Drone Threat (8 page)

“Fire in the hole!” Stella flipped the throttle switch. The airplane's powerful electric motor fired up.

Pearce ran a few feet and tossed the gangly plane into the air toward the far end of the valley. The plane wobbled as it came out of his grip but quickly righted itself.

Pearce jogged back over to Ponder's laptop. Saw the reticle tracking perfectly with the airplane.

“Push the F1 button when you're ready,” Ponder said.

Pearce pushed it.

The laser fired. It made a
Star Trek
–style phaser beam sound.

The beam locked directly onto the engine in the Styrofoam fuselage. The plastic blades melted instantly as the engine coughed and then died two seconds later. The rest of the plane broke apart and tumbled to the ground.

The old farmer's face finally cracked into a wide grin. “So, whaddya think?”

“Not bad, so long as the bad guys are invested in Styrofoam platforms.” Pearce scratched his chin. “What's with the crazy sound that thing makes?”

“The laser is completely silent. I added sound effects so that an operator would know it was firing. You've got ten more sounds to choose from, if that makes a difference.”

“You never know,” Pearce said. “Some of my clients like that kind of thing.” He cast a glance back at Stella. She nodded and pulled the transmitter from off her neck.

“Seriously, Troy. What's the verdict?”

“It's damn impressive. But you had Stella fly in a straight line and it's still a slow-moving target.”

“Like I said, this system uses the same components the Pentagon deploys to shoot down mortars. I just made it extremely portable. Targeting drones won't be a problem.”

“That's why I'm here.” Pearce pointed at the laptop. “That thing still ready to go?”

“Yup.”

“You got a ‘laser blaster' sound?”

“You mean, like
Star Wars
?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure.” Ponder ran through a pop-up menu. Made a selection. “All ready, Boba Fett.”

Pearce turned to Stella. She had a tablet in her hand. “Go.”

Stella stabbed at the tablet. In the distance, small motors whined to life.

“What's this?” Ponder asked.

“I guess they're like Remotes.”

“Huh?”

“
Star Wars
reference. Never mind.”

The laser gimbals twitched as the onboard radar searched for targets. The monitor image shifted back and forth, almost randomly.

Pearce pointed toward the tree line on the far hill. “Here they come.”

Ponder squinted. “I can barely see them. Three of 'em, I think.”

“Four. They're cheap, palm-sized quads I bought on Amazon. Dr. Rao rigged them with a simple homing device.”

“The target you put on my War Wagon.”

“Yup.”

Seconds later, the four drones buzzed clearly into view. They rotated in circles around each other in a randomized swarming dance as they plowed toward the truck.

The laser snapped into position, pointing high into the sky.

A laser blaster sound echoed.

A scream.

A large black crow exploded in feathers. Its smoking corpse tumbled into the grass a thousand yards away.

“Darn,” Ponder said. He pulled off his ball cap and scratched his flaky scalp. “I figured you'd try something like this. I narrowed the filter to try and pick up smaller targets.”

“You succeeded. Sort of.”

Four sharp bangs rattled the truck door as the four screaming drones slammed into the magnetic target one after another. They broke apart on impact.

“And just like that, we're a smoking hole,” Pearce said.

Ponder sighed as he tugged on his cap. “I guess this means no sale.”

Pearce patted the older man's shoulder. “You guess wrong. It's a helluva system, Virgil. Exactly the kind of thing I'm looking for. But it's the really small drones I'm worried about. The hobby-sized stuff. Ten pounds or less.”

“Target acquisition is the hardest part. If you set the filters too
small, you start targeting everything that moves.” Ponder glanced at the dead crow. “Maybe we should call the
Duck Dynasty
fellas.”

“How much more time do you need to get it right?”

“I'm not sure how much more time I have,” Ponder said. His voice trailed off.

“What can you do for me in thirty days?”

Ponder approached the laptop. Tapped a few keys. His eyes brightened. “I might be able to pull a few tricks out of my bag by then.”

“Do what you can. We'll figure something out.”

Ponder turned to Pearce. “It's not about me, you know. It's about my grandkids.”

Pearce saw the anguish in the old man's eyes. He understood it, but in a different way. In his heart of hearts, Pearce wanted to sell his own company and get the hell out of the game and leave it all behind. Take Margaret on a trip around the world, maybe hole up in Bora Bora or Fiji and just let the rest of humanity slip away into its own madness.

“I know. It's just not quite there yet. Keep pushing.”

“I'll do my best.”

“You need us to help you pack up or anything?”

“Nah. I just need to rest awhile and think on a few things.”

Pearce and Stella shook hands with Ponder and drove off in separate rentals, heading for a plate of pulled smoked pork at a little joint Pearce remembered just up the road. He hoped the old man would figure out the laser problem. But the clock was running out on the cancer.

