Mike Maden - Drone Command

He qualified for the school lunch program, but his father wouldn’t allow it. “Pearces don’t beg.”

Pearces also didn’t make their son’s lunch, either , Troy thought, as he crossed through the faculty parking lot. The third-period bell rang and he knew he was in trouble. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mr. Felcher, a vice principal with a serious hard-on for misfits like Troy who had warned him just last week that his next tardy would get him expelled.

Troy ducked behind a two-door Chevy Nova at the last second and ran crouching between cars like a rat in a maze, finally making it onto campus without Felcher seeing him. The covered walkways were still jammed with students knotted in cliques of jocks, theater nerds, cowboys, cheerleaders, ROTC — groups he never belonged to. Troy bolted at full speed toward the temporary trailers on the far side of the campus, weaving in and out of the foot traffic with effortless grace. His PE coach last year begged him to join track, but Troy didn’t have time for extracurriculars at all. If he wasn’t working with his dad, he was hunting or fishing, in season and out. He wished the high school offered letters in rifle, bow, and fly rod. He’d own ’em all.

The door to his math class was shutting when Troy arrived breathlessly. He grabbed the handle.

“Excuse me.”

Susan Morrow, the math teacher, was on the other side. Brown pantsuit, glasses, hair in a bun. She was in her forties and pretty, but trying to hide it.

“Troy Pearce. So glad you can make it.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” The other students were already dropping backpacks, popping binders, pulling homework. Troy moved toward his desk. Morrow tugged on his shirt.

“See me after class.”

“I can’t be late—”

“I’ll write you a hall pass.”

“What’s this about?”

“You’re failing.”

Pearce shrugged.

“And that, young man, is your problem.”

Troy paid more attention to his gurgling stomach than Morrow’s math lesson. She was a gifted teacher, but Pearce hadn’t done the homework. He glanced over the assignment, just in case she called on him. She always seemed to know when he hadn’t put in the work. For whatever reason, she left him alone today.

The bell rang and the other kids poured out of the bungalow, but Pearce remained behind as ordered. Morrow motioned for him to join her at the seat next to her desk. She opened a file folder as he fell into the chair.

“Do you know why you’re failing this class?”

“I dunno. Maybe low self-esteem?”

Morrow stifled a laugh. “You missed the midterm on Wednesday. That means your grade is zero right now. If you fail this class, you won’t graduate, and if you don’t graduate, you can’t go to college.”

Troy shrugged.

“You’re still planning on going to college, aren’t you?”

“No. Why?”

Morrow frowned. She had cornered Troy a year ago and read him the riot act. Told him how smart he was, that he needed to go to college. She even paid for him to take the SATs.

“What do you mean you’re not going to college? Are you thinking about the military?”

Troy snorted. Hell no .

“No, ma’am.”

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, ma’am. Just wasn’t planning on a military career.”

“What are your plans after school?”

“Today? Or after I graduate?”

She gave him the stink eye. “What do you think?”

Troy softened a little. “Work with my dad.”

“Does he own his own company?”

“Yeah.”

“What does he do?”

“Lumbering.”

“Mills are going out of business all over the place these days. There’s no future in that.”

Troy felt the heat rise in his face. Tamped it down. “We’re doing okay. Can I please go now?”

“Look, I shouldn’t do this, but I can let you make up the midterm.”

“Thanks.” Troy stood to leave.

“But you have to take it today. After school.”

“I can’t. My dad and I have this job we’re working on—”

“It’s your only shot. Today after school or not at all.”

Troy felt a surge of adrenaline kick in. Fight or flight — or both. She was boxing him in. He couldn’t miss work. But he couldn’t fail, either. His old man would kill him. Not that his dad ever gave a damn about his grades or parent-teacher conferences or anything else having to do with his academic life. “Winners never quit, and quitters never win” was another one of his father’s slurred pearls of great wisdom.

What could he do?

“That’s not fair. I need to study for it.” It was a weak play, he knew, but it was all he had.

Morrow frowned. “You already had the chance to study for it, remember? Not that you need to. You scored a 770 on the math portion of the SAT. Why you’re not in honors calculus I’ll never understand. If I were your mother, I’d be furious at you.”

But you’re not, so shut the fuck up and quit screwing with my life , he thought. He didn’t dare say it. His dad would beat the shit out of him if he did.

Troy glanced out of the window. Saw one of the lady gym teachers marching by in sweats and a whistle around her neck, her nose buried in a sheaf of papers. Wide hips, large breasts, dirty blonde hair.

She glanced up just then. They locked eyes. She smiled thinly, blushed, and hurried away, ashamed. Troy grinned.

“Something else funny?”

“No, not really. But now I’m really late for fourth period.”

Morrow scratched on a note pad. Handed it to Troy. “Here’s your hall pass. See you at three thirty.”

Troy took it. “Thanks.”

“Troy, I’m serious. Three thirty or not at all. It’s your life.”

Yeah, I kinda figured that out , Troy thought, but still kept his mouth shut.

He bolted out of the door onto the walkway. When he reached the faculty parking lot, he crumpled the hall pass and tossed it in a trash can and headed for home.

The vessel was the first drillship ever constructed in a Chinese shipyard, though it relied heavily on a Norwegian corporation for its automated dynamic positioning (ADP) system. The Tiger II , the second ship launched in the series, was no exception. ADP allowed the vessel to find and maintain a fixed position in deep water without the need for anchors or other fixed assemblies typical of many deep-water drilling platforms. Proprietary computer algorithms used the data gleaned from motion and vertical and draught reference sensors along with the ship’s hydro-acoustic navigational system to automatically fire bow and stern thrusters as needed, putting and keeping the forty-five-thousand-ton drilling vessel in place at sea without human intervention. The Tiger II needed to remain perfectly positioned in order to begin and sustain drilling operations. Unnecessary movement would destroy the drill assembly as it bored into the ocean floor and, worst-case scenario, cause irreparable damage topside, even possibly sinking the ship.

The blue water boiled beneath the red-hulled vessel as the azimuth thrusters fired, driving the vessel sideways and leaving a perpendicular wake. The oil derrick loomed more than two hundred feet above the center of the deck, far higher than the rear-mounted helicopter pad. The guided-missile destroyer Kunming circled on patrol in the distance, keeping a careful watch on the much larger but vulnerable drillship.

A massive bloodred, gold-starred PRC national flag perched on top of the derrick, and a forty-foot-long flag was painted on both sides of the ship. Feng didn’t want any confusion about the nationality of the mobile drilling platform.