Drone Command (13 page)

TETON COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL

JACKSON, WYOMING

APRIL 1991

T
roy was more than an hour late by the time he arrived on campus, a collection of cinder-block boxes strung together by covered walkways, typical school architecture from the 1960s. Troy never found a ride to hitch and had to hike all the way in. His still-hungry stomach grumbled for more food that wasn't going to be coming anytime soon. For two bucks he could get a deep-fried bean burrito and a chocolate milk, but he didn't have two bucks, and he wasn't a mooch.

He qualified for the school lunch program, but his father wouldn't allow it. “Pearces don't beg.”

Pearces also didn't make their son's lunch, either
, Troy thought, as he crossed through the faculty parking lot. The third-period bell rang and he knew he was in trouble. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mr. Felcher, a vice principal with a serious hard-on for misfits like Troy who had warned him just last week that his next tardy would get him expelled.

Troy ducked behind a two-door Chevy Nova at the last second and ran crouching between cars like a rat in a maze, finally making it onto campus without Felcher seeing him. The covered walkways were still jammed with students knotted in cliques of jocks, theater nerds, cowboys, cheerleaders, ROTC—groups he never belonged to. Troy bolted at full speed toward the temporary trailers on the far side of the campus, weaving in and out of the foot traffic with effortless grace. His PE coach
last year begged him to join track, but Troy didn't have time for extracurriculars at all. If he wasn't working with his dad, he was hunting or fishing, in season and out. He wished the high school offered letters in rifle, bow, and fly rod. He'd own 'em all.

The door to his math class was shutting when Troy arrived breathlessly. He grabbed the handle.

“Excuse me.”

Susan Morrow, the math teacher, was on the other side. Brown pantsuit, glasses, hair in a bun. She was in her forties and pretty, but trying to hide it.

“Troy Pearce. So glad you can make it.”

“Sorry, ma'am.” The other students were already dropping backpacks, popping binders, pulling homework. Troy moved toward his desk. Morrow tugged on his shirt.

“See me after class.”

“I can't be late—”

“I'll write you a hall pass.”

“What's this about?”

“You're failing.”

Pearce shrugged.

“And that, young man, is your problem.”

Troy paid more attention to his gurgling stomach than Morrow's math lesson. She was a gifted teacher, but Pearce hadn't done the homework. He glanced over the assignment, just in case she called on him. She always seemed to know when he hadn't put in the work. For whatever reason, she left him alone today.

The bell rang and the other kids poured out of the bungalow, but Pearce remained behind as ordered. Morrow motioned for him to join her at the seat next to her desk. She opened a file folder as he fell into the chair.

“Do you know why you're failing this class?”

“I dunno. Maybe low self-esteem?”

Morrow stifled a laugh. “You missed the midterm on Wednesday.
That means your grade is zero right now. If you fail this class, you won't graduate, and if you don't graduate, you can't go to college.”

Troy shrugged.

“You're still planning on going to college, aren't you?”

“No. Why?”

Morrow frowned. She had cornered Troy a year ago and read him the riot act. Told him how smart he was, that he needed to go to college. She even paid for him to take the SATs.

“What do you mean you're not going to college? Are you thinking about the military?”

Troy snorted.
Hell no
.

“No, ma'am.”

“What's so funny?”

“Nothing, ma'am. Just wasn't planning on a military career.”

“What are your plans after school?”

“Today? Or after I graduate?”

She gave him the stink eye. “What do you think?”

Troy softened a little. “Work with my dad.”

“Does he own his own company?”

“Yeah.”

“What does he do?”

“Lumbering.”

“Mills are going out of business all over the place these days. There's no future in that.”

Troy felt the heat rise in his face. Tamped it down. “We're doing okay. Can I please go now?”

“Look, I shouldn't do this, but I can let you make up the midterm.”

“Thanks.” Troy stood to leave.

“But you have to take it today. After school.”

“I can't. My dad and I have this job we're working on—”

“It's your only shot. Today after school or not at all.”

