by Leslie Wolfe
Alex stepped out of Sheppard's office without a word. She was heading straight for the smoker's area, but her private cell phone's message warning beeped and stopped her.
The message read emergency meeting at agency hq—asap.
...41
...Friday, June 25, 11:15AM
...The Agency HQ—Corporate Park Building—Third Floor
...Irvine, California
Alex quickly entered the conference room at The Agency, after speeding on I-5, and paying no attention to the breathtaking landscape on her left. Between stoplights, she had managed to send Sheppard a quick email advising him that she was feeling sick and had to go home. She could see, in her mind, how satisfied Sheppard would have been at the receipt of that email, thinking he had rattled her to the point of making her sick, or even causing her to quit. Oh, I'll be back, buddy, don't you worry, Alex thought, as she was pulling out a chair to sit.
Tom entered the room, with a look of deep concern on his always-composed face.
"What happened?"
"I'm afraid there's been an incident in Florida—involving a drone."
Alex felt the adrenaline hit her gut like a fist.
"How bad?"
"Significantly bad, Alex," Tom said, "I've sent Steve to pick up Dr. Barnaby; they should be here shortly." He prepared the conference room audio-video installation for projection of video from a DVD player, finishing just in time for Dr. Barnaby's arrival.
Alex had trouble recognizing Dr. Barnaby. His hair was in disarray; the top button of his shirt was undone; a loose, crooked tie hung disorderly, and his eyes glazed over. He looked pale, fragile, and twenty years older. A thoughtful Steve sat him at the table and offered him a cup of coffee, murmuring to him in a low, reassuring tone of voice.
"Good morning, sir. We're ready to start," Tom said.
Dr. Barnaby waved his hand in approval. Tom pressed the "play" button on the remote.
The TV started with a breaking news bulletin.
"We interrupt our program today to report a serious incident that happened just an hour ago, in Florida's Okaloosa County, on the highway between Gulf Breeze and Destin." The images on the screen behind the popular news announcer showed many emergency response vehicles, several were trying to extinguish the fire, others were evacuating the wounded, and some were cleaning up what seemed to be the scene of a serious traffic accident.
"A military drone hit a tourist commuter bus carrying thirty-three people onboard, plus the driver," the female reporter continued, while the images were showing the wreckage in detail. "Nineteen passengers from the bus were pronounced dead at the scene. Fourteen more and the driver are en route to area hospitals; some of them were airlifted. We will return with details about their conditions as soon as we have that information."
Alex felt a knot in her throat, which kept her from breathing. She struggled to hold back tears.
"A car traveling behind the bus," the reporter continued, "was too close to avoid an impact with the exploding bus. The car had New Jersey plates. The passenger was pronounced dead at the scene, and the driver was airlifted to the Naval Hospital in Pensacola. More details to follow.
"A witness told us that the drone came from the Gulf of Mexico flying low, and headed straight for the bus. Apparently, the bus driver tried to stop. As he was braking heavily, and the bus was slowing, the drone hit, turning the bus and its passengers into a roaring ball of fire. Stay tuned for details and interviews. We will return shortly. You are watching News of the Hour with Stephanie Wainwright."
The TV screen went dark and silent. Alex realized she had been holding her breath. She looked at Dr. Barnaby. Tears were silently falling on his cheeks.
"Dr. Barnaby," Tom called for his attention in a strong, assertive way. "We need your help to understand how these drones operate." Pause, no answer. "We need you, sir, you have to help us," Tom insisted in a somewhat softer voice. "Everyone needs you right now, your wife, your employees, the families of the wounded—"
"I'm here. What do you need to know?" Dr. Barnaby recomposed.
"Can a drone go astray? How can that happen—under what circumstances?"
"There are various degrees of autonomy to these drones, depending on the model. All of them, however, are remotely guided or assisted by an operating team situated at a nearby base. That operating team is probably being questioned right now."
"How do these drones work? Please give us as much detail as you can," Tom continued.
"Drones are more than just robotic, unmanned aircraft. They are complex weapons. They are versatile and highly autonomous; they can be in flight for many hours. They were built to be used 24 hours a day. These unmanned aerial vehicles or UAV come in various sizes, depending on application and purpose, in addition to the missiles or other equipment they need to carry. Some are combat ready, the UCAVs, and can carry up to 16 Hellfire missiles. We're now working on a new model, able to carry up to 20 Hellfires, and some other smaller weapons on top of that.
"Other drones, much smaller, are not intended for weapons deployment. They can be surveillance drones, cruising over a border or another targeted area. These would mainly be equipped with high-resolution cameras and landmark recognition software. Other non-combat drones can be relief drones or communications drones, portable repeaters of wireless signal or range expanders, to deploy above flooded areas or at the scenes of various natural disasters. They are used to enhance communications capabilities in the absence of infrastructure."
Everyone listened carefully, taking notes.
"Do we know which type this drone was?" Tom asked.
