World War Drone

WORLD WAR DRONE

  By

  J.L. / James Harden

  And

  L. J. Harper

  Copyright © 2013 by J.L / James Harden and L. J. Harper

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author.

  PART 1

  Captain Christopher Hayden

  CHAPTER 1

  I’m waiting in a hotel room in Vegas, above Vegas, on the thirty-third floor of the Planet Hollywood casino. There is a gun, a weapon of mass destruction pointed at my head by a man who I honest to god thought was a reporter for the New York Times. I thought he was a friend of my brother. My brother the genius.

  But this guy is not a reporter.

  He is a Spymaster.

  And he has a gun, not an actual gun, but a gun in the form of an MQ1 Predator Drone armed with two laser guided missiles pointed at my head.

  The Predator drone is circling high above the lights of Las Vegas. It is watching. It is waiting.

  The Spymaster says, “You are being watched. You have been targeted.”

  For extermination.

  For termination.

  I want to tell him that my name is not John Connor and I am not the leader of the resistance but I don’t think he will get the joke. He doesn’t look like a man with a sense of humor.

  He says I’m safe for the moment. “As long as you stay inside the casino. As long as you stay near the crowds.”

  He’s threatening me because he can. Because he feels like he can do whatever the fuck he wants to do.

  The room I’m staying in, the room I booked specifically to meet this guy who I thought was a reporter, is a suite at Planet Hollywood. We’re up pretty high. Level thirty-three.

  I specifically requested a room with a view of the strip and the Bellagio fountain. I requested this because I like watching the fountain and because the fountain is the last place I saw her.

  Melanie Smith. The goddamn love of my life.

  So I’m sitting against the window, watching the fountain and holding a bottle of eighteen year old scotch whiskey. I’ve nearly finished the bottle which is a bad thing because I’m not much of a drinker and someone has just told me that I am going to die.

  He didn’t actually say, “You are going to die.”

  But it was totally implied.

  What he did say was this… he said, “You know too much. We don’t want to cause a panic.”

  He knows that I know some stuff that I’m not supposed to know. Classified stuff. Top Secret stuff.

  Above Top Secret.

  Melanie knew and I haven’t heard from Melanie in a while.

  Nearly a month now.

  This is what I know.

  I know that we’ve been losing drones for over a year.

  I know about the cyber attacks.

  I know we can’t protect ourselves from these cyber attacks.

  I know we have been hacked and then hacked again.

  I know that the drone attacks happening all over the Middle East and Asia and Africa are all coordinated and planned and executed to perfection.

  I know they are practice. A curtain raiser.

  I know we are next.

  Western civilization. The United States of America.

  I know we are in big trouble.

  I know the drones are coming. I know there is a war coming. Melanie knew and now I know. I thought I’d do the right thing and try and get the word out. I thought that going through a reputable source of information such as the New York Times would be the best way to go about it.

  I was wrong. I can see that now. I can admit that now.

  I take another swig of whiskey. The Bellagio fountain erupts. The sound is incredible. Like a rocket, or an AGM Hellfire missile launching and accelerating and breaking the sound barrier.

  I used to be a pilot. And then I was a drone pilot.

  Five minutes ago I thought I was a man with a mission. A Good Samaritan.

  Five minutes ago I thought this Spymaster was a reporter for the Times.

  And now?

  Now there is a war coming. Now I am a dead man walking.

  CHAPTER 2

  Five minutes ago…

  So there I was, sitting against the window of my suite at the Planet Hollywood casino, looking down at the Bellagio fountain, looking down at the crowds of people walking the Las Vegas strip, waiting for John the reporter.

  A friend of my brother.

  My brother the genius who is also called John.

  I was nervous, so I was rehearsing in my head some polite small talk. I was going to say something about how my brother’s name is also John.

  Pathetic, right?

  The Bellagio fountain was putting on a choreographed show. I couldn’t hear the music, but each water stream and jet stream sounded like a rocket taking off, like an AGM Hellfire missile launching and breaking the sound barrier. As I said, I am familiar with this sound because I used to be an Air Force pilot. And then later in my career, I was a UAV pilot. Or as everyone else likes to call them, especially the media… drones.

  I was a drone pilot.

  I was a killer.

  I am a killer.

  This is not an easy thing to live with.

  I had the television on. The news. CNN.

  There were reports of another attack. This time in Northern Africa and Turkey and Lebanon and Syria. Simultaneous. Within seconds.

  The death toll was unknown. But I knew it would rise. It always does.

  When these attacks first began, no one knew anything. No one knew who was responsible. No one knew if they were coordinated. No one knew if these explosions were caused by homemade bombs or roadside bombs or improvised explosive devices.

  No one knew anything.

