Drone (11 page)

“Because the very question itself is a veiled accusation and an implication of wrongdoing that is all the more damaging for the truly innocent. Right now, you say that you don’t know who the real killers are. So tell me, Frank, in the interest of resolving the issue, should I instruct our attorney general to question President Myers as to
her
whereabouts on the night of the killings? And what would she say about us if we did make the inquiry?”

“She would be angry and insulted, certainly. But that would be a ridiculous request. There’s no reason to suspect—”

President Barraza held up his hand. “No need to explain, Frank. I agree. But you get my point, don’t you? Rightly or wrongly, César Castillo would feel as justified in his resentment as President Myers would in hers.”

The president rose and crossed over to the credenza, making a beeline for the bottle of Casa Dragones.

“I hope President Myers understands how completely sympathetic I am to her situation, both in regard to the death of her son, as well as the political difficulties she now faces. I hope that she can appreciate my difficulties as well.” Barraza flashed his million-watt smile.

“Unfortunately, Mr. President, there are members of our Congress who are very capable of stirring up trouble for both of our countries. The
amnesty bill, the guest-worker program, the NAFTA renegotiation—all of these things that both of our governments want will be difficult if not impossible to achieve if your government is seen as the least bit hesitant to bring this case to a just and equitable conclusion.”

President Barraza hovered over Romero and refilled his glass.

“This really is a marvelous tequila. Sweet pear and citrus notes with a pepper finish. I’m going to have to buy a case,” Romero said.

“No need. I’ll have one sent over this afternoon.” The president crossed over to his brother and refilled his glass, then set the bottle down on the coffee table between them. He took his seat.

Hernán Barraza rolled the snifter between his stubby fingers, never lifting his eyes from it as he finally spoke. “My associates in the distillery business pray for the day you Americans make liquor illegal again—it would quadruple their profits.” He swirled the liquor in the glass and sniffed the aroma. “Cartels make drugs, but it’s your politicians who make the laws that make the cartels rich. The drug problem, as we all know, is a demand problem, not a supply problem. If you Americans had an insatiable lust for tomatoes, we wouldn’t be having this conversation today, and maybe we would have been spilling tomatillo sauce instead of blood all these years.”

Hernán finally looked up from his glass. He smiled at Romero with his sad eyes and a mouth full of small, crooked teeth. “I only see one flaw in your request, Frank. What happens if we do make a ‘discreet inquiry’ and Mr. Castillo and his sons insist they had nothing to do with the El Paso event? Will President Myers be satisfied with that answer?”

Romero set his empty glass down on the table. He cleared his throat.

“Frankly, no.”

Hernán took another thoughtful sip. “Thank you for your candor. Of course she wouldn’t be satisfied. Neither would I, were I in her shoes. Officially, César Castillo is an upstanding Mexican businessman who donates millions to charitable work. His two sons earned their bachelor’s degrees in business administration at the University of Texas at Austin,
and MBAs at the IE Business School in Madrid. They, too, are legitimate businessmen working within their father’s privately held corporation. Neither Mr. Castillo nor his sons have ever been convicted of a crime.”

Hernán swirled the tequila again in his snifter. “And yet,
‘Hijos de maguey, mecates
.
’”

Romero nodded. “The sons of a hemp plant are going to become ropes.” It was a clever variation on an old Mexican proverb.

Hernán leaned forward, his eyes locked with Romero’s.

“Unofficially? I think we can all agree that César Castillo is the boss of the most powerful crime syndicate in Mexico, if not all of Latin America, which makes him a very dangerous man. He will not view a ‘discreet inquiry’ as anything less than a personal assault on his honor and his position, and he will likely retaliate. But a ‘discreet inquiry’ won’t accomplish anything at all, as you yourself have just admitted.”

Hernán leaned back in the couch, his head against the rear cushion. He was so short that the top of his head didn’t reach to the top of the couch. “America is our strategic partner and our best trading customer. We share a common border and a common history and, increasingly, a common people, which means we share a common destiny. We want an end to the violence and destruction even more than you do.”

Hernán turned toward his brother, his head still resting against the couch.

