by Tripp Ellis
"What if they spoof the device ID?"
"Relax. We've implemented the DroneHawk™."
"DroneHawk?"
"New technology. Doppler radar combined with IR cameras and a sophisticated AI algorithm. It can identify and track incoming drones within a half-mile radius. We can use a targeted frequency jammer to bring the drone down before it can deploy its payload."
"Frequency jamming is illegal in the US."
"So is launching a terrorist attack. We'll deal with the FCC later. The FAA has issued a Temporary Flight Restriction with a 60-mile radius. TFRs are downloaded directly to any internet-connected drone that supports geofencing. Nothing is getting airborne in this area."
I was incensed. "Most drone manufacturers only give pop-up warnings when entering a TFR. Unless it's a permanent restriction, most drone pilots can self-authorize and gain access to temporarily restricted airspace. Not to mention, these systems can be disabled by someone with a little technical know-how. The GPS can be unlocked or blocked. Hell, a little tinfoil around the GPS unit will block the signal and keep it from connecting to the network. You'll never see this thing get airborne until it's too late."
"I'll say it one more time. We have the situation covered."
She ended the call, and the muscles in my jaw flexed.
"I'm beginning to dislike her," I grumbled.
We raced back toward Diver Down and formulated our next move.
35
We idled through the marina at Diver Down in the WavePro, the engine burbling. I tied off the boat, and we unloaded the gear and took the essentials to JD's car—assault rifles, extra magazines, binoculars.
We climbed into the Porsche, and JD cranked up the engine. He let out the clutch, and the engine howled. The tires screeched as we peeled out of the parking lot and raced to Ocean Avenue.
We parked a block away and left the short-barreled assault rifles in the front trunk. We marched to the corner of Pearl and Oyster. I glanced up and down the block, scanning the rooftops.
It was early, a little after 8 AM, and the festival crowd hadn't arrived yet. They were still nursing their hangovers. The street was blocked off and a few people milled about, but it was mostly a ghost town. Trash from the previous night littered the street, and volunteers in orange vests were sweeping it up.
If this was the target, we had a little time until the crowd arrived. It would start getting thick around noon.
“Where would you launch a drone from?” I asked JD.
He pondered it for a moment. "A rooftop, maybe?" He revised his answer quickly. "A parking garage. I would drive to the top of the parking garage with the drone in the back of a truck, that way I could sit in the cab and launch the device from a few blocks away. Fly over the target and crop dust the tourists with the pathogen. Once I completed my mission, I'd put the car in gear, leave the parking garage, and take the highway north as fast as I could."
There was a parking garage next to a professional building a few blocks over. I could see it from the street corner. We raced back to the Porsche, climbed in, and zipped over to the garage on Hibiscus Lane. The Porsche's fat tires squealed as we spiraled our way up the ramp, the sound echoing between the levels.
Brilliant sunlight blasted the roof of the parking garage, and my eyes squinted as we broke into the daylight.
The roof was empty.
JD drove the Porsche to the edge, and we both stepped out of the vehicle and leaned against the parapet, looking over Oyster Avenue a few blocks away. I scanned the rooftops around the area, searching for other vantage points.
A terrorist could launch a drone from anywhere.
"I don't know how we stop this guy," I said. "We don't have enough actionable intel."
"We know he's not going to be downwind of the target, that's for damn sure." Jack held his hand up and felt the breeze. "He's going to be east of Oyster Avenue. He'll be able to see the flight path via the onboard camera, but he'll need to stay within range of the remote. Without GPS, he'll want to keep line-of-sight."
"These things have a range of 3 to 4 miles. Sometimes even farther."
JD shook his head. "He'll stay relatively close by to ensure a good signal, especially without GPS. Besides, somebody would spot a drone flying across the island."
"Not with everyone focused on the tournament."
"Still, I think we're going to find him close by. And he won't attack until this place gets busy, if you're right about this being the target."
I called Sheriff Daniels and convinced him to put a helicopter in the air over Oyster Avenue to surveil the area for threats. JD and I left the parking garage and spiraled our way down to the street.
We spent the day cruising around, searching the area. There were too many potential launch sites—balconies, rooftops, parking lots.
As the day dragged on, the crowd on Oyster Avenue filled out. By the evening, thousands of revelers swarmed the street. Music from bands echoed across the avenue. With each second, I grew more and more anxious. It seemed there was little we could do to stop this tragedy.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Teagan. I swiped the screen and put the phone to my ear.
"Hey, how's it going?" she asked.
"Well, there hasn't been an attack yet," I said.
"I know. I've been keeping an eye on the news for updates and watching the tournament. I'm not really a golf fan, but some guy named Woody Cougar is in the lead."
"Where are you at?" I asked.
"I'm staying with a friend in Miami. Do you think we're safe up here?"
"For now."
"I know this is going to sound weird, and it's probably nothing, but I don't think the guy you're looking for is on the water."
I lifted a curious eyebrow. "What makes you think that?"
"You're gonna say I am crazy."
"I think that's already been established," I teased.
"Shut up!"
"I'm kidding."
"This is serious!"
