Mike Maden: Drone

“Not satellite. Predator,” Moi confidently concluded with a smile. Satellites couldn’t target men on the ground like that.

“Bingo. And what I want from you is to deliver the CSB shipment to the refugee camp as you promised, and I want you to do it right now.”

“Oh, so you are a Good Samaritan as well?”

The American laughed. “Me? Hardly. The Good Samaritan gave his money away.”

“It sounds to me like you want the CSB for yourself, Private Citizen. It is worth quite a bit of cash.”

“I was hired to make sure you fulfilled your contract, nothing more. One way or another, the CSB will be delivered today.”

“That is not possible. The Shabaab militia would like nothing more than for me to expose this shipment to one of their terror squads who would either steal it or burn it.”

“There hasn’t been a Shabaab militia unit in Mog in over six months. You know that better than I do.”

“African politics are quite complicated. Since you are a foreigner, I can hardly expect you to understand,” Moi insisted. He kept his eyes glued to the television set. He was glad that his image still wasn’t targeted.

“To tell you the truth, I hate politics, African or otherwise. I’ve lost way too many friends because of it. And we both know you’re stalling. You’re holding the CSB shipment hostage. My employer wants to know why. He’s already paid you to ensure safe delivery of each shipment.”

“I have broken no agreement. The food is safe here with me and will be shipped out when the conditions warrant.”

“What conditions? And don’t hand me any Shabaab bullshit either.”

Moi quickly weighed his options. He could bolt out of the room, but then what would he do? His unit didn’t have any antiaircraft weapons to speak of. If he entered the compound, there was a chance he’d be targeted and taken out by a Predator. But if he could get to his Land Rover, he might be able to escape, but then again, a Predator could easily track that, too.

“Colonel, you’re pissing me off. The clock’s ticking.”

“My apologies.” Moi swallowed hard. He hadn’t apologized to any man in over twenty years, even when he was in the wrong. “My expenses have gone up. There are more government officials to bribe. And the roads are increasingly dangerous. Not from Shabaab, of course, but from street gangs and even those filthy Djiboutis.” He was referring to one of the other AU peacekeeper nations with forces stationed in the sprawling city.

“So you want more money? Jeezus. How much is enough?”

“A question for the ages, Private Citizen. But I might ask you the same. What is Harris paying you? I shall double it.”

“With what?”

“With the money I have in the Caymans account.”

“You mean the one million?” the American asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Or did you mean the three million? There are three accounts in three separate Cayman banks, each worth just over a million. Look.”

Moi gulped when his three separate account statements were displayed on the big plasma screen.

“The only problem, Colonel Moi, is that you don’t have any money. At least not anymore.”

Moi watched the balances of each account zero out.

“You are no businessman. You are a thief!”

“I only returned the money to my employer for your failure to abide by the terms of your contract. He’ll use it to buy more food supplies, which will probably be stolen by some other petty tyrant.”

“Tell Lord Harris that if my money is not returned immediately, I shall order my men to dump the CSB into the ocean, and I shall not let one grain of food pass on to the camps in the future.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Colonel.”

Moi smiled. “Thank you. I take that as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Muffled thunder boomed overhead. Moi instinctively flinched. He recognized the sound of large-caliber rifle fire and the whir of rotor blades. Moi watched in horror as the plasma screen switched to multiple live video images from several overhead cameras, all of them at much lower altitudes, swooping and careening over the compound.

One by one, Moi watched his men fall, each dropped by a single shot fired from a laser-targeted sniper rifle mounted on one of several Autonomous Rotorcraft Sniper Systems (ARSS)—small, unmanned helicopters. Within moments, all of his men were dead, down, or fleeing for cover.

“Not Predators. ARSS. Impressive,” Moi admitted. He was, after all, a military man. Sniper rounds continued to fire.

“Hellfire II missiles cost a hundred thousand dollars apiece. Lots of collateral damage, too, which is also expensive. I took out each of your men with a single .338 Lapua Magnum cartridge at a cost of just four dollars apiece. It’s important to control costs in business operations, don’t you think?”

Moi stared at the plasma television. He was numb with disbelief. His entire command had been effortlessly destroyed by remote control. Chopper blades beat in the humid air outside of his penthouse. He glanced over just in time to watch a gray-skinned ARSS lower to the level of his balcony. The hovering unmanned helicopter was the size of a pickup truck and it pointed a suppressed RND 2000 sniper rifle directly at him from a turret fixed to the starboard runner. The roar of the rotor blades was barely muted by the thick double-paned glass of the penthouse’s sliding glass doors.

Another image suddenly appeared on the television. Moi watched himself being watched by the ARSS targeting camera. It almost amused him.

“And now it is the paid assassin’s turn to kill me,” Moi lamented.

“I told you, I wasn’t hired to kill you.”

Moi shook his head. “What is to become of me then?”

Another overhead image popped up on the big screen: a convoy of AU vehicles racing through the streets of Mogadishu.

“General Muwanga will be here shortly to take you into custody. I don’t need to tell you what kind of reception you’re likely to receive in his interrogation facility. He’ll also supervise the delivery of the CSB.”

“That fat meddler. Why did he not have the guts to assault me himself?”

“The AU can’t afford another fiasco. Neither can the Western aid agencies. Their donors are getting fed up with all of the corruption. And a pitched gun battle between African peacekeepers over stolen food would only embolden Shabaab and their al-Qaeda masters. So I was hired to clean up the mess.”

“I may yet be able to afford General Muwanga a surprise or two,” Moi boasted. He stormed over to a nearby closet and pulled out his personal weapon, an Israeli-built TAR-21 bullpup assault rifle. He favored the futuristic compact design over the dated but reliable Heckler & Koch G3 weapon system that was standard issue in the poorly funded Kenyan Defence Forces.

The ARSS yawed a few degrees. Moi froze. The giant sniper rifle’s suppressed barrel seemed to be pointed at his head.

BAM! The sliding glass door shattered as the sniper rifle fired. Chunks of glass rained down on Moi as he dropped to the ground with a thud.

“Sorry about that,” the American said. “Had to clean up one last item.”

Moi was confused. He turned around. A splintered bullet hole was carved in the door. Thick red blood oozed beneath it and seeped into the fringes of the handwoven silk carpet. Moi’s last surviving soldier had crept up into the stairwell to hide—and die.

Moi scrambled to his feet, embarrassed, and snatched up his rifle. He detached the magazine from the butt stock and checked it to make sure it was fully loaded.

“How long until the general arrives?” Moi asked.

“Six minutes, judging by his current speed. But there’s an alternative.”