And maybe the nation, too.

11

CHEBOYGAN, MICHIGAN

Norman Pike was in a foul mood.

The group charter he was supposed to take out for chinook salmon this morning was running an hour late already when they called and canceled on him. Sure, they'd lose their deposit and they were apologetic, but the
Ayasi
, his thirty-six-foot Tiara, was kitted out and ready to go, and so was he. He loved to fish and was disappointed he wouldn't be heading out.

But Pike's mood brightened when a late-model Ford Taurus pulled up to the curb and a man came strolling down the pier and straight for his dock. He was built like an athlete. He flashed a broad smile with gleaming white teeth. Pike thought maybe he was Italian or Greek, or maybe even from the Middle East.

“I'm looking for a day charter. I don't suppose you're available?”

Pike noticed the man's West Coast accent. He had a polished L.A. vibe about him, too. Merrell boots, Oakley sunglasses, Columbia fishing shirt, and a Tag Heuer wristwatch. Typical yuppie tourist, Pike thought. More money than sense. He'd hauled a thousand of them out onto the lake over the years for good money.

“Your timing is impeccable. It just so happens I am.”

The man extended his hand. Pike shook it. The man had a strong grip. “Great, man.”

Pike glanced around. All of the other charter boats were already out on the water. “I'm usually all booked up this time of year. I had a last-minute cancellation.”

“Then it's my lucky day.”

“Climb aboard. I'm all ready to go. Even have five box lunches if you get that hungry.”

“Awesome. Let's get going.”

Pike quoted a full-day rate and the man counted off five Benjamins from a stack of ten in his wallet. Pike asked for ID and the man showed him a California driver's license. His name was Daniel Brody. Twenty-seven years old. Los Angeles, California. Just as Pike had guessed.

“Got a fishing license, Mr. Brody?” Pike asked.

“No. Do I need one?”

“Yes, but I can sell you one, no problem. A twenty-four-hour license is only . . . twenty dollars.”
Ten for the license, and ten for my trouble
, Pike told himself.

“Sounds good.”

The man pulled out a twenty and Pike pocketed it. “I'll write that up as soon as we get under way.”

“Awesome. So we can get going now?”

“Soon as we untie. You're in kind of a hurry, I take it?”

“Just excited, I guess.”

More like nervous
, Pike thought.
Maybe he's afraid of the water. Probably means he's going to be hurling his guts out, too. Should've charged him more.

LAKE MICHIGAN

ON BOARD THE
AYASI

The water was choppy but Captain Pike was trolling with the swell and Brody hadn't complained, even after devouring a roast beef sandwich with horseradish.

Pike had fished these waters for fifteen years, first as a hobby and then as a paying gig. He was a good fisherman. He knew all of the tricks that all of the other charter captains knew as well, and his charter boat carried state-of-the-art fish-finding radar. Pike knew Lake
Michigan like the back of his hand, and he knew chinook, and that this late in the morning the big salmon would be running around 120 feet deep in the cold, dark water. To get the bait rigs down to that strike zone he fitted Brody's rod with copper line and down riggers and trolled at twelve miles per hour, about the speed the fish ran, especially with the current.

Pike was a loner by nature and wasn't the talkative type, but Brody asked the same questions that the beginners always asked about bait and reels and how to hook the big ones, and Pike was happy to answer them because the answers never changed. He also liked the kid's enthusiasm. Brody pulled in his first fish within an hour and seemed genuinely thrilled. Pike reset the hook and showed him how to cast and Brody was back at it while Pike cleaned the five-pound fish.

And then Brody's questions turned personal. How long have you been a charter captain? How long have you lived in Michigan? Any kids? Were you in the service?

It started to feel like an interrogation instead of friendly chatter. There was something about the guy that bothered Pike. He couldn't put his finger on it. When the next fish struck Brody got distracted trying to reel it in. The pole bent nearly in half, as if a bowling ball were hooked to the other end. Pike fetched the net. A twenty-three-pounder—big fish. Not a record, but respectable. At this rate, Brody would hit his legal limit of fish in a few hours, and then they'd be heading back to the marina.

“Can I use the restroom?”

Pike pointed at the cabin door with his filet knife. “Right down there. Hard to miss.”

“Thanks.” Brody flashed a smile and descended the short stairs, closing the door behind him.

Pike stood at the cleaning station, thinking. He cut the chinook's head off with a single pass of the razor-sharp blade, then took off the tail.

He didn't like personal questions.

CHEBOYGAN, MICHIGAN

It was late. Pike's boat was the last one to tie up for the night. Nobody around.

