Robot Depot

by Russell F. Moran

  I told Lara Logan and the 60 Minutes audience all about our quality control and how the vice president in charge showed us how to replace a solenoid with an exploding one, and none of us, including agents from the FBI and CIA, even noticed what he did. The interview was positive, I thought. Logan is a good journalist and a serious one, not a reporter who loves to play “gotcha.” She asked Jenny about new product development, and Jen, as I knew she would, did a great job of answering her questions.

  “Ladies and gentleman, I’m glad that we invited Mike and Jenny Bateman to appear on 60 Minutes this evening. It’s shocking, from everything we’ve heard from the Batemans, as well as a representative of the FBI, what is happening to this fine company. Some terrorist group sees Robot Depot, not as an innovative forward-looking company that does a lot of good in the world, but as a supplier of explosive delivery machines.”

  Blanche waited for us when we finished the 60 Minutes taping. She had been standing to the side and saw the entire segment. I waved her over to meet Lara Logan. After three minutes of chatting, Blanche and Lara acted like life-long girlfriends.

  “You two are fabulous,” she said after the CBS crew left. “I think we should change the name of Robot Depot to the Mike and Jenny Show. Anyone watching should be convinced that the terror bullshit has nothing to do with us. That gal Lara is a doll, and she’s no stranger to terrorists. I remember that she was attacked and molested by a bunch of thugs in Egypt a few years ago. Okay, Mike, the Cavuto show is tomorrow. Go home and get some rest.”

  ***

  The Cavuto show went as well as 60 Minutes. Neil Cavuto, like Lara Logan, is a real pro. Of course they’d deny it, but I had a feeling they were cheering me on. Inevitably, one morning show was an explosion of negativity. The Max Cornell Show is conducted by its namesake, Max Cornell, an aging leftist who relishes the opportunity to “speak truth to power,” as he loves to say. The theme of the show was that he was the truth, and I was the power. If his viewers listened carefully, they would think that I personally inserted the bombs into the exploding bots. Fortunately he has very few viewers. Blanche did not set me up for that show. Cornell’s producer called and I agreed to appear, a dumb move on my part. I should know to clear stuff like this with Blanche, as she loudly suggested to me after the Cornell show.

  Our public relations campaign was going well, we all agreed—except for the Max Cornell Show. I think I was doing a decent job of convincing viewers that Robot Depot had been sabotaged, and that we really are good guys. Well, shit, we are. One of the reasons for the success of my road show was that there had been no bombings or any other crazy bot events in over two weeks. How long can that last? I wondered.

  Chapter Forty

  “This is the biggest children’s regatta I’ve ever seen, Phil,” said Toby Plimpton, the commodore of the North Fork Sailing Club in Southold, Long Island.

  “You got that right, Toby,” said his friend Phil Jamison, the vice commodore. “I counted 125 boats on moorings and the regatta isn’t until tomorrow.”

  The event they spoke about is the annual Windy Boats regatta for kids up to age 15. The race would begin in Southold Bay, continue out to Peconic Bay toward Gardiner’s Bay and Plum Island, and then return to the starting line in Southold Bay. The kids’ sailboats would be tailed by adults in powerboats, which would serve as committee boats to enforce the rules, as well as act as safety boats in case a sail boat capsized. The regatta was scheduled to begin the next day at 11 a.m. The mid-July weather called for calm seas, ideal for sailboat racing. It would be a “one design” race, where all of the boats are of similar size and design. The light wind favored the kids with the best sailing skills.

  The committeeman with starter pistol saw the typical jam-up of boats jockeying for good position to cross the starting line as soon as the gun fired. Within an hour, the major part of the fleet rounded Shelter Island, some far ahead, others way behind.

  Toby Plimpton and Phil Jamison motored at a slight distance from the fleet in Plimpton’s 25-foot Steigercraft powerboat. They kept as far away from the sailboats as possible to avoid interfering with the kids’ ability to maneuver.

  “What’s that noise?” Phil asked, looking up.

  “It sounds like a bunch of pissed off bees,” Toby said.

