The Archangel Drones

by Joe Nobody

  The Archangel Drones

  By

  Joe Nobody

  Copyright © 2014

  Kemah Bay Marketing, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Edited by:

  E. T. Ivester

  D. Allen

  www.joenobodybooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and no relationship to any living person is implied. The locations, facilities, and geographical references are set in a fictional environment.

  Other Books by Joe Nobody:

  Holding Your Ground: Preparing for Defense if it All Falls Apart

  The TEOTWAWKI Tuxedo: Formal Survival Attire

  Without Rule of Law: Advanced Skills to Help You Survive

  Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival

  Holding Their Own II: The Independents

  Holding Their Own III: Pedestals of Ash

  Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

  Holding Their Own V: The Alpha Chronicles

  Holding Their Own VI: Bishop’s Song

  Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star

  Holding Their Own IX: The Salt War

  The Home Schooled Shootist: Training to Fight with a Carbine

  Apocalypse Drift

  The Little River Otter

  The Olympus Device: Book One

  The Olympus Device: Book Two

  Secession: The Storm

  The Ebola Wall

  Foreword by Joe Nobody

  The drone technology depicted in this work is real. It exists today and is commercially available through the internet, a local hobby store, or your favorite big box gadget dealer. For no more than the price of a top-tier hunting rifle and optic, any American can purchase the equipment depicted within the pages of this manuscript.

  It is common knowledge that unmanned aerial vehicles are being utilized over American soil by government agencies ranging from the U.S. Border Patrol to rural police departments. Many citizens feel their privacy is already threatened by such devices. Private ownership of these machines can only compound that issue, especially if the sky becomes pudding-thick with cameras, microphones, and memory cards.

  But what if that technology were turned around and used to curb abusive authority? What if the average citizen could protect his family or business against overstepping agencies or those guilty of government corruption? In this work, I use an example out of today’s headlines, the excessive use of force by law enforcement. In reality, I could have penned the IRS or the Bureau of Land Management or ATF as the antagonist. There is no shortage of potential villains that could be inserted into the story line – our world seems to produce a target rich environment of agencies who have been caught blurring the lines of the law.

  Which brings me to the police.

  The law enforcement tactics and methods described herein, as well as the information pertaining to the legal system, are based on fact and actual events. While it may seem I have a bone to pick with Harris County, Texas, that isn’t the case. The same can be said of the Houston Police Department. I selected my hometown as a basis for this fictional work due to the availability of experts and the proximity to resources required for background research. No reference to any living individual is intended. If you are ever pulled over by HPD, I’m sure you’ll find the officers are as professional as those serving in any law enforcement department in the country.

  I am not anti-police or a cop hater. In fact, the opposite is true. Throughout my professional career, I have worked with, trained beside, instructed, and generally supported law enforcement professionals at local, state, and federal levels. I have no ax to grind. I’ve never been arrested - not even a single traffic ticket in the last 20 years. Not one member of my immediate family has spent a single night in the gulag.

  Like many Americans, I have relatives who patrol the streets. They are good, honorable people, the kind you want alongside if trouble comes your way. As I wrote this book, I often thought of them, and other dear friends who carry a badge and gun.

  But within law enforcement, there are always the rare few who take authority too far, abusing the public trust. These predators infuriate me, deserve community wrath, and should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. While typically a small percentage of any policing organization, they can destroy the reputation of entire departments, eroding the people’s faith and generating widespread ill will. The bad apple can indeed rot the whole barrel, especially with the advent of cell phone cameras, internet video, and security monitor systems on practically every street corner.

  For this title, I conducted extensive research to create fiction within a structure of reality. This effort included interviews with numerous law enforcement personnel, an in-depth study of three different Department of Justice investigations, a review of court documents from no less than a dozen individual cases, and hours of online fact finding.

  I read hundreds of newspaper articles, watched countless videos posted on the internet, and struggled through piles of FBI and DOJ reports.

  As an author who pens fiction, it would be easy to dwell on the negative side of any organization, group, or department, including peace officers. I could hype the evil, monstrous examples and paint a picture of draconian doom. Doing so would be dishonest and result in bad storytelling.

  But it would be just as deceitful if I ignored the truth, no matter how distasteful or troubling. Abusive law enforcement personnel do exist. They always have and probably always will. The primary difference today is that video technology exposes their presence more than ever before, and it’s not pretty.

  The reader will find characters on both sides of the good/bad cop equation in this book, because that is reality, which in my opinion, leads to better storytelling.

  It is my greatest wish that this tale engender new awareness and understanding by citizens and peace officers alike. But more importantly, I hope it entertains as a story. From the beginning, that’s all it was ever meant to be.

  Enjoy,

  Joe

  Chapter 1

  Peelian Principle

  The police are the public, and the public are the police.

  The game was a real barn-burner. On practically every play, one side or the other of the packed gymnasium erupted, the rabid fans surging to their feet, screaming to the rafters. It was the city championship, two of the best high school teams in the country locked in a desperate contest.

