Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  Tubes that I took for propeller housings have rotated, exerting downforce. It reminds me of Air Force Harrier jets that can take off and land vertically. I chuckle, thinking of an eighties action hero dangling off the nose of one in a popular move from two decades ago. If they could do it then, why not now?

  Up this close, I can see a blackened crack in the underside of the right wing. The entire thing is translucent containing some sort of solar panel. The sections around the hole are blackened and dark, while the other sections glow slightly blue. From my viewpoint, there’s just this one hit, although it’s ragged and two or more bullets could have caused it. Apparently, it’s not a mission critical area. It hovers above, blowing warm air on me as I remain in a prone position.

  What looks like a closed circuit camera is on the bottom. It’s a dome embedded in the underside, a yellow patch moving about on the surface. Like a giant yellow eyeball. There is a second camera with a more typical looking lens aperture as well. When I stare directly at it, the end turns and focuses.

  “Well, hello to you to,” I whisper, dragging my arm over the floor of the raft looking for the flare gun. “Hold that thought.”

  It’s unlikely I could hurt my adversary, but the thought of the flare bouncing off the underside gives me happy thoughts, something seriously lacking the past two days. Slowly, I slide my arm out, putting my it over my head. I move it over the warm dry rubber, my fingers eventually brushing the hard plastic handle of the flare gun. Before I can think the command for my hand to grasp it, the Drone drowns me in wind as it rises up and moves away. I tuck the flare gun in my waist band for another time.

  “I’ll be right here,” I whisper, then whistle a bit. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  …

  Rain, pouring down thunderous rain comes at dawn on the third day. It’s cold, but I delight in scooping rainwater up in both hands and pouring it down my dry throat. The sea pushes the raft around, wind buffeting me from all directions, but all I can think about is how good the water tastes. I’m greedy at first, choking when the first few swigs hit my dried-out insides. When I am unable to drink anymore, I collapse against the side in several inches of accumulated water and shiver.

  By noon the rain abates, the humid heat landing on me like a wet blanket. If the sun doesn’t dry out the water, I should have a few days’ worth from the storm. For the first time since crashing here, I need to use the ladies room. In an effort to keep the water inside the raft drinkable, or at least less disgusting, I drop off the side and float when nature calls. I dangle after finishing, cooling from the afternoon sun. A long shadow paints the raft in shade, passing over me as it moves. When I peek up the Drone hovers a hundred feet overhead.

  “Look who’s back,” I grunt, hauling myself back in the raft. “I’m sorry, but I absolutely refuse to die until you leave.”

  Overhead, my captor hovers, drawing within twenty feet. The tiny lens on the second camera dials in and out, studying me. I sit cross legged for an hour, but when nothing changes, I lie down and watch. It’s frustrating, as I can’t possibly know what it wants. Before I can mull that over any further my phone rings. This is shocking in several ways; the most obvious being that I was under the impression the Drone was blocking the reception. It’s stuck in one of the black rubber loops that go around the top, so I retrieve it, one eye on the sky. It’s not a call, but a simple text.

  DARIUS: I will agree to ten turns of peace in exchange for 400 gold coins?

  “Ten turns of what?” I stutter, but it vibrates again.

  DARIUS: I will agree to ten turns of peace in exchange for 400 gold coins?

  I gawk at the sky, then back at the phone. Am I talking to the Drone?

  DARIUS: Do you accept my terms?

  ME: Is this the Drone?

  DARIUS: Do you accept my terms?

  “Let’s assume that’s a yes,” I shrug, unsure how to pay, were I so inclined.

  Would he actually call off the dogs if I did? Could I end this somehow? The Drone, apparently wanting to be called Darius, buzzes overhead. Another text scrolls across my phone.

  DARIUS: Do you accept my terms?

  After exchanging glances with my persistent new friend, I reply via text as that’s how he’s communicating with me.

  ME: Define peace?

  DARIUS: I would end this siege.

  ME: And you would unblock my phone so I could call for help?

  DARIUS: Yes, are we agreed?

