Drone Command (7 page)

Pearce was grateful Myers was here today. They made a good team.

Pearce turned to Hara. “Drone vessels would be cheaper, faster, and more efficient in a wide variety of deployments, combat or commercial. My company develops systems for both, but my expertise is in the security area. Unmanned systems will protect the lives of sailors who would otherwise be put in harm's way. Autonomous and unmanned systems are not only an alternative to conventional weapons systems, they are also the future of combat.”

“And commerce.” Myers smiled at Ikeda. “I admire NEDO's emphasis on commercial applications. I'm the CEO of my own software-engineering firm. I appreciate the importance of business. We seldom fight wars, but we conduct business every day, don't we?”

Ikeda nodded. “Exactly. And war is not necessary! But economic growth is vital to the nation.”

“I agree. In the long run, robotics and other automated systems will prove to be even more disruptive in business affairs than they will in the military sphere. Military drones, however, will help prevent the wars that will allow commerce to prosper, and if needed, fight them, too.”

The admiral's face darkened. “The Japan Maritime Self Defense Force is legally not allowed to have a navy. Our ships are only used for defense. But that is precisely our problem. We must absorb the blows of the red giant until he exhausts himself. That is not a strategy for surviving a war, let alone winning one. But thanks to the leadership of patriots like Vice Minister Tanaka, that might soon change. A powerful fleet is our best defense against Chinese aggression. I don't see how your little toy boats can provide enough offensive power to counter the Chinese navy.”

“These ‘toy boats,' as you call them, are just one example of what ASV technology can achieve. But for now, let's see what the Katanas might be able to do. Please look at the radar screen. I'm extending the range of the radar unit.”

A new blip appeared on the screen a quarter mile away. “That's a solar-powered surface drone. It's currently used to measure water temperature. But for now, let's pretend it's a Chinese patrol boat.”

Pearce approached the radar screen. He tapped the blip, then pressed a button on the console.

The twin 560-horsepower engines on each of the Katanas erupted into full power, throwing rooster tails of water behind them.

“Please watch the video feed.”

Myers, Tanaka, and Hara hunched over the screen. Ikeda stepped back from the group, sulking. Nobody noticed the catamaran's deck had stopped vibrating. The
Carolina Blonde
was slowing down.

Within moments, the four Katanas swarmed the small orange research vessel, flat like the solar panels that powered it, floating on the ocean surface. Four Gatling guns opened up and shredded the flimsy device in less than a second. The gunfire echoed over the water as the boats turned to resume their picket stations.

“Not much of an attack or a target, I grant you, but you can begin to see the power of fully autonomous swarming. The computers can make faster tactical decisions than a human can. And in a gunfight, the fastest draw always wins.”

“And if the Chinese deployed drone swarms against us?” Tanaka asked.

“There are counterswarming algorithms, too. Also, AAVs and ASVs can coordinate their swarm and counterswarm attacks from the air and water.”

“One of the greatest threats the Chinese possess are their diesel submarines. How can drones combat them? They are becoming increasingly difficult to find and track,” Tanaka asked.

“And the Chinese have now begun long-range Pacific patrols with their Jin-class fleet, also difficult to detect.” Hara had been briefed by the
U.S. Navy. China's newest nuclear submarines carried JL-2 SLBMs with a forty-five-hundred-mile range. If launched from the Western Pacific, those nuclear-tipped missiles could strike deep into the continental United States. The Jin-class ballistic missile submarines were now China's most lethal nuclear threat.

Pearce reached over to the blank sonar screen and tapped it. It came alive. A sonar signature appeared a thousand yards behind them. “Looks like we're being tracked by a submarine right now.”

Hara and Tanaka blanched.

“Please follow me to the rear deck.” Pearce led the way. Ikeda came, too, with Myers right behind him. They all reached the broad lower deck on the fantail just as a trihulled trimaran AUV broke the surface. The
Carolina Blonde
slowed to a crawl.

