Drone Wars 1: Day of the Drone (12 page)

“Ms. Collins, I’ve spent my whole life around drones. I’ve played with them as toys and I’ve operated them as weapons, so believe me when I say this: drones are not the problem. It’s the people operating them who are. Like all inanimate objects, it’s what a person does with it that determines its utility. Unfortunately, there are way too many sickos in the world that even toys are being weaponized and sent out to kill. But unless you ban all potential weapons—which can be
anything
in the hands of a madman—this is the world we live in.”

“It’s also the world we die in … and far too often. And now we have terrorists basically cornering the market on drone usage for evil,” Tiffany said. “And in most cases they’re not using surplus or homebuilt drones, but rather sophisticated machines specifically designed and built for combat. Warfare is evolving to a point where huge floating airports and intercontinental ballistic missiles are far too expensive to build and deploy, especially when you can build a million killer drones for the price of one aircraft carrier, and then spread your threat over a much wider area … and with no credible defense.”

“Is that the lead to the documentary you’re working on?” Xander asked, without his accompanying smile.

“Can you deny the truth?”

“No, I can’t, but that’s not the point. What you’re saying is that humanity is reaching the point where anyone—and everyone—can become a mass killer or an international superpower. He who controls the most killer drones rules the world, right?”

“Don’t get mad at me for cutting to the chase. It’s not my job to protect the public from information that might upset them. I have a duty to let people know what’s really happening, despite what the officials tell them.”

“Wholesale release of information just for the sake of sensationalism isn’t doing anyone any good. All it does it add to the paranoia. Is that what you want, a whole population scared to leave their homes for fear of a drone attack, or the latest disease outbreak, or that they might be hit by a piece of the space station falling from the sky? Is there any wonder we have so many crazy people these days doing crazy things?”

“It’s not my job to pick and choose the news, Mr. Moore.” Tiffany’s tone was as cold as the desert air outside the hovercopter. “When we start doing that, it’s called censorship. Most of the criticism of the news media over the past twenty years has come not from a misrepresentation of the facts, but rather from an omission of relevant data designed to mislead or to hide opposing views. And with the segmentation of the media we have today, it’s become possible for a person to read, watch and hear only one side of an issue, with no opposing or countering views. This has polarized our population like nothing before, and it hasn’t helped anything. How can people, operating on only half the information, make informed decisions? I’ll put your views in my report, just as I will the opposition’s, but then I’ll let my viewers make up their minds. That’s if you don’t throw me out of this flying egg beater first.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Xander glanced out the side of the canopy. “But from this altitude it might not kill you, and then I’d have whole other set of problems to deal with.”

Tiffany extended her hand. “Agree to disagree?”

Xander took the soft hand and held if for a moment longer than was necessary. “Just as long as you agree you’re wrong.”

“So if two wrongs make a right…”

“Then I guess we’re both right.”

Tiffany withdrew her hand and looked out the window. “Are we there yet?”

Xander had to smile. He liked to be challenged, both physically and intellectually, and Tiffany Collins—beyond the obvious reasons—was becoming more interesting by the moment.

Chapter 10

Under the cover of darkness, Xander piloted the hovercopter past the northern shore of the Salton Sea and then along the outskirts of Palm Springs before heading along Highway 111 toward the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway. He knew the small town of Idyllwild was located along the top ridge of the San Jacinto Mountains off Highway 245. Visitors to the Tram could catch rides from the top of the mountain to meet up with highway, so he figured his quickest path to the town would be to travel up the same canyon as the Tram and then skim the treetops until he came to the road.

It was nearing seven o’clock in the evening when they entered the canyon and began to climb to the summit at just over seven thousand feet. The Tram wasn’t operating at the time, even though he was sure there were workers around. Yet as the copter paralleled the long and steep cable line, he didn’t see a soul, either at the base or at the summit. Even the Peaks Restaurant—where he’d dined on half a dozen occasions before—was dark. He began to suspect that most public facilities in the area had shut down early as a precaution against further terrorist attacks now that it was known the RDC had been hit.

