Game of Drones Read online

  “They offer any clues?"

  "Not so far. Forensics teams are working on them."

  "I want every vehicle within the search radius capable of transporting a single one of those drones searched,” he went on. “I want these things found long before they become airborne and maneuverable. Is that understood?”

  Murmurs of agreement filled the room.

  “In the meantime,” he continued, “I’ll need to be moved to a secure location. Camp David is obviously out.”

  “Then may I suggest Raven Rock?” said Chief Advisor Simon Davis. Raven Rock, also called the Raven Rock Military Complex or Site R, is a government facility located on a mountain in Pennsylvania which serves as the Alternate National Military Command Center during a national crisis. The facility runs more than thirty-eight communications systems that are linked to the Defense Information Systems Agency computer, and provides services to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the National Command Authority, the U.S. Department of Defense, and the Office of the Secretary of Defense. It is also sometimes referred to as the Underground Pentagon.

  President Carmichael nodded. “Agreed. We can manage everything from Raven Rock,” he said. “Get Marine One ready.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “And notify the Director of the FBI,” he added. “This matter comes under his jurisdiction as well. As far as I’m concerned, he needs to coordinate all field offices from here to California. And I want all social media monitored for insurrectionist chatter. I'm tired of being embarrassed by the media for missing some damn tweet --or whatever the hell people use these days--that was out there for the whole world to see. Are we clear?”

  “That monitoring is underway as we speak, Mr. President.”

  “Very good.” Standing with an appearance that held all the looseness of a rubber mask, the man clearly draining, he added, “Now is the time to test our mettle as a nation facing adversity. Find . . . those . . . people!”

  He turned and looked out the window with his hands clasped behind his back, knowing that a hideous challenge awaited him beyond those glass panes. A challenge that would make or break his Presidency, and would likely come to define it.

  When the room had cleared, President Carmichael felt a creeping chill crawl up his spine and settle at the base of his neck.

  War had come to his front yard.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Approximately 90 Miles Northwest of Washington D.C

  0847 Hours

  Aasif al-Shazad wasted no time at all. After driving north for fifteen miles, he abandoned the military vehicles for three 18-wheelers fully capable of transporting all of the appropriated hardware. On the map, the road leading to the secured location resembled a hook-like thread, barely visible, which was ideal.

  They had traveled for as long as they could under the cover of darkness, long before the White House could initiate satellite and sky-surveillance monitoring. Before dawn broke they had reached their destination, an old wartime bunker with an adjacent 300-foot road that had cracked over time as weeds surfaced through the fissures along the pavement. That strip, however, acted as the perfect lift-off point for the drones.

  To disguise the location from overhead surveillance, Shazad had draped camouflaged canopies over three-quarters of the runway’s length, twenty feet above the ground. They could launch the drones from beneath the canopies, where they would accelerate along the hidden strip of pavement, then launch as soon as they cleared the tarps, becoming airborne. From a sky-point view only a marginal piece of visible roadway could be seen, and this would likely be presumed too small for a launch operation, probably disregarded by overhead explorers as a service pad of some kind.

  Trees, brush and wild-growing brambles had taken over the terrain surrounding the bunker, with vines creeping along the bunker’s concrete walls that had cracked and chipped over time, but remained sturdy. Channels and warrens branched out from a central room that was heavily laden with dust. Inside, the area was quite Spartan with nothing more than a set of folding tables and chairs, cots, lithium powered lamps, and a battery of wireless PCs, laptops and monitors.

  In the center of the floor stood three mobile podiums that were the central operating systems for the drones. They featured LCD monitors and joysticks with which to manage flight patterns. In addition, there were GPS systems capable of pinpointing precise coordinates that could be programmed into the weaponry, allowing them to zero in on their proposed target without manual operation via joystick.

  Shazad stood over the center console alongside Naji, who acted as operator. Neither man had slept in thirty hours, yet they appeared fresh and rejuvenated, their veins pumping with adrenaline.

  “Are we good to go?” asked Shazad. He looked at his watch. “If we’re going to make a statement, then we need to launch immediately.”

  Naji looked over and double-checked the coordinates. The numbers he programmed into the system represented an intercept-position calculated by time, speed and flight trajectory of an incoming craft.

  Everything checked out. “We’re good."

  Shazad placed a hand on Naji’s shoulder. “Then let’s bring this nation of infidels to its knees.”

  #

  The engines of the Reaper drone revved in preparation as the vehicle faced down the camouflaged stretch of pavement. The runway was molded like a tunnel, its exit a bullet-shaped mouth of light, also the point of lift-off.

  The autonomous weapon began to move. Slowly at first, it gained speed and momentum until the surrounding walls of camouflage passed by in a blur, the opening getting larger, brighter, and then it was in the open and taking flight, the nose of the vehicle aiming skyward a moment before banking, then rising.

  From his control point, Naji enabled stealth mode as the Reaper adopted a southeast trajectory from their position.

  America was about to be taken to the ground in defeat.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Onboard Flight 2194

  180 miles West of Washington D.C.

