Mike Maden - Drone Command

“Because of their excellent care, I am in perfectly good health. I had a very slight incident of insulin overdose last night and passed out. Fortunately, my good friends were there to call an ambulance and I was rushed over here immediately.”

To his credit, Ito gave strict orders to the ambulance crew and his staff that Myers’s identity was to be strictly guarded. But someone tipped off the Japanese press and set off a media firestorm.

Just as Myers had hoped, actually.

Ian McTavish’s anonymous tip to several local media outlets did the trick. Pearce’s gifted computer genius could break into almost any computer system in the world, but in this case he didn’t need to. Simple text and e-mail messages to news-starved reporters was all it took.

The media questions came fast and furious. What was the former president doing in Japan? Why wasn’t this widely known? Was she on a secret mission? Was her visit in response to the Chinese attack on the Japanese dive boat? Does this mean the United States will be coming to the aid of Japan now? Will a carrier be dispatched? Myers deflected each question, as did the prime minister who promised an “off the record” conversation later with the press in attendance.

Myers continued.

“I was diagnosed with adult-onset type 1 diabetes just over a year ago. It’s an extremely rare condition, and I have been able to manage it quite nicely thanks to my personal physician and endocrinologist back home in Denver. I’m afraid that I didn’t monitor my insulin and glucose levels closely enough in the last few days, and this induced a hypoglycemic reaction. Too much fast-acting insulin and not enough carbohydrates, I’ve been told. I was rushed to the hospital and treated, and within an hour, I was fully recovered. But it was at that time we decided to take the unusual step and install a bionic pancreas.”

The press gasped at the words “bionic pancreas” and began shouting questions louder and louder over one another to catch Myers’s attention. Once again, Ito quieted them down. Myers continued.

“I’m going to let Japan’s leading endocrinologist, Dr. Hironaga, explain the technology behind the bionic pancreas. She is far more qualified than I am to answer your questions. Thank you.”

Myers bowed slightly again to the press out of respect, and Ito signaled his security staff to clear a path. They led the way out for Ito, Tanaka, Myers, and Pearce as the press peppered Dr. Hironaga with questions about the bionic pancreas. She was happy to explain the device components and their respective functions.

As per her security briefing, however, Dr. Hironaga was careful not to reveal the fact that the high-tech wireless device was manufactured by Pearce Systems.

Feng jabbed the volume button on his HD television. The party music pulsing on the other side of the door was deafening. He could barely hear what Myers was saying. He barked an order at his aide, who rushed back out of the media room. A tidal wave of noise assaulted Feng’s ears when the aide opened the door, worsening the stabbing pain behind the vice chairman’s eyes.

Feng fell onto an overstuffed leather couch, his head still swimming with liquor. His aide shouted on the other side of the door and the music dropped by half. Better.

His English wasn’t very good. He didn’t understand the words “bionic” or “pancreas.” No matter. He’d have translated transcripts on his tablet within the hour. More important than the words were the pictures. Former president Margaret Myers was in Japan, standing next to the fascist Ito and his lapdog Tanaka.

The vice chairman raged. What was Myers doing in Japan? Was Lane sending some kind of message to the Japanese? Was she there to lend America’s support? Perhaps negotiating a new secret treaty?

Another wave of techno beat rushed through the opened door, and just as quickly it subsided.

Feng seethed. Why hadn’t he been informed of Myers’s presence in Japan? He swore. Another MSS failure.

Soft hands reached from behind the couch and began massaging the tension out of his neck.

“So much stress. You need to relax. Come back to the party.”

The soft hands belonged to an even softer feminine voice. A Thai boy, eighteen years old, pretty and fey. One of Feng’s favorites in his stable of young androgynous consorts.

“You don’t understand,” Feng said. He closed his eyes for a moment against the raging headache. The soft hands on his neck felt good.

“Who’s the white lady?” The Thai drove his moist palms deep into Feng’s shoulders.

“No one for you to worry about,” Feng said. “Just shut up and rub.”

“My pleasure.”

Feng opened his eyes just in time to watch Myers, Ito, and Tanaka depart the press conference. He snapped off the television and tossed the remote. The MSS was becoming increasingly inept. He would have sacked Huang Yong long ago, but the minister had powerful friends on the Central Committee.

Worse, Huang knew all about Feng’s financial ties to Mao Island and the ECS initiative, partly because Feng had paid Huang substantial sums of money to support it. Like so many other relationships among the ruling elite, Feng’s web of corruption extended widely, with each strand of the web terminating in a rope around the neck of the man or woman being paid off with dirty money. In Feng’s case, dirty petromoney. If Feng pushed Huang off the cliff, he would only break Feng’s neck on the way down and drag another hundred conspirators tied behind him. It was the Party’s version of mutual assured destruction.

Huang could still prove useful for the time being, but Feng was determined to find a way to rid himself of the fat fool. He never forgave Huang for not discovering his nephew Zhao’s killer. Feng had a blood debt to repay and Huang’s failure was standing in the way.

“My head still hurts,” Feng whimpered.

The Thai padded around to the front of the couch. He wore a brightly flowered silk kimono. He opened it. Nothing underneath but his smooth pale skin and swelling manhood.

The Thai knelt down between Feng’s legs, unbuckled his pants.

“I know how to fix it.”

Feng’s throbbing headache was soon relieved.

She howled like a wounded moose.

Troy heard the pounding against the thin trailer wall all the way out here. Whoever his dad had dragged home last night was either having a stroke or a really good time. At least no one else could hear it. They lived too far outside of town at the end of a dirt track.

He checked his watch. Less than an hour until school started. No way he’d make it there on time this morning, but it couldn’t be helped. He was facing expulsion. Too many tardies and too many unexcused absences. They didn’t understand.

Troy still had to change the oil and plugs on the big Husqvarna chainsaw after he finished sharpening it. It was running like crap. His fingers were still numb from the early morning cold. He left his gloves in the trailer like an idiot, but he couldn’t go back and get them now that his dad and his new lady friend were back at it, and knowing his dad, that could take a while.

Troy was careful to count eight drags of the chainsaw file for each tooth and even more careful to keep the file at the same angle as the tooth, just like his dad taught him. Failure to do either meant the saw wouldn’t cut straight. It was tedious but important work. Work his dad wasn’t getting done lately, like a lot of other things. If he and his dad didn’t clear the stand of dead trees by the end of the week, they’d lose their Forest Service contract, and work was hard enough to come by these days. All the damn environmentalist lawsuits had practically shut down the lumber work on federal lands, and the Gulf War recession had crushed timber prices and demand. The job they were doing was chickenshit, but it was the only work they’d had this year and maybe likely to get for the rest. But between his drinking and his whoring, Troy’s dad was proving to be an unreliable supervisor in their failing two-man operation.