“What I recommend, Mr. President, is that we bring the two Castillo boys in for questioning, by force if necessary. If we suffer the consequences for this, so be it. It’s the least we can do for our friends in the north, don’t you agree?”

President Barraza frowned with confusion. That was the last thing in the world he expected his nationalistic brother to say. An oily smile greased Hernán’s pockmarked face.
What was Hernán’s game?
No matter. He would follow his brother’s lead. The president smiled, too, and turned toward Romero.

“Yes, of course. We will do whatever it takes to get to the truth behind this terrible tragedy. You have my word on that, Frank.”

Romero beamed. “Thank you, Mr. President. I will convey your heartfelt message to President Myers, and I can assure you she will be eternally grateful for your assistance in this matter.”

—

Romero departed for his embassy, eager to convey the good news to Secretary of State Eddleston on a secure line. Antonio Barraza shut the door behind the American, then stormed over to his brother, who had retaken his seat on the couch.

“Are you fucking crazy? We can’t arrest Castillo’s kids. Next thing we know, he’ll be stacking cops’ heads in the Zócalo. Maybe ours, too.”

Hernán leaned back on the couch, propped his stumpy legs on the hand-carved coffee table, and folded his hands on the curve of his round belly. He closed his eyes. “This Myers woman. She’s not stupid. If she could handle this problem herself, she would. But she can’t. So she needs us to do it. Or at least try to do it.” His voice was calm, even soothing.

Antonio’s curiosity was piqued. He sat down next to his brother and listened in rapt attention.

“We must make a good show of it. We’ll have live video feed, both here and in Washington. The Americans must see our heroic men risking their lives in order to try and carry out justice for the grieving American president.”

“I know just the man. Sanchez. He’s with the Federal Police.” Antonio was getting excited. He liked to think he was able to keep up with Hernán’s scheming.

Hernán kept his eyes shut. “No. Not him. We need our best man, the head of our best unit. Incorruptible. Undefeated.” Hernán searched his photographic memory. “Cruzalta. Colonel Israel Cruzalta.”

“
Dios mio.
Yes. If anyone can stand up to Castillo, it’s him and his
gung-ho Marines.” President Barraza patted his brother on his flaccid thigh. “We’ll drag those Castillo assholes to the police station in chains if we have to. Their father, too. Excellent suggestion.” He checked his Rolex. “I’m late for an important meeting.”

Hernán kept his brother’s schedule. The important meeting was actually a round of golf with his mistress.

“Make the arrangements and coordinate with the Americans.”

“As you say, Mr. President.”

Antonio dashed out of the office.

Hernán sighed and poured himself another drink. He despaired at his brother’s lack of imagination. He thought about explaining the overall plan he had in mind, but his older sibling would just get confused. Hernán’s vision was too complicated, too violent, and too subtle for the actor to comprehend, let alone execute. It was better that Antonio remain a handsome figurehead while Hernán pulled the strings behind the scenes.

At least for now.

Hernán heard his mother’s small, pitying voice in his head again, an echo from his childhood.

You can’t fight fate,
pobrecito.

“To hell with that,” Hernán said to nobody as he drained his glass.

12

Near the Snake River, Wyoming

Pearce hadn’t built his worldwide company in less than a decade by micromanaging. By temperament and training, he was an analyst, always looking for the big picture. When he decided to strike out on his own, he saw a world of opportunities thanks to advances in drone technologies. Drones themselves weren’t actually new technology. Nikola Tesla earned the world’s first patent for wireless remote-controlled vehicles in 1898 and demonstrated the remote-control wireless powerboat in Madison Square Garden that same year.

Pearce’s other gift was people. He knew how to hire the right ones to seize those new opportunities.

Drones were changing not only modern warfare but nearly every other aspect of civilian life as well. In the end, drones were just delivery systems. Energy, medicine, agriculture, and transportation were just a few of the areas being transformed by the advent of autonomous, independent, inexpensive, and reliable vehicles.

Under normal circumstances, Pearce’s unseen investing partner could’ve expected an excellent return on the cash used to launch the company. But Pearce’s civilian operations had already delivered exceptional returns and promised many, many more for years to come and he was happy to allow others to lead those divisions.