  ME: Sure, but I don’t have any gold coins on me.

  His replies have been instantaneous, but now the screen remains blank. It would appear the Governments Top Secret Drone has decided to extort me. To what end? Is he saving up for a Netflix subscription? The phone vibrates.

  DARIUS: 2 coins could be fashioned out of 1 ounce of gold. Today’s gold price is $1,327.00 an ounce. I require 400 coins for ten turns of peace.

  ME: Okay?

  DARIUS: $265,400.00

  I find this situation amusing, although in my position it would be better to concentrate on not dying of exposure. Is this thing for real? I decide to go with the flow and state the obvious.

  ME: Do you accept debit cards?

  DARIUS: Yes, enter card number please.

  “Well now, this just got interesting,” I cringe, pulling my wallet out of the water collected in the raft.

  Although soaked, the card is there. I doubt you could get the magnetic strip to work in a scanner, but I enter the sixteen-digit account number and send.

  DARIUS: Pin number please.

  “Right,” I mutter, entering the last four numbers of my old social security number.

  DARIUS: Please wait for confirmation.

  “Whatever you say.”

  The wind from the fans blows my hair around and I pick at it nervously. Is this thing going to raid my bank account? Given its ability to hack airplane avionics, couldn’t it steal money from banks without extorting it? The phone vibrates, but it’s not him.

  From Bank of America: Withdrawal logged at 00:06:33 Transaction complete.

  “That’s crazy, I even got a receipt,” I remark as another text buzzes the phone.

  DARUIS: Your account has been debited $265,400.00 I will observe 10 turns of peace. Further attempts to achieve a technology victory will result is a resumption of hostilities.

  All at once, the Drone darts up and away. I am left kneeling in the collected water watching it disappear into the clouds. On my phone, the bars return as promised. I dial Hal and wait for it to connect. What pray tell is a Technology Victory?

  I mentally revisit the conversation with Goth Chick, for lack of a better name. This feels like a game. Did Elliott Weiss somehow upload Dynasty Evolved onto the Quantum Cube?

  Chapter Nineteen

  I have no idea what day it is when the plane touches down at Andrews Airforce Base. My lungs tingle, calling out for a cigarette. They should offer a quit smoking plan where the addict gets stuck on a raft with no food or water until they quit. I smile to myself, then put a smoke in the corner of my mouth. Is the passing thought of quitting a sign that I am over my maudlin death wish? When I hit the bottom of the stairs and step out on the tarmac, a man in a grey jumpsuit shakes his head vigorously.

  “Sorry, I’ve been on this thing forever,” I complain, pulling the unlit cigarette from between my lips. “Where?”

  He points to a silver sedan a hundred yards away.

  “I meant where can I smoke” I whine, overly crabby, even for me.

  “They are waiting for you,” he explains, one hand on the staircase railing.

  As it seems unlikely he will reveal anything further, I pull my rolling suitcase across the concrete desert. Three small support vehicles pass by on the way, none acknowledging me in any way. At the car, Agent Katz leans, arms crossed in a silver suit jacket and matching slacks. Before I can speak, she slips in the front seat, wagging a hand over the roof to indicate I should join her. When I roll up to her door and point at my suitcase, the lid
on the trunk pops up with a click.

  “Don’t get out,” I yell, placing it in the trunk. “I’ll get it myself.”

  We roll down a line of metal sided buildings and then pass through three separate stops where Katz has to produce identification. We come out on Pennsylvania Avenue heading west.

  “Meeting in the West Wing?” I pick at her, lighting the cigarette and putting the window down a few inches.

  “Not,” she frowns, shaking her head slightly.

  “Where?” I exhale, a line of smoke exiting out the cracked window.

  “I’m just driving you to the meet.”

  “Right, right, of course,” I nod, tapping the cigarette on the top of the glass and watch the ash blow down the side of the car. “How’d you wind up working for Hal anyway?”

  She doesn’t reply. I listen to the wind whistle past the cracked window before forming another query.

