The Archangel Drones

by Joe Nobody

  “Holy shit!” he barked, the scared, wide-eyed image of a young boy squinting from the flashlight’s glare. “Get on the ground! Now!” the cop ordered, still not sure of what was going on, his bewildered mind resorting to the most basic training stored within its memory cells.

  “Get on the ground!” he shouted, control of his pistol arm finally returning.

  Finally, the kid did as he was ordered to do, hot tears streaming down his cheeks from fear and the shock of a gunshot that had blasted right by his head.

  Dole then spied the toy gun, lying on the ground where the freaked out kid had dropped it. He picked it up to double check, a thunderstorm of emotions erupting when he realized he’d almost killed a child.

  “Shots fired due to misidentification,” he breathed into his shoulder mounted radio, not sure what the proper terminology or code words were… and really not caring. “I’m okay, but I could use some backup over here,” he finished.

  “What the hell were you doing out here, kid?” he snapped at the weeping child at his feet. “You damn near got us both in hot water. Jesus Henry Milton Roosevelt Christ – that was close.”

  In the distance, Dole could see other squad cars pulling up beside his still idling cruiser. Two new flashlight beams began bouncing along the terrain, brother officers on their way in support.

  When the field supervisor arrived, he listened intently to Kirkpatrick’s explanation, watching as the young patrolman reenacted what had just occurred.

  The kid was still there, sitting against the fence, hugging his knees, and watching the cops go about their routine with frightened, darting eyes.

  When Dole had finally finished his report, the older officer shook his head. “How in God’s name did you miss him?” he asked. “You must have had an angel on your shoulder, Kirkpatrick. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

  “He did have an angel,” sounded another officer’s nearby voice, his beam searching the weeds around the area. “He had an Archangel, and here it is,” he proclaimed, lifting the now bent and useless body of the Gripen from the ground.

  “Do we run?” Chip asked, looking at the video playback of the kamikaze drone-strike over Gabe’s shoulder.

  “No, I’m not sure they can trace the Gripen back to us. I’ve tried to be very, very careful. Even if they did, running wouldn’t do any good. I’ve got plenty of money, but they would instantly freeze my accounts. Any place I’d care to live has a pretty tight extradition treaty.”

  “What do you think they’ll charge us with?”

  Gabe shook his head, his eyes never leaving the last frame of the now-ended recording. “I don’t think they can legitimately charge us with anything. Oh, they’ll try to cook up something; I’m sure. My attorney says in the long run, after significant expense, they’ll have to drop any bogus charges. At least that’s what he thinks would happen.”

  Chip groaned at the last part of the dialogue, hating that his future was dependent on what someone “thought,” especially an ambulance chaser.

  Gabe understood his friend’s reaction, his low voice saying, “I’m sorry I got you into this, Chip. You know I didn’t have any choice. I’d be as guilty as Marwick if I had let that kid die.”

  Patting his new boss on the shoulder, Chip nodded. “I would have done the same thing. I’m not upset with you, just pissed this had to happen on the first good job I’ve had.”

  The two men sat in silence for a bit, both minds speeding rapidly, but down different tracks. Chip was trying to figure out how he was going to explain his deception to Amanda, uttering the occasional small prayer that she would understand, and not take Manny… and his life… away from him.

  Gabe was trying to figure out technically what the cops could determine once they’d dissected his drone.

  He’d been careful, filing off the serial number from any component. But that wasn’t foolproof. He hadn’t, for example, disassembled the tiny electric motor to see if it were stamped with any sort of internal identification.

  The police would now know what frequency he was using to communicate with his robots. That again wasn’t particularly damning, the bandwidth of the Gripen’s receiver within a commonly used range of airwaves. Besides, he’d leased antenna time through JI, as did hundreds of corporations throughout the Houston area.

  He wouldn’t put it past the authorities to start monitoring the G-2’s programmed frequency, but that wasn’t a showstopper either. It was a few minutes work to switch to another band.

  He wondered about fingerprints. He’d assembled the drone personally, never wearing gloves or taking any precautions. Yes, the drones were kept very clean in order to maximize their battery time, but Gabe was sure that somewhere his unique digit-marks still soiled the robot’s surface.

  What did that mean? He thought hard, trying to remember ever being fingerprinted. Sandy had gone through the experience some years ago, her volunteering at Jacob’s elementary school requiring the intrusive process before they’d let her step foot inside the door. No, he concluded, his fingerprints shouldn’t be in any database. If he were arrested, then the proof would be evident, but until then, the coppers wouldn’t be able to hunt him down. At least not from fingerprints.

  “I don’t think we have to change anything but the radio frequencies,” he announced to the still-worried looking Chip. “Unless you touched the drone before you launched it, they shouldn’t have anything to go on.”

  “No, I didn’t touch it. But what about the autopilot’s coordinates to return home?”

  Gabe had already considered that. “Didn’t you launch it from the car wash? It would automatically return there unless overridden. I’ll reprogram the frequencies, and we’ll watch our backs for a couple of days. I think we should concentrate our efforts on Officer Marwick’s precinct and shifts. If they are going to shut us down, I’d feel a whole lot better if we had taken care of that asshole first.”