The high-speed grinder shrieked beneath the stainless-steel tub, mulching the carcass into a fine slurry that ran straight back into the lake. The sound bounced off the blue cinder-block walls. A real racket. But the enclosed fish-cleaning station was always neat and clean whenever he came into it, and Pike intended to leave it that way, too. Always had. He used the sprayer to push the last little bits of flesh and bone into the drain. The city of Cheboygan had built the handy little facility in order to make the fishing experience that much more convenient for the public. They knew how to treat sportsmen right up here, especially in the UP. It's why he loved living in Michigan—for six months out of the year, anyway.

Pike's phone rang. He checked the number. A call he'd been waiting for. He hung up the sprayer and punched the grinder motor's red Stop button. It quieted instantly.

“Pike here.”

Pike listened to the urgent voice on the other end but kept spraying the tub, washing away the last drops of blood.

“I understand. The charter is all ready. I'm just waiting for your last deposit.”

He nodded, listening. A smile creased his face. “Excellent. I appreciate the vote of confidence. Then we can get started right away. It should be a lot of fun.”

Pike rang off. He checked the sink. Spotless, just the way he'd found it.

12

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The Kairos Club was traditional, elegant, and private, like Ilene Parcelle herself. Vicki Grafton admired both institutions. Despite its privacy—or maybe because of it—the Kairos Club had been the place to be seen in D.C. for the last forty years.

It was an early dinner, barely five p.m. The last-minute invitation was both propitious and unsettling. It felt more like a summons than a dinner date, but that was to be expected. The former congresswoman had climbed the pinnacle of power after her time in government. Parcelle was used to people clearing calendars and canceling important family events when her assistant called. But when Parcelle was on the other end of the line? One of the senior partners at the Seven Rivers Consortium? Governments fell, countries rioted, markets collapsed. Ilene Parcelle was Vicki's sponsor and, perhaps, even a friend. Grafton admired her immensely but also feared her.

For now.

Grafton arrived early. She always kept a fresh dress in the office for moments like this, with shoes and jewelry to match, of course. Parcelle would be expecting nothing less than her best. Grafton even managed to freshen her light makeup and brush out her thick red hair on the drive over. She took great pride in her beauty and was smart enough to know that her stunning good looks had opened more doors for her than less attractive women could possibly have hoped to pass through. Her vanity allowed for that despite her feminist sensibilities, but no one doubted her keen intellect once she opened her mouth.

Parcelle was decked to the nines as well and, in her late fifties, could still turn heads. She arrived with a small entourage, whom she waved away at the front desk, and she and Vicki were escorted to the table by the maître d'
,
who was himself a formidable establishment figure and social statesman. Politicians, CEOs, and foreign dignitaries of every stripe had dined there over the years, and he had escorted all of them, too. Grafton feigned indifference but secretly reveled in the leering gazes and jealous glances from the tables they passed by as they were seated in the place of honor near the great bay window overlooking the garden. Very private. Grafton smiled. Her Klout Score would jump five points before the evening was through.

They ordered drinks—a gin and tonic for Parcelle, whiskey neat for Grafton—and waited for their dinner to be served.

“You look stunning,” Parcelle said. “You must live in a gym.”

“I wish I had the time. I'm lucky if I get to run in the morning.”

“How do you keep so trim?” Parcelle asked over the rim of her glass.

“I'm eating paleo these days.”

“Is that the caveman diet I've been hearing so much about?”

“Something like that. Well, except tonight. Might have to cheat a little bit.”

“Cheating is one of life's great pleasures, don't you think?”

“You look ravishing yourself,” Grafton said.

“Thank you, love. You're too kind. I can only imagine the hordes of grasping gray-haired old men you have to fight off on the Hill. They were quite the bother even in my day.”

Grafton fought the urge to laugh. She knew that Parcelle wasn't one to actually resist those advances back in her day. She'd gone down on more senior political figures than the White House elevator. Rumor had it, she'd once done the big nasty
in
the White House elevator. “Viagra hasn't done us any favors, has it?”

“At least not in that regard,” Parcelle said. “But the little blue pill does have its merits.” She grinned mischievously as she took another sip of her drink.

“The problem now is that every octogenarian out there thinks he's
a twenty-year-old frat boy.” Grafton smiled, remembering a recent run-in with the junior senator from Vermont just forty years her senior.

Parcelle's chuckle was gold in Grafton's ears. The elder stateswoman had mentored her through the maze of Washington politics, grooming her for the next big step in her career. Unfortunately, that next step was taking longer than either of them expected. Parcelle must have been reading her mind. Her face soured.

“My colleagues at the consortium are becoming impatient.”

“I understand. I'm beyond impatient. Unfortunately, patience is the virtue required here.”

“Not for them. They have other projects, other . . . possibilities.”

Grafton felt the blood drain out of her face.

Parcelle smiled. “I thought that might get your attention.”

“I'm working as hard as I can to make it happen.”

“Is Lane any closer?”

“Yes, I'm certain of it.”

“Tell me, dear, truthfully. Do you really want to make partner?”

