Mike Maden - Drone Threat

The water was choppy but Captain Pike was trolling with the swell and Brody hadn’t complained, even after devouring a roast beef sandwich with horseradish.

Pike had fished these waters for fifteen years, first as a hobby and then as a paying gig. He was a good fisherman. He knew all of the tricks that all of the other charter captains knew as well, and his charter boat carried state-of-the-art fish-finding radar. Pike knew Lake Michigan like the back of his hand, and he knew chinook, and that this late in the morning the big salmon would be running around 120 feet deep in the cold, dark water. To get the bait rigs down to that strike zone he fitted Brody’s rod with copper line and down riggers and trolled at twelve miles per hour, about the speed the fish ran, especially with the current.

Pike was a loner by nature and wasn’t the talkative type, but Brody asked the same questions that the beginners always asked about bait and reels and how to hook the big ones, and Pike was happy to answer them because the answers never changed. He also liked the kid’s enthusiasm. Brody pulled in his first fish within an hour and seemed genuinely thrilled. Pike reset the hook and showed him how to cast and Brody was back at it while Pike cleaned the five-pound fish.

And then Brody’s questions turned personal. How long have you been a charter captain? How long have you lived in Michigan? Any kids? Were you in the service?

It started to feel like an interrogation instead of friendly chatter. There was something about the guy that bothered Pike. He couldn’t put his finger on it. When the next fish struck Brody got distracted trying to reel it in. The pole bent nearly in half, as if a bowling ball were hooked to the other end. Pike fetched the net. A twenty-three-pounder — big fish. Not a record, but respectable. At this rate, Brody would hit his legal limit of fish in a few hours, and then they’d be heading back to the marina.

“Can I use the restroom?”

Pike pointed at the cabin door with his filet knife. “Right down there. Hard to miss.”

“Thanks.” Brody flashed a smile and descended the short stairs, closing the door behind him.

Pike stood at the cleaning station, thinking. He cut the chinook’s head off with a single pass of the razor-sharp blade, then took off the tail.

He didn’t like personal questions.

It was late. Pike’s boat was the last one to tie up for the night. Nobody around.

The high-speed grinder shrieked beneath the stainless-steel tub, mulching the carcass into a fine slurry that ran straight back into the lake. The sound bounced off the blue cinder-block walls. A real racket. But the enclosed fish-cleaning station was always neat and clean whenever he came into it, and Pike intended to leave it that way, too. Always had. He used the sprayer to push the last little bits of flesh and bone into the drain. The city of Cheboygan had built the handy little facility in order to make the fishing experience that much more convenient for the public. They knew how to treat sportsmen right up here, especially in the UP. It’s why he loved living in Michigan — for six months out of the year, anyway.

Pike’s phone rang. He checked the number. A call he’d been waiting for. He hung up the sprayer and punched the grinder motor’s red Stop button. It quieted instantly.

“Pike here.”

Pike listened to the urgent voice on the other end but kept spraying the tub, washing away the last drops of blood.

“I understand. The charter is all ready. I’m just waiting for your last deposit.”

He nodded, listening. A smile creased his face. “Excellent. I appreciate the vote of confidence. Then we can get started right away. It should be a lot of fun.”

Pike rang off. He checked the sink. Spotless, just the way he’d found it.

The Kairos Club was traditional, elegant, and private, like Ilene Parcelle herself. Vicki Grafton admired both institutions. Despite its privacy — or maybe because of it — the Kairos Club had been the place to be seen in D.C. for the last forty years.

It was an early dinner, barely five p.m. The last-minute invitation was both propitious and unsettling. It felt more like a summons than a dinner date, but that was to be expected. The former congresswoman had climbed the pinnacle of power after her time in government. Parcelle was used to people clearing calendars and canceling important family events when her assistant called. But when Parcelle was on the other end of the line? One of the senior partners at the Seven Rivers Consortium? Governments fell, countries rioted, markets collapsed. Ilene Parcelle was Vicki’s sponsor and, perhaps, even a friend. Grafton admired her immensely but also feared her.

For now.

Grafton arrived early. She always kept a fresh dress in the office for moments like this, with shoes and jewelry to match, of course. Parcelle would be expecting nothing less than her best. Grafton even managed to freshen her light makeup and brush out her thick red hair on the drive over. She took great pride in her beauty and was smart enough to know that her stunning good looks had opened more doors for her than less attractive women could possibly have hoped to pass through. Her vanity allowed for that despite her feminist sensibilities, but no one doubted her keen intellect once she opened her mouth.

Parcelle was decked to the nines as well and, in her late fifties, could still turn heads. She arrived with a small entourage, whom she waved away at the front desk, and she and Vicki were escorted to the table by the maître d’, who was himself a formidable establishment figure and social statesman. Politicians, CEOs, and foreign dignitaries of every stripe had dined there over the years, and he had escorted all of them, too. Grafton feigned indifference but secretly reveled in the leering gazes and jealous glances from the tables they passed by as they were seated in the place of honor near the great bay window overlooking the garden. Very private. Grafton smiled. Her Klout Score would jump five points before the evening was through.

They ordered drinks — a gin and tonic for Parcelle, whiskey neat for Grafton — and waited for their dinner to be served.

“You look stunning,” Parcelle said. “You must live in a gym.”

“I wish I had the time. I’m lucky if I get to run in the morning.”

“How do you keep so trim?” Parcelle asked over the rim of her glass.

“I’m eating paleo these days.”

“Is that the caveman diet I’ve been hearing so much about?”

“Something like that. Well, except tonight. Might have to cheat a little bit.”

“Cheating is one of life’s great pleasures, don’t you think?”

“You look ravishing yourself,” Grafton said.

“Thank you, love. You’re too kind. I can only imagine the hordes of grasping gray-haired old men you have to fight off on the Hill. They were quite the bother even in my day.”

Grafton fought the urge to laugh. She knew that Parcelle wasn’t one to actually resist those advances back in her day. She’d gone down on more senior political figures than the White House elevator. Rumor had it, she’d once done the big nasty in the White House elevator. “Viagra hasn’t done us any favors, has it?”

“At least not in that regard,” Parcelle said. “But the little blue pill does have its merits.” She grinned mischievously as she took another sip of her drink.

“The problem now is that every octogenarian out there thinks he’s a twenty-year-old frat boy.” Grafton smiled, remembering a recent run-in with the junior senator from Vermont just forty years her senior.