  Nodding his agreement, Chip added, “Any news on the DA pressing charges?”

  “No. They’re obviously stalling, which I’ve found out isn’t unusual. Stupid me, I thought when the grand jury recommended prosecution, that was that. Who the hell knew they could keep playing games until the cows came home? If we can catch Marwick red-handed, then they won’t have much choice. We’ll lay low with the exception of his beat, and hope he fucks up before they figure out who we are.”

  “You’re the boss,” Chip stated with a sly grin. “By the way, can I have the bottom bunk in our prison cell, Mr. Boss-man, sir?”

  “So whoever was operating the drone saved that child’s life?” Karen asked the police technician.

  “Yes, ma’am. It looks like the remote operator deliberately ordered the machine to hit Officer Kirkpatrick’s weapon. From what we recovered from the unit’s video memory card, it was clear from the infrared that the boy had a toy weapon.”

  “Are you sure this wasn’t a deliberate attack against a police officer?” the chief asked from the other side of the table. “Why would someone who’s been trying to destroy my department want to help a cop? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Karen looked at the chief and frowned. “Obviously, they’re not trying to destroy your force. At least it doesn’t seem like it to me. The video of the SWAT team’s breach has probably saved the city a significant lawsuit, and bought your department a ton of positive public relations. If we were dealing with pure cop-haters, they would have kept that recording to themselves.”

  The top-cop waved a dismissing hand through the air, “That was just a head fake… a false gesture to establish credibility on their part. Believe me, if they wanted to help us, they wouldn’t be broadcasting every little mistake we make.”

  After waiting to make sure the discussion was over, the mayor continued. “Has the recovered drone provided any clues regarding who we are dealing with?”

  The chief nodded at his technical expert, granting permission for the man to answer. “Very little,” came the shy response. “We found thr
ee different partial prints, none of which drew a hit from any agency database. The serial numbers from most of the parts have been ground off. We did discover two SKU codes, but both components were manufactured in Asia. We’ve asked the FBI to follow up, but our experience has shown cooperation from foreign manufacturers in such matters is unlikely.”

  “You mean you’ve recovered one of their units, basically intact, and we’re still no closer to finding out who’s behind this?” asked one of the city councilmen.

  “That’s not entirely correct, sir,” the chief interrupted. “We’ve filled in several blanks. For example, we know the range of the device, how it receives its commands, and we can now confirm it is a custom-built unit. Those facts, while appearing scanty, help us in building a profile of the owner-operator.”

  “Go on,” the mayor stated, clearly intrigued.

  “One thing we know is that the launch and apparent recovery isn’t from a fixed position. The memory core we recovered indicated the drone had been programmed to land at a car wash less than two miles from the incident. We believe someone would have been there with a car or truck, ready to load the unit after it landed. We know our suspects are well funded, technically capable, and extremely cautious.”

  “So what’s the next step, Chief?” Karen asked, finally rejoining the conversation.

  “We are running down a list of people who have filed grievances or complaints against the department, trying to narrow down the list of those who match the criteria I just stated.”

  Karen grunted, “That’s got to be a long list, Chief. What? A couple of thousand names?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” the old cop snapped, his fiery stare burning in Karen’s direction.

  DA Sanders just smiled, apparently unaffected by the gruff challenge. “Nothing, Chief, nothing at all. I was just stating that a department the size of HPD would naturally have hundreds of such incidents per year, and that would equate to quite an extensive list of potential suspects.”

  Dole hadn’t been able to eat since the night he’d almost slaughtered the kid. Despite his commander insisting on his taking a couple of days off, Kirkpatrick just couldn’t clear the images out of his head.

  He didn’t have any problem with using extreme tactics on hardcore criminals or the terminally stupid. Those examples of humanity often received exactly what they were asking for.

  But kids? Young people? That was an entirely different ballgame. One he’d never anticipated when he’d pinned on a badge.

  And the young man a few nights ago wasn’t his first aberration.

  Jacob Chase. He now knew the name by heart, could recite the case number from memory. He’d read the file no less than ten times – and knew without a doubt Sergeant James Marwick was a liar.

  After that night in the restaurant, Dole had begun to wonder just how far into the pits of treachery Big Jim was willing to go.

  Dole had the uploaded video file from Marwick’s cruiser that night. Big Jim had been crafty enough to erase the memory card before returning the vehicle the next day, but the older cop wasn’t technically up to speed with how the newer video systems operated. That recording, salvaged from the department’s cloud storage cache, clearly showed there hadn’t been any evasion or resistance on the part of the teenage driver. Big Jim was not only a liar, but a self-promoting, malicious individual who was damaging the entire force with his antics.

  For a while, Dole had pondered calling his father and seeking the more experienced cop’s advice. But he didn’t, well aware of exactly what his conservative parent would spout. “You never, never, ever turn on another cop. Doing so will ostracize you from the family, and the next time a bad man has a gun to your head, those ex-family members might just be a little slow to react.”

