Unmanned (9780385351263) (32 page)

“Actually, you don’t,” Sharpe said. “Not yet. The video’s just for show, sort of like the buzz job by my tidy little armada.”

He set down the drone on the coffee table, and they couldn’t help but stare at it. Smaller than a butterfly, or even a hummingbird. Like one of those Matchbox toys Cole had played with as a kid, except more delicate and insectlike. The wings looked as if they folded in on themselves. There were two tiny rotors on top, and an even smaller one on the front. The whole thing was no more than two inches long.

“My own design,” Sharpe said. “Not theirs.” Presumably he meant the Pentagon. And maybe also IntelPro, or private industry in general. “But it will be theirs soon enough, in one form or another, which is
why we have to pursue every tool at our disposal, before these things proliferate beyond our control, or at least without public knowledge.”

“Big fucking deal,” Steve said. “So you flew a bunch of robotic bumblebees down our chimney, which, I might add, you were only able to do by opening the damper when no one was looking. Then you shot some video and scared us out of our fucking wits.”

“I also did this.”

Sharpe reached into his pants pocket and pulled out three thumb drives. He scattered them on the table.

“Those six drones you saw were only the second wave. The first group, which I’m not even going to show you, because that’s how proprietary I feel about their capabilities, were able to insert these thumb drives into your personal laptops.”

“And stole our shit?” Barb asked.

“Copied it. While you slept. Then returned the copies to me, which I’m now returning to you. As a courtesy, of course. A gesture of trust. I haven’t even had time to inspect the contents, and don’t wish to. I’m only interested in finding out what’s over there.” He nodded vaguely toward the west, and IntelPro. “Seven miles as the crow flies.”

“My point still stands,” Steve said. “You don’t really know
how
they’ll react if they find out what we’re up to. And all this shit you want to do—and did already, right here in this house—is probably damned illegal. And we could all go to jail for it.”

Sharpe stepped around the coffee table and got right up into Steve’s face.

“Legality is no longer the point. The point, in case you haven’t been paying attention, is that Captain Cole and I will do this whether it happens from here or from some other empty field within range of their facility. And once we’ve acquired God knows what sort of richness of material from our work, you’ll want access to our findings. Except then we’ll just be sources, and you won’t have to trouble your delicate sensibilities over how we acquired our information. That, I believe, is the point here. We’re doing it, and you’ll want the results. The only remaining question, then, is whether you’ll actually be here to watch us do our work.”

“So you’re saying there are no rules anymore?”

“Not in this field of endeavor. Not when everyone’s airspace is wide open. And not on a single page of the PATRIOT Act. The advantages for your profession, and for this particular project of yours, would seem to be painfully obvious. Information. It’s there for the taking, and we’re going to go and get it. And we’ll do it just as we did it tonight, without leaving a single fingerprint—yours, mine, or anyone else’s. So shall I help you, or shall I go? Because if you ask me to leave, whatever I learn will go to some other more deserving party in the Fourth Estate.”

Steve sagged, defeated. Then he looked over at Barb, as if deferring to her judgment.

Her expression was somber but resolute.

“How soon were you hoping to get started?” she asked.

“Sunrise. Catch them while they’re sleeping, figuratively speaking.”

Barb then looked at Keira, who nodded.

It was unanimous. It was done.

Cole, watching from behind an armchair, said nothing. But if he was going to be piloting this thing, then he’d better get some sleep. He headed for the door without saying a word.

Hours later, but still well before sunrise, Cole awakened.

A noise had done it. A gunshot, or that’s what it had sounded like. But now it was dark and quiet, probably the middle of the night. So maybe it was something else. Sharpe again? Another goddamn demonstration of his powers, of his almighty ego? Surely he wasn’t that stupid. And this noise had been too loud for any of his stealthy handiwork.

Cole lay on his back for several seconds more, blinking into the darkness, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Just as he was beginning to wonder if he’d dreamed the whole thing, there it was again, unmistakable this time—a gunshot, sharp and loud, and echoing through the trees.