  “Holy shit, look at that,” Jamison said, pointing to a flight of over 200 foot-wide helicopter drones. “It looks like we’re not the only ones hosting a race.”

  “Yeah, but they seem to be in formation, not racing each other.”

  The drones dropped in altitude and then started to dive at the boats. In moments, the sight and sound of explosions ripped through the regatta. Masts fell, sails shredded, and boats crashed into one another.

  “Everybody get into the water,” Toby screamed into his megaphone. Since the rules required that everyone wear a life jacket, he figured it was a lot safer in the water then on the boats that for some crazy reason had become targets. He maneuvered his Steigercraft slowly, as did the other powerboats, so as not to hit a kid in the water. Every committee boat captain hailed the Coast Guard with a mayday emergency alert. Within minutes there were no more drones aloft. Two Coast Guard Sea King helicopters came into view with ladders lowered and a Coast Guardsman on the lower rung, aided by divers in scuba gear maneuvering a stretcher to help pick up young sailors in the water. Besides shattered boats and sails all over the bay, the Coast Guardsmen could see floating bodies.

  Toby Plimpton’s Steigercraft was one of the last boats hit. The drone flew into the opening and crashed into the steering console where Plimpton and Jamison stood, killing them both in the ensuing explosion.

  “What the fuck is going on?” shouted News 12 TV Reporter, Jack Duncan, into the camera, not paying attention to his language. He and his cameraman stood on the shore to avoid turbulence when taping the race. He looked into the camera, tears streaming down his face.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice choking as he spoke, “the past five minutes were the most brutal that I’ve seen since Vietnam. It’s even worse than a war zone. These kids were attacked by God knows who for God knows what reason. We don’t like to speculate about terrorism, but what kind of twisted demon would do this to a bunch of children?”

  The small section of Long Island suddenly became a worldwide news event. A reporter from Los Angeles who used to live in Southold asked the News 12 reporter if he could speak to his old friend, Toby Plimpton. The News 12 guy went off the air for a few moments and told him that he just saw Plimpton’s body dragged ashore and put into a body bag.

  Walter Bowman, the Supervisor of Southold Town, was on the air, a man known for his blunt language. His face told of the feelings he was about to express. “I am going to hunt down and kill the scumbags who did this,” he said, after which he broke down in tears.

  The local News 12 reporter continued what he thought would be a pleasant news assignment, providing as much detail as he could put together, which wasn’t much. A high aerial view over Peconic Bay said it all—a beautiful bay, littered with sails, smashed up boats, and young bodies.

  ***

  I picked up the phone, interrupting my TV viewing of the horrible scene on Peconic Bay. It was Tom Logan, a Robot Depot executive calling from his vacation home in Southold.

  “They’re ours, Mike. I looked at two of them that were duds. I just wanted to let you know I’m coming back to the office.”

  “Tommy, you’re on vacation,” I said. “Just try to relax. There isn’t much you can do about the situation here.”

  “Mike, the last fucking place in the world I want to be right now is beautiful Southold Town. I can see the debris and bodies from my deck.”

  ***

  “Rick, it’s Mike Bateman. I just got a call, and it looks like the drones are ours.”

  “Please be at my office at 9 a.m. tomorrow,” said Bellamy. “I’m going to put some stuff in motion.”

  Bellamy continued to stare at the TV after he hung up with Bateman
.

  It’s time to go to war, he thought.

  Chapter Forty One

  Bennie Weinberg walked into Rick Bellamy’s office at 26 Federal Plaza for a meeting with Rick Bellamy and me.

  “Yankee Stadium really screwed with my head for a few days,” Bennie said, “especially because I was there. But this satanic regatta attack takes the fucking cake. Who would launch an attack that targeted children? I think we’re dealing with a new sub-species of human being, a species where all of the members are psychopaths.”

  “I think you’re right, Ben” Bellamy said. “We’re seeing a new level of depravity. That’s what convinced me to go on offense. Of course what I’m about to say doesn’t leave this room, but I just got a wink and a nod from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”

  “An Agent Atkins is here to see you, Mr. Bellamy,” his assistant said.