  Officer Marwick stood with his back to the wall, maintaining a courtside position that would have been denied anyone not in uniform or part of the athletic staff. He was a peace officer, and a large, mean-looking one at that. He could stand anywhere he wanted.

  Broadcasting such an unapproachable demeanor was as much a defense mechanism as a marker of aloof authority. Such a social barrier was necessary because citizens were constantly approaching policemen and saying stupid shit, often at the worst possible times.

  Marwick could remember a time not long ago when he was trying to coax a belligerent drunk out of his pickup, the inebriated citizen stopping in the center lane of a busy expressway and causing a traffic hazard. A new vehicle stopped, blocking yet another lane while the middle-aged driver rolled down his window and inquired, “Excuse me, Officer, but can you tell me where Portway Avenue is?”

  Anyone who wore the uniform could cite similar experiences. Folks who didn’t seem to be able to follow mobile telephone turn-by-turn instructions often saw cops as the human version of Google Maps. People approached while officers were eating, attending church, or sitting in the middle of a dark lot, filling out paperwork. A few years ago, Jim was rousted from bed in the midst of the night, a complete stranger seeing his squad car in the driveway
and wanting to report an obnoxious barking dog. Social fences had to be erected, if for no other reason than maintaining even a modest amount of sanity.

  While his dark eyes never left the on-court action, it would have been impossible to tell which team the policeman was rooting for. The emotionless expression, so often worn by men in authority, remained firmly painted on his face. It was a façade, covering the frustration boiling inside the 300-pound muscle mass wearing the shield. Still, he had to maintain a cool and stoic expression, removing all evidence of personal interest from his presence and demeanor. After all, he was a peace officer in a public forum.

  Big Jim, as his brother officers called him, wasn’t anxious about the crowd, traffic, or any potential law breaking. His son was in the game, and it wasn’t one of Junior’s best efforts.

  Marwick could care less about basketball, the typical parental frustrations accented by his oldest boy’s devotion to the sport. Football was a real man’s game, and despite his fatherly guidance, Jim Jr. never seemed to connect with his dad’s legacy and love of the gridiron.

  Big Jim had graduated from this very high school over 20 years ago, his team pictures still adorning one of the large institution’s halls. No doubt there were trophies somewhere, dusty relics citing J.T. Marwick’s athletic prowess for everything from “All City” to “All County,” and “Defensive Player of the Year.”

  Marwick relished football, the only sport socially sanctioned where a man could establish himself in a physical manner and dominate others without fear of disdain or retribution. People actually cheered when he inflicted pain on opposing players, patting him on the back, and expressing support for the internal rage he could unleash during the contests.

  But high school football was a completely different game than its college sibling. In the post-secondary school environment, Big Jim found himself competing against men his own size. He no longer was physically intimidating, and he quickly discovered that he wasn’t athletic enough to dish out pain to others without suffering himself.

  Only then did he realize that it wasn’t the competition that drew him to the sport – it was the gratification of controlling others, of physically imposing his will. College linemen didn’t bend and break like his opponents in high school, and that reality slowly drained Big Jim’s enthusiasm for the sport. His performance, both on and off the field, faltered, and by the end of his freshman year, he dropped out.

  The referee’s whistle, followed by an explosion of both booing and cheering, summoned J.T. back to his son’s game. Until the boy’s senior year, Jim hadn’t even bothered attending the contests. But dinner table talk of a potential basketball scholarship had piqued the father’s interest, renewing an opportunity for him to exercise some influence on his “misguided teenager’s” life.

  Despite rising to the rank of sergeant in one of the largest police departments in the country, Jimmy and his wife hadn’t saved much money for their son’s college expenses. On two different occasions, some scumbag citizen had filed a lawsuit against the officer, the police union covering only part of the expenses necessary to clear his name. Junior’s college fund, as well as Marwick’s reserve to purchase a saltwater fishing boat, had been reallocated to defend his livelihood.

  He continued watching the game, silently, stoically evaluating Junior’s performance. The simmering storm of rage brewed to a boiling point inside the officer, his mental tirade alternating salvos of fury that targeted his son, the referee, the coach, and the opposing players.

  It would have taken an extremely skilled observer to note even the slightest variation in the cop’s bearing. Years of interacting with an often-hostile citizenry had created a deadpan mask to replace his true emotions, fashioning an on-the-job poker face void of any tells. Like most police officers, Big Jim had become a refined thespian, achieving the high art of robotic, detached presence on the public stage.

  The referee’s whistle signaled a time-out, both teams hustling to their respective benches to gather around tense coaching staffs, awaiting final words of athletic wisdom. There were only a few seconds left before half time, the final play critical given the tied score.

  Jim watched the coach draw up a play, the squad huddled around his clipboard. The burly cop considered what he’d be instructing the players to do if he were issuing the orders. His guidance would involve singling out the best man on the opponent’s team and knocking the asshole into the third row of seats. What’s a little collateral damage? the public servant smirked. It would be so easy to make it look like an accident.

