by Richard Bard
It was a picture of Marshall exiting a bathroom at a rest stop on the California/Nevada border. They’d stopped there yesterday.
“I’d taken off the mustache and glasses to wash my face...”
Tony leaned forward and took the phone from Marshall’s hand. “Don’t beat yourself up. It coulda happened to any of us.” As he read through the text messages below the photo, the tension on Tony’s face seemed to dissipate. “Besides, I’ve got good news.”
“Huh?” Marshall said. He and the rest of them perked up.
“It was a chance sighting by a single biker who happened to be at the rest stop. The bastard tailed us while he rounded up his buddies for a quick payday.”
Francesca frowned. “So, what does that mean?”
“Two things,” Tony said. He stood and exchanged his Yankees baseball cap for the wide-brim fishing hat hanging on the wall. The attached lures jiggled when he adjusted it over his shaved scalp. “First off, we keep our disguises on at all times.” He looked pointedly at Marshall. “Secondly, now that we’ve decimated the bikers’ ranks, for the time being they’re likely more worried about the cops than us. Let’s hope so anyway. And since it’s not likely the owners of this rig are gonna notice it missing in the next six hours, pretty soon we’ll be holed up where nobody can find us.” He plopped into his seat. “In other words, we’re in the clear.”
Insha’Allah, Ahmed thought. God willing.
Chapter 7
Los Padres National Forest, Southern California
THE STREAMING VIDEO from the drone was clear and steady, and Farhad breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the RV pull out of the casino parking lot onto the highway. The twenty-two-year-old sat back in his chair and exchanged a look with the eight frustrated brothers in arms gathered around him. Their prey had been scared off right before he and his team could spring their own trap.
They were in an open area at one end of a hundred-year-old, twenty-stall horse barn that they’d converted into a warehouse and control room. Farhad had purchased the two-hundred-acre parcel—which also included a rundown five-bedroom house and several outbuildings—four years ago, using a sizeable portion of the trust funds left to him by the team’s benefactor. The isolated property was ideal for their purposes. It was nestled in a forested canyon east of Lake Castaic in the Los Padres National Forest, a forty-five-minute drive north of Los Angeles, and situated at the end of a half-mile dirt road that twisted through the dense forest of pines, far away from prying eyes.
“Bronson’s family and friends are clever,” Farhad said, bearing no hint of a foreign accent. “I’ll give them that.” The name on the UCLA finance and accounting diploma he’d received the previous month was Franklin Lawrence Anderson, but his real name was Farhad Sayd Rahman. He was five eleven, lean, with olive skin and dark eyes that hinted of his Middle Eastern roots. But, like the others on his team, the childhood cosmetic surgery he’d received to soften his features gave him the look of a western European. It suited his persona as the orphaned child of third-generation Italian immigrants.
“Dude, the stupid bastards were lucky,” his friend, Jamal, aka Jimmy, said in his adopted California accent. He sounded disgusted, but his anger didn’t diminish his focus on the task at hand. He sat beside Farhad at a console facing a large, wall-mounted flat screen, his hands making deft adjustments to the twin joysticks controlling the drone. Jamal wore a tank top, shorts, sandals, and a UCLA baseball cap backward, his dyed-blond locks spilling from beneath. Like Farhad, Jimmy had taken up surfing four years ago as part of his assumed identity, and he made a point of dressing the part. He’d graduated cum laude with degrees in information sciences and telecommunication. “Those biker assholes were amateurs,” he added.
They’d watched the entire scene unfold via the drone’s feed, barely able to contain their shock when the bikers showed up in their kill zone. All eyes had turned to Farhad. But he’d absorbed their worried glances and angry stares without reacting, because despite the setback, the group had maintained discipline. To do otherwise was unthinkable. It had been drilled into them since childhood.
Nevertheless, the team was uneasy.
Farhad, however, recognized Allah’s hand at work.
He focused his attention on the screen, where the surveillance and delivery drone they referred to as Pelican-1 continued to track the RV from an altitude of one thousand feet above ground level, or AGL. Pelican-1 was a version of the sUAS—small unmanned aircraft system—originally created for commercial and public safety surveillance operations requiring long-endurance drones with interchangeable payload capabilities.