  A tall Middle Eastern looking guy walked in. Both Bennie and Rick Bellamy stood to greet him as if he were an old fraternity brother. Rick then introduced him to me.

  “Please call me Buster, everyone else does. I don’t know if Rick or Bennie told you, but I’m with the CIA. A lot of people look at me as if I just rode in on a camel. I’m a Coptic Christian, and I get my looks from my Egyptian parents who also taught me to speak fluent Arabic. Some people say that I’m a jihadi’s worst nightmare—I look like them, but I’m not one of them.”

  “I guess Rick brought you up to speed about what’s going on with Robot Depot,” I said. “Some group has narrowed down their choice of weapons to our inventory. The problem started with exploding robotic floor cleaners. The big problem now is with our helicopter drones, the kind that attacked Yankee Stadium and that children’s regatta. We’re also concerned about robots that we’ve sold over the past three years that may contain explosive devices. We’ve figured out that the explosives on the robots were inserted in-house, and we’re sure we’ve minimized the problem with a huge public relations recall campaign, but that doesn’t address the aerial drone problem. Anybody can buy a drone, from us or another store, and weaponize the goddam thing with explosives. That’s what happened at Yankee Stadium and at the children’s regatta on Long Island.”

  “One of your quality control people was named George Livingston, I understand, and he suddenly disappeared, yes?”

  “Yes, you’ve done your homework, Buster,” I said.

  “Livingston’s Muslim name is Ali Mujahedeen and he currently resides in Yemen,” Buster said. “He’s now back in the States as of last Tuesday.”

  Bennie, Rick, and myself all said variations of “holy shit.”

  “We don’t call Buster Mr. Super Spook for nothing,” Bellamy said.

  “I can’t go into more detail than that, I’m sure you understand,” Buster said. “But be happy knowing that we have that cockroach under tight surveillance while we wait for his next move. When he takes his next action we’ll either capture him or kill him. Livingston, or Mujahedeen, has been a major player in infiltrating and sabotaging Robot Depot and its products. Our surveillance of him has given us the identities of three other people, one of whom we think is a member of senior ISIS management.”

  “Buster is the team leader for this operation,” Bellamy said, “and I’m his deputy. Those orders came right from the White House to the Department of Defense, to the FBI and CIA commands. Buster and I have worked many a case together, and I think he’s the best in the business, including both the FBI and the CIA. I’m happy to work with him.”

  “For the first time in a long while,” I said, “I feel a bit optimistic that we can defeat those animals.”

  “I appreciate your confidence in us, Mike, but it isn’t going to be easy,” Buster said. “ISIS thinks that it’s found the perfect manufacturer of bomb carrying devices through your company. By the way, do drones account for a large part of your sales?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Drones account for about eight percent of our revenue.”

  “Well, just to give you a heads up, my friend,” Buster said, “the government is about to announce a moratorium on all drone sales from any outlet in the country. Shortly we’ll see a bill come out of the House of Representatives that will require strict licensing procedures before anybody can buy a drone. Until that bill passes, the moratorium will remain in effect. I hope I haven’t ruined your day, Mike.”

  “No, Buster, you haven’t,” I said. “Drones are wonderful devices, but so are guns and bombs if used by the right people. I’ve always found it crazy that anybody can walk in off the street and buy a drone, strap an explosive device to it, and blow something up. Robot Depot is just one component of the drone manufacturing and sales industry, but we’re the biggest. The industry will lobby like mad against that bill, but Robot Depot won’t be a part of the opposition. Actually we’re going to enthusiastically support the legislation. I normally hate government regulation, but in this case it’s needed.”

  “From what I’ve been told about you, Mike, you just said what I expected to hear,” Buster said. “It’s an honor to know you.”

  “Buster and I are going to go into committee now and work on some details,” Rick Bellamy said. “Ben, Mike, I trust you guys completely, but the ‘need to know’ doctrine tells us that we can’t share all information with you. Your thoughts, Buster?”

  “Let’s go kill some rats.”

