Game of Drones (13 page)

The Reaper rolled, dipped and cut through the air with ease, making it impossible for the two trailing jets to initiate target acquisition as the drone banked heavily to the northeast.

“Dog Fighter Two to Base Command.”

“Go.”

“The unit has changed its course to vector Nora Edward, and seems to be maintaining its course.”

“Stand by, Dog Fighter Two.”

“Copy that.”

#

Everyone at Raven Rock scrambled to decipher the drone’s route. What was its next target? Did it have a next target? They hoped not, but had to proceed as if there would be more strikes.

Assessments were made rapidly with the aid of computer modeling, the trajectory and flight characteristics of the drone leading to a single position of prominence.

A consensus arose that it was heading for the Naval Observatory--the residence of the vice president.

#

“Are you seeing this, Tanner?”
Director Casey’s voice sounded hollow and tinny over the speakers.

“Yeah. My entire team is seeing this."

“This is what OUTCAST will be up against.”

In silence, everyone watched the drone make its way northeast through the fisheye lens of a fighter jet camera.

#

The Naval Observatory

Vice President Connor Madison was sitting in his office watching the news as the Capitol building burned. Like everyone else, he was sickened.

A couple of hard raps pounded on his door. Without waiting for a response, three members of the Secret Service let themselves in, all with faces that appeared plastically similar.

“Mr. Vice President,” said the lead agent, “we need to move.”

“Why? It's not safe to travel now.” He pointed to his massive wall mounted LCD TV, where the Capitol Building smoldered in ruin.

“We just got word that the drone is heading toward the Naval Observatory.”

You’re kidding?
He was too stunned to verbalize a response.

“We need to leave now, Mr. Vice President. Please.”

Connor Madison didn’t hesitate. He quickly made his way to the nearest exit under the protective escort of the Secret Service.

#

The Reaper was zeroing in on its next target, moving and weaving in unsteady patterns and refusing to allow the trailing Phantoms to get a positional fix. It wasn’t that the drone was fast. It wasn’t, as far as jet fighters go. But it was almost lyrically erratic.

“Dog Fighter Two to Base.”

“Go ahead, Dog Fighter Two.”

“We can't get a lock. I repeat, we cannot acquire the target. Requesting that we engage the unit manually.”

“That’s affirmative, Dog Fighter Two. You’re already within striking distance of the assumed target. Disengage from computer feed.”

“Copy.”

The F4s pressed forward to get ahead of the drone, arced around, and came at it head on.

The drone’s wings wavered as if seesawing, and then it looped and rolled in space, making it difficult for the jets to intercept.

Just as the drone was curling into a vertical rise, Dog Fighter Two released a missile from its undercarriage, the rocket spiraling a moment before fixing itself into a straight line. The missile rounded with the drone’s rise, tracking the Reaper's heat signature. But the drone maneuvered to its left in a near-right angle, the quick motion causing the missile to miss by a wide margin, and continued on.

“Dog Fighter Two to Base. That’s a negative strike on the first volley. I repeat, we have a miss.”

“Copy, Dog Fighter Two. ETA to assumed target is less than one minute.”

#

The Reaper began to slope downward at a slight angle as it made its way toward the Naval Observatory.

“Dog Fighter Two to Base Command. The assumed target is now in sight. I repeat, the assumed target is now in sight.”

The Queen Anne-style home of the vice president was located on the northeast grounds of the U.S. Naval Observatory in Washington, D.C. With rounded turrets and broad verandas that wrapped around the ground floor, it was easy to spot.

“Dog Fighter Two to Base Command. Further engagement may cause high-profile collateral damage. Do you copy?”

“Dog Fighter Two, the vice president is being secured. But he is not out of the red zone. I repeat, he is not out of the red zone. You are to engage the subject vehicle and terminate immediately.”

“Copy that, Base Command.”

Dog Fighters Two and Three zeroed in as the stretch between them and the MQ-10 closed quickly. Both Phantom pilots reported spotty acquisition of their target--the best they'd been able to obtain so far. Missiles from both fighters were released; they homed in on the drone’s tail.

A remora on the Reaper's back was ejected. It hovered a brief moment as if to gets its bearings while its carrier drone left it behind, then propelled itself in a highly unpredictable surging pattern reminiscent of a series of screwball pitches toward the vice president’s house.

Just as the Reaper banked for escape, one of the Phantom's AMRAAM missiles struck it, decimating it completely, while its other Hellfire continued on to strike, exploding against Observatory grounds and leaving a crater almost nine feet deep, but missing anything critical.

Fiery debris continued to rain down in slow motion like some sort of wartime confetti, while the MUAV pursued its jittery course toward the home of America's second-in-command.

The jet pilots reconfigured their positions and drew up behind the mini-drone. But the autonomous unit moved in sharp angles that were much greater than those of its mother drone, darting and moving about like an insect.

When the pilots realized that the drone was too close to the residence to have any positive outcome from a second volley, they banked away.

“Dog Fighter Two to Base Command.”

“Go, Two.”

“A strike at this point would come with high collateral damage. Requesting permission to abort. Do you copy?”

There was a long pause while no doubt the pilot's assessment was being verified. Then:
“We copy. Abort strike.”

#

The Naval Observatory

The vice president was being whisked away as fast as the Secret Service could usher him. As they ran across the wraparound porch, an explosion detonated somewhere in the distance. It was a muffled boom as a single column of smoke rose northwest of the residence--a near miss from an errant AMRAMM missile off a Phantom.

The second missile wasn’t a missile at all, at least not in the conventional sense. The MUAV spiraled at them with its engine giving off a waspy buzz. An agent forced the vice president to duck by placing a hand on the crown of his head and pressing him into a crouched running position.

The other two agents, while still on the move, formed a human shield as best as possible.