"I know."
"Anyway, once I got up here, I started to relax, and I tried focusing on the lighter you gave me."
"And?"
"I kept seeing this image of Coconut Key Yoga flash in my mind," Teagan said. "It's on the east end of Oyster Avenue, not far from the beach."
"You think that has something to do with our guy?"
"Maybe."
"I doubt our terrorist is taking yoga classes today."
"I'm probably totally wrong, and I was hesitant about calling you. I don't want to waste your time or send you in the wrong direction."
"Right now, we don't have a direction."
"I'm keeping my fingers crossed that nothing happens," Teagan said. "Maybe this guy changed his mind?"
"Doubtful."
"Anyway, I thought I'd share."
"Thanks. Let me know if anything else comes to you."
36
At this point, we didn't have much to lose. We parked the Porsche on Eucalyptus and walked a few blocks to Oyster Avenue. We were at the east end of the strip and strolled the sidewalk to Coconut Key Yoga.
I peered in through the windows of the yoga studio, watching people contort themselves into unnatural positions. There were certainly a few people that shouldn't have been wearing yoga pants—and a few that should. I surveyed the patrons carefully, looking to see if any matched the description of Damian.
I was quite sure we wouldn't find our terrorist in a yoga studio, but we hadn't found him anywhere else.
I exchanged a disappointed look with JD. "Maybe Damian frequented the studio?"
"Well, he's not here now."
"Maybe someone here knows him, or has seen him recently," I suggested.
I didn't particularly like being at the site of a possible terrorist attack. Everything about the situation told me to get the hell away from the intended target. Live to fight another day. Teagan was right. How many second chances would I get?
Every second, the knot in my stomach twisted a little
tighter.
We pushed into the studio and flashed our badges, interrupting the session. I pulled up Damian's picture on my cell phone and showed it to the instructor. "Have you ever seen this man before? Is he a regular?"
"I'm sorry, I've never seen him before," she said.
The woman was thin and toned. She had deep muscle cuts in her arms and six-pack abs. She didn't have an ounce of fat on her body.
JD took notice.
"Do you have some type of registration system?" I asked. "Could you pull up his name and information?"
"If he's a client, he'd be in our system. Hang on a second."
She gave the class instructions for another pose, then she dashed to the reception desk. Her fingers clacked the keyboard as she punched in Damian's information. Her eyes surveyed the screen. "I'm sorry, he's never enrolled in any classes here."
"Just out of curiosity," JD asked, "how much are classes?"
"Individual classes are $20, but we have monthly and yearly memberships at a significant discount."
"What about private lessons?" JD asked with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.
She knew exactly what he was getting at, and her eyes narrowed at him.
"I'm a beginner, and I wouldn't want to pick up any bad habits," JD said.
"I'm sure you already have a few bad habits."
"I could always use a few more." He grinned.
"If you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my class."
I thanked her for her time, and we left the yoga studio and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
That's when it hit me.
Across the street was a small bed-and-breakfast. Sandcastle Magic. It was a two-story colonial structure with a large terrace that spanned the width of the building. Each room on the second floor had a door that opened to the terrace. The door on the far left side of the balcony was open.
It was a perfect place to launch a drone.
The wind was blowing from the east. Damian could fly the device straight out of the room, hover over the crowd, and deploy the pathogen as he flew the drone to the west. Being upwind would keep him relatively safe. He probably had a car parked on the street. He could wear a mask, dart out of the room, hop in a car, and drive away before anyone knew what happened.
It was probably a long shot. But it was worth checking out.
From the balcony, Damian would have an ideal view of the yoga studio. Maybe that's what Teagan was connecting with? She always talked about seeing images flash in her mind.
I nudged JD and nodded to the bed-and-breakfast.
"Sorry, but if you're looking for someone to spend a romantic weekend with, it's not me."
"Damian could be in there," I said, looking up to the balcony.
"This is nonsense. Teagan is not psychic. It's a load of crap," he said, reverting to his skeptical stance.
"She has an uncanny ability to be right more often than not. I don't know how you explain it, but it's all we have to go on at the moment."
We crossed the street and pushed into the lobby of Sandcastle Magic. I showed the desk clerk a picture of Damian. "Can you tell me if this man is staying in the hotel?"
37
"I'm sorry, we're not allowed to give out information about current guests," the desk clerk said.
I flashed my badge. "So, he's a current guest?"
The clerk hesitated, "Hold on, let me speak with my manager."
"We're in a bit of a hurry here," I said as the clerk shuffled into the back office.
My phone buzzed my pocket. Isabella's name flashed on the screen. I took the call. "Tell me something good."
"Damian's girlfriend just got a call on her cell phone from a burner. Voiceprint confirmed Damian made the call. According to the GPS data on the burner, the call originated from a small bed-and-breakfast, Sandcastle Magic."
A thin smirk tugged my lips, and a rush of anticipation elevated my heartbeat. "I'm in the lobby."
"What!?" Isabella asked with disbelief.
"Tell you about it later."
I ended the call and slipped the device into my pocket.
A manager returned with the clerk a moment later. His insincere smile revealed pearly teeth. "How can I help you, gentlemen?"
