Predators and Drones Read online

  Predators and Drones

  By Richard Herron

  Predators and Drones

  © 2019 Richard Herron

  Predators and Drones

  © 2019 Richard Herron

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  For permissions contact:

  [email protected]

  COVER ART

  This book cover art is a blend of photographic and graphic artwork. The photography is by Michael Soulopulos, out of Laguna Beach, California. He is a self-described photographer, surfer and adventurer. Check out his work by connecting to: Mikesoulphoto.com.

  The graphic work is by Grant Deussing, from Anchorage, Alaska. He is an artist, designer, and spontaneous adventurer who enjoys brightening the world through his designs. Check out his work on Instagram@grantanamous.

  My deep appreciation to these gentlemen, who graciously provided their work for my cover.

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  The writer’s workshop I participate in provided immeasurable guidance, so I start there. Sarah Reeve informed me of its existence, so thanks to you! Celeste Borchardt, Richard Goldstein, Jeff Waller, Aileen Holthaus, Steve Hamilton, Lizzie Newell, Brian Shea, Les Tubman: These folks (+) provided input and feedback as I mooshed in from the sides, pressed down from the top, pulled up from the bottom, kneading this doughy work into some sort of loaf.

  Helen Changras and January Whitehead sampled early bits, and chewed through that exposure. Kea Herron continues to lead the way, expressing her strength through voice and action. John Blake was my best high school English teacher. I didn’t consult him in this project, but his good influence on me has never waned, including these years when Predators and Drones baked into form. Paul Rodgers, of Bad Company (and other musical formations) gave me permission to bring in a hint of his music, through his lyrics. Lastly, most importantly, Becky Clark made it all possible. She did this in a few ways. She tolerated my existence, patiently listened when I complained. She's always been willing to chuckle, even when my attempts at humor were merely attempts, without success. Thanks, Becky!

  A READER'S GUIDE

  Dear Reader,

  I offer here a glance, a sneak-peek into the future of my story. I promise, no spoilers! Only preliminary, proper introductions. Some key players in this tale are not ready to show their faces, so I mostly indulge them.

  MAJOR PLAYERS

  Dan Hardesty / Retired military, Marine Biologist

  Lyle Bandahl / Self-Employed Contractor

  John C. Turner (a.k.a. J.T.) / Senator (earlier years) / CEO, JCT, LLC

  Mike Toladucci / Contractor's Assistant

  Alex Simmons / Detective, Santa Barbara Police Department

  Gerald Moore / CEO, GTM, LLC / Lobbyist

  Robert Hamilton / Executive V. P., GTM, LLC / Lobbyist

  Anthony Rogers / Retired Military, Gardener

  Mary-Anne Wheeler / Exec. Asst; Senator Turner / Exec. Asst; JCT, LLC

  Colonel Samuel Faulkner / U.S. Air Force / Intelligence Operations

  Cindy Alexander / Mistress

  The other folks alive in these pages will come out, say "Hello" as they see fit, when it's time. I hope you'll find at least a little bit, in all of them, to interest you.

  PART ONE

  1. THE DUMP

  Pushing the left toggle forward throttled up. The simultaneous press of the right toggle sent instruction to move forward. Dan kept his eyes on the lift-off. The mid-morning radiance warmed his back through the jacket, while a soft breeze lightly chilled his chest.

  When the drone reached about thirty feet up, he turned focus to the monitor on the radio-controller in his hands. There, he watched through the EagleEye's camera lens as it rose, moved away in obedience.

  The shoals where his Mako sharks had been feeding sat just west-southwest of the dunes where he stood, a quarter mile south of the beach. Flight didn't take minute. Yesterday's calm continued for now, but he could see the changes. A squall was coming.

  Circling above these northern edges of the rocky bottom, he could see them. They moved gracefully, sweeping around outcroppings, ducking between, disappearing, re-appearing. This morning's breakfast could be anything from small, boney fish to squid or octopus. Opportunistic by nature, most things smaller might fit the bill. They'd hunt this area, chill out somewhere as the night came on.

  As he circled around, a boat anchored off in the distance came into monitor view. He'd glanced at it when he first crested the dune, but went about his business. Now, seeing it caused him to wonder if they were fishing. The boat looked out of place. What're they doing, anchored off Rocky Point? If they're chummin', I'm not gonna be happy!

  The copter veered west, and toward the boat. As it got closer, he could identify the type–A Beneteau Gran Turismo, ...looks like the Forty-four.

  When the drone flew to a position dead-on to stern, it confirmed for him the model, saw "Mantis", out of Santa Barbara. A sleek-lined, gorgeous sport boat and no lightweight for the wallet, running about half a million for a new one.

  His eyes stayed focused on the screen as he applied minute adjustments to the drone’s flight. Not exactly a fishing boat. The Turismo was to fishing boats what a Ferrari was to an F-150 pick-up. One could fish with it, but this is a boat for fast travel, fast play. It looked like fishing was their business, after all.

