by Brad Taylor
Even at ten in the morning, the place was starting to pick up, with a DJ setting up equipment and more and more hotel guests swarming around ordering piña coladas, some already showing they were on the inebriated side. A guy in board shorts and a man bun asked me if the stool between us was open, and I said yes; then my earbud crackled.
“Pike, Pike, this is Koko. I’ve got an issue. He’s placed some sort of lock over the hotel safe.”
I raised my phone to my ear as if I was getting a call, sliding off the stool and moving toward the back of the pool area, getting some privacy behind a bunch of lounge chairs.
I said, “Koko, Pike. Say again?”
“There’s a band on the front, like the Club steering-wheel lock. It might be alarmed.”
I said, “Creed, this is Pike, you copy?”
“Roger all. Koko, is there a brand name or anything?”
He sounded breathless, I’m sure probably feeling an erection at actually getting to talk on the radio. Okay, that was harsh.
Jennifer came back, “Yeah, it reads, ‘Bloxsafe’”; then she spelled the name.
I heard nothing for a moment, then: “Stand by. I’m looking.”
I glanced at the target and saw he had something on the bar in front of him. A plastic box of some sort. I circled around the bar, the phone still up to my ear, my sunglasses hiding the fact that I was doing anything but retrieving my drink.
It was a portable hard drive.
Holy shit. He’s doing the meeting this morning. That’s why he keeps checking his watch.
12
The Nevada sun began to heat up the rock-strewn field, rapidly burning off the coolness of the morning and causing the first beads of sweat to form on Anwar Suleiman’s forehead, sprouting in his scalp for a split second before being sucked away by the avarice of the desert air. As he struggled to mount his small mason jar of death to the legs of the Phantom 3 drone, the heat was the least of his concerns.
He’d spent a day practicing with the drone, testing its flight characteristics first with just the drone, then with a weight attached. He knew he could pilot it, but he’d never really concerned himself with physically attaching the white phosphorus jar to the legs of the UAV.
It was always the little things that screwed up the experiment, something he’d learned in spades during his high school chemistry and physics classes, and a fact he wished he’d paid attention to here.
The Phantom drone had two small skids jutting out underneath it, made to protect the camera slung below. Anwar had planned on simply bending the legs together, then lightly gluing the mason jar into the cradle he’d made, but the legs were much too brittle, threatening to break apart. And that certainly wouldn’t work, because besides the jar, he needed them to hold the four carbide glass-breaker heads, one affixed to each corner of the skids.
He’d thought about it last night and decided to glue the jar’s lid to the right skid, high enough that it wouldn’t interfere with the glass breakers, then screw the jar on, leaving the payload hanging on the outside of the skids.
The glue had held up, and he’d carefully attached his jar of white phosphorous to the lid, but he now worried about the flight characteristics. He hadn’t practiced anything like this, with the load not centered on the main thrust vectors of the drone, and he wasn’t sure how the thing would fly. If he screwed up here, with everything committed, he’d end up spending another four months in his makeshift chemistry lab making more white phosphorous, and he certainly wouldn’t have the conditions he was blessed with today.
A demonstration at the base was planned, and protestors would be diverting all traffic to the east gate, causing jams and stoppages and preventing anyone from traveling more than fifteen miles an hour. In other words, unwittingly facilitating his attack plan.
He affixed his iPhone 6 to the mount on the remote control, gained link, tested the camera, then took a deep breath. He fired up the quadcopter, and it rose in the air for a brief moment, then began skipping to the right, favoring the extra weight. It picked up steam, the gimbals applying power in an effort to hover, fighting the weight with a software program that had no ability to compensate.
The device began flying straight at Anwar’s makeshift lab, furiously trying to stabilize itself. Anwar cranked the controls, twisting his arms and waist as if the body language would help, sure he was about to witness disaster. The drone went vertical, then began sliding much more slowly back toward him. He let out his pent-up breath and brought the drone overhead.
When it was directly over him, the four daggers of the carbide window breakers just above his head, he checked the video feed on the attached iPhone. It was perfect.
With only twenty minutes of flight time—and probably much less carrying his load—he had no time to spare for practicing. He launched the drone toward Highway 95, still fighting the weight of his payload.
He cleared what few trees were fronting the road and saw a mass of people around the east gate of Creech Air Force Base, some dressed as a vision of Death, complete with a scythe, others holding signs and placards. He zoomed in on one and saw NO MORE ILLEGAL DRONE KILLING.
It made him chuckle, given what he was about to do.
While known as the practice range of the Thunderbirds, Creech held another, poorly kept secret: It was the largest control location of unmanned aerial vehicles in the United States. Fully two operations groups comprising ten squadrons of Predators and Reapers were flown from this base, conducting ISR missions and strike operations worldwide, from Afghanistan to Yemen. And Somalia, where his father had been killed by one. One minute he had been training his men outside of Mogadishu, the next minute incinerated by a Hellfire missile. And now it was time to return the favor.
He did a slow turn with the drone’s camera, until he could see the caravan of vehicles fighting to get onto the base through the protestors. He went over the top of the line, maybe thirty feet above them, going from car to car. He saw a protester point toward the drone, then others begin to notice, a ripple going through the crowd.