“That, gentlemen, is the Leidos ACTUV, the antisubmarine warfare continuous trail umanned vessel. It can track a submarine for thousands of miles continuously up to ninety days—longer in the future—by deploying electro-optical sensors, hydro-acoustics, pattern-recognition software for navigation, and both short- and long-range radar. Imagine a fleet of those deployed at the mouth of every Chinese submarine base, and another ACTUV fleet in reserve to relieve each of them, handing off the tracks. You'd never lose sight of another Chinese submarine, including the Jin-class boomers.”

Pearce turned to Ikeda. “You and my good friend Dr. Kenji Yamada will be glad to know these vessels limit the use of their sonar to avoid harm to marine animals like whales. In fact, our company has already been deploying AUVs similar to this one to track whale pods as they migrate around the globe.”

Tanaka pointed at the ACTUV. It remained a thousand yards back. “Does that thing have torpedoes?”

“Not that particular unit. But, of course, the same AUV technologies can be applied to fully armed attack subs and ballistic-missile submarines.” Pearce glanced at Ikeda. “Research submarines, too.”

“It's all very impressive, Mr. Pearce,” Ikeda said. “But please tell us, if
drones are the future of warfare, why is your own Pentagon cutting back on drone programs?”

Ikeda's ingratiating smile was starting to annoy Pearce. He was right, though. Too many fighter jocks and sub drivers felt threatened by unmanned systems. He glanced at Myers again.
Bail me out
.

“Some of our generals believe that drone warfare is not as suitable for some of the missions they are currently planning for, and so they are shifting resources to other kinds of programs. But the U.S. Navy is still fully committed to systems like the X-47B.” Myers was referring to the bat-winged, carrier-based unmanned aircraft, part of the UCLASS drone development program. Privately, she worried the navy was loading the X-47B up with so many noncombat mission responsibilities that it would lose its effectiveness as a UCAV—an unmanned combat aerial vehicle, it's original mission design.

Hara sucked air through his teeth, pulled his cap off, and rubbed the back of his head, thinking. “I'm still not convinced, but it was a good try. You Americans always know how to put on a good show.”

“Well, thanks, Admiral. I always try to entertain the troops. If you don't mind my asking, what is it that still bothers you?”

“To tell you the truth, I just don't believe you.” The fully stopped catamaran rocked in the gentle swells. The Katanas had stopped moving, too, naturally. They bobbed a hundred yards away on the four points of the compass.

“What don't you believe?”

“All of these devices you demonstrated today. They are very impressive in peacetime. Nothing is at stake. But if we were truly at war right now? Where would you rather be standing? On a ten-thousand-ton guided-missile cruiser or on some plastic drone tub like this one?” Hara stomped on the deck with the sole of his combat boot for effect.

“That's a fair question, sir.” Pearce motioned for Hara and the others to join him at the rail as he pressed a remote-control unit in his hand, activating a sonar pulse from an antenna on the bottom of the catamaran's port hull.

“I value my hide and prefer to let machines do the dangerous stuff.” Pearce motioned toward the water. Everyone glanced in the direction he pointed.

“For the sake of argument, Admiral, let's pretend for a moment that my ‘drone tub' is a ten-thousand-ton steel cruiser.”

The catamaran jolted as the surface of the water broke violently. A five-foot-diameter sphere burst into view just ten feet away from the catamaran like a breaching whale. The bright red sphere bobbed in the waves but remained in place, obviously tethered.

“That's our latest prototype of an upwardly falling payload. If that sphere was loaded with high explosives, it would function like a mine and explode, sinking our cruiser. Of course, a UFP can carry a wide variety of conventional, nuclear, biological, or chemical payloads. Each equally destructive.”

“These UFPs can be stationed almost anywhere on the ocean floor, hidden and easily activated autonomously or on command, transforming the ocean floor into a kind of missile range, taking out any submarine or surface vessel that passes within range,” Myers said. “And their cost is extremely low compared to the larger manned systems they're designed to take out.”

“And so you would weaponize the entire ocean floor with these bombs?” Ikeda asked.

“Not necessarily. A UFP can have nonlethal applications as well. High-powered microwave payloads or even chemical EMPs could fry electronic components. In the case of our ‘missile cruiser,' HPMs and EMPs would disable the missiles before they launched rather than sinking the cruiser itself. That way, you're killing warheads, not sailors.”