  1012 Hours

  Senator Paul David Houseman had served in the Senate for almost twenty-four years and currently acted as the Senate Majority Leader. A strong supporter and proponent of anti-terrorism campaigns at home and abroad, the man was particularly vociferous when it came to making known his needs and wants to protect the country. Detractors claimed, however, that he was less enthusiastic when it came to actually executing on the plans for which he had requested and received support. In the end it was all about the vote of the constituency. You give the people what they want, even if that amounted to a false sense of security, then sit back and watch the numbers rise at the polls. It had always been a simple formula he had routinely followed, all the way up to the first class seat in the jet hurtling through the sky where he now found himself.

  A few hours prior, while in Texas awaiting his scheduled flight, he’d been notified of the JBAB breach. The current reports leaked to the press held that an ammo depot had exploded, killing thirty-six soldiers. But the truth was anything but. According to his sources within White House circles, the JBAB had been compromised by a terrorist faction utilizing unparalleled military sophistication.

  Worse, they were of Middle–Eastern origin.

  Worse than that, they were trained American soldiers who had gone AWOL.

  “How could this happen?” he wondered, looking over documents emailed to him on his laptop. The entire first-class section was cordoned off for him and his staff. “How can a group of people--I don’t care how polished they are as soldiers--just go in and take more than a hundred million dollars worth of taxpayer-funded military assets?” He fell back into his seat. “This country’s been in decline for a while now,” he said. “And I’m just the man to see that this never happens again!” He pounded the armrest to underscore his empty point.

  “Senator.”

  Houseman turned to his aide. “What is it, Thurman?”

  Physically, Howard Thurman was the complete antithesis of Sen
ator Houseman. While the senator was an aged and overweight man with shock-white hair, Houseman was razor thin with a hawk-like nose and eyes set too close together beneath wispy black locks, perhaps what some would call weasel-like in appearance. He tapped keys on his laptop while he addressed his boss.

  “Senator, I’m sure you see the value of this development,” he told him.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Today you’re the Senate Majority Leader . . . Tomorrow, the president.” Houseman couldn’t help the preamble of a smile that surfaced on his face. Since Carmichael was on his last term as president, this was certainly feasible. He just needed to incite the Senate and the House.

  “When we get to Washington,” he started, “I want you and the rest of the—”

  Something passed by the aircraft-left window with amazing speed, something that caught both their attention.

  A drone.

  From its outline and form, Houseman knew it to be a Reaper, or perhaps a Predator? He wasn't sure what the hell they were using these days, but what difference did it make? All of them were deadly beyond measure when facing a commercial jet. Oh, my God!

  It maneuvered with poetic ease and fluidity, the craft working as if it had a life of its own, something that was predatory and possessed a dark inclination to hunt and kill.

  Its wings seesawed from left to right, as if waving, before it peeled away and took to the rear of the jet.

  Senator Houseman tried to look back as far as he could from his portal window, but the drone had disappeared from sight.

  His mind reeling, the senator made his way to the cockpit and pounded on the door.

  Suddenly, the plane banked hard to the left, knocking the senator to the floor.

  #

  The airliner pilot first saw the Reaper as a white speck in space that was closing fast from the northeast. Within moments it began to take on definition, including the unique bulbous nosecone and the undercarriage that held two Hellfire missiles. Mounted on its back were two additional pieces of equipment that the pilot did not recognize—yet they appeared similar in design to the main drone, even down to the canisters that comprised their own payloads.

  After the drone circled the plane as if sizing it up, it sidled up to the captain’s side window, about thirty to forty meters away, and kept pace.

  “You seeing this, Joe?” he said to his co-pilot.

  The co-pilot leaned forward to grab a view. “It’s a drone.” And then with a questioning look, he asked, “Are those missiles?”

  “Hellfires.” The pilot had worked up close and personal with military hardware, especially with drones, after a stint flying for the Air Force.

  The Reaper continued to shadow the plane for several seconds before its wings began to seesaw, and then it fell back behind the jetliner.

  The pilot flipped a toggle switch and spoke into his lip mike. “There shouldn’t be exercises going on so close to D.C.,” he said more to himself. Then: “Flight 2-1-9-4 to Dulles.”

  “Base.”

  “Dulles, do you know if the military are conducting aerial exercises at the current coordinates?”

  “That’s negative, 2-1-9-4.”

  “Dulles, there’s a Reaper drone trailing and keeping pace. Any indication?”

  “2-1-9-4, we have nothing on our radar to indicate a second fly-vehicle. Nor did a second indication appear on our system. You’re alone up there.”

  “That’s negative, Dulles. There is a Reaper drone that has taken position behind this plane and is presumably holding. Have TSA contact Military Central for a confirmation.”

  “Copy that, 2-1-9-4.”

  The pilot flipped off the switch. “Do you see it?” he asked his co-pilot.

  The other aviator shook his head. “There’s nothing on radar, either.” He turned back to the pilot. “Maybe it’s gone.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  An indicator on the control panel began to blink red and angry, coupled with a warning alarm.

  Something had locked on to them.

  The pilot toggled the transmitter switch. “2-1-9-4 to Dulles.”

  “Dulles.”

  “Something just locked on to us,” he said, forcing calm.

  “2-1-9-4, TSA’s contacting Military Central for verification. Please stand by.”

