Drone (6 page)

Moments later, an animated flatbed truck with a mounted machine gun appeared on the highway, surrounded by three other unarmed cars. The armed truck began firing at Jack’s drone. Jack swooped and swerved to avoid the antiaircraft fire.

“Dr. Nicolelis’s monkey could only track targets with his mind. Jack can avoid being a target. He can also do this.”

The truck continued firing, but the other three cars fell away. Suddenly, a missile shot out from beneath the drone’s wings. A moment later the truck disintegrated in a ball of digital fire, leaving the three other cars unscathed.

Rao beamed. “I bet my monkey can blow up his monkey.”

“And you’ll notice, little Jack isn’t just using his motor skills to track a single target. He’s making target
choices
,” Ian said.

“How?” Pearce asked.

“We hacked into the deeper cognitive functions of his cortex,” Rao said. She turned the lights back on, ending the game. “So what you’re seeing is not only a brain-machine connection, but also a true mind-machine interaction.”

Pearce nodded. It was impressive. One of the biggest challenges to achieving true autonomous drone capacity was artificial intelligence programming. If a computer program could ever simulate a sentient brain—and there were plenty of arguments against that eventuality—it would still be years away before that goal would be achieved. But why try to emulate a human brain with software if an actual brain could be used instead through BMI?

“Can you imagine the possibilities? Artificial limbs, exoskeletons, blindness . . . the medical applications are endless,” Ian said.

“So are the military ones,” Judy said. A rare scowl.

“Do you understand now why I wanted you to be here in person?” Rao asked. She had just made Pearce Systems one of the most important players in the field of neuroprosthetics.

Pearce nodded, trying to hide his excitement. “If you really want to impress me, next time have Jack fly me up here himself.”

“Then what will
I
do?” Judy asked.

Pearce shrugged. “Sit back and enjoy the ride, I guess.”

5

Isla Paraíso, Mexico

César Castillo’s Roman villa–styled mansion stood at the peak of the six-hundred-meter mountain in the center of his private island ten miles east of the Baja California Peninsula. Locating his palatial home on the highest point had certain strategic disadvantages, certainly, but it was his dream of witnessing the ineffable beauty of the daily rising and setting of the sun that had caused him to build it there. He had not been disappointed with his decision.

Castillo stepped out of the civilian MD 500 helicopter onto the helipad almost before the landing skids had hit the ground. He made a beeline for the house. His security chief, Ali Abdi, waited for the pilot to land before jumping out and scrambling to catch up with his boss. As usual, the Iranian wore a brimmed hat and dark sunglasses in order to keep his face hidden from the ubiquitous American electronic surveillance devices that might be circling overhead. He hadn’t survived this long without taking extreme precautions.

César stormed into the courtyard with the massive pool complex. The architect had replicated the expansive marble-and-tile Neptune Pool at Hearst Castle. But César had added Greek and Roman statuary depicting various gods and heroes with tridents, swords, and spears to stand guard around the crystal-blue waters of the Olympic-size pool. The face
of Zeus bore an uncanny resemblance to César’s with its fierce, cruel eyes and wicked grin.

Stretched out on chaise longues near the pool were his two strapping twin sons, Aquiles and Ulises Castillo, who were even more sculpted than the statues. Naked and tan, their muscled bodies glistened with sweat. Each was six foot three inches tall, nearly a foot taller than their father, who was a squat, barrel-chested man with enormous hands attached to abnormally long arms. César was built exactly like
his
father, Hércules Castillo, a Sinaloan tomato farmer long since dead. Hércules told his teenage son that God must have designed the Castillos to pick tomatoes since he gave them such long arms that they barely had to bend over to gather the fruit up. César Castillo had built the world’s most powerful drug cartel just to prove both God and his father wrong.

Without a doubt, the two young men in their early twenties had emerged from the deep end of their mother’s gene pool, an Argentine beauty of German, Italian, and Spanish descent. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, green eyes, and long, thick chestnut hair made the twins irresistible to women. Men, on the other hand, either admired or feared them. The few who had ever crossed them had long since disappeared.

