by Mike Maden
“On my island of misfit toys.” Pearce had recruited Kang years ago, straight out of the army, where she’d flown Raven surveillance drones, and she’d since become the mainstay of his personal security team. But she was still a helluva drone pilot.
“Well, I supposed we’d best get after it,” Ponder said. “Time’s a wastin.’”
“Show me what you’ve got.”
Ponder waved Pearce toward the back of the flatbed. Pearce followed.
He’d first met the towering physicist at Operation Black Dart several years before. The Pentagon’s annual anti-drone exercise lasted two weeks and only select corporations and government agencies were invited to participate. The event was designed to showcase advances in anti-drone technologies and tactics. The Pentagon understood that both advances and failures at Black Dart could provide useful information to America’s enemies in the looming drone wars, so the results were kept secret from the press.
Failure at Black Dart was not only expected but encouraged. The anti-drone technologies still lagged behind the galloping progress of military and civilian drone advances. If participants believed that failure might lead to a loss of a potentially lucrative DoD contract, they might not bring their latest and greatest “bleeding-edge” systems to the anti-drone game. Pentagon simulations at the event provided participants with real-world and real-time scenarios—the perfect venue to test and improve new designs. Black Dart had seen successes from mundane approaches like snipers in helicopters to more extreme ones like suicide drones. But the most exotic solution, and the most promising, was the laser.
After graduating from the University of Tennessee with a BS in physics, Ponder went on to earn a PhD from MIT. He later worked briefly for MIT’s prestigious Plasma Science and Fusion Center before striking out on his own and starting his own company, specializing in antimissile laser technology. He invested heavily but lost out on a bid for developing the U.S. Navy’s Laser Weapons System (LaWS), which was first deployed in the Persian Gulf in 2014 on board the USS Ponce. Laser shots to knock out missiles and aircraft cost less than sixty cents each, and the laser “ammo” supply was infinite so long as the ship’s power plant was intact. Standard antiaircraft missiles cost tens of thousands of dollars each, were finite, and, like other kinetic systems, had to be manufactured, transported, resupplied, and reloaded.
Starting from scratch, Ponder set out to construct a viable anti-drone laser system. The one Pearce saw demonstrated at Black Dart impressed him, but it was too large and expensive. Two years ago he put up venture capital for Ponder’s new company, Goose Gap Photonics, in exchange for first right of refusal for a smaller, portable version of his modular laser system. Ponder wanted to sell his entire operation to Pearce Systems. His health was failing and he wanted to leave a sizable inheritance to his seven grandchildren.
Ponder pointed at the old flatbed. “I call her the War Wagon. You know, after the John Wayne movie.”
“That’s it?” Pearce asked as he climbed onto the truck bed. There were four separate modules, each self-contained but linked to each other with a single connector. All four modules could be packed up in hard plastic shipping cases for transport, each light enough to be carried by one or two people. Three of the modules were long, rectangular shapes. The third was a mounted tripod with a gimbaled head, its legs fixed to the truck bed.
“The War Wagon ain’t much to look at now. I designed everything so that you can shove all of this gear into a Humvee and mount the beam director on the roof like a machine-gun station. Completely self-contained. Only thing is, I don’t have an extra Humvee lying around to fix up or I’d have shown it to you.”
“I can get you a surplus Humvee if you want one. No charge.”
Ponder nodded. “I’d appreciate that.”
“System weight?”
“Six hundred and fifty pounds, total.” Ponder pointed a large, bony index finger at each module. “That’s the power source, a battery—rechargeable, of course. Next to it is the water-cooled chiller. And that one there is the actual fiber laser.”
“The fiber is infused with rare-earth elements, right?”
“Right. It’s the latest and greatest. A lot of advantages over the solid-state units.”
“Is that going to be a problem?” Pearce had boned up on REEs after his adventure in the Sahara. China still controlled nearly 90 percent of all rare-earth element exports, and 100 percent of those used in high-tech military manufacture.