Amir, aka Albert, who was part of the five-man team sent to Lake Tahoe, had levered his mechanical engineering genius to take the lead role in modifying the structural components of the craft to their unique purposes. But like so many other projects the team had sweated over in the past several years to prepare for the following week’s attack, the final product had been a team effort.
In the case of their Pelican drones, Jamal and Tarik, aka Tom, had used their telecommunication and electrical engineering expertise to perfect the satellite link and wireless booster systems necessary to bring the drones to tactical readiness. Pelican-1 was a single-engine aircraft with a solar/electric propulsion system that could keep it aloft for as long as fifteen hours at a cruising speed of seventy miles per hour. Its high-strength carbon fiber construction made it light enough to shoulder launch, and the parachute retrieval system meant there was no need for an expansive landing area. The wingspan varied from ten to fourteen feet depending on payload requirements, and the modular design allowed it to be folded to fit in the trunk of a car. Most importantly, like all the drones the team had created, it could carry some very interesting payloads.
This was no hobby drone.
Farhad watched as the RV picked up speed on a long straightaway through the trees. There was a fair amount of traffic on either side of the road, and that made their task more difficult. He focused on a series of S-turns in the distance ahead.
He motioned to Ghazi, aka George the geek, who sat on the other side of Jamal, wearing a virtual reality headset. “They’ll slow in those turns,” Farhad said. “Are you ready?”
“Of course,” Ghazi said. He may have been the shortest of the group, but as a drone pilot, no one stood taller. He was the top flyer on the drone racing circuit, the fast-growing sport that catered to the booming market of hobby drone enthusiasts. He interlocked his fingers, cracked his knuckles, and scooted his chair closer to the console.
“Prepare for release of Striker One,” Ghazi said, referring to one of four mini drones attached to the underside of Pelican-1. He lowered the VR goggles over the thick lenses of his eyeglasses, and pushed the boom microphone aside. All of their drones could respond to either digital or verbal commands, but in this case Ghazi had used his voice solely for the purpose of coordinating his actions with Jamal, who controlled Pelican-1. It was a sequence they’d practiced over and over again, and they adhered to a strict regimen every time they performed it. Soon enough, their lives would depend on faultless execution in all their roles. The rest of the team edged closer.
Jamal made an entry on his console. The drone’s wings leveled and the image on the screen steadied. “Pelican-1 autopilot enabled,” he said. “Altitude one thousand AGL.”
“One thousand AGL, check,” Ghazi said, his head moving as he studied the scene and monitored his instruments in the virtual world.
“Heading zero eight zero, speed fifty knots,” Jamal said.
Ghazi tapped an entry on his console. “Heading zero eight zero, speed five zero knots, check.”
“Ready for release.”
Ghazi held his twin joysticks in a relaxed grip. “Release on my count. Three…two…one. Release.”
There was a shudder on the video stream, and a moment later a cigar box-sized hexacopter drone slipped into view at the bottom of the screen. It moved to one side and flew in formation with Peli
can-1 while Ghazi checked its systems. It was a modified racing drone, capable of lightning fast dives, tumbles, and turns, and could reach speeds pushing eighty miles per hour.
“Wireless link established,” Ghazi said, referring to the all-important link that would allow Striker One to maneuver beyond line of sight with Pelican-1. The powerful signal booster aboard Pelican-1 was like a mobile cell tower. “All systems go.” An instant later, Striker One snapped a roll and dove out of sight.
Farhad said, “Switch to—”
“Already done,” Jamal said, as the wall screen transitioned to the first-person view Ghazi saw through his headset from Striker One’s camera.
Farhad’s breath caught as the forest canopy rushed toward them on the big screen, the image spiraling as Ghazi rolled the drone during its dive. A beat later Striker One was in the trees, limbs and branches whipping past as it leveled off just feet from the ground. It continued to pick up speed as it jinked left and right through the forest like a pod racer in a Star Wars film. Farhad found himself leaning and swaying with each turn, grinning at the thrill of it.