There was a decent snowpack at the top, and the starlit scene below was beautiful and deceiving, making it appear as if everything in the world was peaceful and pure. Xander knew better. The attack on the RDC was just the beginning. The terrorists hadn’t gone through this much trouble to take out the Center without having a much larger goal in mind. Now America’s eggs-in-one-basket defensive planning was coming back to haunt them. The civilian defense forces at the individual venues would do the best they could, yet for too long they’d been deferring their responsibility to the RDC, saving money in personnel and training, while even receiving a break on their insurance if they signed priority agreements with the RDC for the use of their drones.

Now these mostly inexperienced pilots were about to get a crash course in drone defensive tactics. The terrorists had been planning this for months—if not years—so it was a good bet their pilots and auto drones would come at America with skill and overwhelming force, a reversal of the Shock and Awe campaign from thirty years before.

It was going to be a slaughter.

********

At just over seven thousand feet, they began skimming along the treetops, and after a few minutes Xander spotted a windy road below and followed it south for another five minutes.

“So, where are we going?” he asked.

Tiffany had her head pressed against the plastic side of the dome, intently watching the ground below. “I’m not quite sure,” she said after a moment. “I’ve never had to find the place from the air before.”

“That’s Highway 243 down there. We’re just north of Idyllwild, I believe.”

“Good. When we get to the town center, I can find my way from there.”

A few minutes later they came to a sprinkling of commercial buildings lining SR 243—the Banning-Idyllwild Highway—with a couple of other roads splintering off from it. “Follow that one, it should be Pine Crest.” Thirty seconds later the road made a steep turn to the left. Tiffany pointed down. “There’s a dirt road—see it? My cabin’s up there. It’s rather steep going up that way … by car anyway.”

Xander obeyed, and soon the tiny copter was again riding the treetops, with very few roofs visible.

“To the right now, we’re almost there.”

The tiny cabin came into view, and Xander circled it twice before selecting a safe place to land. The cabin was set on a narrow ledge jutting out from the steep slope without much flat land around. The hovercopter didn’t require the clearance of a traditional helo, so he set it down right at the front door, in the only place reserved for a vehicle.

Tiffany climbed out of the aircraft and Xander met her a moment later at the front door to the cabin.

“I don’t have my purse … or the keys. Damn, everything was back at the Center.”

“Do you mind?” He gently pushed her to one side and then placed his shoulder against the roughhewn wood of the door. He pushed and the door jamb easily splintered. The door swung open.

“You’re going to pay for that,” Tiffany said, smiling.

“Bill it to the U.S. Government.”

 The cabin was what one would expect to find at the end of a dirt road high in the mountains, basic and rural, with one large room combining the kitchen and living area, and a single bedroom to one side with a small bathroom next to it. It was constructed out of half-logs and had a potbelly stove for warmth placed at one side of the living room. There was a wood-frame couch and a well-worn leather recliner facing the stove, along with a forty-two inch LCD TV resting on a cabinet next to it. The windows were covered with paisley-print curtains, and there was a round area rug taking up most of the living area. A small dining table was the only separation between the living room and the kitchen area. All in all, Xander liked the place. It spoke of a simpler time, a more peaceful time.

“I’m impressed, Ms. Collins. Not something I would have expected.”

“You mean with my glamorous job and flashy lifestyle? I told you I’m from Kentucky. Sometimes I just want to escape the rat race and relax. The house has been in my family for years, yet none of the people I work with even know about it. My folks used it as a vacation home after they moved to California when I sixteen.”

Xander pointed at the T.V. “Do you get reception up here?”

“Direct TV, with about a billion channels. I said I wanted to relax, but I still have to keep up on current affairs.”

“That’s what I’m interested in. I need to see how all this is being reported. Do you mind?”

“No, go ahead. I’ll get the heat going and fix us some tea. After all, it is December. We don’t get as much snow as we used to when I was younger, but still enough now and then for a real Thomas Kinkade Christmas.”

Xander turned on the TV, which to no surprise was already tuned to Fox News. There was a scene of a burning building, with a red-framed banner running across the bottom of the screen that read:
Major Terrorist Attack Strikes Las Vegas
. He sat on the edge of the recliner and watched the report until Tiffany handed him a cup of hot tea.

The room was small enough that she had heard the report as well.

“So far it’s just Las Vegas,” she said.

