Predators and Drones

by Richard Herron

  There was nothing left of the occipital region anymore.

  25. WHO IS THAT GUY?

  The resident bubble of angst ruptured in Steve Andrew's gut the moment he heard Bill's voice. Bill Olson was leading the Predator team in a control module on an airbase in Nevada. There shouldn't be a need for him to be calling, but call he did. Bill had said "There's somebody watching things, but I don't know who." That's what had popped the fucking bubble!

  Now, Frank and Greg had lost this motherfucker while sitting out front of his god-damned driveway. Steve's last words to Frank, in no uncertain terms; Keep me informed. Check back in five minutes. Since then, not a word from Frank, and Steve's calls were going unanswered. No choice now. Got to bring in some back-up. It would take them a little while, but they'd get things back on track. Directions were crystal clear: "Use the transponder to locate Frank's car. Tell Frank and Greg to get their asses down the coast immediately!"

  Steve's sedan sat idle in the scenic view pull-out. Highway 1 / 101 traffic made steady noise behind him. Looking out over the ocean, watching gulls ride the invisible wind–the only thing about the day he liked! An occasional RV or car whipped over for a look, a scenic piss break, then off again.

  This was one of those hot weather days that felt twenty degrees hotter in the car. Instead of getting the assurances he wanted, he was getting nothing but bad news. He scanned the skeletal data on Hardesty for review: Date of birth, driver’s license, retired Navy, property records for Cayucos. D.O.D. searches were dark. Former SEAL?... He'd found details about other spec op guys in the past, but this guy’s history wore a shroud. Digging got him nowhere, walking a Mobius strip. Best he could find—vague reference to an 'open stat'. He didn't know what that meant, exactly. It hinted about recesses where light didn't penetrate.

  Steve considered two options. One, wait, see how this shakes out. This choice thinned to breaking now. The second option loomed. I hate to bug him... this might be worth a call though... if I asked him in a discreet way, diplomatically... maybe... if he could... Steve felt pressure to get this tiger back in the cage before it tore his throat out in this dangerous game.

  He opened his phone’s contact list, selected ‘Col.F.’, then tapped the call icon as he got out of his car to walk. Whew... needed this breeze! Three rings later, a voice answered, “Faulkner.”

  “Good morning, Sir. This is Steve Anderson. I'm running the ground team for..." he paused, "Eye Pluck…” He waited for the other side to register confirmation of the topic, heard nothing. “Sir, I'm sorry to bother you... there've been some problems.”

  “What problems?” The two words came slow, venomous. He didn't sound ready for bad news.

  “Well Sir, I've learned someone outside of our group might've seen something." He continued quickly, " I don’t know for sure. I had a ground team for follow-up, but I haven't heard from them and I... I should've by now.” Silence on the other end. Anderson stopped walking, turned, starting back the other way.

  “I plan to continue the follow-up, but I need information that could be helpful.” Painfully dead air. “I've got I.D. on this person. It appears he's retired Navy, maybe special ops..." Is he still there? "Sir?” Steve was already up to his neck in this shit. He passed the sedan, kept walking.

  ◆◆◆

  In Langley, Virginia, Colonel Faulkner leaned back, closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly. This op had become the definition of clusterfuck... A U.S. citizen, on U.S. soil—who happened to be a retired Senator, god dammit! Now this agency dickhead tells him that a vet, "maybe special ops" was a witness... Jesus fucking Christ!

  “Give me his name,” the Colonel demanded.

  “Sir, I'm so sorry about this and...”

  “Shut the fuck up, Anderson. Name!”

  Steve provided the name he'd received from DMV and property records.

  “Hear this, Anderson. You keep this phone in your hand. I'll be calling you back in three minutes. I don’t want to hear the phone ring twice. You understand me?”