“You mean the Chi-coms? I don’t think so. This is a standard industrial single-beam unit. Completely off-the-shelf. Plenty of them around and more where they came from.”
“How powerful is the laser?” Pearce read that the laser on board the USS Ponce was 30 kilowatt. It was meant for anti-drone, antimissile, antiaircraft, and even small antiship deployment. It would eventually replace the navy’s 20mm chain-gun Phalanx cannon system.
“Ten kilowatt.”
“What does that mean?” Pearce knew that General Atomics—the company that invented the iconic Predator drone—was trying to mount a 150-kilowatt laser on board the jet-powered Predator C (Avenger). Pearce thought the rigged Avenger looked like something out of a sci-fi flick. It was yet another technological answer to the enduring question: How can America find security in this highly insecure world? Pearce built a company on cutting-edge drone technologies, but he also knew that every war his country had lost had been to technologically inferior opponents.
“Have you ever heard of a cement drone?”
Pearce chuckled. “Not likely.”
“Good, because even if you did, I got it covered. They use five-kilowatt lasers to drill through cement, and we’re double that.” Ponder patted the laser module with his large, spotted hand. “We can punch through sheet aluminum, carbon fiber, you name it, with this little wonder.”
“Range?”
“Twenty-two miles. Units like this have been used to knock down mortar rounds and missiles. A drone won’t be a problem.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Pearce pointed at the tripod. On top of the tripod was a device that looked like a projector with a huge glass eye. “Is that the beam director?”
“My own design. The lightest unit of its kind. You can make all of your money back just selling those to the Pentagon.”
“Are we ready to rumble?”
“Been ready. Been waiting for you.” Ponder’s stern farmer’s face almost broke into a smile.
“One sec,” Pearce said. He leaped down off the flatbed. He pulled a four-inch magnetic square out of a jeans pocket and slammed it against the driver’s-side door with a thud. It was a red bull’s-eye target.
Ponder harrumphed. “What’s that for?”
“You’ll see.”
The lanky physicist flicked a switch and the laser unit engaged. The beam director shuttered briefly as it aligned itself. He climbed down uneasily from the flatbed, refusing Pearce’s offer of help with a dismissive grunt. The two of them took up position by the back bumper. Ponder flipped open a laptop. The laser’s gun-sight reticle was centered in the middle of the monitor.
“Let ’er rip,” Pearce said.
“Your gal there will need some help with the launch.”
“Right.” Pearce jogged over and picked up the Styrofoam airplane. Despite its massive wingspan and overall size, it was surprisingly light.
Ponder raised his fingers to his mouth and let out a shrieking sheep whistle.
Stella frowned, holding up the transmitter. “This is really old-school. We should’ve linked one of our tablets.”
“Next time,” Pearce said. “Did you bring our little friends?”
“Of course.”
“Did he see you?”
“I used to shoplift, remember?”
“And your army career began the day after you got caught.”
She laughed. “N
o worries.”
Pearce grasped the fuselage in one hand and held the aircraft back behind his head, as if he were throwing a javelin. “Ready to launch.”
“Aim for the far end of the valley!” Ponder shouted. “Nice and straight!” Low hills on either side of them stood a quarter mile apart, and shouldered for more than half a mile due north. Plenty of room for Ponder to land his ancient Piper Cub on the grassy airstrip.
“Fire in the hole!” Stella flipped the throttle switch. The airplane’s powerful electric motor fired up.
Pearce ran a few feet and tossed the gangly plane into the air toward the far end of the valley. The plane wobbled as it came out of his grip but quickly righted itself.
Pearce jogged back over to Ponder’s laptop. Saw the reticle tracking perfectly with the airplane.
“Push the F1 button when you’re ready,” Ponder said.
Pearce pushed it.
The laser fired. It made a Star Trek–style phaser beam sound.
