Mike Maden - Drone Threat

Pearce jogged back over to Ponder’s laptop. Saw the reticle tracking perfectly with the airplane.

“Push the F1 button when you’re ready,” Ponder said.

Pearce pushed it.

The laser fired. It made a Star Trek —style phaser beam sound.

The beam locked directly onto the engine in the Styrofoam fuselage. The plastic blades melted instantly as the engine coughed and then died two seconds later. The rest of the plane broke apart and tumbled to the ground.

The old farmer’s face finally cracked into a wide grin. “So, whaddya think?”

“Not bad, so long as the bad guys are invested in Styrofoam platforms.” Pearce scratched his chin. “What’s with the crazy sound that thing makes?”

“The laser is completely silent. I added sound effects so that an operator would know it was firing. You’ve got ten more sounds to choose from, if that makes a difference.”

“You never know,” Pearce said. “Some of my clients like that kind of thing.” He cast a glance back at Stella. She nodded and pulled the transmitter from off her neck.

“Seriously, Troy. What’s the verdict?”

“It’s damn impressive. But you had Stella fly in a straight line and it’s still a slow-moving target.”

“Like I said, this system uses the same components the Pentagon deploys to shoot down mortars. I just made it extremely portable. Targeting drones won’t be a problem.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Pearce pointed at the laptop. “That thing still ready to go?”

“Yup.”

“You got a ‘laser blaster’ sound?”

“You mean, like Star Wars ?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure.” Ponder ran through a pop-up menu. Made a selection. “All ready, Boba Fett.”

Pearce turned to Stella. She had a tablet in her hand. “Go.”

Stella stabbed at the tablet. In the distance, small motors whined to life.

“What’s this?” Ponder asked.

“I guess they’re like Remotes.”

“Huh?”

“ Star Wars reference. Never mind.”

The laser gimbals twitched as the onboard radar searched for targets. The monitor image shifted back and forth, almost randomly.

Pearce pointed toward the tree line on the far hill. “Here they come.”

Ponder squinted. “I can barely see them. Three of ’em, I think.”

“Four. They’re cheap, palm-sized quads I bought on Amazon. Dr. Rao rigged them with a simple homing device.”

“The target you put on my War Wagon.”

“Yup.”

Seconds later, the four drones buzzed clearly into view. They rotated in circles around each other in a randomized swarming dance as they plowed toward the truck.

The laser snapped into position, pointing high into the sky.

A laser blaster sound echoed.

A scream.

A large black crow exploded in feathers. Its smoking corpse tumbled into the grass a thousand yards away.

“Darn,” Ponder said. He pulled off his ball cap and scratched his flaky scalp. “I figured you’d try something like this. I narrowed the filter to try and pick up smaller targets.”

“You succeeded. Sort of.”

Four sharp bangs rattled the truck door as the four screaming drones slammed into the magnetic target one after another. They broke apart on impact.

“And just like that, we’re a smoking hole,” Pearce said.

Ponder sighed as he tugged on his cap. “I guess this means no sale.”

Pearce patted the older man’s shoulder. “You guess wrong. It’s a helluva system, Virgil. Exactly the kind of thing I’m looking for. But it’s the really small drones I’m worried about. The hobby-sized stuff. Ten pounds or less.”

“Target acquisition is the hardest part. If you set the filters too small, you start targeting everything that moves.” Ponder glanced at the dead crow. “Maybe we should call the Duck Dynasty fellas.”

“How much more time do you need to get it right?”

“I’m not sure how much more time I have,” Ponder said. His voice trailed off.

“What can you do for me in thirty days?”

Ponder approached the laptop. Tapped a few keys. His eyes brightened. “I might be able to pull a few tricks out of my bag by then.”

“Do what you can. We’ll figure something out.”

Ponder turned to Pearce. “It’s not about me, you know. It’s about my grandkids.”

Pearce saw the anguish in the old man’s eyes. He understood it, but in a different way. In his heart of hearts, Pearce wanted to sell his own company and get the hell out of the game and leave it all behind. Take Margaret on a trip around the world, maybe hole up in Bora Bora or Fiji and just let the rest of humanity slip away into its own madness.

“I know. It’s just not quite there yet. Keep pushing.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You need us to help you pack up or anything?”

“Nah. I just need to rest awhile and think on a few things.”

Pearce and Stella shook hands with Ponder and drove off in separate rentals, heading for a plate of pulled smoked pork at a little joint Pearce remembered just up the road. He hoped the old man would figure out the laser problem. But the clock was running out on the cancer.

And maybe the nation, too.

Norman Pike was in a foul mood.

The group charter he was supposed to take out for chinook salmon this morning was running an hour late already when they called and canceled on him. Sure, they’d lose their deposit and they were apologetic, but the Ayasi , his thirty-six-foot Tiara, was kitted out and ready to go, and so was he. He loved to fish and was disappointed he wouldn’t be heading out.

But Pike’s mood brightened when a late-model Ford Taurus pulled up to the curb and a man came strolling down the pier and straight for his dock. He was built like an athlete. He flashed a broad smile with gleaming white teeth. Pike thought maybe he was Italian or Greek, or maybe even from the Middle East.

“I’m looking for a day charter. I don’t suppose you’re available?”

Pike noticed the man’s West Coast accent. He had a polished L.A. vibe about him, too. Merrell boots, Oakley sunglasses, Columbia fishing shirt, and a Tag Heuer wristwatch. Typical yuppie tourist, Pike thought. More money than sense. He’d hauled a thousand of them out onto the lake over the years for good money.

“Your timing is impeccable. It just so happens I am.”

The man extended his hand. Pike shook it. The man had a strong grip. “Great, man.”

Pike glanced around. All of the other charter boats were already out on the water. “I’m usually all booked up this time of year. I had a last-minute cancellation.”

“Then it’s my lucky day.”

“Climb aboard. I’m all ready to go. Even have five box lunches if you get that hungry.”

“Awesome. Let’s get going.”

Pike quoted a full-day rate and the man counted off five Benjamins from a stack of ten in his wallet. Pike asked for ID and the man showed him a California driver’s license. His name was Daniel Brody. Twenty-seven years old. Los Angeles, California. Just as Pike had guessed.

“Got a fishing license, Mr. Brody?” Pike asked.

“No. Do I need one?”

“Yes, but I can sell you one, no problem. A twenty-four-hour license is only… twenty dollars.” Ten for the license, and ten for my trouble , Pike told himself.

“Sounds good.”

The man pulled out a twenty and Pike pocketed it. “I’ll write that up as soon as we get under way.”

“Awesome. So we can get going now?”

“Soon as we untie. You’re in kind of a hurry, I take it?”

“Just excited, I guess.”

More like nervous , Pike thought. Maybe he’s afraid of the water. Probably means he’s going to be hurling his guts out, too. Should’ve charged him more.