Mike Maden - Drone Threat

“I agree with you. And if any contractor — big or small — comes up with a viable system, I’d take a look at it. But the days of negotiated weapons designs have to be over. What’s the old saying? Camels are horses designed by committees?”

“And so you’d be the person to make the call? What about congressional oversight?”

“Oversight, yes, but not micromanagement. And to tell the truth, I wouldn’t trust me, either. So let me run with this thing for two years. See what we can come up with. If I drop the ball, can me. Better yet, I’ll quit. But President Lane trusts me to do what’s best for the country, not what’s best for him or for his party. I’m making that same promise to you today. How well I do it is for you to decide.”

Floyd coughed, a wheezing smoker’s hack. When the phlegm cleared, he leaned into the microphone, his head resting in his big farmer’s hand. “You must think we’re a bunch of moneygrubbing dimwits up here on the Hill, pissing away the national treasury while we play with ourselves.”

“Senator Floyd, I assure you, Mr. Pearce means nothing but respect—”

Pearce cut her off. “I wouldn’t put it quite that way, Senator,” Pearce said. “But I’d like you to prove me wrong.”

Floyd’s blue eyes bored into his. “I appreciate your candor, Mr. Pearce.”

Grafton gaped at Pearce in shocked disbelief. He had crossed the line.

The committee spent another hour grilling Pearce on foreign policy and security issues. Pearce repeatedly deferred to administration officials tasked with those policies, and the informal hearing ended on a polite but formal note. Pearce seemed satisfied but it was clear to Grafton that the Drone Command pooch was officially and royally screwed.

The eight-bladed octocopter sped toward FedExField, an ominous cargo box fixed beneath its fuselage. It flew at an altitude of 125 feet, high enough to clear the upper tier of seats in the open-air complex. At full capacity, the Washington Redskins FedExField could accommodate nearly eighty thousand cheering fans whose attention would be focused on the game, not on terror in the sky.

The drone roared forward at more than sixty miles per hour. It was only seconds away from breaching the airspace directly above the stadium when it suddenly slowed and wobbled before making a violent 180-degree turn, its speed plummeting as it dived toward the asphalt. It settled on its skids just two yards away from Pearce, standing in the parking lot.

“Impressive,” Pearce said as the eight motors cut off. His back was to the olive drab Iveco Light Multirole Vehicle (LMV), the Italian version of a Humvee. An array of radar, sensors, and cameras — optical, infrared, and thermal imaging — were fixed on a rotating turret along with a dish and what appeared to be a firing tube. He heard the rear doors open and the heavy thud of boots hitting the ground.

Wes Klein flashed his used-car-salesman smile. The forty-two-year-old former submariner and Annapolis grad built his own security company based on a license for the Selex ES Falcon Shield combat system. His techs improved on the Falcon Shield with a few proprietary tweaks to the software and hardware. “My rig works as advertised. But you don’t have to take my word for it. Run it through whatever tests you’ve got.”

Pearce shrugged. “The specs on paper look good. It’s the real-world stuff that usually bites you in the ass.” Klein’s system was similar to the Israeli Drone Dome. He was hoping it was even better.

“You can swap out a number of components and customize the Falcon Shield according to the threat profile.”

“But essentially the strength of your system is you get a visual lock on the target, and then you can take it out?”

“Visual, electro-optical, and signal lock. We have radar, too, but it’s hard to pick up the really small ones with it.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it.” Pearce hoped Dr. Ponder would come up with a fix on that particular bug in his laser system. “How does the electronic defeat system work?”

Klein shook his close-cropped head. “ Segretissimo , old buddy. Top secret. My Italian investors would bris my sizable foreskin with a pair of rusty pliers if I told you.”

Pearce grinned. He liked Klein. Reminded him of his old friend Mike Early, who had a mind as filthy as a coal miner’s butt crack. “But you actually managed to seize control of the unit and were able to fly it?” That was an important feature. Merely disrupting the GPS or controller signals might actually result in a drone flying out of control. With the wrong payload, that could prove just as problematic in a crowded venue as a controlled hostile flight.

“It’s worked on every hobby and commercial drone system we’ve tested so far. We’ve been able to disrupt the signal and seize control of vehicles and land them where we wanted. Of course, we haven’t tested every available system out there — there are way too many of them. But we’re confident this is the way to go for the vast majority of small, civilian UAV threats.”

Pearce thought about the VTOL that had landed at the White House that morning, or even his own test against Ponder’s laser system the day before. “So what do you do about autopiloted vehicles?”

“We’ve been able to seize a few of them, depending on the hardware. But if we can’t seize control, we can deploy a focused high-power microwave to fry the circuitry.”

“Another add-on?”

Klein rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers. “Cha- ching , baby. But it works.”

“Every time?”

“Unless it’s shielded.”

“You mean like a Faraday cage?”

“Or something similar. Again, we’re talking high percentages on kill rates. There aren’t any absolutes in this business.”

Pearce headed for the rear of the LMV. “Any other defeat solutions?”

“You always have the kinetic option.”

“Bullets and missiles in an urban environment?” Pearce asked, poking his head in the back of the truck. The compartment was packed with electronic gear and video monitors.

“Security Ethics 101, friendo. Depends on what the payload is on the drone you’re trying to knock down. A few killed and wounded by your kinetics, or thousands killed and wounded by your adversary.”

“I’m looking for a third option.”

“Have you thought about lasers? That’s something we’re looking into.”

“It’s crossed my mind.” Pearce’s phone rang. It was President Lane. “Excuse me, Wes.”

“Of course. I’ve got to check the gear anyway.” Klein crawled back into the LMV to give Pearce his privacy.

Pearce answered. “Mr. President.”

“Troy, I wanted to give you a heads-up. The FBI came up short on the forensics. No fingerprints, no DNA, no purchase orders to trace, no addresses to raid. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.”

“Must’ve been a pro.”

“Yeah, but a ‘pro’ what? Terrorist? Prankster? Social justice warrior?”

“Doesn’t really matter at this point. We just have to wait for the other shoe to drop.”

“Come up with any bright ideas for stopping these hobby drones?”

“Not yet, but I’m working on a few things.”

“Vicki wants you back in her office tomorrow at eleven a.m. You need to start working the phones, pay a few visits. Time to hustle up some votes.”

“I’d rather get tased.”

Lane laughed. “I feel for you, brother. Call me if you need anything.”

How about a rum and Coke? Pearce wanted to ask. Instead, he thanked the president and rang off.

“We good?” Klein asked.

Another dead end, another ticking clock , Pearce thought. He forced a smile. “I’ll be in touch.”