But on the moment of impact when the MUAV's assembly pins were retracted by the collision, five pounds of Semtex suddenly released its stored energy.

Glass windows and mullions exploded outward, the shards killing one agent instantly as the power of the blast lifted everybody off their feet. Wood and decorative eaves disintegrated. The columns supporting the porch and its overhang shattered; the styled turrets toppled. A smoky fire started in the middle of the backyard lawn, threatening to cutoff their escape route.

Vice President Madison landed belly down on the grass. He turned over onto his back and noted the devastation. The residence had been broken down to its foundation as stacks of splintered wood burned, the heat so intense he could feel the flames against his soot-covered face.

An agent lay dead beside him. Though he could not see the man’s wounds, he did take note that his protector's shirt and coat were laden with blood, and that his eyes stared skyward at nothing in particular.

The third agent, however, was fine. His clothes were smeared with grime and his pants were torn at the knee. But there was nary a scratch on him.

“Are you all right, Mr. Vice President?” He quickly aided Madison to a seated position.

The vice president raised his hands and examined them. “I’m fine,” he finally said. And then he looked at the streamers of smoke rising from the ruins.
In broad daylight
, he said to himself.
They came at me in broad daylight and we couldn’t stop them.

The residence continued to burn.

Raven Rock

President Carmichael was emotionally imploding within himself as his stomach knotted into a slick fist. A single drone had taken out two prominent targets--the Capitol Building and the vice-presidential residence at the Naval Observatory--and this even with the airspace being canvassed by scores of their best fighter jet units.

“The vice president is fine, sir,” Said the chief advisor. “He’s completely secure.”

Carmichael nodded, seeing a spark of light in what could be considered to be one of America’s darkest moments.

Yet the mood inside the chamber was grim, the outlook even uglier. Soon global stocks would also tumble, and the American markets would remain closed for even longer, a devastating drop in net worth still fresh on Wall Street's mind.

And in President Carmichael’s mind, he knew that Aasif Shazad was far from done.

#

The Bunker

Everyone had watched Naji's drone feed while he navigated the Reapers to victory.

On a television, they now watched the spoils of his efforts as the Capitol smoldered and the vice president's house lay in ruins.

Shazad was pleased beyond words, his associates equally so.

But when his demeanor took on the guise of a man who appeared outwardly dissatisfied, smiles withered. Although they had won the battle, the war was still a long road to walk. It was okay to feel a sense of pride at the current victory in hand. But do not allow this feeling to draw you into such an elitist attitude that you become overconfident. Sooner or later, this sleeping giant will fight back. And when it does, the fury behind its desire for revenge will be brutal.

Shazad walked to the front of the podium and stood before his team, but it was Lut that he addressed.

“I need to be patched through to the president in thirty minutes. I would like to see the face of the most powerful man in the world in his moment of defeat at our hands. But first, let him wallow in self-loathing.”

Lut nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Inwardly, Shazad felt confident, but not overly so. Overconfidence, he knew, could bring a man down to his knees as quickly as a bullet to the head, should he underestimate his enemy. It was something he learned as an American soldier.

#

OUTCAST Facility

They had seen everything through live feeds—the crumbling of the Capitol’s dome and the subsequent destruction of the vice president’s home—through the eyes of a Phantom’s lens.

Everyone within the room felt completely gutted.

“You getting this?”
said Casey.

“Yeah. We’re seeing it,” Tanner responded somberly.

“We were able to knock the drone from the sky. But as you can see, it was too late.”

“And the vice president?”

“He’s fine. But I can’t say the same about the country. Even before the Press Secretary went live, the media was whipping the people into a frenzy.”

“John,” Tanner said, eyeing the faxed documents received from Raven Rock and the Washington field office--a skinny pile, but more than enough to work from--“we have everything we need. Thank you for your support. We'll take it from here.”

“Tanner.”

“Yeah.”

“On the monitors. What we all see . . . I would hate to think that this is just the beginning.”

Tanner looked at the wall screens. America was burning.

“Tanner, we’re dying by the inches,”
he said.
“By the ever . . . loving . . . inches.”

Tanner looked at the papers, now spread over the table. “My team’s ready to work, John. We’ll find them.”

“I hope so.”

“
We’ll stay in touch. Have hope . . . Out.”

Tanner cut the speaker connection with Casey and called his team to the table with the exception of Danielle, whom he wanted to stay at the console. The entire team was there with Liam, Nay and Dante standing on one side of the table, and Chance and Stephen standing next to Tanner on the other.

The OUTCAST founder then arranged the documents in chronological order alongside a map.

“I looked over these documents sent to me by John,” he led off. “What we have so far is that the trucks involved in the JBAB breach were found abandoned fifteen miles north of the base.”

He pointed to a spot on the map and marked it with a red pencil. “Right about here.”

He turned to his computer expert. “Danielle, enter these coordinates as I spell them out to you.”

After she typed in the set of digits, a glowing red dot marking the given location appeared on an electronic board on the far wall. The board itself was a map of Washington D.C. and its neighboring states.

Tanner went on, grabbing a second document.

“The senator’s plane was taken approximately 180 miles west of Washington. But the airliner was making its trajectory from a southwesterly position.” Tanner provided Danielle with more coordinates, and a second glowing dot appeared on the screen, the point of the plane’s impact.

It became clear to everyone that Tanner was triangulating, which is a method of determining the location of a certain point by measuring angles from other known points. The point can then be fixed as the third point of a triangle with one known side and two known angles. Measurements were prone to surveying errors since the baseline remains relatively unknown, but can provide a practical vicinity.

The final set of documents were flight logs from the Dog Fighters who caught their first visual of the drone and its course from the northwest. “The shortest, and presumably the fastest, distance between two points—”