“Approaching the target,” Jamal said, as he used the smaller video screen at his console to track the flight from Pelican-1’s perspective. A jiggling digital square clung to Striker One as it raced through the trees on a parallel track with the road. A larger square wrapped around the RV, which slowed as it entered the first S-turn on the highway. The racing drone gained on it fast.
On the big screen, Striker One’s peripheral camera view revealed the RV to the left of its track. Ghazi’s focus, however, was ahead, as his hands—assisted by the drone’s automated terrain avoidance software—maneuvered the speeding aircraft along its path. Farhad’s pulse quickened.
There was a gap in the oncoming traffic, and when the RV began its sweep around the next bend, Jamal said, “On my count. Three…two…one. Break!”
The racing drone snapped toward the road, jumped skyward, and darted over the RV, matching the vehicle’s pace as it hovered inches above its roof. It edged behind the protruding air conditioner unit, and the image on the wall screen steadied as it took cover from the buffeting wind. The drone hovered there, the camera feed now limited to a close-up view of the rusting air conditioner. This was the most critical aspect of the task, and everyone in the room tensed. After several long seconds, the image jiggled, Striker One shot skyward, and Ghazi said, “Package delivered.” As the drone gained altitude, the RV image grew small.
Farhad leaned close to Jamal’s smaller screen as Pelican-1’s high-definition camera zoomed on the RV’s rooftop. The small transmitter was now resting behind the AC unit, affixed there by a military-grade instant adhesive.
Ghazi tapped an entry, swiveled his boom microphone to his mouth, and issued a verbal command to his drone: “Striker One. Return to ship.” He released the joysticks as the software took over, and the tension ebbed in the room.
Farhad nodded to himself as Striker One’s camera feed swiveled upward to reveal Pelican-1 cruising above it. Even though he’d witnessed the automated docking process many times before, it never ceased to impress him. He felt a swell of pride at his team’s performance. The smaller drone slowed its approach, and the undercarriage of the mother ship filled the screen. The twin pods extending beneath each wing resembled the weapon pods of a fighter aircraft, except in this case the four pods supported Striker drones instead of missiles. As Striker One maneuvered to dock with the lone empty pod, its lens traversed the underside of its three sister drones. One was armed with an incendiary device, and two held C4 explosive charges.
“We could have simply killed them and been done with it,” Jamal said. There were nods of agreement from a few of the others.
Farhad tensed. They’d been over this before. “Not without Jake Bronson,” he said.
“But he wasn’t with them,” Jamal said.
Farhad sensed the accusatory undertone of his words. His best friend had advised more than once against proceeding with this side mission without confirmation of the American’s presence, so it had been a blow to discover Bronson was missing from the group. They hadn’t known that at first. They’d tracked the caravan with Pelican-1, but the vehicles’ tinted windows had made it impossible to confirm his presence. If it hadn’t been for the unexpected interference of the biker gang, their own plans to take down the man and his friends could have cost them dearly.
Their plan had proceeded perfectly until then. Everything had been in place. They’d lured the rabbit out of its hole by posting videos of the hidden entrance to the secret government facility in northern Nevada, suggesting to the world the global terrorist was hidden there. Farhad hadn’t known if it was true, but he’d played a strong hunch. He’d learned of the location from his mentor, Hadi, who’d been in contact with the team that had infiltrated the facility seven years ago in an attempt to capture Bronson and steal the pyramidal artifact housed there. The bluff had worked, and the caravan had departed shortly thereafter. Once Farhad and his team had determined which way it was headed, they’d used Striker drones to start the fires that closed the highways, forcing the caravan to stop for the night. That had bought the time necessary to get their five-man team to the scene to plant the wheel-well charges in the government SUVs. At that point, all they’d had left to do was wait for traffic to clear so the caravan could once again hit the road, unaware its every move was being monitored from above, or that an attack team awaited its arrival on a lonely stretch of highway ahead.
But the bikers had shown up.