Had it come from the woods, or from the house?

He stood to dress, heart beating fast. Pants, a shirt. He picked up his socks, then tossed them aside and pulled on his shoes, not bothering to lace them. Before bolting out the door, he turned just long enough to glance at the bedside clock, which froze him in place with its message.

It was 3:50 a.m. The hour of death.

MUCH EARLIER THE DAY BEFORE
, on a bright and warm Sunday morning, Trip Riggleman was on the verge of admitting defeat. Everyone else he knew was out Christmas shopping, or at some holiday party, on base or off. He was still working, and still getting nowhere. The allotted weekend was nearly gone, and he was no closer to finding Captain Darwin Cole.

He had done his best, he thought. He was particularly proud of the extra care he’d taken in handling the break-in at Airman Zach Lewis’s apartment. The installation of the necessary software on Lewis’s home computer had gone off without a hitch, ensuring that any emails the airman sent from then on would copy to a new and secret account of Riggleman’s. Even the required “borrowing” of a Security Forces uniform and gear, designed to reassure any nosy neighbors that his entry to the Lewis apartment was authorized, had been accomplished with the utmost discretion. Although he wasn’t looking forward to making good on the promised bribe—a bottle of liquor, plus the hacking of an SF sergeant’s ex-girlfriend’s email account.

But in the hours since then, Lewis hadn’t sent a single email, much less any messages to his old buddy, Captain Cole. Nor had Riggleman made progress on any other front. So here he was, mustering his resolve for what General Hagan had mandated would be his last resort—a telephone call to the mysterious outside source known only as Harry Walsh, occupation and affiliation unknown, and, as far as Riggleman had been able to determine, unknowable.

He picked up his cell phone, a virgin model he’d acquired specifically
for this call. Then he set it down. He did this twice more before standing and pacing the floor of his office. The entire building was empty except for a few bored security people. Riggleman tried to come up with a valid reason for postponing the call further, but came up empty. General Hagan’s instructions were quite clear: Don’t report back to me on Monday morning without success unless you’ve first contacted he-who-shall-remain-nameless, i.e., Walsh. And don’t wait until the last minute to do it.

Yet Riggleman remained wary, and with good reason. The moment you sought outside help was the moment you began losing control of an investigation. Maybe Hagan didn’t realize that, but Riggleman sure as hell did. Privileged information, once you set it loose, inevitably wandered off to all sorts of unlikely places, some of them hazardous to your employability, or even to your health and well-being.

Also troubling was that he still hadn’t been able to find out a damn thing about Walsh or the phone number. Zilch. Blank slate, top to bottom. Anyone who could pull off such a thorough erasure of personal and professional data was a little daunting. As for the number itself, the area code was for Alaska, but there was no known match for the rest of it.

Yet Walsh was the only way forward. So he again picked up the phone and quickly punched in the number.

Someone picked up on the first ring, but no one said a word.

“Uh, Harry Walsh, please?”

“Whoa now. Are you calling from a secure phone?”

“Well, mostly. A virgin phone, anyway.”

“Your current location?”

“Nellis Air Force Base, outskirts of Vegas.”

“No. Definitely not secure, so let’s keep this short.”

“Sure.”

“Who’s calling? Name and rank, please, assuming you’re not a civvie.”

Riggleman hesitated.

“Now, or I hang up.”

“Okay, okay. This is Air Force Captain Trip Riggleman.” He then stated his unit, all the while chafing at the idea that he had to give his
particulars but Walsh didn’t. Already he had placed himself at a disadvantage.

“Who gave you my name and number?”

“Uh …” He was about to mention General Hagan’s name but didn’t feel comfortable doing so. “I’d, uh, rather not say.”

“Then this conversation is over.”

“What?”

“Name?”

“Well, given the position you’ve put me in—”

“You’re in Hagan’s shop, right?”

“Right.”

“Operating under his orders?”

“His chain of command. That’s all I can say for now.”

“Clear enough. But why me?”

“I was ordered—asked, rather—to contact you if I reached a certain point in my work. I’m now at that point.”