Troy felt a surge of adrenaline kick in. Fight or flight—or both. She was boxing him in. He couldn't miss work. But he couldn't fail, either.
His old man would kill him. Not that his dad ever gave a damn about his grades or parent-teacher conferences or anything else having to do with his academic life. “Winners never quit, and quitters never win” was another one of his father's slurred pearls of great wisdom.

What could he do?

“That's not fair. I need to study for it.” It was a weak play, he knew, but it was all he had.

Morrow frowned. “You already had the chance to study for it, remember? Not that you need to. You scored a 770 on the math portion of the SAT. Why you're not in honors calculus I'll never understand. If I were your mother, I'd be furious at you.”

But you're not, so shut the fuck up and quit screwing with my life
, he thought. He didn't dare say it. His dad would beat the shit out of him if he did.

Troy glanced out of the window. Saw one of the lady gym teachers marching by in sweats and a whistle around her neck, her nose buried in a sheaf of papers. Wide hips, large breasts, dirty blonde hair.

She glanced up just then. They locked eyes. She smiled thinly, blushed, and hurried away, ashamed. Troy grinned.

“Something else funny?”

“No, not really. But now I'm really late for fourth period.”

Morrow scratched on a note pad. Handed it to Troy. “Here's your hall pass. See you at three thirty.”

Troy took it. “Thanks.”

“Troy, I'm serious. Three thirty or not at all. It's your life.”

Yeah, I kinda figured that out
, Troy thought, but still kept his mouth shut.

He bolted out of the door onto the walkway. When he reached the faculty parking lot, he crumpled the hall pass and tossed it in a trash can and headed for home.

MAO ISLAND

SIX MILES DUE WEST OF THE SENKAKU/DIAOYU ISLANDS

EAST CHINA SEA

10 MAY 2017

T
he vessel was the first drillship ever constructed in a Chinese shipyard, though it relied heavily on a Norwegian corporation for its automated dynamic positioning (ADP) system. The
Tiger II
, the second ship launched in the series, was no exception. ADP allowed the vessel to find and maintain a fixed position in deep water without the need for anchors or other fixed assemblies typical of many deep-water drilling platforms. Proprietary computer algorithms used the data gleaned from motion and vertical and draught reference sensors along with the ship's hydro-acoustic navigational system to automatically fire bow and stern thrusters as needed, putting and keeping the forty-five-thousand-ton drilling vessel in place at sea without human intervention. The
Tiger II
needed to remain perfectly positioned in order to begin and sustain drilling operations. Unnecessary movement would destroy the drill assembly as it bored into the ocean floor and, worst-case scenario, cause irreparable damage topside, even possibly sinking the ship.

The blue water boiled beneath the red-hulled vessel as the azimuth thrusters fired, driving the vessel sideways and leaving a perpendicular wake. The oil derrick loomed more than two hundred feet above the center of the deck, far higher than the rear-mounted helicopter pad. The guided-missile destroyer
Kunming
circled on patrol in the distance, keeping a careful watch on the much larger but vulnerable drillship.

A massive bloodred, gold-starred PRC national flag perched on top of
the derrick, and a forty-foot-long flag was painted on both sides of the ship. Feng didn't want any confusion about the nationality of the mobile drilling platform.

The
Tiger II
captain, her first officer, and the entire crew were civilian employees of the Chinese National Offshore Oil Corporation. CNOOC was owned by the PRC government and was the third-largest oil producer in China. The CEO of CNOOC was a protégé of Vice Chairman Feng's, who mentored the younger man before he left his high-ranking position at CNOOC to begin his political career. In fact, the CEO owed his position to the personal intervention of Feng, who used his political clout to guarantee the appointment. Feng maintained close relations with CNOOC and several other oil concerns, most of which were populated with strong political allies or Feng family members, including his murdered nephew, Zhao Yi, who had been the president of the Sino-Sahara Oil Corporation until he was assassinated by unknown killers in Mali.