Hara and Ikeda turned back toward the giant red sphere, still hotly debating.

Tanaka approached Pearce. “A most impressive demonstration today. Quite enlightening. But, I'm afraid, unconvincing to my colleagues or myself.”

“It's not just a show. The fact is, the nation that leads in drone technologies will be the safest and most prosperous in the coming decades.”

“You were full of surprises today,” Tanaka added. “Perhaps you will indulge me in a surprise of my own?”

Pearce hated surprises. In his experience, surprises had a way of getting people killed. But he'd put off the powerful politician for a few days to carry out his ad hoc Vietnam assignment. Myers explained that Tanaka was offended by the delay in the demonstration, so Pearce knew he couldn't offend him again.

“Yes, of course. I love surprises.”

Pearce wanted to kick himself. He hated lying. But the mission called for it.

Maybe he was becoming a politician after all.

PEARCE CABIN

NEAR THE SNAKE RIVER, WYOMING

DECEMBER 1988

T
he last bell rang and Troy dashed for the bus. Hadn't heard a word the teacher said the whole last period. Was only counting the minutes on the clock until he could make his way back home.

Longest bus ride ever.

He leaped out of the bus as soon as the doors opened, hardly touching the steps. Jogged through the snow until his lungs hurt from the frigid air, then kept jogging some more. When he finally got winded, he pushed on, hands dug deep in his coat pockets, handfuls of snow crashing into him falling from the branches above.

Dad had fixed up the cabin extra nice for Christmas. The tree was lit; the air smelled like fir. The place was spotless, too.

Troy pushed through the door. He could smell a red velvet cake in the oven for Marichelle and the meatloaf for dinner, his mom's favorite. His dad was cooking a lot these days. Clean and sober for seven months.

“You need any help?” Troy asked.

“Just don't track any snow in here,” his dad said, salting a boiling pot on the stove.

“You got it.”

Troy had already pulled off his boots and coat in the mud room. He tossed his backpack on his bed, then headed back out to the living room to warm up in front of the crackling fire.

“How was school today?” his dad hollered from the kitchen.

“Great,” Troy said. And he meant it. He made his way into the kitchen and opened up the fridge.

“Can I get something to eat?”

“Sure,” his dad said. “But don't get too full. Your mom and sister will be here soon.”

Troy smiled. Couldn't help but notice the grin spread all over his dad's face, too. He was all cleaned up and decked out in his best work shirt and jeans. Even wore an apron. Unbelievable.

He was really proud of his dad, the way he got his act together. Mom was right after all. Leaving his dad was the best thing for him. Made his dad wake up, make some choices. Even get some help. It had been a year and a half since they'd seen them, except for a few Polaroids Marichelle had sent. He wondered how tall she was now.

Troy grabbed a milk jug and filled a glass to the brim, then made himself a peanut butter sandwich while his dad tossed potatoes into the boiling pot.

“I said don't get full, son.”

“No worries,” Troy said, his mouth full of sandwich. He was three inches taller than his dad already and still not yet fifteen. A bottomless pit for a stomach.

“Soon as you're done, will you set the table?”

“Sure.”

“Settings for four.”

Troy grinned, his mouth full of mushy peanut butter sandwich. “Yeah, I kinda figured that out.”

“Don't be a wisenheimer.”

They both knocked around in the kitchen for the next half an hour.

Tires crunched in the snow outside the cabin. Troy and his dad exchanged a nervous glance.

“They're early,” his dad finally said. A tinge of anxiety in his voice. “Dinner's not ready.”

“But it's good that they're here,” Troy said.

“Yeah, you're right,” his dad said, smiling. “That's really good!”

His dad pulled off his apron and dashed out of the kitchen through the mud room, Troy hot on his heels. His dad flung the front door open.

A state trooper's car was parked next to his dad's old truck. A grim-faced trooper trudged toward them through the crunching snow. His shoulder mic crackled with radio traffic.

“Excuse me, sir. Is this the Pearce residence?”

Troy's dad shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, sir. Can I help you?”

“Is your wife named Helen?”

His dad's face paled.

Troy's head swam. Barely heard the trooper's words.

Two hours ago.

Eighteen-wheeler.

No survivors.