Drone Games (37 page)

“David, wake up. When’s the last time you had any rest?”

“Not since I got back from Lanzarote,” Cheng admitted sheepishly. “I can’t sleep on a plane, especially over water.”

“Go get some. We’ll finish up here. Mr. NTSB and I will run out to New York and meet with this Baltis character. Where is he exactly?”

“The Manhattan field office,” Cheng responded. He collected his materials and started for his room.

Tom Ross picked Shaitan up off the floor and set him on the conference table. He uncapped a marker and rewrote the missing letter I on the whiteboard. He walked toward his seat and then suddenly froze in mid-step. He turned back to the board and used his finger as an eraser.

HIGH VANTAGE POINTS

M KE WALEU

Ross easily recognized MKE as Mitchell International’s three-letter FAA airport designation code for Milwaukee. He put the I back on the board and wrote another word below, matching letters to Waleu’s name like some federal Wheel of Fortune.

“Uh, Jack? You might want to look at this. Can I go back to my old job now?”

HIGH VANTAGE POINTS

MIKE WALEU
MILWAUKEE

Riley took a moment to compose himself.

He turned to Ross. “I want you to call your reporter friend and tell her to meet us at the Javits Building, 26 Federal Plaza in New York City. Mr. Cheng? I’m afraid you’re not going to get any sleep in the foreseeable future. Find this Waleu kid,
fast
. Have all Milwaukee, O’Hare, and San Diego personnel lock down any airport perimeter building space that has recently been rented or has reported a missing person or a fatality of any kind. Top priority. Seal off entire blocks if necessary. Go.”

Riley took the eraser and swiped the whiteboard clean.

Burlington, WI

Friday, June 5

A PINK neon vacancy sign burned brightly against the predawn backdrop.

Akil eased the minivan off of County Highway 36 and pulled up to the office of the Lakeside Motel.

He gently shook Marissa’s shoulder. “We’re here.”

She yawned. “What time is it?”

“Five thirty in the morning.”

“Is this New York City?”

“Wisconsin.”

“I’ve never been to Wisconsin.” She opened a window and peered outside. “How long have we been sleeping?”

“Since Iowa.”

“It’s so quiet and cold,” she observed. “I think I can see my breath.”

“This isn’t California. It’s a farm town,” Akil said. “I used to stay here when I visited friends at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater. It’s only an hour away.” He popped the rear hatch. “Do me a favor and check in. We should be in number twelve.”

“Okay, Eddie, but I don’t have a credit card.”

“You won’t need one.”

Marissa ran a brush through her hair and then shuffled into the motel’s office. There was a handwritten note and a room key taped to the counter:

Sanchez family—

We open at 7:00 a.m. Please fill out the guest registration card and leave it on the counter. You can pay later.

Thank you!

Marissa collected her children and walked to the room.

The interior was spartan clean and smelled of northern pine. The walls were painted gloss white. There were two queen beds.

“I didn’t have to pay,” she said, shivering. “Someone will rip them off.”

“People aren’t like that here,” Akil yawned. “They trust everybody.”

Marissa tucked Amber and Jo-Jo into bed and covered them. “Eddie, do you think we’re a family?”

“From now on, we’ll always be a family,” Akil assured, sliding a suitcase against the wall. He turned on the wall heater and draped a blanket over Marissa’s shoulders, rubbing her arms vigorously.

She leaned into him appreciatively. “I love the way you say that to me.”

“I love to say it.” He kissed her cheekbone and then her lips. “Are you hungry?”

“Sure. How long are we going to stay here?”

“Just today,” he said, checking the time. “Go back to sleep. I know a little restaurant. They should be open. I need to get gas and check the tires.”

Akil drove north on Honey Lake Road and then east on Academy Road to Annie & Angel’s Country Café in Honey Creek. The restaurant was slammed.

A silver Ford Taurus sat idling in the rear of the parking lot.