The captain and her bridge crew were all proficient in computer systems. Two of her officers were dedicated computer specialists, while she and her first officer and the deckhands below were also seasoned sailors. The oil-drilling operations were run by a separate supervisor with his own handpicked operators, but even he and his gang of roughnecks were under her authority. The drilling supervisor stood silently by her side as the captain watched the video monitors detailing thruster direction, propeller RPMs, and engine status.

A few minutes later, the ADP system computers signaled that the
Tiger II
was finally in place. The captain nodded to the drilling supervisor, signaling that his work could now begin. They were both devoted members of the Party and loyal CNOOC employees, so they took on the potential risk of an American or Japanese attack on their operations with stoic pride. Feng characterized their actions today as heroic and every bit as important as a military victory in China's quest for energy independence. The knowledge that they would also each be granted one percent of gross revenues from the rig operation in perpetuity—paid into untaxed secret offshore bank accounts—was equally motivating.

Perhaps more so.

ON BOARD THE
LIAONING

OFF THE COAST OF ZHANJIANG, GUANGDONG, CHINA

SOUTH CHINA SEA

APPROXIMATELY SEVEN HUNDRED MILES SOUTHWEST OF MAO ISLAND

10 MAY 2017

A
dmiral Ji, commander of the East Sea Fleet, stood twenty feet above the carrier flight deck on the open-air observation deck of the
Liaoning's
superstructure for an unobstructed view of today's flight operations. The air thundered with the roar of turbofan jets and stank of jet fuel despite the buffeting South China Sea winds.

Ji stood next to Admiral Deng Zilong, the commander of the South Sea Fleet. Admiral Ji was only an observer of today's exercises, since China's only operational aircraft carrier was technically under Deng's command. But the two men were former shipmates, old friends, and, most important, allies in a cause greater than themselves. Like Ji, Deng believed President Sun's anticorruption reforms were too little too late. The Communist Party's corruption and ineptitude threatened the very legitimacy of the state and the Party. Failure to forcefully and decisively resolve the ongoing Uyghur rebellion, the latest Hong Kong protests, or the reunification with Taiwan threatened China's hard-won unity. They both fervently believed that only a corps of uncorrupted military officers led by the unwavering Admiral Ji could prevent China from falling into prerevolutionary chaos and return her to greatness in the twenty-first century. Standing next to Ji was Captain Augusto Da Costa of the
Brazilian Navy. He served as a liaison to the PLAN and as a consultant in naval air operations. Da Costa was the former commander of Brazil's only aircraft carrier, the French-built
Clemenceau
-class
São Paulo.

A turbofan jet screamed as it went full power.

“Gentlemen, you are about to witness history,” Deng said.

The catapult fired. A Lijian (Sharp Sword) unmanned combat vehicle rocketed forward. A second later, the black delta-winged aircraft bolted off the ski-jump forward flight deck and screamed into the sky.

The flight deck crews in their color-coded uniforms exploded with cheers and applause.

The Chinese admirals grinned and shook each other's hands, as well as the Brazilian's.

“Congratulations, Admiral,” Da Costa said in heavily accented English. “It is a new world today.”

“Thank you, Captain. Your government has been instrumental in our success. China will not forget your friendship.”

The swarthy Brazilian nodded his appreciation. His people had been circumnavigating the globe for five centuries since the Portuguese explorer Magellan first sailed around the world and the tiny Iberian nation became the first global superpower—a naval superpower—founding colonies all over Africa, Asia, and Latin America, including his own native country. The Chinese-Brazilian military connection was a natural one. The BRIC nations—Brazil, Russia, India, and China—were the four largest developing economies in the world, rapidly gaining on the declining West. They shared many interests, including escaping the economic imperialism and political domination of Europe and the United States. In recent years, they had strengthened their political and economic ties; military relations quickly followed.

“There it is,” Ji said, binoculars pulled tightly to his eyes. “Two-hundred-eighty degrees, about five kilometers up.”

The other officers turned their binoculars in the same direction.