"Not sure. By the location, I would have to assume it was a surveillance drone, watching the territorial waters along the Gulf Coast. By the size of the damage, I have to infer that it was at least a partially armed drone. An unarmed UAV would have caused less damage. It would have still caused an explosion, due to the fuel it carries, but less than what I've seen. Oh, God," he said, covering his eyes, remembering the horrific scene he had just viewed on TV.
"Why do you say it might have been partially armed?" Tom asked.
"If this drone would have been fully armed, it would have pulverized the entire area. No survivors, plus a huge gaping hole in the highway. I'll need the details about the drone, model, weapons, and fuel levels, to tell you more."
"How about the crew?" Alex inquired.
"Ah, yes. These drones have a remote crew of operators, usually two. These crews can change midflight. For example, if the drone took off from somewhere in Alabama, the takeoff crew would have been local. If it goes to Miami, then the landing crew would be different from the takeoff crew. Somewhere along the way, the drone changes hands from one crew to the next. These operators are highly trained pilots, in perfect health and physical shape. They are, in fact, fully licensed pilots. The drone transmits video information from its cameras, direct or via satellite link. The operator crews see those images on their screens, and they are able to fly the drone and take subsequent actions, based on the images displayed from the drone's cameras."
"So they are not autonomous?" Tom asked.
"No, the UAVs are unmanned, but not autonomous. They don't do what they want. They have to be guided, controlled into taking any action. Our latest research looks at increasing the degree of autonomy by enhancing their landmark recognition software to include target recognition, by loading target images for them to 'hunt.' This research is due in field testing, maybe before the end of this year. With today's disaster, I don't think we'll be able to proceed with it anymore. It will create a public relations nightmare, the moment people hear that these drones have the 'power' to hunt and kill targets on their own—which they will probably never have. They will always have to be guided by the ground team. Target recognition and auto target lock is meant to speed the process of finding and locking onto a target, thus quickly removing the drone out of the danger zone. It also prevents the drone from crashing, if it hits a thunderstorm or interference area, and
it loses connection with the ground operations team. That's all there is to it."
"Dr. Barnaby, what consequences could NanoLance face due to this incident?" Tom asked. "What's to be expected?"
"We are a defense contractor, one of the contractors of record for the manufacturing of these drones for the majority of the branches of the US military. We are not the biggest drone manufacturer in the United States. There are a few other companies supplying a greater number of UAVs than we are. Some drones are also imported from foreign manufacturers with the purpose of studying and comparing performance in field-testing, war games, and simulations. Even NanoLance purchased some foreign drones with the help of the Air Force. They rerouted a few they had ordered for war games to our research facility."
Dr. Barnaby stopped and closed his eyes for a few seconds, recollecting his thoughts. "There will be an investigation into the drone manufacturer of record for the stray drone, and there is a chance we are that manufacturer of record. There is even a greater chance that we supplied components and software for this drone, even if we are not the manufacturer of record. Documents will be subpoenaed; employees will be interrogated, asked to testify. There will be lawsuits, potentially criminal charges, for negligence, at least. There will be civil litigations; a large number of families out there have lost loved ones today."
He paused, rubbing his forehead with his right hand and shielding his eyes for a couple of seconds. "Oh, God . . . There will also be a strong media attack on us, from what I've seen in the past. Some time ago—I can't recall when—there was the case of a weapons manufacturer that shipped defective ammunition to the Iraqi battlefields, causing the ammo to misfire and wound or kill the soldiers who were handling it. In the case of that company, well, what can I say? . . . It was completely destroyed by the scandal. Media pressure was huge, driving the stock price into the ground. Investigators found that the errors had been known and reported internally, then discarded by the management. Part of that management is now serving time at a nearby correctional facility. The rest of them are unemployed; no one will hire them now."
"Let's discuss next steps," Tom cut in, changing the path of the discussion to a more positive direction. "We need to establish what we do next, and in what order."
"It's too late," Dr. Barnaby said, shaking his head in disapproval of any action plan.
"I don't think it's too late, if we think fast on our feet and move quickly."
Dr. Barnaby stood abruptly, causing his chair to be thrown back. His face was showing turmoil and anger.
"Give me one scenario," he bellowed, "one single, damn scenario that ends well. You want action?" He paced the floor with his fists clenched, continuing to raise his voice. "I'll give you action. I'll go straight to my basement, get my handgun out of my safe, and spare my wife the shame and embarrassment to see me brought to my knees and dragged in handcuffs out of our home. That's what I would consider action right now." He spat the words in bursts of deep-set anger, riddled with pain.
Tom exchanged a quick look with Steve, encouraging the professionally trained psychologist to take over the handling of the situation.
"We understand how you feel, sir—"
Before he could continue, Steve was abruptly interrupted by another burst of anguish.
"One scenario! That's all I ask for . . . Is that too much? If you cannot think of a single possibility how this situation will not end in disaster for me, my family, and my company, then why even bother talking about it?"