He centered over each vehicle, peering inside. Some drivers he couldn’t make out because of the reflection of the windshield. Others held enlisted men or officers in Air Force camouflage, going to work at some part of the base, but not his target. He was looking for a particular rank and uniform. A pilot’s uniform.
Four cars down he reached a Ford Ranger pickup, the windshield clear. Inside was a man in a flight suit. Anwar clearly made out the rank of captain and the embroidered wings on his left breast, the camera strong enough to reveal the idiotic callsign “Bionic” beneath the wings.
Anwar felt his heartbeat increase. He saw the man looking upward out the windshield, trying to see what the protesters were pointing at.
He raised the drone higher, generating depth for the free fall that gravity would provide. For the first time in his life, he put his Advanced Placement physics classes to use in the real world.
Thirty-two feet per second squared.
13
I kept my eye on the target, hearing Creed come back, “Koko, it’s just a secondary lock. It clamps on the outside of the safe, over the door. It’s made to prevent maids or other hotel personnel from accessing the safe.”
“You mean like me?”
“Uhhh . . . yes, I guess, but it’s not alarmed.”
“Pike, this is Koko, what’s the call? You want me to abort or try to get through it?”
“Creed, what’s the lockset?”
“Well . . . it actually has a lockset that’s tamper resistant. Something called Mul-T-Lock. Resistant to picking and bump keys.”
Shit.
Jennifer came on. “Pike, I recommend abort. Let me get out of here and familiarize myself in our room first, then reattack.”
My target stood to leave. I said, “Can’t do it. I think today’s the meeting day, and
after it we won’t get a second chance. He might check out as soon as he’s back.”
Jennifer said, “Pike, I don’t know if I can get through this lock. It could take some time.”
“The lock is bad news, but the good news is he’ll be busy for a while. Just do your best. Put out the do-not-disturb sign and get to work.”
I could almost feel the steam coming off her head. She didn’t like improvising—even though she was pretty damn good at it. I saw the back of my target leaving the bar area, circling around the drunks at the pool.
I said, “I have to go. Just work it as long as you can. I’ll let you know if the guy’s headed back. The room is yours.”
In a completely flat voice, I heard, “Roger that.” I knew she wanted to give me some choice words, but she wouldn’t do that with Creed on the net. Thank goodness I’d had the special insight to bring him along.
I quickly left the pool area, blending in with a small crowd behind the source. He continued away from the Cove tower, headed to the side entrance of the Royal Towers. He went into the giant hallway that spanned the base of the building, moving with a purpose, and I followed behind. He passed through the stores and somewhat cheesy art displays, reaching the main entrance, a sunken dining room next to a gigantic aquarium to his left. He descended the stairs, entering a hallway with a label calling it THE DIG.
I followed him down, briefly reading a placard at the entrance. It was some sort of fake archeological tunnel describing the lost city of Atlantis.
I gave him a five-second start, then went in after him, entering a tunnel with aquarium glass on the left that gave an underground view into the lagoon that bordered the property. On the right were fake artifacts from the fabled city of Atlantis, with both sides full of families taking in the sights. My target ignored it all, forging ahead.
I keyed my radio. “Creed, Creed, target has entered something called the Dig. I need some intel. What’s down here?”
“Stand by.”
“Roger. Koko, how’s it going?”
“I’m working it. I can’t tell if the pins are seating or not. It’s not a traditional lock.”
“Keep at it. It’s like the final test for Jedi. You crack that, and I’ll give you a prize.”
I heard, “Yeah, yeah. Promises, promises.”
Creed came back and said, “It’s just an exhibit that lets you see their marine life. It’s supposed to be the archeological find of Atlantis.”
Jennifer said, “Atlantis? I knew there was a reason Grolier Recovery Services was given this mission. Can’t wait to see it.”
Jennifer’s comment was a thinly veiled joke directed at me and our cover. Ostensibly, GRS was hired by individuals, companies, or governments to facilitate the excavation or maintenance of archeological sites around the world. In reality, we used it for counterterrorism, leveraging the cover to get into nonpermissive environments and put a head on a spike. As an anthropologist and someone who really liked looking at old shit, she religiously attempted to force us to see the sites for “cover reasons,” and she was poking me in the eye with her comment, because we rarely did.
I ignored her, saying, “Where does it go?”
“It winds pretty much linearly, paralleling the hotel itself. Looks like it exits near the casino.”
Casino. Maybe that’s it.
I immediately discarded the idea. If he did anything in there, he’d be on twenty different cameras. No, the meeting was going to occur down here. If he were headed to the casino, he would have just used the hotel hallways.
I kept behind him, and he made no attempt to look at anything other than his watch, even though we were walking right next to sharks, stingrays, and other marine life. We made a couple of turns and eventually reached an anteroom with floor-to-ceiling glass, the lagoon beyond full of “ancient” artifacts and underwater creatures. In the center of the right wall was the entrance to another exhibit.