Grafton nearly spilled her drink. “Why would you ask that?”

“It's just that you were so effective on the Senate subcommittee. And now, well.” Parcelle finished the rest of her gin and tonic.

Grafton had brilliantly shepherded several multibillion-dollar projects through the congressional budget maze for SRC clients while working as a senior senate staffer. But Grafton's ambition was loftier than that. One project at a time was too cumbersome. She didn't want to be a dealer or a floorman or even a pit boss. She wanted to game the whole casino.

The project she'd proposed to Parcelle a year before seemed like a sure bet at the time. It was only possible because Chandler was VP now, and that gave her direct access to the president. Chandler, unwittingly, was her strongest ally in her plan, along with Ambassador Tarkovsky. But President Lane was still on the fence. His instincts were to avoid another war in the Middle East, despite the neocons in both parties clamoring for it. Grafton's goal was to change his mind. A new war meant every SRC client would benefit, all at the same time, and guarantee her a partnership at the SRC.

Grafton began to fear she might have promised Parcelle more than she could deliver. She knew her plan was good—selling a president wasn't any different from selling a committee chairman—and the odds were in her favor. She was a great lobbyist and staffer because she was a master persuader and media manipulator, the two most important talents in politics. There was no rational discourse in Washington anymore. It was all about creating narratives, and she was the best in the business.

But the dice still hadn't landed right. She steeled herself. It was time to make her own luck.

“You were on the fast track, Vicki. I put you there myself.”

“And I'm forever grateful. I won't disappoint you.”

“I'm afraid you already have.”

Grafton's heart sank. “Please don't say that.”

“You see, I put myself at some risk by advocating for your plan despite your lack of specifics. You made promises to me and I made promises to the other partners who, in turn, made promises to our most important clients. And yet, here we are.”

“It will happen soon. You'll see.”

“When? Exactly?” Parcelle's eyes narrowed.

“I can't say exactly. A week. A month. It's not like baking a cake.”

“Frankly, you reminded me of myself at your age. Your proposal was terribly ambitious and I greatly admire ambition.”

“Thank you. And I intend to deliver.”

“But intentions, no matter how ambitious, are worthless unless they're realized.”

Grafton felt a cold panic tingling in the back of her neck. Failure wasn't an option. Neither was sideways. Only up. Only more. If this door shut it would never open again, and there weren't any other doors for her in D.C.

The food arrived. The tuxedoed waiters were swift and silent in their service.

“Another gin and tonic, ma'am?” a waiter asked in a small voice.

“Of course,” Parcelle said. She forked a piece of grilled halibut into her mouth.

“And you, ma'am?”

“I shouldn't.”

“Vicki! You know I hate to drink alone.”

“It is early, isn't it? Yes, I'll have another whiskey, please. Only this time, make it a Yamazaki. The eighteen.”

“Excellent choice.”

Grafton waited for the waiter to get out of earshot. She leaned in close anyway, lowering her voice. “I've got one last arrow in my quiver and I intend to use it.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“What kind of arrow are we talking about?”

Grafton sat back, smiled conspiratorially. “I'd rather not say at the moment.”

Parcelle searched Grafton's sparkling eyes, certain Grafton was lying. “I'm intrigued.”

“You know you can trust me. I've always delivered before, haven't I?”

Parcelle set her own fork down and sighed. “All right, dear. I'll choose to believe you. But you really must land this awfully big fish you've promised.”

“It will be the great white whale.”

“You know I only want what's best for you.”

Parcelle laid a cold, smooth hand on Vicky's and squeezed it. “I can press for a little more time. But the longer you wait, the greater the risk we both face. Do you understand my meaning?”

Grafton nodded grimly. She was all in now. “Yes, and I'm grateful.” Grafton sighed with relief.

Parcelle picked up her fork and knife again as their drinks arrived. “So tell me, how did your meeting with Ambassador Tarkovsky go last week? I want all the dirty details.”

“He's an interesting man. Chandler's convinced he'll be the next president of Russia.”

“I only met him once. Quite handsome. But quiet. An engineer, as I recall.”

“He attended the Moscow Power Engineering Institute with a degree in high-technology management and economics, and then earned a master's degree at the All-Russian Academy of Foreign Trade before entering diplomatic service.” Grafton sounded like she was citing a brief, which she was.

“You've obviously done your homework.”

“Sorry. A bad habit of mine.”

Parcelle's mouth curled into an envious grin. “I don't suppose it's his arrow that's in your quiver?”

“Me? Hardly.”

“Tarkovsky's quite a catch.”

“Yes, I suppose he is.”

“You could do worse.”

“God knows I already have. More than once.” Grafton winked as she took a sip of whiskey.

“Oh, do tell.”

She did, after ordering more drinks. Anything to get the subject off the Russian ambassador.