  “Y... Yes, Sir. Three minutes, Sir.” Steve waited for more, but the line was dead. He looked down at the phone in his hand. Fucking a!... It stared back, claiming innocence from the heat he felt in his ear, thumping in his chest. His head pivoted to looked out over the Pacific, mind racing as he sucked in a deep breath, exhaled it through pursed lips. Turning his back to the ocean, he lit a cigarette, began to walk along the guardrail. Two minutes and fifty-something seconds later, his phone rang.

  "Yes, Sir?"

  “It'll be handled.” The line went dead.

  The pile of worms on his plate grew in size disproportionate to his appetite for more worms.

  26. SEARCHING FOR THE BENETEAU

  "For fuck's sake, I'm slipping!" Dan cursed. He nearly killed me! If I'd search him thoroughly, he'd still be alive... He searched the bodies again, retrieving cell phones, wallets, weapons. He pulled the registration from the car's glove compartment. Still pissed off when he got into his car, he left the dump site's entrance and headed downhill. Pressing the 'on' button of first one and then the other cell phone was fruitless—locked. His hope for a call log, names, numbers would have to wait. He was at the highway before his anger eased, his frustration settled.

  At the coastal highway, Dan turned south. He did have something to go on. The make and model, its name and home port provided a few choice bits of important information. A mile down the road, he pulled into the entrance of a self-storage business. A pass code activated the automated gate and he veered left to access the far drive to his unit at the back of the property. When he neared his space, he angled the car over toward the fence. It looked like some asshole’s shitty parking job, rather than purposeful blocking of the access.

  He grabbed his duffel bag and walked to the roll-up door. His two flags were still in place, indicating no trespass had occurred. One was possible to see if someone searched. It was a short length of grey thread. It lay under the door's bottom plate by the flange. The other was impossible to see from the outside. It was a simple magnetic field set up on the door's track. Opening the door would interrupt the magnetic field and send an electronic message.

  Nothing was amiss. Dan removed the lock and eased the door up on its tracks. The door made a welcoming cacophony of spindle rattles, bearing squeaks and torsion spring resistance. Inside, the formidable safe stood, a monolith to guard 'sensitive' items—firearms, cameras, cash, and I.D. packets. Because the storage unit had electrical power and a back-up battery system, energy was secure. He kept computer equipment, a small collection of throw-away phones, one satellite phone and the charging bank for them. The satellite phone was his connection to a handler up stream.

  ◆◆◆

  A dirty white panel-van sporting a sign that said “Smithy’s Home Repair Services—Bonded and Insured” turned off the coast highway north of Dan’s location, worked its way east. The van carried a ladder and a rack with pipes, rods and lumber on the roof, helping to obscure the few antennae.

  One man drove the van while another sat at a small work station in the center of the vehicle, unseen by anyone on the road. He monitored a GPS screen that blinked an electronic signal. That 'blip' led them up into the hills, closer to the dark Crown Victoria, assigned to Franklin Carmichael.

  The only information they had—Frank nor his partner were returning calls, and Steve didn't sounding happy. The electronics man knew Frank as a hot-head. He'd curse at them, but they were doing their job, so fuck him. Their assignment; button up loose covers, tell Frank to get down the coast.

  "We're getting close, Bob. Slow down," Mack said to the driver, who eased off the gas and as they approached a turn off, the passenger confirmed, "Yup. Hang a left." The van turned up the gradual slope, veered left, rolled slowly toward the sedan.

  ◆◆◆

  The driver already had a glimpse of the chaos.

  "Holy fuck!"—Bob's expression gave notice to his partner that this wasn't going to be good.

  The fi
rst body he saw had taken severe damage to at least one leg, leaving a mangled mess. Next, as their van rolled to a stop, he saw Frank's lifeless body further up to the left. His face was recognizable. The first body had to be Greg Johnson's, but he could only surmise that by association. They were sprawled on the ground just beyond where the sedan was parked. It looked like Greg had tried to crawl away. There was a bloody furrow trailing behind his legs, telling the story of his slow, ineffective escape attempt.

  Bob and Mack had been called to scenes like this before, when their job required collecting calamities. Clean up jobs usually involved clearing away what they referred to as bad guys. This was much more of a rarity. It happened on occasion, but radio communication and surprise on their side turned tables. Finding two of their own was a hard kick in the gut.