Farhad said, “Bronson’s family and friends think they’ve escaped. We’ll track them, and he will show up.”
“He wasn’t with them at the airport, either,” Jamal reminded him.
Farhad kept his anger in check, refusing to take the bait. He thought back to the video uploaded minutes after the infamous “global terrorist confession” had been broadcast a week earlier. Someone had recognized the big cop, Tony Johnson, and had shot a quick video as he and his allies were being ushered by black-suited government types into a secure corridor. Part of the group had disappeared around the corner before the video began, but the recording clearly captured Tony, the actress Lacey Hunter, her husband…and Bronson’s wife.
An hour later, they’d been spotted boarding two nondescript helicopters that had headed north out of the city. But Bronson—the so-called Brainman who had killed Farhad’s and his friends’ families, destroyed their village, and whom Farhad had thought was killed during a nuclear explosion in Venezuela seven years ago—hadn’t been among them. So Farhad had assumed the man was being escorted separately.
Jamal hadn’t shared that belief.
“What proof is there that he’s even alive?” Jamal said, interrupting his thoughts.
Farhad squeezed the handles of his chair. “He. Is. Alive.” Pelican-1’s video feed once again occupied the wall screen, and his gaze bore into the fleeing RV, as if by sheer will alone he would make Jake Bronson appear.
Jamal opened his mouth to speak, but Farhad looked at him and Jamal thought twice about it. The others in the room stilled as well, and the sudden quiet broke through Farhad’s dark veil. He took two long breaths before swiveling around to acknowledge them, locking onto their gazes one by one.
“Don’t be misled by my intensity. Yes, we—more than anyone—share a justified need for revenge against Bronson and his followers. But trust me, I won’t allow that passion to interfere with our primary mission. We’ve worked too many years, and have sacrificed too much, to place the position we find ourselves in today at risk. I know that. Our time is at hand, and we will once and for all bring America to its knees.” He switched to Dari, the native language they’d all shared as children. “It is Allah’s will, and we are His warriors, and it will be done.”
Jamal nodded, Ghazi sat taller, and everyone’s expressions hardened with resolve.
Farhad continued. “But remember that capturing Bronson is about much more than our personal revenge. Tho
usands of like-minded warriors hide in the wings of America’s population, waiting for the spark that will ignite the fires of revolution within them. They’ll flock to our cause once our attacks begin. And if at the same time we can hold up the head of the man responsible for bringing the world to the precipice of annihilation, then the disenfranchised, trampled underpinnings of this corrupt society will rise up to swell our ranks, and America shall finally know the same daily fear that our families, and the families of so many others around the world, must live with each and every day.”
He glanced beyond them to the racks of shelves on either side of the long warehouse space, to the rows of hundreds of drones wired into the feeder lines connecting them to the server bank. “And it’s poetic justice that we’ll use their own technology to make it happen.”
Chapter 8
Ojai, California
I WAS USUALLY PRETTY SMART, but I still couldn’t sort out what had happened earlier when the bus was driving away from the inn at Lake Tahoe. One moment I was sitting there sharing M&Ms with Ellie and Strawberry, and the next my mind was spinning into a vision of my dad. I got chills just thinking about it.
Dad was surrounded by blackness, and I panicked at the thought of him reaching out to me from beyond the grave. My heart pounded in my throat as I flashed on my diagnosis and the grim realization I’d be joining him soon. But before my next breath, the vision had shifted. My dad’s visage disappeared, and I was transported to an underground cavern. The sliding image was vague and foggy, but I sensed someone there just beyond the mist, someone who wasn’t my dad. My skin crawled, less from fear than from the sudden, unexplainable need to find that place. It pulled at every part of me, and like a find-my-phone app, I instantly knew where it was located.
Exactly 6,332.4 miles away.
My brain had been struggling to explain it when once again I sensed my dad’s presence. I’d called out to him but he didn’t answer. Instead the vision vanished, and I woke from the moment to see Ellie and Strawberry twisted around in their seats and staring out the bus’s rear window. I followed their gaze to see smoke rising above the inn.