Mike Maden - Drone Threat

But Pearce was by nature a worrier, always on the lookout for potential trouble. He’d taught her how to spot suspicious behavior even in large, anonymous crowds. And the bearded man in the dark leather jacket and sunglasses on the far side of the luggage conveyor definitely fit the description of suspicious.

She queued up with the other passengers on her flight, waiting for the luggage to trundle onto the conveyor belt. She was careful not to put eyes on him, but kept his Nike Swoosh ball cap in her peripheral vision. She checked her phone again. A new message from Herr Grauweiler confirmed her new appointment time at seven p.m. local. She was grateful for the respite. That would give her enough time to check into her hotel and freshen up before the meeting. Maybe even catch a quick shower.

She easily caught a glimpse of her first piece of turquoise-colored luggage tumbling onto the far end of the belt, not far from the man in the leather jacket. Her eyes remained fixed on her eBag, but when she saw the man’s earpiece, he suddenly commanded her full attention.

She never caught sight of the tall man in the graying beard several feet behind her, pushing his way politely through the impatient crowd, heading straight toward her position.

Myers’s bag finally came within reach and she snagged it up. Her other turquoise bag was just a few feet farther back. By the time she looked back up, the man in the leather jacket had melted back into the crowd and she lost sight of him. She shrugged. Maybe he wasn’t a problem, after all. As her second bag approached, she began to lean over to grab it, but felt a strong hand on her lower back—

“Let me get that for you, Margaret.” The lanky German reached down and lifted her heavy bag effortlessly off the carousel and set it down next to the other to form a matching set.

“August! What are you doing here?”

“A little bird told me you would be arriving today.”

“Troy.” She tried to sound annoyed, but secretly she was happy he thought so highly of her security.

A broad grin emerged beneath his graying beard. “Well, yes. Of course.”

“Come here.” Myers threw her arms around the tall German’s neck and they hugged. She hadn’t seen August Mann since the time when she landed in a plane in the middle of a gunfight in the Sahara, snatching Mann and a wounded Pearce out of harm’s way at the last possible second. Pearce had told her all about him later. Mann was head of Pearce Systems’ nuclear demolition division and the first employee he ever hired into his organization. Mann was in Japan briefly while she was there earlier in the year but she didn’t get the chance to see him then.

“I have a car waiting for you,” Mann said. “We should go.”

“There was a man earlier”—she caught a glimpse of the Nike Swoosh ball cap out of the corner of her eye; she turned—“there. That’s him.”

Mann shook his head. “One of mine. He’s new to civilian work. I’ll have to give him a reprimand for being so clumsy. Did you see the others?”

“There are others?”

Mann smiled. “You can reach out and touch two of them right now — if you’re quick.”

The four-armed quadcopter hovered high above the sprawling 3,400-acre ExxonMobil Baytown complex. The second-largest oil refinery in the United States, the Baytown facility refined 573,000 barrels of oil per day and produced 7.2 billion pounds of petrochemical products annually.

The noise of the drone’s whirring rotors was masked by the industrial din of the bustling, 24/7 operation. The drone’s familiar mechanical shape was hardly noticeable in the jagged skyline of overhead power lines, coker units, distillation towers, and storage tanks.

Except that Willard Dynes did notice it. Leaning against the company pickup with his hands cupped around his eyes, the rail-thin security guard tracked the drone’s cautious movement, threading its way between twin steel towers.

Dynes was an amateur drone pilot and sold units part-time at the local hobby shop. Just last week he made an appointment with the refinery’s assistant plant manager. Dynes had observed drones being used for engineering and safety inspections by plant personnel and wanted to know if he could apply for a job like that. But the assistant manager explained to Dynes that his associate’s degree in criminal justice didn’t qualify him for engineering work in one of the world’s most complex chemical-processing facilities.

SOL, Dynes figured. Shit out of luck .

Dynes was no engineer, for sure, but he had a good eye for technical gear and an even better memory. The ExxonMobil engineers flew only DJI Phantom 3s with ExxonMobil decals. The unmarked drone he saw hovering fifty feet off the ground directly over his head wasn’t a DJI Phantom 3. Not by a long shot.

He didn’t know what the hell it was.

But he knew it wasn’t right. And the day-shift supervisor had put out the morning notice to report any suspicious persons or any unusual drone activity.

Well, a strange, unmarked drone was unusual, he figured. Better check it out.

Dynes dashed over to the steel staircase and began the long climb skyward. He flung himself up, pulling on the metal banisters, his steel-toed boots clanging on every other step. The equipment on his belt jangled and his baton clanged against the rails as he made the turns. By the third flight of stairs he was already winded. Damned Marlboros, he told himself. Time to quit. His thighs burned like acid as he finally reached the steel deck five stories up, gasping for air. He inhaled deeply with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He felt the asthma coming on. He tried not to panic. His hands shook a little and sweat poured over his face, but he kept his eye on the drone. It hadn’t budged.

Now that he was close he could see three small red lights flashing on some kind of electronic component attached as a payload. The drone was hovering near some kind of a security box that had an antenna and three green lights, all lit solid. He watched the red flashing lights on the drone turn to flashing green, and the solid green lights on the box start to flash in the same rhythm as the ones on the drone.

They were synching.

Shit!

Better call it in.

His breathing quickened. He felt light-headed. He pulled out his radio from its holster but his trembling hand dropped the unit. It clanged on the deck by his feet and bounced over the side. He leaned over just in time to see the radio hit the concrete slab and explode into a confetti of solid-state components.

Shit!

Just then, the drone began beeping.

Something told him it was about to fly away.

Dynes grabbed for the pistol grip in his belt. The drone turned ninety degrees to face him. Its one unblinking camera eye mocked him like a giant flying fish-eye cyclops. Dynes pulled the trigger on his Taser. He missed.

Shit!

The two Taser darts passed over the top of the fuselage. The drone’s blades whirred faster and it bolted vertically in a flash, but the fifteen feet of hair-thin Taser wire caught up in the drone’s rotors and instantly tangled around the propeller shafts. When enough of the Taser’s steel wire made contact with the rest of the drone’s aluminum frame, the Taser’s fifty-thousand-volt charge plowed into the onboard circuitry and fried the electronics. The drone’s engines froze in midair and the vehicle plunged toward the ground, dead as a doornail. Despite his shaking hands, Dynes held tight to the pistol grip while the drone hung suspended on the end of his Taser wires like a limp carp on the end of his daddy’s Popeil Pocket Fisherman.

“Gotcha, you sumbitch,” Dynes said to nobody in particular. But then it suddenly occurred to him.