  The man on the aft section worked a hose back and forth, spray-sweeping a slurry of guts and blood from the deck. Dan watched as the man stopped, went forward momentarily, then re-emerged assisting a second man in hauling a tarp to the stern. With brief hesitation, they released an edge and the contents dropped away, sending back a large splash. He didn't catch details of what slid off the tarp, but he figured it must be fish parts. By the backwash, it wasn't guppies. Hope it wasn't one of my sharks!

  They rinsed off the tarp, did a quick fold. Dan watched this second guy turned back toward the cabin, and Dan’s attention followed. That's when his stomach did a backflip. He saw what could clearly be identified as a leg, and no doubt it was human.

  The bloody sock and deck shoe were still on the amputated limb. It laid on the deck’s walkway leading up into the cabin area’s interior. Dan worked the toggle to bring the drone in for a closer look. The man came back out, picked up the limb, dropped it over the stern where it disappeared beneath the surface. These guys are dumping a murder victim!

  Dan took a deep breath, slowly released it, repeated the cycle. The technique wasn't different from steadying his aim through a rifle’s scope. A proven method to regain control of emotions, steady hands, fingers. He lowered the brightness on the monitor to cut water glare and rotated his stance a couple degrees as well. That helped reduce the reflected sunlight which, while warming his shoulders, also bounced back at his eyes.

  He refocused to the scene, could see the one on the aft deck looking up into the sky in the general direction of the drone. Through the camera's eye, he saw the rough features of this man’s upturned face. It wasn't a face beaten by weathered time spent at sea, deeply tanned. Those features were punctuated by a horizontal scar that ran across the forehead, then angled down the left cheek like a Kris-bladed dagger.

  As Dan's brain filed away a picture of that face, the man spotted the drone. Dan watched him turn, face the interior of the boat toward his unseen companion while one arm p
oked at the sky. The other, younger man stepped out from under the canopy a few moments later, peered up to where the other pointed. He raised a short-barreled rifle, aimed it at the drone.

  From Dan’s perspective, the rifle aimed at his face. In knee-jerk response, he tipped his body to the side, then shook his head, smirking at his reaction to the illusion. He returned his attention to the monitor in time to have his retinas strobed by a brilliant, green light as the man with the rifle activated a laser sight. Before Dan could react further, he saw his monitor view dip, heard the sharp ~KRACK~ of a twenty-two round. He watched as the drone attempted recovery from a radical tip, swoosh sideways in a loss of control, then plummet out of the air in a one-way dive into the water below.

  Dan didn't skip a beat. He dropped the controller, reached into his jacket's cargo pocket to pull out binoculars. The Nikon Monarchs, not exactly a 'pocket' model, boasted superb optical glass and a respectable 10x42 power and light combination. His eyes adjusted to the improved view as he relocated the boat.

  Unable to make out any close-up details like he had seen with the drone’s eye, he could still see them standing at the stern. The rifleman remained in a shooter's position, no longer pointing toward the sky. He aimed north toward the beach that started running beyond the dunes where Dan stood. The other man looked to be scanning the dunes, then might have seen Dan, as he began pointed in his direction.

  The shooter pivoted and a split moment later, the star-bright green flash zinged past. The laser blast was disorienting, even as his eyes squinted shut to regain a light balance. In the next moment, he heard another ~KRACK~ accompanied by a soft ‘thud’ at his feet. He looked down, eyelids still shuttering the light, and as he did, he saw the sand just to the right of his feet puff up in a little explosion of grainy shrapnel that joined another shot’s sound.

  “Shit!” he yelled at no one, kicked out, dropping to the dune on his belly. That mother fucker shot at me! Dan instantly surmised that his drop to the sand, while an improvement, would not be enough to be below the line of sight of that scope. He grabbed the controller laying there and scurried, crab-like, back and away in the direction of the highway. As he dropped down the back side of the dune, his thoughts were rapid-firing a review. They'd killed someone… they destroyed my drone… they'd tried to shoot me!

  Dan shoved the Nikons back into his pocket, put a hustle on toward the trail. He ran in a weave back through the last couple of dunes, staying low so as not to give the rifleman any more opportunities. He reached the beach trail and worked back up to the public access area where he'd parked the van.

  Anger, frustration, and witnessing this post-murder clean-up was bad enough. Shooting at him, too fucking much! He had the familiar feeling that his life was in danger. When he stepped up through the van’s side door, he slammed it shut, dropped onto the bench seat. He spent the next couple minutes mentally telling his heart to slow down, supported the idea with concentrated deep breathing. He pulled his cellphone and tapped the numbers to call in an emergency.

  2. A BIGGER BIRD IS WATCHING

  CIRCLING OVER ROCKY POINT

  Salty ocean flavors borne on the breeze permeated Dan's nose, mouth and lungs as he crested the top of the southern-most dune off the beach. The view from here favored the juxtaposition where Rocky Point Shoal thinned, transformed into Rocky's Beach. With an abundance of extra stimuli including light, wind, the sounds of gulls, it was possible, but unlikely that Dan or anyone else noticed very subtle action taking place way overhead. A Predator B RPA loitered two miles above the action taking place on the ocean surface.

  Dan had seen a few Predators. Most of his active duty actions had not enjoyed the benefits that the big drones provided these days, but he had awareness of their capabilities. That morning, his focus centered on his new drone, certainly a 'toy' in contrast to the one high overhead.