  Kirkpatrick was sure his grandfather would share the same point of view. He could just hear the patriarch’s gravelly voice instructing, “Always go through the chain of command if you’ve got a problem. Never go public. Never go to the press, or take matters into your own hands. Use the established channels in your department.”

  But that option was suicide, if only via a different poison. Dole knew what happened to those officers who reported on other cops. Overtime disappeared, promotions were bypassed, and the brotherhood became hostile. Besides, he was almost as guilty as Marwick. While the big sergeant had given him the visual command to implement the hotfoot, it had been Dole’s own hands that had used excessive force.

  Was it really his fault? Was he really to blame?

  The radio call that night had indicated a suspect was fleeing. Dole and the other officers had responded in kind, adrenaline-charged and determined to make sure the chase ended before anyone got hurt. If they had all known the truth, had been aware that there really wasn’t any pursuit or indication of guilt, then the entire encounter would have turned out differently. Another child might still be alive. The sergeant had misled his brothers. He was a dishonest piece of shit, hardly better than half the scum they sent to prison every day.

  Thoughts of resignation circulated through the young cop’s troubled mind. Maybe his dad had been right… maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a police officer.

  For a while, the option of turning in his badge and gun provided a relief of sorts. Dole’s thoughts wandered to other occupations, speculating on which ones couldn’t involve shooting children and ruining lives.

  But then he rebelled at the concept. Police work was supposed to be honorable, driven to better the community and improve lives. “To protect and serve,” he whispered. “If all the guys who think like me leave the force, who is going to protect and serve?”

  He had a vision of sorts, a mental image that actually made him laugh aloud. A muster had been called, all the officers at the local substation ordered to gather in one room. Dole could see Big Jim’s face atop every uniform, the entire force populated with Marwick clones. It was funny, then sad, and finally frightening.

  There was another way out. A move that carried much risk, but the potential of a huge reward. He could release the videotape from Marwick’s dash cam.

  “Why not?” he asked his empty apartment. “It seems to be all the rage these days. Everybody’s doing it.”

  Again, he chuckled, wishing he could see the huge sergeant’s face when the recording was aired on the local news.

  But what if his fellow officers found out? What if Marwick put two and two together?

  “You’ll be assassinated,” he said. “There will be a call… a prowler or open door or alarm. Someone with a gun and knowledge will be waiting. The shot will be to the head, well away from the protection of your body armor. Is it worth it?”

  Dole took another sip of his beer, pondering the fork in the road that life had presented. Finally, he reached a conclusion, deciding to release the video. “You’re just a walking dead man if you don’t. The guilt of inaction will eventually eat out your core, and you’ll be no more than a zombie behind a badge - uncaring, numb, and lifeless. It doesn’t make any difference if it’s the assassin’s bullet that ends it all or withholding the truth that does you in. The story has the same ending.”

  Big Jim was preparing for his shift, running down the nightly roster and scanning the day shift’s blotter. “Nothing special here,” he noted. “Just another evening fighting crime for little fame, no glory, and less pay.”

  The sound of someone clearing his voice caused him to glance up, a lieutenant he didn’t know and his captain standing nearby, each wearing their best, “You’d better believe this is serious shit,” expression all over their faces.

  “Marwick, this is Lieutenant Cranfield from Internal Affairs. He’d like to have a word with you,” the captain announced, pivoting to exit the room without another word.

  “I assume you’ve seen the video released this morning, Sergeant Marwick. I was ordered to come here and take your statement regarding this new evidence.”

  “Huh? I’ve seen all of the Archangel videos, but I didn�
��t know about any new ones this morning,” Jim replied honestly.

  The senior officer shook his head, “This wasn’t an Archangel piece. Channel 14 news is playing what appears to be a recording made from your dash cam the night of Jacob Chase’s arrest. Normally, my boss wouldn’t be so concerned about such a release, but with a potential prosecution in the works, he sent me over here to listen to your side of the story.”

  Marwick experienced genuine fear, the pit of his gut suddenly knotted, the back of his knees cold and damp. “I can’t comment, LT…. I haven’t seen it.”

  Pulling a laptop from under his arm, Cranfield said, “I can fix that, Sergeant. Let’s go into one of the interrogation rooms and enjoy the show.”

  Big Jim didn’t like the idea, but he couldn’t think of any excuse not to. Weapons weren’t allowed in the interrogation rooms, and he knew that every word would be videotaped.

  For a moment, Marwick thought he should ask for his lawyer, but decided against it. He hadn’t seen the recording, and it might not be that big of deal. This young IA guy might just be playing head games to see if the accused would make a mistake. More than once he’d used a similar technique, approaching a person of interest while pretending to have uncovered some blockbuster piece of evidence. More often than not, the suspect had started singing like a bird.

  After checking their weapons, the two cops entered the closet-like, stark room. Inside there was only a small table and three plastic chairs. The drywall was bruised, dented, dinged, and scraped, evidence of previous occupants’ violent outbursts.

  The door closed with an electric hum and pop, the heavy lock engaging to secure the room. Marwick knew there would be at least two cops witnessing the encounter. He also was fully aware that the only way out of that room was to be “buzzed” out by one of the observing cops.