Drone Wars 1: Day of the Drone (6 page)

Chapter 5

Molly Snow—her real name—was the lucky lady Xander called up that evening for dinner, a movie, and as much intimate play as they could both handle. Fortunately, the interview at the Center wasn’t until 1p.m. Monday afternoon. Even still, it was an ordeal dragging his body out of bed that morning.

He parked in the underground garage of Caesar’s Palace this time, before walking next door and down into the bowels of the Venetian. After passing by several screeners and through four secure entrances, Xander boarded the plush motorhome bus for the thirty minute ride to the Center. This was an off-time for the shift changes, so only two other people were on the bus. Even though Xander knew them both, after a friendly acknowledgement none entered into conversation. It was how it was done at the Center. Except for the teams, most others kept to themselves, choosing to remain anonymous and unconnected, separating their private lives from their professional personas.

In fact, except for an occasional surfing junket with Charlie Fox, Xander didn’t associate with any of his co-workers. He had some small experience with the employees at the infamous Area 51 military installation located not too far from the Center, and he knew the same held true for them. It was just better that way.

With a budget no one complained about—not in light of the horrific damage caused by domestic terrorist attacks—the five-year old complex was a study in modern architecture, and visitors to the RDC, including politicians and contractors, arrived in limos leased by the government in a process designed to impress. Gone from the drone program were the dimly-lit, drab trailers dotting nearby Creech Air Force Base that had once served as the control rooms for the two-man Predator pilot teams. Those facilities had been shuttered several years ago, and the program’s mission absorbed into the more all-encompassing RDC. Pilots now enjoyed the best the government could afford at its most visible, and frankly most-needed, national defense facility.

Colonel Simms met Xander in the corridor leading to the conference room located in the Operations Building.

“Lucky bastard,” he greeted.

“That good, huh?”

“Hell, I thought she was knockout on TV. In person … well, damn.”

“Watch it, Jamie, you’re a married man,” Xander said with a smile.

“Which qualifies me to make such a definitive statement.” Simms then turned to him with a sly smile. “So how was your time off, stud?”

Xander frowned. “Have you been spying on me again?”

“Always,” Jamie said, his eyes displaying a sinister sparkle. “It’s for your own protection, my friend.”

“That’s what they all say.”

The two men stopped at the door to the conference room. “Good luck in there. And remember, don’t reveal any state secrets.”

Xander looked up at the tiny camera lens pointed down at them from the ceiling opposite the doorway. “With big brother watching and listening, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As he entered the conference room, the smell of perfume was the first impression Xander Moore had of Tiffany Collins, and this particular fragrance was intoxicating. Even if Collins wasn’t absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, her perfume would have convinced Xander otherwise.

Instead, he was hit with a double-whammy, a near-narcotic perfume scent along with the sight of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in person. Tiffany Collins stood near the end of the conference table, a slight smile painted on her full lips as she studied him with laughing eyes. Measuring five-foot-eight—in stiletto heels—her silky blond waves reached down to mid-back, with the explosion of yellow framing her tanned, balanced face and high cheekbones perfectly. Impossibly blue eyes, along with blinding-white teeth in perfect alignment, rounded out the experience.

She extended a delicate, tanned hand with exquisitely-manicured nails sporting French tips.

Xander was no slouch in the looks department, but even he fought to keep a neutral demeanor, although he suspected from her humorous eyes that the woman saw right through his façade of indifference. Mentally, he gave her a pass. Based solely on her looks, Tiffany Collins could have done anything she wanted in life—or nothing at all. Yet instead of taking the easy path through marriage to some aging billionaire, she chose the thankless job of a broadcast journalist, one that would set her up for ridicule by a majority who would consider her just another dumb blonde, an airhead hired exclusively for her looks.

 “Ms. Collins, very nice to meet you—in person—I’ve been a big fan of yours on Fox for years.”

They shook hands—the strong, firm grip of someone with immense confidence. “So here’s the three-dimensional me standing before you,” she said, “rather than the two-dimensional image you see on TV. Now all my imperfections become obvious.”

“That would take someone with better eyesight than mine, and even then, good luck with that.”

“You’re too kind … Mr. Doe. Is that what I’m supposed to call you?”

“Smith will do just fine.”

They sat down at the table, she at the head and Xander in the seat next to her on the left. At this distance her perfume was more evident, yet not overpowering. He made a mental note to save a container of air from the room after she was gone, just as a reminder…

Or he could take a more direct approach. “Forgive me, Ms. Collins, but what is that perfume you’re wearing? I’m sure in most countries it would be considered a narcotic.”

Her laugh was genuine and unforgiving. “It’s a special find I made in Italy a few years back, very rare and very exclusive. I could tell you what it’s called but then I’d have to kill you. Kind of like the conversation we’re about to have.”

“
I
wouldn’t kill you, Ms. Collins,” Xander said, meeting her bright eyes with a steady gaze of his own. “Someone else would do it for me.”