“I see it,” Da Costa said. “Amazing!”

“Once again, the Americans have given away their advantage,” Deng shouted in the stiff breeze.

“As Americans usually do,” Ji said, grinning.

Deng was right. The Americans were the first to successfully launch an unmanned vehicle from a carrier deck. The Northrop Grumman X-47B was also a delta-winged carrier-based jet aircraft. Originally intended to be a true unmanned combat aerial vehicle (UCAV), the X-47B would have carried the latest air-to-air missiles and stealth technology for air superiority combat missions. But the U.S. Navy changed the X-47B's mission profile to UCLASS, an unmanned carrier-launched surveillance and strike system designed for antiterror operations in low-threat environments. Essentially turning the X-47B from a world-class automated fighter into a glorified Predator.

The Chinese weren't about to make that mistake. Ji understood that lethal autonomous robotics—LARs—were the future of drone combat. The Americans were fools. Just one more reason for Ji to loathe them. He'd been raised by his mother to hate the Americans with every fiber of his being. His father, an army major, was killed fighting U.S. Marines during the Korean War. An unforgivable sin in his mother's home.

A second Sharp Sword rolled into launch position as the first UCAV made the landing approach for the deck.

“A completely autonomous landing?” Da Costa asked, still incredulous.

“The entire flight plan is run by the computer,” Deng confirmed. “The next step in the program is combat operations.” Deng wondered if the Chinese cyberwarfare specialists who had managed to steal so many American defense secrets had been able to pilfer any combat software yet. The Americans spent tens of billions of dollars developing new systems like the X-47B and yet allowed the Chinese to steal them for free. It was no accident that the Sharp Sword looked nearly identical to the American UCAV.

A loudspeaker croaked in Chinese above their heads. Ji translated for Da Costa. “Prepare for landing!”

The approaching Sharp Sword lined up toward the angled retrieval deck, dropping its gear. Today the fighter carried no weapons, but if the next few days of testing proved successful, that would change. Moments later, the wheels kissed the runway. The drone's tailhook snagged the third arresting wire and the Sharp Sword screeched to a halt. Again, the
crew burst out in applause. The most dangerous moment in a naval aviator's life outside of combat was the carrier landing. Even in good conditions, it was a hazardous undertaking. At night, in poor weather, or extreme sea conditions, it was nearly impossible for all but the most skilled aviators. The
Liaoning
had lost several manned aircraft in the last few years during such landings. Hardly unusual given that China was still learning how to run carrier operations. The advent of the Sharp Sword would accelerate their progress exponentially in the decade to come. Even America's manned F-35C, the carrier-based version of the Joint Strike Fighter, was designed around a JPALS system, utilizing GPS and navigational software for “hands off” approaches and landings in inclement weather and adverse conditions.

But UCAVs had other advantages over manned aircraft. Like other manned systems, a significant amount of weight and technology was devoted to pilot safety and survival. Humans were incredibly fragile, particularly in combat environments. Humans required sleep, food, waste elimination, and even oxygen at high altitudes. Human pilots could also panic, become distracted or fatigued, or suffer wounds in flight operations, causing them to hesitate or falter while making crucial combat decisions. Decision delays of just fractions of a second could cost the pilot his life—or worse, the air battle or even the war—as fragile, imperfect humans in heavier aircraft competed with emotionless, faultless UCAVs flying far beyond human endurance at faster speeds, traveling longer distances, making sharper turns, executing coordinated swarming maneuvers, and firing larger numbers of missiles at their human counterparts.

A light flashed on the weatherproof phone-console panel attached to the rail. Deng picked it up. Listened. Handed the phone to Ji. “For you, Admiral.”

Ji thanked him and took the call. Ji nodded, smiled. “Excellent.” He listened further. His face darkened. “Yes, just as we discussed. You have it on my authority.” He hung up the phone.

Deng narrowed his eyes, a question.
Problem?

Ji shook his head imperceptibly and offered a small reassuring smile.
No. Everything was proceeding exactly according to plan.