“Wait until tomorrow. Even if the terrorists don’t begin hitting every target on their wish list, some of our homegrown groups surely will, if only so they can blame it on foreigners.”

“That’s what the talking-heads are saying. This certainly will panic the public, especially right here at Christmas. Who’s going to go to a mall if the terrorists can strike at anything they want?”

“That’s the idea.”

Tiffany went into the bathroom and cleaned the caked blood off the side of her face. She came back in the living room with a damp towel. “Here, let me clean the blood off of you.”

“Blood?”

“Yeah, you have some on your nose and upper lip. Are you hurting anywhere?”

“Anywhere … how about everywhere? And you?”

“The same. I took some aspirin for the headache. I’ll get you some in a minute.” She gently dabbed at the blood on his face, leaning in close as she did so. Xander noticed her perfume was still present, even after all they’d been through, and for a moment was distracted from the seriousness of their situation.

That changed when the scene on the TV changed.

The president was speaking, addressing the nation from a secure room within the White House. Gone were the days of stepping up to a podium on the South Lawn; the danger was too real to take the chance. Now he was trying to reassure a terrified nation that the crisis was coming to an end, and that the limited battery life of the drones meant that the terror couldn’t last. He acknowledged that the raid—as well as the information revealed on the Internet—was harmful to the mission of the RDC, but that measures were being taken to assure that the facility would be back in operation within days. He also explained that most of the other remote drone bunkers across the country were still intact and functioning—which Xander knew to be a falsehood. Without a fully-operational Rapid Defense Center, the drones in those bunkers were just collecting dust, and would be for a long time to come. The president concluded his brief remarks with a reassurance that the United States still had plenty of capability to fight off any future attacks, and that people should go about their normal activities and enjoy the holiday season. America was strong … the American people were strong…

“… and we’re not about to let terrorists weaken us in any way.”

“Do you think anyone believes that?” Xander asked Tiffany.

“They still needed to hear it. Besides you’re too close to the subject. Most people will believe it because they want to believe it. The alternative is not something they want to dwell on.”

Xander watched as President Rene Ortega made a quick exit from the podium, refusing to answer the barrage of questions shouted at him by the press corps. Xander knew the man was as lame duck as a president could get, and now he had to deal with the largest national crisis since 9/11, and with only a little over thirty days left in his term to bring it to a successful close, otherwise it would tarnish his entire legacy as chief executive.

Ortega had served two terms as the first Hispanic-American president, after sixteen consecutive years that a Republican had controlled the White House. Even then his party had lost first the Senate, and then the House, in subsequent midterms, and gridlock now infected the halls of government like never before.

His predecessor had enjoyed substantial majorities in all three branches of government; the nation had prospered like never before, and Ortega had waltzed into the office expecting to enjoy the same legacy. Yet, ironically, it was the nation’s newfound prosperity that caused him to lose control of the government. With the coffers full and business prospering, there came renewed demand for the government to give some of the prosperity back to the people in the form of more generous welfare programs and a resurrection of the national health care debate. When the Republicans in Congress refused to extend or expand many of these outdated and frankly unnecessary programs, the Democrats had once again been successful in portraying the opposition as heartless and uncaring. Soon the dominoes began to fall.

Ortega’s Vice President, Peter Newman, had run on a platform of continuing with the prosperity of the past sixteen years, and had ended up losing by a mere one-and-half percentage points, and only two through the Electoral College.  Newman was humiliated, and blamed Ortega’s failure to hold Congress as the reason he’d lost.

Now Owen Murphy was set to take over on January twentieth. Xander had considered the transition period between administrations as a major factor in the timing of the attack on the RDC, and even though he was a big supporter of Ortega, he knew the man was operating with a skeleton crew, a vindictive VP, and an incoming president who hated his guts.

What worried Xander the most was that Ortega might not even try to resolve this new crisis, and instead put in place some stopgap action that would carry it beyond his time in office, laying the final resolution squarely at the feet of Owen Murphy. Xander had met the president a couple of times during his time with DARPA, and suspected that Ortega wasn’t beyond such an act. In fact, he might consider it a fitting reward for the bombastic and condescending president-elect. From what Xander knew of Murphy and his politics, he had no doubt the man was not up to the task.