The beam locked directly onto the engine in the Styrofoam fuselage. The plastic blades melted instantly as the engine coughed and then died two seconds later. The rest of the plane broke apart and tumbled to the ground.
The old farmer’s face finally cracked into a wide grin. “So, whaddya think?”
“Not bad, so long as the bad guys are invested in Styrofoam platforms.” Pearce scratched his chin. “What’s with the crazy sound that thing makes?”
“The laser is completely silent. I added sound effects so that an operator would know it was firing. You’ve got ten more sounds to choose from, if that makes a difference.”
“You never know,” Pearce said. “Some of my clients like that kind of thing.” He cast a glance back at Stella. She nodded and pulled the transmitter from off her neck.
“Seriously, Troy. What’s the verdict?”
“It’s damn impressive. But you had Stella fly in a straight line and it’s still a slow-moving target.”
“Like I said, this system uses the same components the Pentagon deploys to shoot down mortars. I just made it extremely portable. Targeting drones won’t be a problem.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Pearce pointed at the laptop. “That thing still ready to go?”
“Yup.”
“You got a ‘laser blaster’ sound?”
“You mean, like Star Wars?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure.” Ponder ran through a pop-up menu. Made a selection. “All ready, Boba Fett.”
Pearce turned to Stella. She had a tablet in her hand. “Go.”
Stella stabbed at the tablet. In the distance, small motors whined to life.
“What’s this?” Ponder asked.
“I guess they’re like Remotes.”
“Huh?”
“Star Wars reference. Never mind.”
The laser gimbals twitched as the onboard radar searched for targets. The monitor image shifted back and forth, almost randomly.
Pearce pointed toward the tree line on the far hill. “Here they come.”
Ponder squinted. “I can barely see them. Three of ’em, I think.”
“Four. They’re cheap, palm-sized quads I bought on Amazon. Dr. Rao rigged them with a simple homing device.”
“The target you put on my War Wagon.”
“Yup.”
Seconds later, the four drones buzzed clearly into view. They rotated in circles around each other in a randomized swarming dance as they plowed toward the truck.
The laser snapped into position, pointing high into the sky.
A laser blaster sound echoed.
A scream.
A large black crow exploded in feathers. Its smoking corpse tumbled into the grass a thousand yards away.
“Darn,” Ponder said. He pulled off his ball cap and scratched his flaky scalp. “I figured you’d try something like this. I narrowed the filter to try and pick up smaller targets.”
“You succeeded. Sort of.”
Four sharp bangs rattled the truck door as the four screaming drones slammed into the magnetic target one after another. They broke apart on impact.
“And just like that, we’re a smoking hole,” Pearce said.
Ponder sighed as he tugged on his cap. “I guess this means no sale.”
Pearce patted the older man’s shoulder. “You guess wrong. It’s a helluva system, Virgil. Exactly the kind of thing I’m looking for. But it’s the really small drones I’m worried about. The hobby-sized stuff. Ten pounds or less.”
“Target acquisition is the hardest part. If you set the filters too small, you start targeting everything that moves.” Ponder glanced at the dead crow. “Maybe we should call the Duck Dynasty fellas.”
“How much more time do you need to get it right?”
“I’m not sure how much more time I have,” Ponder said. His voice trailed off.
“What can you do for me in thirty days?”
Ponder approached the laptop. Tapped a few keys. His eyes brightened. “I might be able to pull a few tricks out of my bag by then.”
“Do what you can. We’ll figure something out.”
Ponder turned to Pearce. “It’s not about me, you know. It’s about my grandkids.”
Pearce saw the anguish in the old man’s eyes. He understood it, but in a different way. In his heart of hearts, Pearce wanted to sell his own company and get the hell out of the game and leave it all behind. Take Margaret on a trip around the world, maybe hole up in Bora Bora or Fiji and just let the rest of humanity slip away into its own madness.
“I know. It’s just not quite there yet. Keep pushing.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You need us to help you pack up or anything?”