“Are you in some kind of jam regarding Air Force personnel of a certain security clearance?”

“A jam?”

“Are you looking for something, or somebody?”

“Yes, exactly.”

Riggleman sensed a relaxing of tension after his answer, or maybe he was just breathing easier now that they seemed to be getting somewhere.

“Which is it, then?”

“Somebody. An ex-pilot from Creech. Flew Predators until about a year and a half ago. A Captain Darwin Cole. The best I can determine—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stop right there. Hagan’s after this?”

“Look, let’s not—”

“Yes or no.”

He was in too deep not to keep going. “Yes.”

A long sigh, of either bewilderment or anger.

“This pursuit of yours ends now. Immediately. Understand?”

“I’m afraid that’s not my decision to make.”

“This is nonnegotiable, Captain. I can’t make it any clearer for you.
You tell that to your general, and you do it today even if you have to yank him off the fifteenth green, or out of his whore’s honey hole. Understand?”

“I, uh, yeah. I think I do.”

“But first you erase my name and number from your memory, and from all your records and databases, along with any record of this phone call. Better still, destroy the phone. The taxpayer probably owes you a new one, anyway.”

“I don’t think that—”

Then Riggleman stopped talking, midsentence. No use. Walsh had ended the call.

His first impulse was to call Hagan. He had the general’s home number, though he had never dared to use it. But what would he say?
“Walsh told us to get fucked.”
Not much of a plan. Now he was in a worse spot than before. No progress, and spurned by his last resort.

He considered walking over to the officers’ club, although it was not yet eleven. He could have brunch, a beer, maybe two. Sit there among the Christmas lights and tinsel garlands while he regrouped. Think things out. At best, he’d come up with an idea. At worst, the beers would offer solace. But with his luck the only other patrons would be fighter jocks coming off some ungodly shift, and he couldn’t bear the thought of elbowing between them and their shots of Weed just to order a Bud Light.

Riggleman walked over to his window and stared out at the other drab buildings on the base. A high of eighty degrees was predicted for later that day, and here it was nine days before Christmas. Happy fucking holidays.

From across the room on his desk, his laptop emitted two sharp beeps, and he perked up right away. It was the signal he’d set up to notify him whenever Zach Lewis sent an email.
Probably nothing
, he told himself, hurrying over. A quick shout-out to a friend, or a reply to something from weeks ago.

When Riggleman opened the email his whole outlook changed. The recipient was an unknown Gmail address, and Lewis had sent several attachments. Each was a video file, taking up a pretty hefty chunk of megabytes. But for the moment the best part was the message itself:

Merry fucking Christmas, after all.

So he’d been right all along. Lewis
had
known something, and his hunch had paid off big-time. But who was this “Lancer dude,” and why was the name so familiar? He remembered now. Lancer had been mentioned in the censored part of the deposition taken from Cole’s CO, Sturdivant, during Cole’s court-martial proceedings. That told him that the brass—maybe Hagan, maybe someone higher—hadn’t wanted him poking into any corners where Lancer might be lurking, whoever he was. He filed away that item, mentally adding it to his collection of leads.

Armed with the new Gmail address, he easily hacked his way into Cole’s account. He then identified the Internet Protocol address for the computer that had been used to set up the account and send its only two emails—one to Zach Lewis, another to some computer in Northern Virginia, an address he set aside for checking later. He then began tracking down the most recent online activity for Cole’s computer, as well as for the various servers and wireless networks the computer had been using. This led him first to Barb Holtzman, a journalist whose name and details he already had. Evidently Cole was using her machine.

The last known server that she or Cole had used was a wireless network operating for a Comcast subscriber named Edward C. Lyttle, with a billing address on Nightingale Road in Oxford, Maryland. The address would be easy enough to pinpoint, but what was Edward Lyttle’s connection to Cole? He Googled the name, only to find that Edward Lyttle was some sort of agribusiness executive, with a full-time residence in upstate New York. Maybe the Oxford address was a vacation home. Had Cole simply broken in, taking squatter’s rights?