“Who ordered the hit in El Paso?” César demanded as he stormed into the pool area. Ali had finally caught up. He took a position in the shade underneath the portico, a short but discreet distance away. Acoustical guitar music poured out of the hidden speakers located around the pool area.

Neither Aquiles nor Ulises stirred from beneath their Ray-Bans. They were fanatical sun worshippers.

“Welcome home, Father. How was your trip?” Aquiles asked.

César whipped around and snapped his fingers at Ali. The Iranian found the remote control and killed the music. A .40 caliber Steyr printed against Ali’s back beneath his Cuban guayabera. Dark-haired and olive-skinned, the brown-eyed Iranian was fluent in Spanish. He shaved his
beard but kept his mustache and easily passed for a Hispanic anywhere he traveled in Latin America or the United States.

“Answer my question.” César stood directly over his naked son.

Ulises lifted his sunglasses. “You’re blocking the sun, Father.”

Aquiles laughed. How could such a short man block anything, let alone the sun?

“Why are you laughing?” César asked.

“No reason, Father. I’m sorry. It just struck me as a paradoxical thing for Ulises to say.”

“‘Paradoxical.’ That’s a big word. I suppose that’s why I paid all of that money to send you to university, so you can use big words with me, eh? Put some clothes on, both of you. You should be ashamed to lie around here like a couple of
putos
.”

Ulises’s green eyes, which had been mockingly coy until now, flashed with rage, but only for an instant. “Yes, you’re right. We should dress.” Ulises stood up from the lounger, towering over his diminutive father. He yawned and stretched his muscular arms high over his head, fully displaying his powerful physique. It was a threat display worthy of a silverback gorilla.

César grabbed his son by the testicles with his left hand and crushed them as hard as he could while clutching his son’s throat with his right hand. The pain exploded in Ulises’s scrotum, but his scream only came out as a yelp because his windpipe was blocked. César charged into his son like a bull, toppling the bigger man backward until they reached the edge of the pool, where he tossed the boy into the water with a splash.

Ali watched the battle intently. He redistributed his body weight so that he was equally balanced on both feet as he slowly, carefully, slipped his hands behind his back, clasping them together just above the pistol holstered in his lower back. He had never seen either son raise a hand to their father, but he was prepared for anything with these two wild wolves. He knew exactly how dangerous the boys were in hand-to-hand combat
because he had trained them himself. It had taken Ali over eight months to work his way into his current position as Castillo’s head of security, the first step of many more to come. Ali wasn’t about to let either boy derail his plan by killing their father, even if he deserved it.

Aquiles watched the lopsided battle in amused horror as he yanked on his swim trunks. He stifled the urge to laugh at his brother.

“To answer your question, Father, we put a hit on Los Tokers,” Aquiles said, tying the string on his bathing suit. “They were throwing a party on our turf. Those punks are like roaches. If you don’t squash them, they just keep spreading. Isn’t that what you taught us to do?”

“Who told you it was Los Tokers?” César asked as he stomped back over to Aquiles.

“We got a phone call. A Mara named Hater,” Aquiles said. “He’s one of our meth dealers and an enforcer.”

“And you trust this Hater guy?”

“Yes. Why?” Ulises asked.

“Because either he got it wrong or he screwed us,” César replied.

“What are you talking about?” Aquiles asked.

“Because there weren’t any Tokers at the party.”

Aquiles frowned, thoughtfully. “And why is that a problem?”

César suppressed the urge to strike his son across the face. He’d killed better men for less offense. “Tell me how it’s not a problem.”

“A hit is a hit, Father. We put the word out on the street that we thought Los Tokers were muscling in, so we smashed them. The message was sent. Mess with us and you die. And the message still makes sense even though Los Tokers weren’t there. People died just because we
thought
Tokers were there. Nobody’s even going to think about setting up shop on our turf again, at least not for a while,” Aquiles bragged.

César slapped his son’s grinning face. The sound echoed around the courtyard like a gunshot. Aquiles didn’t flinch, but his eyes watered. Whether from rage or pain, Ali couldn’t be certain. Probably both.

Ulises tread water in the pool, remaining a safe distance from his father’s reach. “Why are you so upset with us, Father? You told us to mind the store while you were away. We did.”

