Drone Wars 1: Day of the Drone (5 page)

Chapter 3

The head of the Rapid Defense Center was an Air Force colonel named Jamie Simms. He met the team in the debrief room, and after an hour-long session—eight times longer than the actual event—he let Fox and Lane go, while asking Xander to remain.

“A quarter-million-dollar drone,” Jamie stated with a smirk. “You’re lucky our budget is the largest under the Homeland Security banner.

“Taxpayer money well spent, in my opinion,” Xander replied, matching the smile.

“No argument there, it’s just that I’m going to have to do some fancy footwork to pacify the bean counters in D.C. They’ve never been in drone combat before to know that sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.”

Xander shook his head. “A Ninja … that was unexpected.”

“You know, you’re only the third pilot to go up against one, and the first to come out the winner.”

“Not sure if committing suicide counts as winning.”

“That drone still had hours of operating time left. It could have been a lot worse.” Jamie Simms smiled broadly. “Now, on a more pleasant note…” He slid a manila folder over in front of Xander. “Feel free to keep the headshots. For the bikini photos, you’ll have to go online.”

Xander flipped open the file. “No shit, I’ve seen her before.”

“Yeah, she’s the type you never forget.”

The reporter Xander was scheduled to meet with the following day was someone new to the pool. Most of the regular reporters covering the RDC were known to him, but this was a first for this one. She was a hottie from Fox News named Tiffany Collins, and as was the case with most of the female talent on the network, she was a beauty-contest winner—either Miss USA, Miss Universe or Miss You-Gotta-Be-Kidding-Me—something like that; however, from what Xander could tell, she was also extremely talented and good at what she did. He’d seen her many times throughout the years on TV, and now leafing through her file, he had to admit he was rather anxious to meet her in person.

“Don’t let the pretty face and golden locks cause you to reveal any state secrets, buddy,” Jamie said. “Although to a stud like you, she probably wouldn’t even rank over a six or seven on the Moore Hotness Scale.”

“You give me too much credit. I’m just a nerd with a high-paying job.” He looked at the professional portrait of the broadcast reporter again. “Besides, with a few days off, I might be willing to go slumming.”

“Off limits, Mr. Moore, and you know it. Save thoughts like that for some of your other conquests. Speaking of that, you still seeing that hot Asian blackjack dealer?”

“That’s ancient history, Colonel. She did have great hands, but she was asking all the wrong questions.”

Simms stood from the conference table. “Sorry your deflation time is being broken up, but you know how important the PR game is these days. I’ll see you back here bright and early Monday morning.”

“Yes sir, Colonel, sir.”

Chapter 4

The normal schedule of drone pilots at the RDC was ten days on and five off, with the teams staying in two-person rooms in buildings four and five of the six-building complex while on duty. With his seniority, Xander earned a private room, which wasn’t much more than a ten by eight foot box with a fold-up bunk, a desk, a media center, and a hotel-size refrigerator. There were two huge mess halls in the buildings, along with a movie theater, a gym, a library and a TV room—all the comforts of home when you weren’t chasing killer drones across a crowded football stadium or away from a fallen freeway overpass.

Since the Center paid very well—especially its civilian contractors—people like Charlie Fox could afford to take mini-vacations to nearly anywhere in the world during their time off. So within fifteen minutes of being released, Fox and Lane were out the door and lined up for the next bus heading back into Las Vegas. Xander caught the third one after that.

The RDC complex was located in an isolated valley at the east end of Nellis Air Force Base and surrounded by craggy, red mountains. It was comprised of six structures: three five-story buildings housing Operations, Flight Systems and Communications, plus two employee apartment buildings and a three-story Research and Development facility. All the structures were connected by wide, low-profile canopies, ostensibly to protect workers from the brutal desert sun, but in reality to keep them from being observed from space as they moved between the buildings.

The dirty little secret of the RDC was that what was above ground was just the tip of the iceberg. Two-thirds of the Center existed below the buildings, with some substructures extending down eight levels, such as was the case with the Research and Development building. R&D also had access to a mile-long underground runway tunnel that cut south under the mountain and exited at what appeared to be an abandoned mining operation. Here, fleets of top-secret UAV prototypes entered and exited the base without being readily observed, even though many were now the basis of dozens of UFO sightings in the area, and had been for years.

There were four main roads leading to the Center, which were used only by visitors and the small fleet of converted motorhomes that shuttled the employees to and from the facility. With the highly-classified nature of the work, as well as the documented intent of vindictive terrorists to rid the world of as many skilled RDC pilots and operators as possible, all employees were required to take the bus system to and from the Center. The routes changed constantly, with many of the buses traveling empty to serve as decoys.