"I'll give you one scenario," Steve said, changing his approach to a more assertive demeanor. "We crank up the speed, find the responsible people for this mess, and make them pay. You obviously had no idea this was happening. You had suspicions, and you hired us—that's proof of your good intentions right there. Will it fly in the face of any jury, regardless of the number of deaths? Civil lawsuits? Something tells me a strong legal team can negotiate and settle out of court on each and every one of them.
"Maybe the military will pitch in with you, who knows? Do we even know for sure it wasn't their fault? How about the media pressure? We'll get you the best public relations sharks that money can buy, and they'll help you steer through these troubled waters. Stock price? Have you seen the stock market lately? Everyone goes down from time to time, and then they come right back up again. You fix the issue, and then you continue to make better drones. You lose the defense contract? You stick to the consumer market for GPS navigation systems, and you expand to kitchenware, or whatever else your innovative mind will think of next." Steve paused for a few seconds, and then continued, in a much softer, compassionate tone of voice. "That is, of course, if you don't put a bullet through that brilliant brain of yours."
Dr. Barnaby slowed his furious pacing of the room, then came to a stop. He pulled his chair back to the table and sat.
"I'm listening."
Tom went to the whiteboard to take notes.
"We have questions we need answered," Tom started, splitting the whiteboard space in two columns, and titling one side "Questions."
"We need to know the following things," he continued.
"Who manufactured the stray drone?
Who deployed it?
Who was operating it, and from which base?
What do their records indicate as failure?
How can we speak with the drone operators?
Was the drone armed?
What type of weapons?"
Tom was listing the questions one under the other, arranged neatly in a bulleted list. "Oh, very important," Tom said, and squeezed a few questions at the top of the list:
"What model was the stray drone?
What type?
When was it purchased?
If it was a NanoLance produced drone, when did it leave manufacturing?
When was it produced?
If confirmed, let's try to track it down to the assembly team who built it."
"That's not hard. We give our drones serial numbers that are recorded by the defense clients. We keep detailed records, reflecting these serial numbers, showing all the manufacturing and testing details for each drone," Dr. Barnaby clarified. He was back in problem-solving mode.
"OK. Let's move to actions. We need help in here as soon as possible. We need a strong, legal representation, external counsel. Until we figure out who is doing what at NanoLance, I would recommend against using the internal counsel for this. Steve will set up an emergency appointment with the toughest, meanest son-of-a-bitch lawyer that ever came into existence in this land."
Steve nodded approval, and then disappeared from the room.
Tom listed "lawyer" under the second column, marked "Actions."
"We need strong PR representation. There is an excellent public relations firm here in San Diego. If you recall, a few years ago it handled that huge Salmonella contamination scandal for that deli manufacturer . . . can't recall the name. All I recall is the company came out of it looking squeaky clean, and no one refrained from buying their product. I'll get that covered. Then, we need you to announce the sale of your stock tomorrow, just as we discussed."
"This will make things even worse!" Dr. Barnaby stood again, agitated.
"No, it won't, if you think about it. The conspirators will assume it's because of the drone crash; they'll rub their hands and make a move fast—carelessly fast. We'll be there, watching and waiting."
"But what about the effect that this combined attack will have on the stock price?"
"Their attack will only be a blip on the radar, among the nonstop wave of interviews, comments, opinions, and every other single way the media will dissect this. However, because of this incident, you will have PR and legal on your side to help, and I am confidently estimating the cumulative effect of their efforts to bring the added media-inflicted damage to zero. Now is the time. Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow is Saturday," Alex intervened.
"Right. Then Monday, or as soon as possible," Tom clarified. "But without any further delay."
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"I'll do it. What else?"
"Alex," Tom said, turning toward her. "You need to go back in there and crank up the heat. Make your moves faster than we had originally planned. Let's uncover who's behind all this, in time for us to prepare a good handling of the entire situation."
"Understood," Alex said. No pressure, she thought.
"One more thing," Tom said, turning his attention back to Dr. Barnaby. "Don't worry about the stock price."
...42
...Tuesday, June 29, 8:59AM
...NanoLance HQ—Executive Floor
...San Diego, California
It was Alex's first executive meeting. Only directors and above, assistant vice presidents, vice presidents, and chief officers of all departments were gathering in the large conference room on the top floor. They were quite numerous; Alex had no idea there were so many. She recognized few faces, though, and not a lot of people recognized and greeted her either.
She could see signs of worry and low-voice chatter going on, as her colleagues were filling the room, starting from back to front. They were behaving somewhat like schoolchildren, these executives, none daring to sit in the first two rows of seats. Alex saw the opportunity to situate herself in a manner that would give her great visibility to the reactions and expressions of everyone else. She took the first seat on the right, on the first row of seats. She would be able to sit half-turned toward the back, keep an eye on Dr. Barnaby as he spoke, but also see the reactions of most of the people present.
Dr. Barnaby entered the conference room, bringing the low-key chatter to a halt. He looked composed and dignified, his usual self.
"Good morning, everyone, and thank you for joining me in this meeting on such short notice. I have an announcement to make. At the end of the fourth quarter of this year, when the trading window will be open, I will be liquidating a significant portion of my stock."