Mike Maden: Drone

This book is dedicated to you, Tom Lavin, my magnificent father-in-law, a combat-wounded, combat-decorated Marine. In 1952 you were just a kid hunting the enemy on night patrols with nothing more than a .45 in your hand and your head on a swivel, the point man on a zeroed-in path between rice paddies forward of the MLR. Overrun on the Yoke, bombarded on X-Ray, ambushed on Irene, you and your friends were outnumbered and outgunned, but you prevailed, unyielding in blood and valor. You did your job well, Pop, and so did your friends, the ones who came home from Korea and the ones who didn’t. You believed, and that made all the difference.

Troy Pearce — CEO, Pearce Systems

Udi and Tamar Stern — Husband-and-wife team; field operatives

Stella Kang — Former U.S. Army drone pilot; field operative

Judy Hopper — Pearce’s personal pilot

Johnny Paloma — Former LAPD SWAT; field operative

Ian McTavish — Director of IT operations/research specialist

Dr. Kirin Rao — Head of research and development

Dr. Kenji Yamada — UUV research and operation; oceanographer (whale researcher)

August Mann — UGV specialist; head of nuclear deconstruction division

Margaret Myers — President of the United States

Bill Donovan — Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security

Jackie West — FBI Director

Dr. Karl Strasburg — Foreign Affairs/Security Advisor

Frank Romero — U.S. Ambassador to Mexico

Faye Lancet — Attorney General

Mike Early — Special Assistant (Security) to the President

Nancy Madrigal — DEA Administrator

Pedro Molina — Director of ICE

Robert Greyhill — Vice President

Roy Jackson — Head of DEA Intelligence

Sandy Jeffers — President’s Chief of Staff

Sergio Navarro — DEA Intelligence Analyst

T. J. Ashley, Ph.D. — Head of Drone Command

Tom Eddleston — U.S. Secretary of State

Antonio Barraza — President of Mexico

Hernán Barraza — The president’s brother and chief advisor

César Castillo — Head of the Castillo Syndicate

Ulises, Aquiles Castillo — César’s twin sons

Colonel Israel Cruzalta — Battalion Commander, Infanteria de Marina Mexicana

Victor Bravo — Head of the Bravo Alliance

Dmitry Titov — President of the Russian Federation

Konstantin Britnev — Russian Federation Ambassador to the United States

Ali Abdi — Quds Force Commander

AMISOM — African Union Mission in Somalia

AUMF — Authorization to Use Military Force

ARGUS-IS — Autonomous Real-Time Ground Ubiquitous Surveillance Imaging System

ARSS — Autonomous Rotorcraft Sniper System

BMI — Brain-Machine Interface

DARPA — Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency

DAS — Domain Awareness System

FISA — Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act

JDAM — Joint Direct Attack Munition

JSOC — Joint Special Operations Command

LATP — Lima Army Tank Plant

RIOT — Rapid Information Overlay Technology

UAV — Unmanned Aerial Vehicle

UGV — Unmanned Ground Vehicle

USV — Unmanned Surface Vehicle

UUV — Unmanned Underwater Vehicle

WPR — War Powers Resolution

All of the drone systems described in this book are currently deployed or in development. I have taken the liberty of simplifying and, in some cases, amplifying their performance characteristics for the sake of the story. However, I am confident that the “new and improved” versions I have described will soon be widely available.

El Paso, Texas

Cinco de Mayo was cooler than usual in the sprawling border city of El Paso, one of the poorest in America. In one of its grimmest barrios, a pink stucco house thrummed with life on a dark, narrow street. A crowd of teenagers from the nearby arts academy high school danced to throbbing music in the frame of its big picture window, their faces all smiles and laughter. The first graduation party of the year.

Out on the front porch, a knot of young men in hoodies and drooping pants stood guard, drinking beer out of Solo cups and smoking cigarettes, trying to look tough in a brutal part of town. To anybody passing by, they looked like somebody’s crew, but they were just teenagers like the kids inside, their young bodies rocking unconsciously to the beat of the music behind them.

An obsidian-black Hummer on big custom wheels slowed as it passed the house. The windows were blacked out. Death-metal music roared inside. No plates on the bumpers.

The hoodies out front pretended not to notice, playing it cool but keeping careful watch out of the sides of their bloodshot eyes.

Four houses up, the Hummer’s red brake lights flared as it slowed to a stop, then its white back-up lights lit up. The big black box of steel rolled backward. The gear box whined until it stopped in front of the pink stucco house.

It just sat there, idling.

The death-metal music still thundered behind the Hummer’s blackened glass, muffled by the steel doors.

Now the boys turned in unison, stared at it, starting to freak out. The oldest kid nodded at the tallest.

“Yo. Go check it out.”

“Me? You check it out.”

No need.

The Hummer’s doors burst open, death metal exploding into the night, drowning out the music inside the house.

Two men leaped out, strapped with shoulder-harnessed machine guns. Balaclavas hid their faces. They wore black tactical gear and Kevlar vests stitched with three letters: ICE.

The ICE men advanced in lockstep as they raised their weapons in one swift, synchronous motion, snapping the stocks to their cheeks, picking their targets through their iron sights.

The boys bolted toward the back of the house.

Too late.

Machine-gun barrels flashed like strobe lights in the dark. The air split with the roar of their gunfire.

The first rounds tore into the lead runner, then raked into the backs of the guys right behind him. They tumbled to the pavement in a heap like broken marionettes.

The gunmen advanced toward the porch, firing at the big picture window. The plate glass exploded. Panicked shouts inside.

In sync, the shooters loaded new fifty-round drum mags and fired at the house. Steel-jacketed bullets sliced through the walls, throwing big chunks of soft pink stucco into the air. One of the rounds smashed the party stereo, killing the music inside.

The shooters dropped their empty mags again and loaded two more. They advanced shoulder to shoulder onto the porch, the machine-gun stocks still tight to their faces. Gloved hands tossed flash bangs through the shattered picture window. The concussion grenades cracked like lightning.

Bodies on the floor writhed in blood and glass. The killers jammed their machine guns through the window frame and cut loose until the ammo gave out and the barrels smoked with heat.

Three hundred rounds. Eighteen seconds. Not bad.