“Please, if you don’t start calling me Tiffany, I may have to kill myself … myself.” She took a notepad from a pocket of her stylish blue pantsuit. “Simple pen and paper,” the reporter said. “Basic tools of the trade before technology took over and made it more complicated … which, if I’m not mistaken, is what this interview is all about. The technology being employed today by terrorists is some of the most basic we have. They’re essentially using toys to kill thousands of innocent people around the world each year…”

Tiffany began to take notes, her flirtatious nature gone. She was the professional now, and the subject she was covering was of extreme importance. “Drones—and radio controlled cars—have been around for a long time,” she continued, “so why do you think there’s been this sudden surge in their use by terrorists and other radicals?”

“They’re easy to obtain, they’re cheap, and they’re anonymous in most cases,” Xander began. “Gone are the days of the suicide bomber. Today we have the suicide robot. It allows for more frequent attacks and a much higher survival rate for the perpetrators.”

“Do you believe they’re simply following the lead of the US military with respect to the use of drones, such as the Predator and Nighthawk?”

“Without a doubt, although our drone attacks are not the reason they’ve begun to employ these tactics. The use of UAVs—Unmanned Aerial Vehicles—and RC vehicles, has simply expanded their reach and opportunities.”

“And yet we set the precedents for their use—”

“I don’t accept that,” Xander answered. He knew she was baiting him, but some comments couldn’t go unchallenged. “The initial use of drones, by Bush Two—and even before that with Clinton and cruise missiles—was primarily against known terrorists and aimed solely at them. Sure, occasionally there was some collateral damage, and we suffered mightily for that. Yet the actions taken by terrorists these days are designed to cause panic within the civilian population through seemingly random acts of violence, or to exact costly damage to our cities and infrastructure. The drone strike last year on the Hoover Dam was a perfect example of this. Granted, it was a rookie attempt and no real damage was caused, yet it still shows how indiscriminate our enemies can be and what lengths they’re willing to go in their fight against America and our allies. The difference between them and us is that we target only the guilty, while they target everyone.”

Xander noticed the slight up curling of Tiffany’s lips as she looked down at her notepad.
You little minx
, he thought.
You’re playing me just to get a reaction.

She looked up and caught his accusatory eye. A flash of embarrassment crossed her face. “If I recall, didn’t this latest surge in drone attacks actually begin as something not even terrorist related?”

Xander welcomed the change of topic. “You’re right. It was the robbery of the First National Bank of New York seven years ago.”

“Tell me about that. The Rapid Defense Center wasn’t even around at that time, was it?”

“That would come two years later, but the robbery started it all. A small RC—remote-controlled—car drove into the lobby of the bank.”

“It had a bomb on it, didn’t it?”

“That’s right. Six sticks of dynamite, linked to a cellphone detonator. As you probably already know, that robbery didn’t end well, and it led to a whole new category of criminal activity.

“Soon after that the first terrorist-linked drone attacks took place. Unlike the robberies, no amount of security or appeasement could keep these remotely-controlled vehicles from exploding indiscriminately in just about any place a crowd assembled. This was a new breed of terrorist, a person who could pull a nine-to-five shift delivering death and destruction around the world, only to return home at the end of the day to his wife and children without risking a hair on his head. From huge, international terror organizations all the way down to sick individuals with a single agenda, there was little that could be done at the time to prevent drone attacks, and to make matters worse, the equipment and technology required to carry out such horrific acts of terror was readily available from any Radio Shack, Walmart, or hobby store. As a result, the Rapid Defense Center was established, and now we’re the country’s most effective tool against drone attacks.”

“Yet the RDC doesn’t actually prevent attacks; you respond to them, just like what happened the other day at the Dolphin Mall. Were you involved in that?”

 “Can’t say, Ms. Collins, that’s classified, but as I was saying, the terrorists would strike at anything, as long as it was big enough and could get the most headlines. You couldn’t negotiate with them, and no money was asked for in most cases. They simply wanted to kill, and kill they did. Before the Center was established to counter these attacks, there were nine thousand—I repeat—
nine thousand
Americans killed in one year alone. That’s three times the number of people killed on 9/11, and more than died in the Iraq, Afghan, and Syrian wars combined. Because of our efforts here—and by others around the world—that number is down to just over five thousand in the latest twelve months, and that’s world-wide.”

“So let’s talk about that, Mr. Smith.” Her smile was back. “With such a proliferation of attacks taking place, something had to be done. How exactly does the Center defend against such attacks?”

“As you pointed out, we can do very little to
prevent
attacks, that responsibility lies with other agencies within the government. The Center comes into play once an event is underway. Just about every major building, monument, sports venue and mall now have their own defensive drone fleet. In addition to this, in communities across the nation—and soon to be around the world—the RDC has bunkers set up with fleets of the most-advanced ground and air units, all remotely-controlled from here. The moment we get notification that an event is underway our teams go into action and activate the closest rapid response units or civilian drones.”