Mike Maden - Drone Command

The third bot was written for Pearce. President Lane was not made aware of its existence, let alone its purpose. It would lie dormant inside the Wu-14’s computer and wouldn’t activate until the Wu-14 was powered up and connected with its mission-control computers.

When Lane, Myers, and Pearce first conceived of the plan to steal the Wu-14’s secrets, Lane had recommended simply knocking the HGV out of commission with an implanted virus. Myers explained to him that the Chinese would not only debug the missile computer and get it back online, they’d also probably figure out she was the one who had infected it, and they wouldn’t get a second chance to get a peek inside. It was riskier in the short term to leave the missile operational — if, indeed, it was — but for the long term, it was the better play.

“Downloading now,” Ian said. “Should take only a few minutes.”

Myers watched the progress bar begin to inch its way across his screen. She walked over to the well-stocked bar and poured herself two fingers of Maker’s Mark. She downed it in a single throw, then poured herself another. She wanted to scream. Wanted to get back on the plane and fly to Ningbo or Beijing or whatever shit hole they were hiding Pearce in and tear it apart brick by brick until she could find him.

“Got it!” Ian shouted. The first bot had successfully copied the Wu-14’s operating software.

Myers sighed. “Thank God.”

“I can’t wait to dive into this.”

“After we analyze the video.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Myers hoped it was worth it. Hoped everything they’d captured was worth Troy’s life.

She doubted it.

She hoped Ian could identify the woman. She was obviously connected to Feng, but how? If Myers could figure out that connection, it might give her the tool she needed to save Troy. She couldn’t wait for Lane to help him. If she were still president, she wouldn’t have taken the chance of blowing the mission, either. She’d give it a few more days if she were him.

But she wasn’t.

She had seen the look in Feng’s eyes. Troy didn’t have a few more days.

He might already be dead.

It was late and the president didn’t feel like heading back downstairs to the office. Mrs. Lane was already in bed with the flu and the kids were long since asleep, so the president made his phone call in the Lincoln Sitting Room on the opposite end of the residence. The room was maintained in an elegant Victorian style, and though it was completely opposite his personal taste, the history of it was oddly reassuring, and he found himself utilizing it more and more. The chief usher told him that it had been Nixon’s favorite room and that the former president had an exact replica of it built in the Nixon Presidential Library and Museum.

The call was taking a long time to go through. A proud UT Austin alum, Lane wore white-and-orange Longhorn workout shorts and a Longhorn T-shirt. He paced the thick pile carpet in his bare feet. Walking and talking was an old habit. He never sat still and talked on the phone if he could help it. The wireless phone headset was his best friend these days. He wondered if he was the first president of the United States to speak with the president of China barefoot. He couldn’t imagine Nixon in his bare feet, not even in bed. His mind was prone to such musings at this hour. Finally, the White House operator came on line.

“Mr. President, President Sun is on the other line.”

“Thank you.”

The two most powerful men in the world hadn’t yet met in person or even spoken on the phone. Lane had been briefed earlier about Sun and his precarious political situation, triangulating between forces opposed to military-and-corruption reform and his own tenuous proreform alliances. Lane imagined that Sun wasn’t available earlier in the day when he first called because Sun was huddled up in an emergency meeting with his most trusted advisors over the Pearce fiasco. Lane left a terse and unambiguous statement for Sun: We need to discuss the Pearce matter immediately. No point in playing the game of whether or not Sun knew about it. Even if he didn’t know about it, he’d certainly put his staff to work on it. When the president of the United States calls and demands an explanation, it behooves most world leaders to respond as soon as possible, including Sun, even if China was the world’s largest economy.

Once connected on the phone, the two presidents exchanged formal pleasantries, then got down to business. Lane expressed his deep concern about Pearce’s safety and well-being, both of which were assured by Sun. Lane then demanded to know where he was being held in custody.

“My understanding is that he is not in custody because he has not been arrested,” President Sun said. “He is only being detained for routine questioning.”

“Under whose authority? Feng’s?”

Sun was a malleable bureaucrat at heart, but he was not accustomed to such effrontery, not even from an American president.

“I am confident that Vice Chairman Feng has legitimate reasons for detaining Mr. Pearce.”

“What reasons?”

“I’m not certain. Inquiries have been made, but Vice Chairman Feng has been unavailable. I just dispatched a personal messenger to hand-deliver my request.”

“I need you to know I’m holding you personally responsible for Mr. Pearce’s safety.”

“I’m hopeful the matter will soon be resolved to our mutual satisfaction. Unless, of course, Mr. Pearce really is a spy. And if that is the case, I shall hold you personally responsible for his fate.”

The phone clicked off.

Lane hung up. He cursed.

Pearce was fucked, and it was his fault.

Lane stood barefoot in the kitchen of his private residence, one of three in the White House. His kids and sick wife were still in bed, sound asleep. He flipped over the sizzling grilled cheese sandwich, its edges dripping with cheddar and Gouda. A real no-no in the Lane household as far as calories and fat were concerned, but exactly what the doctor ordered, especially after his phone call with President Sun.

He’d screwed up, but it was a screwed-up situation all around. He’d made an idle threat and Sun had called him on it, but he needed to say something other than pretty please. Both men knew Lane wouldn’t risk starting a war over the detention of one individual, and Sun’s reference to Pearce possibly being a spy was chilling. The Chinese didn’t coddle foreign nationals who committed crimes on their soil. They had recently executed several South Korean, Japanese, and even British citizens for drug-related offenses, even over the diplomatic protests of those governments.

Lane dumped his grilled cheese on a plate, snagged a Revolver Blood & Honey beer from the fridge, and headed for the kitchen table.

He took a bite of the hot sandwich, sucking up a long string of gooey cheese like it was a piece of spaghetti. Chewing, he thought more about his conversation with Sun, but something else was bothering him.

The labor secretary had delivered more bad news earlier in the day about current employment stats, especially labor participation rates. They were continuing to fall. More and more Americans were simply giving up looking for work, and the great middle class was shrinking. The growing income disparity wasn’t merely a social-justice issue, it was a matter of grave political and economic concern. A thriving capitalist democracy depended on a thriving middle class. A few wealthy people standing on a wide base of impoverished masses was a formula for social unrest, economic catastrophe, and maybe even revolution.