  The world, all the militaries and Generals and Admirals and leaders and politicians were in denial. No one wanted to believe each attack was coordinated and deliberate. No one wanted to believe it, even though it was obvious.

  It was so obvious.

  Back then, over a year ago now, the news reports and the press conferences with the White House officials and the UN officials went like this: A reporter would ask, “Who is responsible?”

  The spokesperson would answer, “We don’t know.”

  “Are the explosions targeted or coordinated in anyway?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “What kinds of explosives are being used?”

  “We don’t know.”

  There were so many unknowns.

  But a week ago, an image was leaked.

  A single image.

  A grainy black and white image of a drone.

  A drone firing its missiles on a civilian population.

  Apparently this drone belonged to no one. And no one was taking responsibility for it.

  And then came the headlines.

  The Drone War.

  World War Drone.

  And then I knew instantly that Melanie had been right. And I knew I had to tell someone, anyone who would listen.

  Before this image was leaked, a few media sources had reported and theorized that UAV’s, or Unmanned Aerial Vehicles were responsible. But that theory had been widely regarded as bullshit. A conspiracy theory. A sensational headline designed to sell newspapers and create web traffic and sell advertising space.

  But a week ago, when people saw that grainy and somewhat inconclusive image, everything changed.

/>   I turned my head away from the Bellagio fountain. I watched the press conference.

  A UN spokesperson was trying to answer questions.

  They were failing.

  A reporter asked, “Who is in charge of the attacks? Who is responsible?”

  “We don’t know,” said the spokesperson.

  “Are the bombings targeted or coordinated in anyway?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “What kind of explosives are being used?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “How are the drones avoiding detection?” another reporter asked.

  The question took the spokesperson by surprise.

  He paused. Cleared his throat. “Excuse me?”

  “How are the drones avoiding detection?” the reporter asked again. “Where is their base of operations?”

  “We don’t know.”

  I turned the TV off because no one knew anything and no one was going to admit to anything on international television.

  There are so many unknowns.

  But this is the reality. It has been over a year since the first bombing. It has been over a year of mysterious attacks that all carried the same methodology. Multiple explosions, multiple bombings, simultaneous and coordinated, precise and deadly. A year of these attacks happening in the Middle East and Asia and Africa.

  It has been a week since the world press labeled these strikes as the start of the ‘Drone War’.

  No one knows who is responsible.

  No one is claiming responsibility.

  Apart from the devastating and violent attacks, this is maybe the scariest thing, the fact that no one has any idea who is behind the whole thing.

  The whole thing. A war.

  This was the reality. This is the reality. A reality that no one is admitting to. Except for Melanie. She knew it. She knew a war was coming. She warned me that the foundations had been laid. At the time I didn’t believe her. Not fully. I knew the reality was that warfare evolved. I knew that it was hard to predict. You prepare for the last war you fought and then the rules change. The game changes. The war evolves.

  But no one could’ve predicted this.

  Who in their right mind would’ve thought these attacks were the start of an all out war?

  A drone war.

  A war of drones.

  Who even thinks like that?

  Melanie did. And now I do.

  It sounded crazy and terrifying and ridiculous. But this was the reality.

  So I was waiting and watching in a suite at Planet Hollywood on the thirty-third floor. Watching the Bellagio fountain, waiting for a reporter, a stranger who would tell this story and educate the masses about the reality of drone warfare.

  CHAPTER 3

  I was drunk and getting drunker. I was watching the fountain and watching the people down below. They were oblivious. The entire developed world was oblivious. The war had not yet made it to western civilization, and as a result people were still blissfully unaware of just how bad things could get. Sure there was a growing tension. But people were not scared the way they should be scared.

  War was damn terrifying. A drone war would be devastating. And the American people, western society, the developed world needed to know that.

  I continued to watch the crowds of party-goers stumble up and down the Las Vegas strip. Maybe these people really were scared that the war would come here. Maybe. But if they were scared, they sure as hell weren’t showing it. Maybe they were too drunk or too stoned or too high. Maybe all they cared about was the next hand to be dealt. The next dollar in the slot. Vegas never stopped. It was hard to imagine that most of the military’s drones were piloted from an Air Force base not far away. Drones that flew missions over the Middle East, over Iraq and Afghanistan. Drones that spied on the enemy. Drones that killed the enemy. The majority of them were controlled from air-conditioned trailers just a few miles away in the desert.

  A war being waged on the other side of the globe.

  If you thought about it for too long you’d go insane.

  My attention drifted back to the fountain.

  I continued waiting for the reporter.

  Watching and waiting. I was an expert at this.

  Drone pilots spend the majority of their time watching and waiting. Hours of watching. Hours of waiting. Interspersed with minutes and seconds of extremely high activity. High pressure. High stakes.

  Acquire target.

  Lock on to target.

