DRONE Read online

  This novel is a fantasy of the future, a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Great effort has been made, especially regarding those individuals who have recognizable positions with government, or publicly known organizations, mentioned herein, to insure they are not mistaken for past or present individuals in those positions. What the future holds, what possible outside influences may be brought to bear on future participants in those organizations, no one can say.

  Copyright © 2016 Miles A. Maxwell FAB LLC

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher, other than for review purposes, is a violation of the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.

  For reprint permission contact: [email protected]

  B B Broadington LLC

  Phoenix / Cheyenne

  Drone photos by Lino Schmid & Moira Prati

  Visit Broadington.com

  ISBN 978-1-943054-14-5

  Chapter 1

  His name was not Shalik Sarram, but it was the name on his passport, and he entered the Customs area at JFK bearing no aerosol cans of infectious disease, no knives or scissors or weapons of any kind. He was in perfect health. He had three thousand dollars in his wallet and a credit card with a limit of five thousand which he needed to show to get into the country on a visitor’s visa, but wouldn’t touch.

  The well-dressed Indian — as it said on his passport, flying in from Delhi — presented himself at Immigration Control in his elegant dark suit, his pale blue tie. Shalik was a name meant to impart an outgoing personality. He wore a happy, friendly grin on his nicely-tanned, clean-shaven face.

  “Anything to declare?” the Immigration man asked, scanning Shalik’s passport into the computer.

  “Just my iPad,” Shalik said, pulling the device from inside his jacket. He turned it on. Held it out.

  The man shrugged. “Purpose of your visit?”

  “Tourism. First stop — after my hotel,” Shalik smiled, “ — the Statue Of Liberty! I can hardly wait!”

  Immigration passed him through to Customs, where a female agent searched his blue roll-on bag, glancing surreptitiously at Shalik’s face while she poked through his clothes, watching for the signs — changes in breathing, posture, expression. But the man remained smiling, watching her casually as if the intrusion meant nothing.

  Inside, Shalik was seething. The woman’s touch was haram. Forbidden. Unpure. Fortunately, the clothes were merely a prop, cheaply purchased to create a specific persona. Once Shalik had left the airport he would throw them away.

  “Okay. You’re clear to go, sir,” she said, flipping the fabric top, sliding the case a couple of inches toward him.

  “Thank you.”

  Shalik zipped the bag, set it on the floor and left the airport at an even pace, looking around enthusiastically — as if fascinated by everything he saw.

  Shalik’s real name was actually Sharik which he’d always thought fit him perfectly, so close was it to the English word Shark. He hated Shalik. Sharik was an Arab name! Shalik was Hindi!

  It was a small sacrifice. Shalik was a terrorist. Recruited and trained for a specific purpose, a mission that had already begun.

  He found a yellow cab. Got in. Gave an address.

  Ready to move on to Step Two.

  Chapter 2

  When Shalik’s cab dropped him on the corner of 49th Street and 12th Avenue in Manhattan, he left the blue bag alongside a trash can. There were more than enough beggars in this disgusting country. The bag would likely disappear in a matter of minutes.

  He entered the lot and walked directly to the valet guard shack. Smiling, he presented his ticket. The man took it, barely acknowledging Shalik’s presence. The guard seemed completely engrossed in some disgusting television program with people laughing in the background.

  The man pawed across the keys on the board by the window, becoming more and more irritated, flicking tags back and forth. Down at the bottom he finally found a match.

  “Been here a good long while. Good thing you got the weekly. That’ll be a hundred an’ fifty-two.”

  Shalik handed over a hundred dollar bill and three twenties. “Please keep the change.”

  The valet gave a disgusted grimace at what was apparently an insufficient tip. Shalik simply smiled as the man gave him his keys.

  “End of the first row. You can get it yourself. An’ be careful!” The guard turned back to his program.

  Shalik walked behind the vehicles at the far corner of the lot until he found the blue Toyota SUV bearing the correct plate number. He got in, backed out carefully (briefly tempted to do some serious damage to the cars around him) and smoothly exited the lot.

  Traffic was light.

  Fifteen minutes later, he left Manhattan by way of the Lincoln Tunnel into New Jersey. He was on his way.

  Chapter 3

  Thirty minutes after passing through Jersey City, Shalik pulled off the Garden State Parkway onto Central Avenue and into the lot outside the department store bearing the big red bulls-eye — exactly where his GPS told him it should be. Ironic, he thought, looking at the store’s red logo, thinking of the store’s name. Target. He felt his mouth form its first genuine smile today. His understanding of English was very good.

  He walked inside, took a right — according to instructions he’d memorized, and headed for the wall of television screens.

  At the camera department he caught the attention of a black salesgirl he forced himself to admit was quite pretty, despite the despicable way she was dressed. Red shirt, dark, low-heeled shoes. Black pants that left little to the imagination.

  “I’d like to look at drones, please,” Shalik said.

  She smiled, giving him a suit-to-shoes quick once-over. She reached behind the counter and snagged a key. “Right this way, sir.”

