Mike Maden - Drone

The mainstream media picked up the UN story and ran with it, along with interviews with the oil rig survivors, including three Americans. Hospitalized in a medically induced coma, Bill Gordon was so badly burned that both of his arms had to be amputated above the elbows. But it was his video that had identified the Reaper as an American aircraft.

The Mexican government expressed its outrage in no uncertain terms. President Barraza, guided by Hernán’s counsel, began a national tour of historic sites, promoting Mexican nationalism and patriotic fervor. He was careful, however, to play up the victim angle, pledging to “resist as far as humanly possible the natural desire for justice and revenge that the Mexican people are calling for,” which was actually true after the oil rig attack.

The oil rig attack, coupled with the anti-Myers media blitz, fueled further protests in the United States. Whereas before the protestors had numbered only in the hundreds, the new protestors actually numbered in the tens of thousands. The biggest concentrations were in Los Angeles, Phoenix, Dallas, Chicago, and New York, all cities with significant Hispanic populations.

Worse, the protests coincided with a “Day Without a Mexican” strike. As the day unfolded across the nation, America woke up to a new kind of “brownout.” Anglo America discovered that their yards weren’t being cut, their pools weren’t being cleaned, their cars weren’t being washed, and their burgers weren’t being flipped.

This strange rapture of cheap service labor wasn’t limited to the wealthy, either. Even middle-class families were hit by the startling phenomenon. Whole restaurant chains—from the high-end sit-downs to the lowliest fast-food drive-thrus—suddenly shut their doors. Busboys, valets, checkout girls, fry cooks, sous chefs, and managers hadn’t shown up for work, either.

In Texas, freeway construction ground to a halt. In Iowa and Arkansas, the meat-slaughtering plants shut down. Home building and city services (especially garbage, sewer, and landscaping) nearly collapsed in the major urban areas. In the rural areas, farms and food processors that depended on the backbreaking and mind-numbing labor of pickers, handlers, and sorters could no longer function.

The spirit of César Chávez, the long-dead Chicano community and union organizer who first coined the term Sí, se puede (Yes, we can) forty years before Barack Obama had used it, had revivified, at least among Hispanics, fueled by the organizational and financial support of the Venezuelan agitprop mastermind behind the strike. Spanish-language radio stations and social-media sites spread the word like wildfire: “Yes, we can send a message. You Anglos killed Victor Bravo, you’ve tightened up the border, and you’re harassing us for documents you all know we don’t have , and we’re not happy about any of this.”

The strike threatened to spread and linger through the week, if not longer.

Angry, frustrated, self-righteous middle-class people from both parties, concerned over the well-being of their Hispanic friends, of course , complained bitterly.

Myers’s public opinion polls plummeted.

Washington, D.C.

Myers met with Early over morning coffee minutes before the Presidential Daily Briefing was about to begin.

“We’re sure this wasn’t a Drone Command screwup? I’m not looking to chop off heads, I just need to know,” Myers asked.

“They think it was a hijack. It’s happened before. A few years ago, the Iranians pulled down an RQ-170 Sentinel drone that had been flying over Pakistan. They reconfigured the drone’s GPS coordinates, fooling it into thinking it was landing back at base when it was really landing in Iran.”

“But this is more sophisticated than just swapping out map coordinates, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s got Ashley in a real lather. Someone actually took control of the drone—flew it, fired its weapons.”

“What has she done about it? Or can this happen again?”

“She says they’ve put together a new, more sophisticated encryption package on the satellite uplinks. That should solve the problem. The fleet is grounded until you give the okay.”

“‘Should’ solve the problem? I need better than that.”

“Your only ironclad guarantee against another hijack would be to keep the drone fleet grounded, drain the fuel tanks, and lock them up in storage.”

“That’s not acceptable, either.”

“There’s no such thing as a perfect weapons system. They all have vulnerabilities. You just have to decide if the risk of the vulnerability is worth the mission profile they fulfill.”

“What do you think, Mike?”

“I say keep them flying. If it happens again, then ground them again. Otherwise, the bad guys have taken away our biggest asset, and you’ll be forced back to conventional warfare options if you want to continue the full-court press.”

“Why can’t we track the Reaper’s GPS now and find it?”

“Its GPS system isn’t responding. Probably disengaged.”

“You said the Iranians hijacked one of our drones before. Are they the ones behind this?”

“Maybe. But the Iranians aren’t the only ones with that kind of technical know-how.”

“You mean the Chinese? The Russians?”

“Yeah, or the Indians or the Germans or the French or a hundred private companies right here at home. There’s no telling where the technology came from. Who’s using it is another matter.”

“Cui bono?” Myers asked.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

“It’s Latin. It means ‘Who benefits?’”

“As in higher oil prices?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a pretty short list of countries, but it also includes some Americans who stand to profit personally.”

“All right. Then who benefits from us getting tangled up in a war with Mexico or even all of Latin America?”

“That’s another list. Much longer, by the way.”

“And would some of the countries and names on the first list appear on the second list as well? Who benefits doubly from our predicament? That would be our third list.”

“That’s a very interesting question.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” She took a sip of coffee. “If Ashley feels good about it, keep the drones flying. I trust her judgment better than my own on this matter.”

“Will do. And I’ll keep my puzzler turned on. That third list is gonna be a humdinger.”

Galveston, Texas

Dr. Yamada punched in Pearce’s cell number.

“You okay, Kenji?” Pearce asked.

“I was gonna ask the same about you, brah. Lot goin’ down.”

“I’ve got my hands full.” Pearce didn’t tell him with what. He knew he wouldn’t want to hear he was hunting another human being. “How’s the beach down there?”

“Bah! Don’t call dat a beach. Air humid. Water hot like a bathtub, tar balls in there, too. Three-foot-high pile of seaweed all along the shore, and stinging sand flies. And worse? No waves!”

“You getting settled in okay?”

“Great facility. Everything arrived okay. Putting the puzzle pieces together. We’ll be ready to go for your oil-baron buddies next month.”

“Thanks, Kenji. Good to know there’s one thing I don’t have to worry about.”

“You keep safe, brah. Me and my whales need you.”

Hollywood, California

It was another beautiful late-summer evening in Southern California. It had been a warm day, but once the sun went down, a light breeze blew in from the Pacific and the temperature dropped to a pleasant seventy-four degrees.

The cool air was good for the Friday night tourists who packed the sidewalks of Hollywood Boulevard, still mostly dressed in shorts and flip-flops from their daytime adventures. But it wasn’t so good for Jacinto and his little paleta pushcart, still half full of rum, coconut, and arroz con leche ice cream bars that he had a hard time selling to the gringos, who seemed to want only chocolate and vanilla.