César wagged a thick finger at both of them. “You lazy bastards. You think all you have to do is pick up a phone and order people killed? You should have done the advance work yourselves. You never want to get your hands dirty yourselves, do you?”

Ulises glared at his father. He’d grown up with the endless stories of his grandfather’s backbreaking work in the tomato fields. To be accused of not wanting to get his hands dirty was the moral equivalent of accusing a soldier of cowardice in the face of battle. The verbal jab was worse than his father’s physical slap.

“But you’re wrong, Father. We did get our hands dirty.” Ulises glanced at his brother for moral support. Aquiles nodded for him to continue. “We’re the ones who pulled the trigger. We’re the ones who sent the message.”

César fell into a lounger. He buried his head in his massive hands and moaned aloud. “What have you two idiots done?”

“We took care of business. Those punks were just collateral damage. It happens.” Aquiles had lowered his voice to a near whisper, fearing another slap by his father. He sat down on the lounger next to him.

César looked up. “Collateral damage? Are you insane? You think Ryan Martinez is just ‘collateral damage’?”

“Who’s that?” Ulises asked.

César howled with laughter. “How paradoxical! A stupid tomato picker like me knows more than a college-educated fairy. Don’t either of you listen to the news?”

“Only ESPN,” Ulises said. “And hardly that.”

“So who
is
Ryan Martinez?” Aquiles asked.

“Ryan Martinez was a schoolteacher at that party you shot up,” César said. He wiped his thick mustache with one of his monstrous hands.

“And . . . ?” Ulises asked, cringing, half expecting another blow.

“Ryan Martinez was the son of the president of the United States! And now she is going to unleash holy hell on us for murdering her only child.”

The boys glanced at each other, frightened and confused. “We didn’t know,” they said to each other, as if talking to themselves in a mirror.

César leaped to his feet, reaching for the chromed .45 caliber Desert Eagle in his waistband. Screaming with maniacal rage, he opened fire at the nearest statue, a goat-legged Pan with a great golden phallus thrusting up to his midsection. Pan’s marble head exploded with the first hit. The next rounds tore away the god’s massive pectorals and mashed his silver shepherd’s flute. César kept firing until he emptied the magazine. He dropped the clip and slammed a new one home, then chambered the first round.

César pointed the gun at each of his sons like an accusing finger.

“Tell me, smartasses. What should I do with the two of you now?”

6

The White House, Washington, D.C.

Ambassador Konstantin Britnev was ushered into the Oval Office where he was greeted by the warm smile and firm handshake of President Myers. A White House press camera flashed three times.

“I hate having my picture taken,” Myers whispered to Britnev under her breath.

Britnev nearly laughed as he widened his alluring smile. “You should see my passport photo. It’s terrible.” They held hands as several more shots were snapped.

“That will be all. Thank you,” Myers said to the photographer.

“Thank you, Madame President, Ambassador Britnev. Excuse me.” The female photographer cast a brief, leering glance at the handsome Russian as she exited through the secretary’s office door.

“Dr. Strasburg, so good to see you again.” Britnev nodded cordially as he extended his well-manicured hand. Strasburg was on the couch. He struggled to rise.

“No, please, Doctor, remain seated.” Britnev stepped closer to the couch and shook Strasburg’s veiny hand. The Russian, thirty years younger than Strasburg, had studied the famed security advisor’s illustrious career at the Institute for USA and Canadian Studies years ago. Now
Britnev was one of the key players in the Titov administration, handpicked by the Russian president personally for the Washington post.

“It’s good to see you as well, Ambassador Britnev. At my age, it’s good to see anybody.”

Britnev politely laughed at the old man’s threadbare joke.

“What would you like to drink, Konstantin?” Myers asked. She’d dismissed the waitstaff for this morning’s private meeting.

“A coffee, please, black, no sugar, if it’s not too inconvenient.” What he really craved was a cigarette.

“No, not at all.” Myers crossed over to a credenza. She poured him a cup of coffee from a freshly brewed pot. Britnev was a huge coffee fan. He had even helped broker the first Starbucks franchise in Moscow. She handed him a cup and saucer imprinted with the presidential seal.