Akil saw it and instantly became furious. With a single brief glance, he immediately recognized the male driver as a soldier. He sported a beard with a thin mustache, deep-toned skin, tight black hair, thick extended eyebrows, and an overall suspicious, even guilty visage. The man was as out of place as a fire hydrant in the desert, a Middle-Eastern male stereotype whose face would match half of those on a terror watch list.

Akil backed the minivan alongside and lowered his passenger window.

The man sat motionless, staring straight ahead.

Frustrated, Akil finally tapped his horn. The man lowered his window. Akil smiled pleasantly. “Do they serve barbecue?”

“Only if it is halal,” the man replied with a distinct accent.

Akil drew his Glock and unlocked the passenger door. The man slid inside.

“Lift your shirt, slowly,” Akil said, instantly serious.

The man complied, twisting sideways, exposing his waist and back.

“What’s your name?”

“Abderouf Jdey. Allah has sent me to help—”

“Put your hands down,” Akil ordered. “From where?”

“Gafsa, Tunisia.”

“A long way from home,” Akil observed, carefully feeling the man’s thighs and ankles. “Where do you live now?”

“New York City.”

“Where do you work?”

“Hunt’s Point Cooperative Meat Plant. It is in the Bronx.”

“Why are you here?”

“You called me.”

“Wrong answer,” Akil said, his jaw muscles flexing. “One more and you die.”

“I am on orders . . . to assist you and your operation.”

“What operation?”

“I do not know.”

“Who am I?” Akil asked.

“I do not know.”

“What’s your skill?”

“
Yudammir
.”

“Destruction, huh?” Akil said doubtingly. “How?”

“I am expert with explosives,” Jdey answered. “Plastics, nitrates, powders. Concealed and timed. I have much experience.”

Akil studied Jdey’s face. “What ratio of RDX and PETN will make Semtex 1A?”

“Four percent to seventy-six percent.”

The RDX ratio was actually four-point-six. The rest was binder and plasticizer.

“What’s the molecular formula of PETN? Don’t guess.”

“C5, H8, N4, and O12,” Jdey recited confidently. “I serve you and your operation.”

“And so you shall, my friend,” Akil said, relieved. He eased the Glock back into his waistband holster. “Dude, this isn’t Tunisia. You need to relax in public. You look like you’re waiting to be arrested. And lose the beard. Try and look more . . . like a student. No more sport coats or expensive shoes. Wear old jeans and a cap with a college or sports logo. Nothing that draws attention. Find some lady to hang with, preferably with kids.”

“What do I call you?” Jdey asked.

“Kenny,” Akil said. “And you, my friend, will help me finish destroying America’s airline industry.”

“Praise be unto Him,” Jdey said, bringing his hands together almost gleefully. “I knew it was of our doing.”

“We’re going to kill one more plane,” Akil said matter-of-factly. “Correction . . .
you
are going kill one more. I will teach you. But first, I need you to gather information about your company’s beef operations. Processing, distribution, stockyard access, and security.”

“Three soldiers and I have worked at Hunt’s for two years,” Jdey explained. “We have earned their trust. All this information is accessible. What kind of stockyards?”

“Feedlots.” Akil yawned. “Particularly in Nebraska and Texas.”

Jdey turned to Akil, a question in his eyes. “The planes . . . how are they—?”

“An explosive killed those aircraft. Attached to the landing gear and then lifted inside.”

“Attached how? What type?”

“A stable mix of potassium chlorate. It works fine. But you need to listen carefully and do exactly as I say. It was placed on the landing gear by a flying drone that operates from a laptop computer. It sees with a small camera. Everything is radio-controlled.”

“Fascinating,” Jdey mused. “Think of the power of one thousand such drones. We could attack one thousand targ—”

“
Halast
,” Akil rebuked him in Arabic. “We’re not interested in attacking one thousand anything. There’s a plan in place, and we need to follow it. And that plan says one remaining aircraft.”

“Where will we strike?”

“I have an apartment in East Elmhurst, directly across the street from LaGuardia Airport,” Akil explained. “I need you to take the drone there and study it. In exactly sixteen hours, I’ll join you. Together, we’ll wait for the US president to open the skies.”