He disappeared from view, going into it. The hallway extended past the entrance, and next to the Atlantis “runes” painted on the wall was an illuminated exit sign, so the room wasn’t the way out. Afraid that it was just a small exhibit, I continued past, glancing inside.
The exhibit turned out to be a small circular room about thirty feet across, the wall ringed with mannequins in pseudo–20,000 Leagues Under the Sea scuba gear and a pit in the center breathing fog. Suspended over the pit was some sort of hanging ball—presumably something from the lost city. Behind it was the entrance to a gift shop.
My target was intently studying one of the mannequins, the first thing he’d wanted to look at since entering the Dig. The only other person in the room was a man in a white sun shirt, a baseball cap pulled low to his brow.
The linkup.
I went past the entrance, stopping on the far side near the exit sign leading to another hallway. I took a seat on a stone bench carved with make-believe runes, pretending to read a brochure. As much as I dearly would have liked to watch the meeting, my mission here was simply to protect Jennifer, and entering that small room would burn me for sure.
Four minutes later, the man with the ball cap came out, walking at a brisk pace. He went by me, following the exit sign, and I gave a warning order to Jennifer.
“Koko, this is Pike, meeting’s done. You’re running out of time.”
“Roger. I think I’ve figured this thing out. Need maybe ten minutes to get through it, then the actual safe lock, then download from his computer.”
“Roger all. I’ll let you know when he leaves and what his intentions are. If we reach the lobby of the Cove and you’re not done, put it all back like you found it and exfil. I’ll delay him if I have to.”
“Will do.”
I waited another minute, wondering what the guy was doing in the exhibit. Maybe shopping in the gift store? Thirty more seconds and I got antsy. I stood to take a peek inside, afraid I’d missed an exit he could have used. I took two steps forward; then an awful shriek split the air. I took off sprinting, rounding the corner to the exhibit. I saw a young Bahaman woman wearing an Atlantis uniform and freaking out. She was screaming incoherently and pointing into the pit below the ball.
Through the fog bubbling up from some machine below, I could see my target. His legs were still outside of the hole, lying on the rock, but his body was on an iron grate that spanned the pit, the imitation fog making it look like he was being cooked on a barbecue grill.
His face was peaceful, like he was sleeping, but his throat had a ragged tear, the blood running freely through the grate.
14
Captain Steve Austin saw the line of cars outside the gate entrance and cursed. He was still out on Highway 95, and the line snaked from the road leading to the entrance gate and spilled back onto the four-lane blacktop. Right where the gate road met the highway he could see a crowd of people, maybe a hundred in all, dressed as if it were Halloween and carrying signs.
Then he remembered: The protest was today. He should have left his house an hour earlier to get to work on time, and now he’d have hell to pay from his commander.
Not that this job wasn’t hell already.
A former F-16 pilot who’d flown combat missions in Afghanistan, he had a new job piloting an MQ-1 Predator for the 17th Reconnaissance Squadron. He’d joined the Air Force to fly—really fly—but with the explosion of requests for unmanned aerial vehicle support, the Air Force had quit relying on volunteers and had begun forcing pilots to run a tour with the UAVs. There was just too much demand and not enough pilots.
Some of his peers had volunteered and seemed to enjoy the shift work without the need to deploy, but he certainly didn’t. He despised being a drone pilot.
The missions weren’t the issue, per se. In truth, the 17th was a little bit special, in that its mission set was dictated by the National Command Authority. They didn’t get any drudgery like a route rec
onnaissance tasking from a deployed battalion. They received target packages for terrorists out to harm the United States, and he preferred it that way. If he had to fly a drone, he’d much rather work with armed UAVs over straight intelligence collection. At least with the 17th, he was making a contribution. He’d dropped plenty of munitions in support of national interests while deployed in a fighter squadron, and the strike missions with the 17th didn’t bother him at all.
It just wasn’t flying, and he couldn’t wait to get back into a real cockpit. Especially when he had to deal with idiots like the ones in front of the gate today. Ignorant of the massive intelligence picture he had, they were completely unaware that there were literally thousands of bad men out in the wild, all actively pursuing a goal of taking the naïve protesters’ lives.
He inched forward on the highway and finally turned onto the gate road, the protesters held at bay by the base security, content to chant their slogans at him as he passed. He flipped them the bird and continued on, ignoring when two of them raised their hands attempting to return the favor. He saw a third raise her hand and realized they weren’t making an obscene gesture. They were pointing.
He leaned forward into his windshield and looked up, seeing a speck about forty feet above him and rising. The car in front of him moved, and he followed another ten feet, then leaned forward again. The speck hovered right above his windshield about seventy feet in the air. Then it began to fall.
It took the rest of Steve Austin’s life to realize that the object was growing in size. By the time he recognized it as an out-of-control commercial drone, it had smashed into his windshield, spikes on the skids shattering the glass and the weight of the drone punching a jagged hole.
He felt liquid splash all over his upper body and snapped his head back in confusion. Then the confusion turned to infinite pain as his face and neck burst into white-hot flame. He threw open the door, giving the protestors an event that finally stopped their chanting. Screaming in agony, he ran right at them, his hair now alight and his face melting as the white phosphorus burrowed into his flesh as if it were alive.