Yet all trails began and ended at the Las Vegas Strip. Here the buses disappeared into the massive parking structures under six of the largest casinos, until they arrived at secure areas shielded from the rest of the tourists and casino workers. Casino ownership cooperated with the government, allowing the bus system to operate within their properties, in exchange for licensing concessions and tax breaks. As a result, the employees of the Center could come and go virtually undetected amidst the hordes of tourists crowding the Strip twenty-four-seven.

********

Once in the vast parking complex of the Bellagio, Xander drove his Jeep Wrangler out onto Las Vegas Boulevard, and immediately donned dark sunglasses against the bright Nevada sunshine for the thirty minute drive to the Anthem section of southwestern Henderson. He owned a sprawling thirty-two hundred square-foot, single level home overlooking the golf course, and with a fantastic view of the Vegas skyline to the north. He’d bought the property five years before, just after joining the Center and at the start of the Second Depression, so he got it for a song. Although the Depression had been short-lived, the deal he got on the home would last forever.

More than most, Xander enjoyed his days off. He had been playing video games and flying drones longer than most of his co-workers, and it was beginning to wear on him. The majority of the other pilots at the Center were between eighteen and twenty-five, and so hooked on gaming that when they weren’t doing it at work they were at home sitting in front of a monitor. The last thing Xander wanted to do during his time off was work a controller. He felt sorry for this generation of post-Millennials, and if the Exceptional Skills Bill passed Congress, mindless gaming would be further institutionalized and rewarded.

The Center was in desperate need of more pilots and scanner operators, and not just anyone, but the most-skilled at war games and combat drone strategies. Unfortunately, many of the top candidates for these positions were kids aged twelve to seventeen. The Exceptional Skills Bill would open up employment opportunities to youngsters fourteen and older to join the Center. Schooling would be provided part-time on-site, with the remainder of the day utilizing the phenomenal talents of these young operators.

Thinking about this, Xander felt a twinge of regret for the lost youth of these new recruits if the bill passed, and yet he’d also seen firsthand the results from the test groups run through the Center. These kids were good, and they could save a lot of lives, even if they did go about the task of fighting real terrorists with the same detachment and complacency as someone playing a video game. The surprising thing, however, was that the psych tests also showed these kids suffered no lasting effects from their participation in real operations; they were already so desensitized to the games that they couldn’t tell the difference between reality and make-believe. With the current nature of warfare, these kids might never come face-to-face with the real world they were entering when the FPV goggles went on.

The saddest thing, in Xander’s opinion, was that the people running the Center—and others like it—didn’t care. These talented children were simply assets to them, assets that begged to be used in the never-ending war against modern terrorism. They would come to the Center already trained to an eighty-percent proficiency level, which would save the government both time and money. With all the support within the establishment for passage of the Bill, Xander couldn’t see it not becoming law.

How he would cope with managing a bunch of immature, inexperienced, and emotional teenagers was something Xander chose not to dwell on. The benefits might indeed outweigh the consequences, so he would wait and see how it went, which was all anyone could do at this point.

And so Xander Moore left his other life behind—at least temporarily—and did his best to pretend he was just a normal guy, living in a normal neighborhood and with normal dreams. Few would ever know the truth…

********

Xander changed into a bathing suit, and then without hesitation jumped headfirst into the deep end of his swimming pool. At first blush the water was refreshingly cold, a by-product of the incongruity of winter in the desert. The outside air was a very brisk forty-three degrees, and even with the pool heater set on low, the water still registered a crisp sixty-five degrees, and it cast off a light cover of fog as his passage stirred the surface.

He had five days off—except for Monday’s half day for the interview. As he rolled over onto his back and floated effortlessly in the crystal clear water, Xander began to run through the list of female companions he could call upon to help take his mind off the job.

There was no shortage of extremely attractive women in the Las Vegas area, and Xander Moore was a favorite among those he met. At just over six feet tall, with curly blond hair and a well-groomed goatee, he looked more like a well-aging former surfer—which he was—rather than a highly-skilled drone pilot fighting terrorist activities on a daily basis.

According to his cover story, he had a high-paying job in IT consulting which required him to travel frequently. His female friends could count on him to show them a good time when he was in town, but they also knew he was not the kind to commit. Most accepted this fact and enjoyed the moment. The few who didn’t were discarded, not out of some cruel aspect of his personality, but from the necessity to shield his profession.

In the early days of the drone program, when the emphasis was on ISR activities—intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance—pilots could exist in the open more than they could today. Now with the proliferation of mini-drones, every RDC operator was the proclaimed target of a variety of armed groups, be they foreign or domestic. It wasn’t that taking out the occasional drone pilot would make a difference, but it would, however, give the killers bragging rights, while also serving to deter some skilled gamers from joining the Center.

And so the need for his secret identify.  

His term as a pilot at the Center would probably last another five years, at the most, before he would be either bumped up or booted out. He’d be in his late thirties, and with plenty of time still left to think about settling down.

Until that time, he had to keep secret the fact that he played video games for a living … real-life video games with real-life body counts.