  The two, still warm bodies were loaded into large, heavy plastic bags and hustled into the back of the van. After kicking loose dirt over bloody areas on the ground, they returned to the van and Bob got into the driver's seat. Mack pulled master keys from a cabinet in the van, walked over to sit in the sedan Frank would no longer drive, started it. He followed the van as they returned down the coast to their dispatch center.

  ◆◆◆

  Dan bagged two of his throw-away phones, opting to leave the satellite phone, wait on that option for now. He pulled the drone's memory card from his coin pocket, slid it into a reader slot in the computer. He copied the contents onto a flash drive. Pocketing that, he went to the safe and opened it, placing the memory card inside, then withdrew fifteen hundred dollars in cash. He used debit cards on occasion and had accounts matching I.D.s, but cash was the best way to go in most circumstances.

  The exchange of gunfire thirty minutes earlier had not garnered extra attention, but that'd been a matter of luck. Going forward, he needed to be more discrete. He ran a bore brush and solvent through his pistol, swabbed it with light oil, left it in the safe. He exchanged it for his Amphibian, a suppressed .22 pistol and a 100-round box of hollow points. Those and a camera, telephoto lens and voice recorder were added to the duffel. The weapons, wallets, and cell phones he'd collected from the refuse site were deposited into the safe and he closed, locked it.

  His eyes scanned the unit, skimmed across the blinking diodes of the charging station and computer tower, while his brain processed a review of what he might need, might want for the next day or so. The men on the boat were armed and now I am, too. Their misfortune is in crossing paths with me, and I sure as hell aint gonna 'go quietly into the night', to bend the words of Dylan Thomas. The plan developing in Dan's mind would see them coming to justice sooner rather than later.

  He took a few more seconds to assure that everything was set. Reaching up to grab the overhead door's rope loop, he pulled the door down into position, replaced the heavy duty, hardened lock and secured the unit. Returning to the car, he dropped the duffel on the passenger seat.

  With the engine started, he reversed away from the fence, then circled around to exit out of the storage business. He got back onto Highway 1, making a call that caused a cell phone to ring in the hills overlooking Santa Barbara. It belonged to a friend. Tony’d been with Dan during some hairy encounters, during missions in the 'stans'. Neither had ever left the other dangling. A voice message started after the fourth ring;

  "Hey, this is Tony's phone. You know what to do."

  "Howdy Boomer. I'm in-between home and your place. Probably going to sleep on the beach somewhere overnight. I'll be down in your general neighborhood tomorrow. If it works out, maybe we can get together. Talk to you soon!"

  He disconnected. His focus switched to what might lie ahead. He knew of a pull-off where he could spend a quiet night, then head south in the morning. Tonight would be the time to go over the sequence of events in what had become a very long and dangerous day.

  A handful of miles down the road, Morro Bay entered his rear view and San Luis Obispo lay ahead. Inside his storage unit's safe, a recently deposited cell phone chirped. No one answered.

  PART TWO

  27. ROBBIE

  Robert "Robbie" Hamilton was born in Liberty, Missouri. The fifth child of a middle-class family, they lived in a small home in the outskirt community of Kansas City. He graduated high school, blending in with the other average students. Many of them ended up taking orders and counting out change, handing food in a bag to drive-through customers.

  He managed his escape from what promised minimum wages and no future by joining the army. With his enlistment and opportunities that came with it to receive further education, he improved his academic focus. This led to further doorways, and eventually, he became an NCO.

  Marksmanship, both with rifle and pistol, were his forte, and led him to experience deployments in special operations. Robbie enjoyed those assignments to a degree, but felt frustrated by low wages for dangerous work. He made the decision to leave the military after twelve years, rather than stay in for another eight to earn a retirement. His logic was simple. If he could land work in private security or bodyguard positions, he could surpass what the military would pay. He'd operate in less precarious and dangerous environments.