But Pearce Systems security operations were far more lucrative at the
moment—and far more dangerous as well, so he took responsibility for the day-to-day operations of that division. As president of the company, it was his responsibility to ensure that both sides of his house were in order because, in fact, they supported each other, directly and indirectly. He did this by regularly contacting his division heads, just to let them know he was still engaged with them and as passionate as they were about their respective projects. It was an exciting time to be alive, for sure.

More often than not, though, Pearce felt as if he were riding on the back of a galloping two-headed tiger. There was no telling where all of this might end up—Skynet was just a writer’s nightmare, but was it really so far from the truth anymore? On the other hand, the promise of a technological nirvana seemed just as plausible. Pearce wasn’t sure which of the two mouths would eventually swallow him, but he knew exactly which orifice of the beast he’d eventually be vacating when it was all said and done.

Pearce shook his head. It was late. His mind was wandering. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and dropped into his favorite chair in the cabin and tapped on his smartphone. Time to check in.

Dungeness, Kent, United Kingdom

August Mann stood at the top of the old soaring lighthouse, more than forty meters in the air. Due west was the decommissioned Dungeness A nuclear reactor facility. Due south was the English Channel.

The view of the surrounding beaches was fantastic, but it was the stout wind frothing the Channel waters far below that had caught his attention. Perfect conditions for kite surfing. His phone rang. It was Pearce. He picked up immediately.

“Troy.
Wie geht’s?
”

“I’m fine, August. How are you?”

“I was just thinking about you! San Onofre,” he barked into the phone. The wind gusting through the open window whipped the German’s hair.
Ironically, San Onofre also featured a nuclear reactor by the sea, but August was referring to the kite-surfing competition where they first met several years ago.

“Did you bring your board?” Pearce asked.

“
Natürlich!
Bring yours, we’ll have good fun.”

“Don’t tempt me. How are those beautiful daughters of yours?”

August had married three years ago. His wife bore him twin girls a week after the wedding. “Growing fast. I can’t wait to get them out on the water here. Thank you for asking.”

“So, how’s it going over there? Any problems?”

“No. Everything is on schedule. We began defueling operations three days ago. The drones have functioned perfectly, as expected,” August said.

Dungeness A was just one of ten Magnox nuclear reactors that were decommissioned in the United Kingdom and scheduled for eventual demolition. Pearce Systems had won one of the first contracts utilizing tracked drones with manipulator arms and laser cutters to reduce waste materials into smaller pieces without risking human contamination. Mann headed up the nuclear decommissioning project for Pearce Systems. He had been a combat engineer in Germany’s Bundeswehr and had helped develop his nation’s first tracked drones for mine clearing and antipersonnel work. After one tour in Kosovo and another in Iraq, he quit the army to chase the wind. Instead, he found Pearce.

“No casualties on our end?” Pearce asked.

“None, of course. But we deployed one of our rescue bots when a Swedish contractor collapsed inside of the reactor core building. We pulled him out with no problems.”

“Radiation?” Pearce asked.

“No. Mild heart attack. He is recuperating in hospital. But again, no risk to personnel in the rescue.”

“Outstanding,” Pearce offered. “Keep up the good work.”

“Come out soon. The wind is fantastic here!”

Mann shut his phone and grinned. The Dungeness operation was running even more smoothly than he’d hoped. He knew his friend was pleased. August headed for the circular staircase. Time to get home to his family.

Once again, Pearce had proven prophetic, Mann thought, as his feet thudded on the steel stairs. The old nuclear reactors like Dungeness were gold mines. They took decades to fully decommission and deconstruct, and safety—for the workers and the environment—was the primary concern, not money. Over four hundred civilian reactors around the world were currently at or beyond their thirty-year design life and scheduled for decommissioning. After the tragedy at Fukushima in 2011, those schedules were being accelerated. Even Chancellor Angela Merkel, herself a Ph.D. in physics, had been affected by the Japanese catastrophe and she completely reversed her own energy policy, choosing instead to phase out all of Germany’s nuclear reactors by 2022, despite the fact they currently supplied a quarter of her nation’s electrical supply.