  “Was secret agent school difficult?” I poke at her. “On a scale of one to ten, ten being excellent and one being poor, how would you rate your overall job satisfaction?”

  “No comment.”

  “Spoil sport.”

  “I can say babysitting you isn’t as glamourous as it looked in the brochure,” she grouses, then stares down the road as we get on US-66.

  “Things a little slow for you?”

  “Oh, I think the riots will get worse before they get better. That nonsense is keeping everyone busy.”

  “Riots?” I shrug, then receive a vacant look. “Hey, I been on out of the loop for over a week. How about a little information?”

  “ATM’s started spitting out cash yesterday,” she explains. “New York City, Boston, Chicago and Baltimore. When people would use them a wad of random bills came out.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Nope, once it started, people lined up to get in on it. After an hour, the extra money stopped coming on every transaction. It spaced out with no pattern. Sometimes every third time, sometimes more.”

  “The lines get ugly?”

  “Oh yeah,” she exhales. “Police stepped in, but in most cases it was the rougher neighborhoods that were affected.”

  “They get a handle on it? Can’t they just shut the ATM’s down?”

  “They tried, but for everyone they shut down, another one started doing it. You can’t shut down every ATM in America. There’s Marshall Law in the affected cities. In Baltimore the National Guard stepped in, then people started shooting.”

  “You’re pulling my leg?”

  “I wish, they’re reporting two-hundred and sixteen dead, another three-hundred wounded, but no one really knows. You can’t get anywhere near the area and most of downtown is on fire.”

  “Over some ATM’s kicking out overpayments?”

  “Started that way, but then a guy pushes another guy,” she remarks annoyed. “A fight ensues. Then some random idiot fires a gun. Next thing you know a cop gets hit, then Law Enforcement returns fire, suddenly it’s police brutality.”

  “This actually happened?”

  “Well, I wasn’t there, but that’s the scenario being reported. Last night in Baltimore the All Lives Matter protesters showed up, looting and burning down their own neighborhoods. This gets on the news, so some local militia armed with AR-15’s join the fray and Michigan Avenue is transformed into Beirut.”

  “So, someone hack the banks?” I suggest, shaking my head to get the image provided out of my thoughts.

  “Oh yeah, some guy calling himself Darius. He’s all over the internet.”

  I freeze, my limbs locked by the endorphin rush. I think back to Hal’s admission that this was all related.

  “Did, did you say Darius,” I stutter, wondering if I supplied the money for this nightmare.

  “Yeah, he took over Twitter and a half dozen social media sites. Started out by saying the Government is lying to you, then told everyone to check the ATMs.”

  As it sinks in, I find myself worried that it’s my money papering the streets. Can I be that self-absorbed? I need talk to Goth Chick and figure out what a Technology Victory might include. What was her name? Her business card is floating around in the ocean. I had joked that we were headed to the White House for a top-secret meeting, but upon further review that’s probably where we should be going. Why didn’t we meet Hal at Andrews?

  All sort of questions keep me awake as we drive into the night, finally pulling over in Herndon, Virginia. We valet the car in front of the Crowne Plaza, but bypass the front desk. Katz walks me over to Dooley’s Bar and Grill, located just off the lobby and points to a booth in the back. I follow her instructions, looking back over my shoulder and noting she pulled up a stool at the bar. In the back, I find Hal sitting in a booth. His cuffs are rolled back over his muscular forearms, the tie loose around his neck. He runs a hand over his bald heat and smiles, two rows of white teeth in sharp contrast to his caramel skin.

  “You look good. How was Gilligan’s Island,” he smirks, waving for me to have a seat.

  I do, noticing an empty rocks glass with a few lone cubes melting. A waitress starts over, but I motion to Hal’s glass and put up two fingers. Hals drinking, so things must be bad.

  “Looks pretty calm here given the rioting,” I remark, tapping my index finger on the table.

  “It’s very area specific. They are doing their best to keep people from entering the affected cities.”

  “Why isn’t the military telling everyone what’s going on? It would seem this has escalated beyond just trying to keep it quiet.”