  Fire at target.

  Watch and wait.

  Rinse and repeat.

  I remembered a conversation I had with Melanie. We were sitting on the hood of my pickup truck, watching the sun rise over the Nevada desert. Twelve hours of flying an MQ9 Reaper drone. Twelve hours of fighting a war on the other side of the world.

  A busy night. Firing four shots. Four missiles. Killing more.

  We talked. We had to. We had to talk because otherwise it almost felt like what happened in those trailers, on those screens, didn’t happen at all.

  Talking about it made it real.

  She had said, “Sometimes, I feel like god. Or a god. Any god, it doesn’t really matter. A divine being, one who can fly, who can see everything. Sometimes I feel like I pass judgment on people’s lives.”

  I knew what she meant. Even though I never actually told her that. I look back on that conversation and I realize I never actually told her that I get it. That I get you. That I understand. I didn’t say anything worthwhile. I don’t know why. Words failed me.

  We were both damaged. Both broken. The reason we were close was because we talked to each other. We shared our experiences. We provided sympathy. We did this when no one else in the drone pilot community talked. You don’t talk about anything that happened in that trailer, on those screens, on the other side of the world. You don’t talk. It was an unwritten law. So when Melanie and I talked to each other, confided in each other, we felt like we were doing something forbidden. Something dangerous.

  But it was the only way we could survive. It was a coping mechanism that brought us closer together.

  And closer.

  And closer.

  Until one day we stopped being close. One day she left me. I don’t know why she left. Not really. I could take a guess. But I will never be sure. Maybe we got too close. Is that even a thing? Maybe she got scared of getting too close. Scared of getting hurt.

  I don’t know. I’m not a relationship expert.

  So I hadn’t seen or heard from Melanie in over a month. And before that, it was longer. We had drifted apart. Silently. We no longer talked. We no longer shared our experiences. We no longer suffered together. We no longer survived together.

  She had joined a new drone pilot training program run by the CIA.

  When she entered the program, it was like she had vanished off the face of the earth. I hardly ever saw her. We went from being unbelievably close, as close as two people could get, so close I was seriously thinking of asking her to spend the rest of her life with me, to as distant as you could possibly get.

  And now I’m thinking, after the last time I saw her, saw that fearful and desperate look in her eyes and listened to the crazy, conspiracy theory things she was saying, the things that I now believe, the things that are all over the news… now I’m thinking this knowledge got her killed.

  I turned the TV back on because I was nervous and fidgety. I changed the channel to the BBC. Another explosion, another unconfirmed drone strike in Northern and Western Africa and Syria and Lebanon. Casualties confirmed. All local militia.

  Again, the story is the same. Exactly the same. The attacks, the explosions happened within seconds of each other.

  Precise.

  Coordinated.

  Almost choreographed.

  No one is claiming responsibility.

  There was a knock at the door and I turned the TV off again and I stumbled over to the door and opened it. It was the reporter.

  “Captain C
hris Hayden?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “John. From the Times.”

  I nodded. No introductions were necessary. “Come on in.”

  “Glad I found you. This place is a maze. I got lost twice on the way up here.”

  “Casinos, right?” I said, offering some small talk. “Once they have you they don’t want to let you go.”

  “What?”

  “The casino. It’s designed like a maze on purpose. To disorientate and confuse people. Encourages them to stay inside and gamble more.”

  “That’s quite a theory.”

  “According to my brother, it’s not a theory.”

  I moved back over to the window and pointed to the bedside table and chair and told John the reporter to take a seat. “My brother’s name is also John,” I said like a complete idiot.

  The reporter smiled. “Yeah. I know your brother. I’ve interviewed him a couple of times. He’s a good guy.”

  “When he’s not drinking.”

  The reporter looked at the mostly empty bottle of whiskey in my hand and raised an eyebrow.

  The Bellagio fountain erupted.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah. I need to do this.”

  It was time to tell my story and educate the masses, to terrify and scare the living hell out of everyone.

  Educate and terrify.

  There was no going back. I knew I had to do this.

  I was at the end. I was desperate.

  I knew the war would be here soon.

  CHAPTER 4

  The reporter who was actually a Spymaster sat next to me at the small bedside table, using his phone to record the interview.

  “Do you mind if I record our conversation?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Don’t care.” And I didn’t care.

  The reporter also had a pen and a notepad. He was thorough.

  I motioned with my head to the smart phone. “You know, the government had private contractors work on a system where a pilot could operate a drone, or a swarm of drones from their smart phone.”

  He looked surprised. And impressed. “Did they succeed?”

  He asked this question like he didn’t already know the answer.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Yeah, I think so.”

  According to Melanie they did. According to Melanie they rushed the technology through without testing it properly.

  “What would be the point of that?” John asked.