  Jump ahead fifteen years. Robbie had developed a portfolio that reflected work for several high-profile companies and individuals. Reference and background checks confirmed his dedication to assignments. They indicated his ability to succeed in less than desirable circumstances. This brought him to the attention of GTM, LLC and specifically, the eyes of Gerald Moore.

  28. GERALD MOORE

  GTM, LLC was Gerald Moore's baby. It had been so (with a name change) since he took the reins from his father, who inherited a business from his father. The chain ran further back but the links became murky in the haze of time. Gerald's father made changes to the business he acquired at age twenty-one, molding the firm into an advertising company.

  When the son took over, he made changes and under his leadership, GTM, LLC became a lobbying business, and business was good. GTM's clients ranged from industrial agri-business corporations to aeronautical corporations. From the energy industry to electronic manufacturers and broadcasting entities.

  Gerald Moore's familial line and business enterprises are the extension of a long line of movers and shakers in the Alliance. The roots of this alliance run deep. In fact, the depth of those tendrils are described by some as the foundations of business in the twenty-first century.

  Currently, GTM, LLC sits upon the crest, directing business activities that span the world. They negotiate land acquisition, including imminent domain, to suppressing local opposition. They work behind the scenes to topple organizations that don't cooperate. They place individuals into positions of power and influence. Some of the battles they fight take place in the bright light of day, in conference and courtrooms. Others take place in the dark shadows of alleys and black corners of the night.

  Moore, like his forefathers, developed strange bedfellows over the course of time. When desired outcomes required the removal of sticky or stubborn obstacles, Moore sometimes called on outside resources. This provided a buffering layer between GTM and the removal of said obstacles. There were times when at a moment's notice, he preferred to have work done in-house. He hired Robert Hamilton to fill that role. Robbie knew how to take direction, didn't question those directives, and accepted what Moore had to say as gospel. An excellent tool, Moore thought, to have in the toolbox.

  29. OFFICE OF THE SENATOR

  PRIMUM TERMINUM

  This wasn’t the first time a U. S. Senator's ego and his dick got him into hot water. Power and position had a way of bringing trouble into laps and that's exactly where his current dilemma focused. Mary-Anne wondered what the hell happened inside this man's head to blind him to the ramifications of sexual indiscretions.

  Her eyes scanned across the current piles of paper on her desk, sipping on her morning’s first office coffee. Legislative drafts, constituent request letters, and other bulk weighed down her forward progress. Mary-Anne
allowed her mind to drift to the previous early evening.

  ◆◆◆

  They’d attended the afternoon segments of the conference and the wet “social hour” that followed. He did because that's what politicians do, part of their job. She did because it was part of her j.o.b. As much as possible, she was his right hand, his calendar and clock. She kept the Senator abreast of upcoming deadlines and votes, and tried to stay on top of good ol' boy agreements. Those sometimes occurred with a cocktail in hand. John drew upon her memory when issues came up in conversation. This evening was like most, and nothing of real interest to her. She'd have preferred to get home, curl up on the sofa with a novel and a glass of wine, create a warm spot for Kitty. Forget about the whole mess for a few hours.

  As he'd circulated among colleagues and lobbyists, Mary-Anne discreetly cycled in range, tethered in his wake. She found herself within earshot of a brash and flirtatious redhead who was holding court. Samantha Givins, a liaison to one of the big corporate sponsors, immediately came across to Mary-Anne as a known quantity. Some people were better at hiding their brown-nosing antics. This Sa-man-tha..., Mary-Anne imagined her name broken in a mocking, breathy tone..., left no mystery behind her charade. "Are you jealous?" popped into her head, but she shoved it away.

  Another part of her job; There were always people wanting to gain access to a senator, and she did her best to determine their motives. In this case, some part of sex loomed, but to what end? Samantha and John appeared to click like old friends and others within the vicinity moved on after polite tidbits of chitchat. Meanwhile, the two were immersed, exchanging banter interspersed with a sprinkling of innuendo.