  He hoped they carried his model. The unit he required was supposed to be in stock. There were four more stores along his route south just in case.

  Three aisles back, she turned in and knelt down before a floor-level case. “Here we are.” She unlocked the glass door and pulled out a large box. “This is one of our most popular models.”

  He could see the price tag. $498.00.

  “No,” he pointed at an even larger box on the left side, “I’d prefer that one.”

  Her smile showed every tooth. “That’s our most expensive model. It’s supposed to be pretty great.”

  There was a small label along the bottom of the display case saying he was required to register the unit with the FAA. The government.

  That wouldn’t be happening.

  She slid the first box back in. Tugged out the much heavier one.

  While Shalik pretended to look at the unit, turning it over, then back to the front (he already knew everything there was to know about it), he could feel her re-evaluating his suit, his haircut. She was leaning forward just a little. The silly bitch was attracted to him. If only he had more time.

  It was good he didn’t. She was haram, just like nearly everything else in this disgusting country.

  “Excellent!” he smiled, “I’ll take it.”

  He left the store carrying the box in his arms, his wallet twelve hundred dollars lighter.

  On to Step Four.

  Chapter 4

  Shalik stopped at a place called Sports Authority and bought two ring-type five-pound dumbbell weights. He made his third stop at an Ace Hardware store where he purchased a road atlas, a blue painter’s tarp, some medium gauge green pi
cture wire and a small pair of wire cutters known as dikes. He paid cash.

  Fifty miles south, he pulled off the freeway a fourth time. He made a left, two rights, and turned onto a dirt road for half a mile.

  The field was open and vacant just as the pictures had shown on Google, surrounded by a ring of trees. Shalik pulled his SUV into the tall grass. He walked to the vehicle’s rear, raised the hatch and pulled out his new toy.

  With a thumbnail he slit open the thin plastic that covered the box and carefully laid out each component. He plugged the power cords into two of the SUV's cigarette lighters, then sat back in the driver’s seat and carefully read the instructions again. He knew each word by memory. He’d already read them eight times at a safe house in Delhi.

  When he’d finished reading he cut off a five-foot section of picture wire, threaded it though the big center hole in the weights wrapping it several times around one side of the ring and tied the wire in a knot. He wrapped the ends around either side of the drone’s landing gear so the weight would hang free, in the clear beneath the camera. He twisted the wire tightly back onto itself so there’d be no chance of it coming loose in flight.

  For another half an hour he re-studied the map to his destination — a location that he already knew so well he could picture it with his eyes closed.

  Exactly an hour after he’d begun charging the drone and its control module, he unplugged them both, attached his iPad to the top of the control module and powered up. The screen came live. It took about thirty seconds for the two to sync to each other. He watched the indicator. The display unit beeped. He gave the slider a little throttle. The props turned.

  Shalik had control.

  The drone was a little sluggish lifting its ten pounds of steel ballast off the ground, but Shalik knew the weight to be well within the unit’s payload capacity. He wasn’t going to be doing anything tricky. Just straight and steady — at a single destination.

  He flew the unit down the field, climbing on an angle, then slowed the drone to a hover, hit the Return Home function (something he wouldn’t be using tomorrow) and watched the unit fly smoothly back to hover beside him.

  He landed the drone on the ground. Undid the wire, removed the weights. It was too sluggish.

  He cut off a fresh piece of wire, tied and hung only a single weight below the drone. It would be more than adequate.

  This time when he launched, the drone accelerated nicely, turned more quickly. When commanded, it rose almost three times as fast.

  Much better!

  He worked the unit for another fifteen minutes, flying back and forth, imagining his prey, gaining to its expected altitude, making subtle turns of realignment.

  When the drone finally bogged down and had trouble gaining altitude, he made it return.

  He set the drone and controller back inside the SUV’s hatch, plugged them into the SUV’s rear lighter sockets, covered everything with the blue tarp and drove away.

  *

  In the distance, a short man with a bulldog neck watched through a pair of high-power binoculars as Shalik’s SUV turned back onto the highway. He’d seen the whole thing.

  He lifted a smartphone from the roof of his Hummer, activated a number, brought the phone to his ear.

  The number rang eight times before it was answered. “Yes?” said the voice belonging to a man he thought of simply as Big.

  “I’ve seen six so far. Each perfectly on schedule.”

  “Very well,” Big replied.

  The number disconnected.

  Chapter 5

  The candidates in this year’s U.S. Presidential election were diametrically opposed on almost every issue. Voter turnout was going to be huge. Every registered voter, it seemed, wanted their say.

  Billionaire industrialist Robert Osborn, the Republican Candidate, wanted a ban on all Muslims entering the country. Osborn sought tariffs, restrictions on abortion, communications and the press, while claiming to be a staunch Capitalist.

  His Democrat opponent, a stout woman named Wen “Ma” Carter whose favorite word was tasty, supported multiculturalism. So liberal in her socialism many called her a Communist — Ma Carter wanted free college, free healthcare for all, free dentistry, and free food and housing — for those making less than twenty thousand dollars a year. She never said how she was going to pay for anything. “These new government programs,” she shouted, “are American Rights! With a Capital R!”