“Friend, I am overwhelmed,” Jdey admitted. “This is truly a gift from Allah.”

“It’s more than a gift,” Akil advised. “Our work can no longer be carried out indiscriminately. There’s a saying in America that suggests change is inevitable. It’s true. We must change to survive. Our fight must be guided by new technologies—technologies that we will pass to the next generation and beyond. Remote-control devices are a solution to many problems. Do you know American history?”

Jdey pondered the question, proud that someone of Akil’s status would ask for his opinion but embarrassed that he couldn’t respond.

Akil checked his watch. “The native tribes early in America couldn’t compete with their invaders because they lacked technological skills and abilities. And their culture died because of it. They couldn’t adapt and thus were conquered. The day will come when great numbers of Allah’s people will come to America. We are the new invaders, and we will learn and master technology. We will live among the infidels, we will conduct business with them, we will gain their trust, and then, if they still choose not to believe, we shall kill them wherever they are. It is written in our Holy book. Allah is great. He has designed our destiny.”

“Allah is great,” Jdey repeated.

“Take these,” Akil said, placing a key and a cell phone in Jdey’s hand. “My landlord lives next door. Don’t let her see your face. She’s harmless but nosey. If she bothers you, do what you have to without killing her. You must keep her alive.”

Akil reached in his pocket and fished out something the size of a pack of cards. It was tightly wrapped and addressed to Mrs. Timmons. “Place this in her mailbox. It’s a payment. In sixteen hours, if Allah is willing, another infidel plane will fall from the sky.”

“Sixteen hours,” Jdey confirmed.

“You’re a good man, and I trust you,” Akil said, squeezing Jdey’s hand. “Faiz Al-Aran mentioned that you have information about a cache of weapons?”

“Yes,” Jdey said excitedly, proud to have gained Akil’s confidence. “There is a man. His name is Denman. I work with his brother at Hunt’s. He is licensed in federal firearms and operates in a cabin behind his home less than a mile from here. He boasts of one weapon in particular that can burst concrete blocks at three hundred meters. I believe it is a Barrett M82A1 sniper rifle complete with an optical ranging system that mounts right on the scope. It lets a shooter focus on the thrill of putting lead on a target. All you do is turn the elevation knob until the LCD displays the target’s range. Three internal sensors automatically calculate the ballistic solution. It compensates for temperature, changes in barometric pressure, even aiming at an upward angle. He also stocks shotguns, pistols, fully automatic machine guns, black powder, scopes, ammunition, accessories—supposedly more than three hundred pieces. The Barrett can fire tracers, incendiaries, and even exploding rounds with tungsten penetrators that can punch through armored vehicles and destroy anyone inside. If we can gain access to such a place and such weaponry, we can arm many soldiers inside the United States and also avoid the dangers of international imports.”

Akil leaned forward and kissed Jdey’s cheek. He glanced at the time. “Show me this cabin.”

—

Denman Property

Burlington, WI

AKIL FOLLOWED Jdey’s Taurus down County Highway W and onto a deserted access road. They parked. Akil fitted his Glock with a Silencero .40 Osprey silencer and gently closed the minivan’s door. He motioned for Jdey to wait. Akil carefully followed a tree line toward the back of the property. The cabin was off to one side at the end of a long driveway. A Chevrolet pickup truck was parked in front. The cabin’s windows were lined with steel bars. The heavy metal gate that usually protected the front door was unlocked and swung to one side. The interior lights were on. Someone was inside. Akil crouched low beside the porch railing. He peered through a crack in the window blinds at an obese, bearded man with a camouflaged Bass Pro cap sitting at a desk, eating something and tapping on a calculator. Akil waited and watched. After another minute, he twisted the door handle.

Denman froze.

Akil instinctively moved to a corner. He raised his pistol.

“Stand up and show me your hands.”

“Okay, sir, just relax. You can have anything you want. There’s no need to go crazy. I have the most expensive stuff in the back.”