“Nah. I just need to rest awhile and think on a few things.”
Pearce and Stella shook hands with Ponder and drove off in separate rentals, heading for a plate of pulled smoked pork at a little joint Pearce remembered just up the road. He hoped the old man would figure out the laser problem. But the clock was running out on the cancer.
And maybe the nation, too.
11
CHEBOYGAN, MICHIGAN
Norman Pike was in a foul mood.
The group charter he was supposed to take out for chinook salmon this morning was running an hour late already when they called and canceled on him. Sure, they’d lose their deposit and they were apologetic, but the Ayasi, his thirty-six-foot Tiara, was kitted out and ready to go, and so was he. He loved to fish and was disappointed he wouldn’t be heading out.
But Pike’s mood brightened when a late-model Ford Taurus pulled up to the curb and a man came strolling down the pier and straight for his dock. He was built like an athlete. He flashed a broad smile with gleaming white teeth. Pike thought maybe he was Italian or Greek, or maybe even from the Middle East.
“I’m looking for a day charter. I don’t suppose you’re available?”
Pike noticed the man’s West Coast accent. He had a polished L.A. vibe about him, too. Merrell boots, Oakley sunglasses, Columbia fishing shirt, and a Tag Heuer wristwatch. Typical yuppie tourist, Pike thought. More money than sense. He’d hauled a thousand of them out onto the lake over the years for good money.
“Your timing is impeccable. It just so happens I am.”
The man extended his hand. Pike shook it. The man had a strong grip. “Great, man.”
Pike glanced around. All of the other charter boats were already out on the water. “I’m usually all booked up this time of year. I had a last-minute cancellation.”
“Then it’s my lucky day.”
“Climb aboard. I’m all ready to go. Even have five box lunches if you get that hungry.”
“Awesome. Let’s get going.”
Pike quoted a full-day rate and the man counted off five Benjamins f
rom a stack of ten in his wallet. Pike asked for ID and the man showed him a California driver’s license. His name was Daniel Brody. Twenty-seven years old. Los Angeles, California. Just as Pike had guessed.
“Got a fishing license, Mr. Brody?” Pike asked.
“No. Do I need one?”
“Yes, but I can sell you one, no problem. A twenty-four-hour license is only . . . twenty dollars.” Ten for the license, and ten for my trouble, Pike told himself.
“Sounds good.”
The man pulled out a twenty and Pike pocketed it. “I’ll write that up as soon as we get under way.”
“Awesome. So we can get going now?”
“Soon as we untie. You’re in kind of a hurry, I take it?”
“Just excited, I guess.”
More like nervous, Pike thought. Maybe he’s afraid of the water. Probably means he’s going to be hurling his guts out, too. Should’ve charged him more.
LAKE MICHIGAN
ON BOARD THE AYASI
The water was choppy but Captain Pike was trolling with the swell and Brody hadn’t complained, even after devouring a roast beef sandwich with horseradish.
Pike had fished these waters for fifteen years, first as a hobby and then as a paying gig. He was a good fisherman. He knew all of the tricks that all of the other charter captains knew as well, and his charter boat carried state-of-the-art fish-finding radar. Pike knew Lake Michigan like the back of his hand, and he knew chinook, and that this late in the morning the big salmon would be running around 120 feet deep in the cold, dark water. To get the bait rigs down to that strike zone he fitted Brody’s rod with copper line and down riggers and trolled at twelve miles per hour, about the speed the fish ran, especially with the current.
Pike was a loner by nature and wasn’t the talkative type, but Brody asked the same questions that the beginners always asked about bait and reels and how to hook the big ones, and Pike was happy to answer them because the answers never changed. He also liked the kid’s enthusiasm. Brody pulled in his first fish within an hour and seemed genuinely thrilled. Pike reset the hook and showed him how to cast and Brody was back at it while Pike cleaned the five-pound fish.