  With the teams now ready and back on the court, a referee handed the ball to one of Junior’s squad to inbound. A flurry of movement, a couple of clever picks, and then the ball was sailing toward Jim’s son.

  Four seconds on the clock and a head fake.

  Three seconds left, Junior dribbling once, trying desperately to shake his opponent.

  Two seconds left, and Jim was sure his son wasn’t going to get off the shot.

  Uncoiling his legs, Junior launched skyward as the clock read 01 remaining. The defensive player was right with him, both boys’ arms extending as their bodies continued to rise into the air.

  The ball left the shooter’s hand just before the buzzer droned. Out of nowhere came a new defender, like a missile streaking to intercept an airborne target.

  The soaring opponent’s hand swatted the basketball, picking it out of midair and redirecting its flight path. The ball smacked Big Jim in the shoulder, bouncing off his uniform sleeve before he could react. On both sides of the court, the crowd leapt to its feet in a screaming frenzy.

  For a just a brief moment, Jim thought the bleachers were applauding the sight of the errant basketball smacking a police officer. No respect for law and order, the officer instantly surmised, his dander rising. With a stare icy and blank, he watched the teams sprint off the court, heading to the locker room for the halftime pep talk.

  Jim’s ire wasn’t fueled by the fact that the opposing player had blocked his son’s shot. No, what really pissed him off was that about 3,500 people had just witnessed the humiliation of a cop. That was a bad image to propagate.

  Peace officers had to establish command and control over any encounter, any situation. They had to appear invincible, unquestionable, and wholly confident in their authority. Jim knew good and well that even the slightest, innocent breach of that façade would serve to erode a department’s efficiency. If the public viewed law enforcers as soft, people would take advantage. If citizens perceived their local officers as forgiving or benevolent, word would get around, and criminals would be emboldened in their illicit pursuits. Lawlessness would have the leg up on the guys in the white hats.

  Scrutinizing the throng of fans filing out the gym’s exit doors, Jim studied every pair of eyes heading for the concession stand and restrooms. He was somewhat relieved that no one cracked a stupid joke or made any comment about the basketball’s assault. It was just as well that few people made eye contact with him.

  Before long, the teams were back out on the court, running layup drills and preparing for the third quarter. Junior’s team would now have the basket closest to Jim’s perch.

  He observed the warmup, standing absolutely statue still. After judging the rotation and cycle, he stepped closer to the court and without warning, reached out and pulled Junior aside.

  “You better get your ass in fucking gear, dipshit. That blonde-headed kid on the other team is making you look like a fool,” Jim growled in a low, harsh voice.

  “Dad, he’s one of the best players in the state. He makes everyone look like crap.”

  “I don’t give a shit if he plays for the Houston Rockets. Put him on his ass… or elbow his nose… take out his knee… do something, or you’re not going to see any scholarship money. You will end up flipping fucking burgers while you attend some second-rate school surrounded by ghetto freaks and crack heads.”

  Junior knew better than to respond; he’d lived under Jimmy’s
roof for 18 years and could sense when his father was “in a state.” He had his own bumps and bruises as evidence of his father’s efforts to toughen him up and make him a man. Simply nodding, he tried to return to his team, but Jim maintained his grip, balling up the jersey’s material even tighter. “I’m not fucking around, son. This is your chance. If you don’t get your shit in one bag right now, your whole life is going to be a mess.”

  Jimmy released the boy, turning calmly and moving back to his spot. When his gaze returned to the court, he noticed Junior’s coach staring back. He didn’t look happy.

  The big cop gave the guy every chance to look away, ignoring the obvious displeasure the team’s skipper was displaying. After five seconds, the coach’s unwavering gaze had become rude. At 10 seconds, it was downright challenging.

  Again, Big Jim approached the court, walking directly toward the coach. “What’s your problem?” the cop asked, spreading his hands wide in show of readiness.

  “I don’t like fathers messing with my players’ heads during the games,” responded the older man.

  “I was just trying to motivate the boy; that’s all,” Jimmy replied innocently. “Motivation seems to be a problem with your team,” he baited.

  But the coach ignored the insult, choosing instead to break eye contact while shouting a quick criticism to one of his players.

  He’s a coward, Jimmy thought, returning to his spot along the wall. I just insulted the shit out of him, and he played that little diversion card as if he never heard me. Bullshit. What a pussy. No wonder they’re going to lose.

  The second half proved to be a disappointment for Junior and his team. At the final buzzer, the opponents claimed the title of city champion, winning by a safe margin.

  After shaking hands at mid-court, Jim watched his dejected son shuffle off to the showers with his teammates, the boy not even having enough balls to look at this father. Serves him right, Jimmy thought. He didn’t follow my advice. Damned kid lacks the killer instinct it takes to win. Too much like his mother.