  Many agreed.

  Osborn said Wen’s platform would turn the U.S. into a third-world country, bankrupting the United States. He said it would inflate the money supply until the savings of old people were worthless, cause food prices to skyrocket, drive home-prices and apartment rents into the stratosphere. Many agreed with Osborn too. The economy was already bad enough.

  To balance the Republican ticket, Osborn picked up a two-term Morman congressman from Utah named Christopher Wall as his running mate. Wall wasn’t much of a speaker. Osborn told him to shut up and smile. His job was to pull in the religious vote. Wall did as he was told.

  *

  Shalik waited until after dark, then pulled into the gated parking area of a local, north D.C. mosque. Step Seven. A holy number. He would not go anywhere until the call came.

  “I have not even been told why you are here,” the local Imam said, after welcoming Shalik. “I was instructed to give you every courtesy. Perhaps if you shared your load, my brother, I could be of some assistance?”

  Shalik shook his head. Said nothing.

  After a cold dinner of pita and hummus he went to bed that night in a cotton sleeping bag on a concrete floor in the back. He lay awake for hours. He didn’t know himself who had created the plan. Who was funding it.

  None of that mattered! The result would show the true power of the Brotherhood! It would be glorious!

  *

  State-by-state across the country, dawn brought what looked to be a bright sunny day — and a very close race.

  Ma Carter offered charm and growl and the promise of never-ending freebies. Would it be enough? Historically, the poor didn’t vote. Strict ID requirements, now law in forty-eight states, made it still harder for poor Democrats to get inside the polls. Meanwhile, the Republicans were out in force.

  At two o’clock Eastern Standard Time, with zero percent of precincts reporting, Fox News, based on exit polls, called the election. At two-fifteen, CNN said the same. Ten minutes later ABC, CBS and NBC agreed.

  Robert Osborn would be the next President of the United States.

  Vice-President-elect Christopher Wall was already in Washington setting up Osborn’s preliminary team for the transition. At three o’clock Robert Osborn left his penthouse apartment in Chicago for O’Hare Airport. At three-thirty-one, his jet left the ground. By four-forty-five p.m. he was over east Virginia, beginning his descent into Andrews Air Force Base.

  Chapter 6

  Shalik was driving down I-95 precisely at the speed limit when a police cruiser pulled up close behind. He tried not to look in his review mirror. He kept the wheel smooth, the accelerator pedal steady.

  For more than two miles the bastard stayed right back there, glued to his tail. Shalik carried no driver’s license. It was his only risk. It was a cool November day. He was starting to sweat.

  The cop’s lights came on. He’d never be able to outrun a cop. He carried no weapon. Talking his way out seemed unlikely.

  He was just pulling over when the policeman triggered his siren, pulled around him and rocketed away.

  Shalik exhaled a long blast of air. He’d been expecting something to go wrong. Things had been too easy. But now he’d had his gotcha. The way was clear.

  A few minutes went by before he realized he wasn’t feeling much better. The closer he got to his destination, the more tense he felt. This was a big one.

  He’d spent the entire morning on “pins and needles” — an expression he was particularly fond of — in the back room at the mosque, praying, waiting for the cal
l that came finally at three o’clock this afternoon. Waiting had always been the worst. He’d thought when he got moving he’d relax into the job. It didn’t happen.

  Ten minutes after the cop disappeared he merged into traffic on the I-495. There was no forecast for any of the typically changeable weather he’d been told could occur in Washington. Today was fair and cool. He felt his neck tensing up. The muscles across his shoulders begin to ache. This wasn’t like him.

  Coming into Forestville, Shalik was so nervous he missed his exit. He entered the cloverleaf and looped around three times until he was heading west on Rt 4. Half a mile down the road, at the first light, he did a U-turn and came back east the other way.

  It popped into his mind what was causing his unnatural discomfort. He was afraid to fail. Fear was driving him crazy. He was a professional! He didn’t want to let Allah down — or his client.

  He took the highway ramp southbound. Halfway down the ramp, he pulled a sudden hard right off the road, onto a dirt track. He cut left, pulled into tall grass not all that different from his practice field and parked.

  He shut off the SUV. His heart was hammering. Washington was to his west. Andrews Air Force Base was directly south, behind him. It was like a picture, all in his head.

  His phone rang. “Ten minutes,” a voice said.

  He hurried to the SUV's rear hatch. Pulled back the blue tarp. Nothing had been touched. He unplugged the drone and controller. Attached his iPad. He put in a set of earbuds. The camera had a mic. Shalik wanted to hear every second of it.

  The units synced to each other. The rotors turned. He had control.

  He set the drone on top of the SUV. He waited anxiously while the unit’s GPS connected to four satellites. The light went green. He lifted off.

  He put the unit into autopilot mode and directed it to fly due north, steadily climbing.