  Then the alarm beeped at a manic pace.

  Something had been launched.

  “Dulles, we’re taking evasive maneuvers.”

  Just as someone pounded on the cockpit door, the plane banked hard to the left.

  The banging on the door stopped.

  And just as the plane tilted, the Hellfire passed beneath them and kept on going. The consensus between pilot and co-pilot was that the missile had missed the plane’s underbelly by less than ten feet.

  “2-1-9-4 to Dulles!” There was now a sense of urgency to his voice that could no longer be masked.

  “Dulles.”

  “We have just been fired upon by a military drone! I repeat, we have just been fired upon by a military drone.”

  “Copy that, 2-1-9-4. Military confirms that they are not conducting exercises and have dispatched a series to respond. Do you copy, 2-1-9-4?”

  “Yeah, we copy, Dulles. But we’re hardly capable of outmaneuvering a drone.”

  “Understood, 2-1-9-4. ETA of Phantom fighter jets is approximately six minutes.”

  Six minutes. The pilot closed his eyes. Six minutes was a lifetime. He wasn't sure if they could go six more seconds with this thing.

  And then he was overwhelmed with defeat. The Reaper had missed on its first attempt. It would not do so again.

  He flew the plane.

  #

  The Reaper took position directly behind the airliner. Through its lens it had a perfect view of a Boeing that was not designed for aerial gymnastics.

  The drone set its sights as Naji lined up the pathway and engaged the first of two Hellfire missiles. The projectile was ejected from the drone’s undercarriage, falling away from its transporter. Then it corkscrewed through the atmosphere before leveling out.

  The missile was fast and direct. But the plane, perhaps guided by the self-preservation efforts of its pilot, or maybe just a lucky bout of turbulence, banked hard to its left just as the missile approached. It missed the big fuselage by less than five feet.

  Naji sucked in his breath. The drone wavered back into position, its programming drawing a bead before releasing its second and final missile. The Hellfire sped away from the undercarriage leaving a contrail in its wake, the projectile shadowing the moves of the plane as it banked from left to right, then from right to left, trying to make a difficult target. But the Hellfire countered with robotically efficient reactive maneuvers as it closed in.

  The Boeing nosedived, trying to shake its pursuer. But the missile persisted.

  As the jetliner attempted to raise its nose in a futile attempt to climb skyward, the missile struck its tail section, shearing off the entire assemblage. The last row of seats, with instantaneously charred corpses still belted to them, were ripped through the jagged opening, whipping through the stratosphere along with what remained of the plane's lavatory. Luggage and food carts took to the air in the plane’s wake as it canted and spiraled out of control.

  The Boeing, now firmly in its death throes, flipped over and then descended into a chaotic series of gyrations, the airliner nothing but a useless, metallic hazard falling to the Earth from an altitude of seven miles.

  Seconds before his consciousness succumbed to the g-forces and sudden lack of cabin pressurization, Senator Houseman flashed on the fact that his candidacy for the presidency would never be realized, a thought that competed for attention--and, oddly enough, won--with the knowledge that he was about to die.

  In the last few split seconds he closed his eyes, hoping to relive the positive milestones from his life that he would leave behind as a lasting political legacy. But no such pictures emerged. In fact, behind the closed lids of his eyes jus
t before they left this world, he saw nothing but a parade of petty schemes masquerading as significant events cloaked in the historical reputation and stature of his office. In the very end, he saw only darkness. I helped people...didn't I? Surely I--

  When the plane impacted, Senator Paul David Houseman, along with his aide and 164 other souls, perished onboard Flight 2194.

  There were no survivors.

  #

  Shazad’s team watched everything play out on the monitors as Naji navigated the drone from the northeast to its designated intercept point of the senator’s plane.

  It had circled like a true predator, examining its prey with the unblinking eye of its high definition lens, before taking up position next to the flight deck. For a long moment the Reaper kept pace, its lens zooming into the cockpit to spy on the captain, and then it peeled back, adopting a trailing trajectory behind the commercial airliner.

  Naji then tapped digits on a keypad and directed the joystick. When his intuition told him, now, he pushed the red button, firing off the first of two Hellfire missiles. Through the electronic eye they watched the missile spiral away from the undercarriage and head for the plane, which was beginning to bank hard to the right. The missile matched the Boeing's maneuvers, but missed its intended target as it passed within feet of its underside.

  Naji quickly regrouped and repeated his actions to prepare the missile for firing.

  Then he depressed the button once again, the missile leaving a wispy contrail in its wake as it zeroed in. The airplane tried to move left, then up, but it was too big, too slow, the vehicle entirely without any true elusive skills as the missile impacted with its tail end, causing the airliner to go into a death roll.

  Naji fell back from the podium and smiled while Shazad and his team clapped and cheered.

  Game over!

  CHAPTER SIX

  Onboard Marine One

  1015 Hours

  Marine One is the presidential helicopter transport to locations with minimal landing areas in close proximity. The current version is the VH-71 Kestral, a state-of-the-art mobile air unit that has a service ceiling of 15,000 feet and travels at a speed of 192 miles per hour, with a range of 863 miles.