  Chapter Forty Two

  “I think I know who you’ve got in mind, Buster,” Rick Bellamy said, “and I’ll bet his name begins with ‘Imam.’ ”

  “The one and only, Rick, Mr. Insider himself, a born spook and the best mole we have.”

  Mike, aka Muhammed Busharif, is the imam of a mosque in Brooklyn. Mike is six feet tall with the physique of a body builder, which he was for many years. He has to explain constantly to people in his mosque why he doesn’t wear a beard. He blames it on a rare skin condition. Truth is, Mike simply didn’t like beards. For most of his religious career, he quietly tended to the flock that worshipped at his mosque. But over time he became infuriated with all of the terrorist killings in the name of his religion. When a good friend of his daughter was killed in a bomb attack at a football game, Mike went over the edge. He’s renounced his religion, but only to a select few people. Mike’s language tends to be profane, not what you’d expect from a religious leader. Mike is the most important mole the CIA ever had, and feeds them information they could never get without an insider like him. In his mosque, Mike hears things that wouldn’t faze a non-clergyman. Mike is also famous among the select few agents from the CIA and a couple from the FBI for his disguises.

  “Let me guess that you want us to meet Mike at the Loeb Boathouse restaurant in Central Park,” Bellamy said. “I think that you volunteer to come to New York just to go there.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit it’s my favorite place, perfect for a meeting,” Buster said. “CIA Director Carlini calls the place ‘Buster’s Boathouse.’ I’ll call Imam Mike and arrange for lunch tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait to see his latest disguise,” Bellamy said.

  Chapter Forty Three

  Buster and Rick sat at a table on the outside of the Loeb Boathouse overlooking the lake. Buster preferred outside tables on the lake because exterior seats provided the best privacy. It was a warm July day, with a temperature of 85 degrees, but comfortable humidity.

  As they perused the menu, a Catholic nun walked up to their table. She wore a full habit of the Dominican Order.

  “Looks like we’re about to be solicited for a donation to something,” Bellamy said.

  “I hope you two fuckers said grace before meals,” Imam Mike said.

  They both cracked up, Bellamy squirting club soda through both nostrils.

  “Please have a seat, sister,” Buster said. “It must be hot for you to wear a full habit in this heat.”

  “Not a problem. I wear shorts and a tee shirt underneath.”

  “It’s great to see you again, Mike,” Bellamy said.

  “It’s good to see yo
u too, Rick. Please congratulate your wife Ellen. I read that she won another architectural award. She’s a hell of a talented lady.”

  “Thanks, Mike,” Bellamy said. “It doesn’t surprise me that you knew about her award. You don’t seem to miss anything.”

  “Mike, I’m guessing that you know what we want to talk about,” Buster said.

  “Let me see,” Mike said. “Could it be something to do with exploding robots and drones? What else is there to talk about over the past month? That big company, Robot Depot, seems to be involved in the majority of robot attacks, correct?”

  “Yes, we think it’s because Robot Depot is the biggest manufacturer of robots and drones,” Bellamy said.

  “There’s more to it than just a supply of bomb-carrying machines,” Mike pointed out. “Let me tell you a story that I heard two days ago. It will blow your minds. Mike Bateman, the founder and CEO of Robot Depot, served as a Marine captain in Afghanistan before he turned his mind to business. Two guys in my mosque were talking about just that, and not only Bateman’s heroics, but of a particular incident in a small village. Bateman led a platoon of Marines to capture the village, because it was a steady supplier of jihadis who killed Bateman’s men on a regular basis. The guy in my mosque said that he personally saw Bateman gun down three men, two of whom were the guy’s brothers and the third was his father. A woman, wearing a full burqa and armed with an AK-47, charged at Bateman. He shot her too. The woman was the mother of the guy in my mosque. So in one incident, Mike Bateman wiped out this guy’s entire family. And guess what? The guy’s looking for payback, and he’s already collected a lot of it. It’s obvious, to me anyway, that they’re looking to destroy Bateman’s company. But I know these types, and so do you. The guy won’t be happy until he kills Bateman, probably by himself.”