  “We’d prefer not to admit to starting a war with China, or taking credit for riots along the eastern seaboard.”

  “Care to elaborate on who would prefer not to admit to starting a war?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Are we actually at war with China?”

  “Not yet, thank heaven,” he exhales deeply, then grows quiet as the waitress sets down two glasses.

  I say nothing until she’s out of earshot. Hal is drinking very expensive scotch, and I wince a little when it burns my throat.

  “I assume you’re seeing everything on my phone,” I cough, pulling it out and setting it on the table. “Under that assumption, you’re aware that Darius isn’t a random hacker.”

  “Yes.”

  “Katz isn’t aware?”

  “Not yet, unless you told her?”

  “No, she’s so chatty I never get a word in.”

  “Funny.”

  “I haven’t been near an ATM since making landfall. Did your Drone empty my bank account?” I inquire, then wait for an answer that doesn’t come. “Should I be standing in an ATM line, hoping to get lucky?”

  “It deducted only the money you agreed to pay, but twice that has already been pumped out of ATM’s. Safe to say he’s getting the money from multiple sources.”

  “It’s likely Darius negotiated peace agreements with more than just me.”

  “Why you at all?”

  “I did shoot at him, it, whatever Darius is,” I stammer.

  Hals frowns, but pulls a vibrating phone out his breast pocket. After looking at the screen, he holds up a finger and excuses himself to take the call. I watch him pass by Agent Katz at the bar on his way out. She remains seated, leaning over a bottle of beer and chatting with a guy a few seats down.

  On a flat screen hanging over the bar, CNN is showing video of a riot in front of a bank. It’s not live footage, just re-runs from a previous broadcast. Under it runs the tickertape recap of the day’s events.

  BREAKING NEWS… China’s navy in East China Seas standoff with U.S.

  I sip my drink and watch the scrolling news at the bottom of the screen. Baltimore, Chicago, Atlanta, Philadelphia are all under Marshall Law. In Jacksonville, the Governor of Florida sent the National Guard to surround the banks and Rednecks driving huge trucks cut them to ribbons with automatic weapons. This is what we have become. A few extra twenty’s pop out of some ATM’s and a social media campaign turns a
thousand people into savages.

  Hal returns, exhaling loudly as he slips into the booth.

  “Whatever happened to that United flight over Cape Canaveral?”

  “Once you chased off the Drone, the controls freed up and they made an emergency landing in Ft. Lauderdale.”

  “So technically,” I sigh, holding up my glass for his to toast. “I saved the lives of a couple hundred people.”

  “You’re a hero,” he smirks, taping my glass.

  “Clay’s family won’t think so.”

  “That was unfortunate, but more people are going to die before this is over.”

  “Any ideas on how you’re going to end it?” I ask, holding my near empty glass up, but unable to make eye contact with the waitress.

  “I was hoping you might have a suggestion.”

  I have had quite a bit of time to think about this since my rescue at sea. There is clearly some connection between Elliot Weiss and the Tesla Drone, but I’d need to talk to Goth Chick to be sure.

  “I met someone in L.A. that might shed some light on this.”

  “Who might that be?” Hal jumps at this nugget of information. “I’ll have them brought in.”

  “I don’t think that will work on her. Let me go see her without an army of guys in black suits.”

  “Time is of the essence.”

  “Then you can help me out,” I nod, sliding my phone across the table. “I met a girl when I was at E3, but lost her number.”

  He looks very confident, then pulls a white envelope out his suit jacket pocket and pushes it across the table.

  “What’s this?”

  “Karen Darlene Kingston, thirty-five, lives near Wichita Kansas,” he recites, rendering the envelope a moot point. “She works at a Dairy Queen in a small town called Derby.”

  “I knew she was older than thirty,” I chuckle as the waitress sets a fresh glass down without me having ordered it.

  “Go easy on that,” Hal warns.

  “I can handle myself.”

  “I’m sure you can, but it’s fifteen bucks a shot,” he raises an eyebrow. “And that’s a double.”

  “On your tab of course.”