  His drone had already impressed him in a test flight out in his back yard. The real test would be in active conditions at the beach. After minor adjustments, he'd launched it, sent it out to hover above the shoal. Ready to find his sharks. By the time it'd reached within two hundred yards of the boat anchored off shore, the drone had become a tiny visual blip accompanied by audio signal on a console fourteen thousand feet above Dan's head.

  ◆◆◆

  The RPA Predator launched out of a base in Nevada, gained altitude as it flew west. It ascended until it flew above commercial airspace. The two airmen at the controls followed orders from their flight chief. They'd take all care necessary to maintain the Predator's integrity and safe operation, based on their specific training. Beyond that, this morning they were to follow directives from the civilian introduced to them this morning as Mr. Olson.

  Having seen no military I.D. or other branch of government, they presumed CIA, or NSA or something like that. Another day, another fifty cents. As the Predator arrived over the California coast near Santa Barbara, surveillance equipment powered up, and immediately began receiving the electronic 'blip' signals of two transponders. No detail to see in the hive-like miasma of life down there, but the signals pinged on the screen. GPS digits indicated different locations, but not far from each other. The Predator established a drifting loiter pattern, and a couple hours later, the signal further from the coastline moved, merged with the other. When they both moved offshore, the Predator tracked them westerly, then north. Hours later, the signal’s northern movement stopped.

  “Jeffries, I’ll hold here. Step out and interrupt Olson’s smoke break. Let him know what’s up.”

  “Roger that, Sir.” The camera operator took off his headset, got up from the console and opened the door to the RPA control module. The late morning’s heat struck like a hot blanket in the face. He could see that Olson was on a cell phone.

  “Mr. Olson. Sorry to interrupt, Sir. The vessel has stopped moving. We’re in a loiter position above it.”

  “Thank you, Airman. I’m on my way.” Olson squeezed the cherry off the end of his cigarette, stepped on it. As he walked over to the butt can, he spoke into his phone.

  “Steve, it looks like they’ve stopped. I’m going back in.”

  “Okay,” came the reply, “Keep me informed.”

  Inside the module, Olson came over to stand behind the men at the controls. He could see the electronic blip but wanted more. He directed the pilot to bring the drone lower and the camera man to get in closer as well. The Predator corkscrewed, slowly descended to eleven thousand feet. The camera now allowed Olson to see the top of a beautiful sport boat. They didn't see anybody moving on the deck. After watching for two minutes, Olson turned, walked to a small desk that folded down from the wall. He sat down on the folding chair, made a few notes. His morning coffee in a foam cup, cold now. He sipped at it anyway, wishing he could be somewhere else.

  As the two-man crew worked, the camera operator made voice note of a new electronic signal blip on his monitor. He activated a second camera and indexed it to the new signal. The camera quickly located the source and displayed the view on a split screen window. The view of a small ‘copter’ drone hovering nearly over their assigned target at altitude two hundred sixty-five feet.

  He zoomed until he could read the brand name stickers of an “EagleEye” hover drone. The operator made another verbal note as he activated a ‘sweep’ camera that would follow a pre-programmed circular scan of the surface perimeter. He set the distance for this sweep at fifteen hundred yards from their target’s current position.

  At approximately eighty-five degrees east of the primary’s location, and two-hundred sixty-three yards away, the sweep camera picked up an individual standing at altitude twenty-eight feet, facing west, holding a remote control of commercial variety. He stood atop what looked like the tallest of the sand dunes, would have good view of the beach and off shore area. The operator switched this location from the sweep camera to an independent lens, then maintained a lock on the individual by IR detection. Basic verbal descriptions were added to the digital
file now created. Unidentified male: approximately six feet tall, two hundred pounds, black hair, ball cap, dark glasses, khaki pants, beige jacket. No other identifiable characteristics at this time.

  3. FLY IN THE SOUP

  “Sir?” The camera operator glanced back, then projected his voice over his shoulder. “Umm, Mr. Olson? We have a complication here.”

  Olson had been far, far away. Warm, white sand, cool, turquoise water, a gull cry... the images snapped away. He looked up from where he sat at the desk, several feet away from where the two men sat at controls. Pushing back his chair, he walked closer to peer over their shoulders. The primary screen still displayed the boat they had tracked.

  “Whatcha got?”

  The camera operator answered by pointing, first at one screen window that featured a hover drone and then at another that displayed the man standing on the dune.

  “Shit! Who the fuck's that?” Olson blurted to nobody in particular. "Keep that guy on camera and don’t lose him. I’ll be right back.”

  He stepped out of the module, down onto the gravel at the base of the stairs, edge of the tarmac. He stopped there, knowing his leather loafers would sink into the gooey black-tarred surface. He smelled the oily pitch in the air, saw heat waves emanating off blacktop in the distance. Only ninety-four degrees but promising to get hotter. This was a figurative island, but an island in hell, surrounded by a big, shiny black puddle. He withdrew his cell again, tapped the icon to re-call, sweat already beginning to glisten on his forehead. He listened for the ring.