave him that information. “It’s urgent I talk to him in the next few hours.”
Raj had built a database of the strike zones, and had sorted them in order of time. They knew already that it wouldn’t be a coordinated strike, but one that was designed to take out the most civilians possible based on traffic patterns in the target cities. Washington, DC, wouldn’t be the first to be hit; the beginning would be in Australia. The terrorists were so confident that nothing could stop this that they didn’t care that it would warn the US of what was coming. In fact, they were bargaining for the opposite effect – that the US would think they would not be attacked. Of course, by now, the Sword of Cyrus knew that the CIA knew something; they just didn’t know the extent of it.