"We have a reason to believe this man is staying here," I said, holding my badge and displaying the photo of Damian. "I need his room number and a key."
"I can't give you either, Deputy."
"I'll kick down every door in this place…"
His fake smile faded. "Room #201. Let me program a key for you."
"Good call."
JD called Sheriff Daniels and told him to send backup.
The manager took a magnetic card, slid it into a reader, and programmed the room number. He handed me the card, and JD and I raced across the lobby and climbed the staircase to the second floor.
I drew my pistol as we approached #201.
JD took one side of the door, and I took the other. We gave each other a nod, then he pushed the card into the slot.
The light flashed green.
JD twisted the handle and pushed open the door. It swung wide, and I advanced into the room with my weapon in the firing position.
Damian sat on the edge of the bed—the door to the balcony was open. He held the remote to the drone in his hand, and the device had just lifted from the ground. It flew into the air, hovering across the terrace and over the crowd.
"Drop the remote!" I shouted, aiming my gun at the dirt-ball.
His eyes widened with terror as he twisted around, startled by our entrance. He wore a mask and gloves. The terrorist froze for a moment, then his thumb made a movement toward the controller.
"Back off, or I'll release the pathogen," he warned, his voice muffled by the mask.
The rotor blades of the drone buzzed.
"You'll be dead before your thumb hits the button," I shouted. "Put the controller on the bed. Now!"
He hesitated for a long moment, then set the remote atop the bedspread.
"Back away from it," I shouted, still keeping the barrel of my weapon sighted on his heart.
Damian took a few steps back. He hovered near the doorway for a moment, then craned his neck to the street below.
The drone hovered above the crowd, ready to release its deadly payload. The receiving unit was wrapped in tinfoil, blocking the GPS connection that would have kept it grounded during the TFR.
JD advanced toward the bed and grabbed the remote.
Damian took the opportunity to do something stupid.
He drew a pistol from his waistband and attempted to take aim.
My fingers squeezed the trigger twice.
The report hammered against my palm. The deafening bang echoed in the tiny room. Muzzle flash flickered and smoke wafted from the barrel, filling the quaint bed-and-breakfast with the sharp smell of gunpowder.
Blood spewed from Damian's chest, and he tumbled back onto the balcony and smacked the terrace. He writhed in agony, and his chest wheezed and gurgled.
All eyes from the street below darted up to the balcony.
JD piloted the drone back into the room and landed it on the floor. He powered the device down.
We exchanged a worrisome glance.
As far as we could tell, no pathogen had been deployed. But there was a distinct possibility we could have been exposed.
Damian's body finally went limp and stopped twitching.
I moved across the room and stepped onto the balcony. I knelt beside the body, feeling his neck for a pulse with the pads of my fingertips.
He was dead.
It didn’t take long before the place was crawling with law-enforcement and first responders. Red and blue lights flickered, and deputies attempted to contain the crowd and keep anyone from leaving the area until the drone had been assessed, but that was a futile effort. A bio response team in PPE gear flooded into the room. FBI agents swarmed the area.
JD and I were given masks, suits, and gloves to prevent any furthe
r spread of infection. Samples were taken, and Damian's body was triple bagged. The drone was sealed and prepped for transport, and the room was disinfected.
"Is there any way that the pathogen could have been released?" Dr. Page asked.
"I don't think so," I said. "We got here just as he launched the device."
I gave her all the specifics.
"If any of the pathogen did escape, we're looking at a possible infection of several hundred people," she said. "There is a relatively strong breeze. It could have carried the pathogen several blocks."
"You don't have the facilities to round up all these people and quarantine them," I said.
"No, we don't," Paige said. "I've spoken with Sheriff Daniels, and he's looking into possible options. It would have to be a fairly large facility, and we would have to set up a negative pressure room with HEPA scrubbers. I don't see how that's possible on such short notice."
"What's the other option?" I asked.
"Shut down all traffic in and out of the island, but that's not feasible either."
"Let's hope none of the pathogen escaped the container," JD said.
"How can you find out?" I asked.
"When we get the device back to the lab, we can examine it for any living virus. If the surface of the drone is contaminated, we know there has been a release. If not, we could be in the clear. In the meantime, since you two could have been directly exposed, I suggest we put you in quarantine and keep you under surveillance."
It didn't come as a total shock, but I wasn't happy about it. "Not another five days?"
Her grim nod confirmed my fears.
I exhaled, and my shoulders slumped.
JD's eyes rounded. "Whoa! Wait a minute. My band is playing a show. I can't be in quarantine."
38
48 hours later, JD and I were cleared to leave the containment facility. No pathogen had been found on the outside of the drone or the spray container. By now, we knew the incubation period for this modified pathogen was short. Less than two days.
The Department of Health had quarantined roughly a hundred people in the convention center, much to their displeasure. Nobody wanted to have their vacation interrupted because of some nebulous threat that no one could tell them about. All they were told was there was a potential public health crisis, but the details of the terrorist attack weren’t made public. There was a media frenzy, yet no details were released by the FBI.
