T.R. Harris
Day of the Drone
Special thanks to Lee Burton at Ocean’s Edge Editing for his incredible work on this newly revised and edited edition.
It always takes a second pair of eyes and an unbiased view to see where a book can be made tighter and better.
His attention to detail is unsurpassed.
lee@oceansedgeediting.com
this is the story of what could happen when drones become weaponized and used to threaten the very fabric of civilization. It’s a rollercoaster ride of action and adventure that will leave you asking… “Is this fiction or is it reality?”
The future is now and T.R. Harris lays it out for us in this amazing account that is both fascinating and damned scary!
Five Stars! Kept my interest and was hard to put down. Very interesting and timely topic.
If you have an appointment and start this book you will be late. Only word to describes this story… Plausible.
Prologue
Anastasia Beaumont heard the high-pitched whine before she saw the tiny remote-control dune buggy slip past her and enter the bank. She watched with curiosity as the little toy, with the shiny silver canister taped to it, drove further into the marble-floored and jade-columned vestibule, before it stopped mid-room and began to perform a series of radical three-sixty spins.
It was an odd scene, with people in the bank displaying diametrically opposed expressions. The two security guards wore scowls on their stern faces, while the customers smiled, waiting for the bank promo regarding auto loans to be announced…
A small flying drone suddenly lifted off the dune buggy and climbed toward the ceiling. It hovered there, as a tiny attached camera turned on its gimbal, scanning the scene below.
Knowing this wasn’t part of a bank promotion, the guards hesitated only a moment before spreading out and approaching the vehicle from opposite directions.
A tiny servo-motor began to whine, and the shiny, foot-long canister atop the dune buggy split open along a thin centerline. Robert Williams pulled his 9mm Glock — feeling silly to be pointing it at a toy — but he gasped when he saw what was inside the canister.
“Ah-ah… don’t come any closer,” said a tinny voice from hidden speakers.
The canister contained six sticks of red paper-wrapped dynamite, with a series of wires running end-to-end and terminating at a glowing cellphone.
“What the hell?” he blurted. Williams and his partner, Gavin St. Croix, were less than ten feet from the menacing object.
“I can hear you, Mr. Williams,” said the tinny voice, sounding almost giddy as he spoke. “Now, if you don’t want Gavin to get hurt, or Joyce, or Kaitlyn — you see I know the names of all the employees at the bank — then I suggest you holster your weapon and back away.”
“What’s this all about?” St. Croix asked just as bank manager Francine Howell came up next to him. Her expression was one of concern, rather than the anger displayed on the faces of the guards.
“This is branch manager Francine—”
“Yes, I know, Francine Howell,” the voice interrupted. “To answer Mr. St. Croix’s question, this is a robbery, pure and simple.” The speaker paused to let his words register with everyone in earshot. Both guards shook their heads and smirked.
“Bullshit,” said Williams.
“Watch your language in the presence of a lady, Bob. As I was saying, this is a robbery. I have six sticks of construction-grade dynamite wired to explode upon my command or if the device is tampered with in any way. Now I will ask that you look to the main entrance door…”
All eyes turned to the single, four-foot wide glass door, now closed. Outside was another RC vehicle, this one a Tonka replica of the quintessential yellow quarry dump truck, and with a round, thirteen-gallon plastic trash can sitting in the bed box.
“Please open the door, Mr. St. Croix, so my associate may enter.”
“No friggin’ way!”
“Ms. Howell, please have Gavin do as I ask. I would hate to stain the interior of your beautiful bank with the bloody body parts from your fifty or so customers and employees.”
Panic swept through the cadre of customers and a dozen or so lurched towards the exit. “Stop!” the voice cried out. “Stop… or I’ll set off the bomb.”
Most people obeyed; others didn’t. Fearing for their lives from the actions of the noncompliant, several of the bank customers grabbed onto the ones still rushing towards the exit and pulled them back by their suits and dresses. Scuffles broke out.
“Stop it, all of you!” the voice from the toy car boomed out, louder than ever. “All I want is some of the bank’s money. Just let my associate in and then have the tellers fill the can with cash. After that we’ll be on our way, and with no one getting hurt.”
Gavin St. Croix snorted. “You really expect us to fill your trash can with money and then just let you drive off?” He had his weapon drawn. “I bet that’s not even real dynamite.” He looked around at the frightened customers and employees. “This is probably some computer geek’s scheme for making a quick buck… by scaring the hell out of everyone here.”
“Are you willing to risk the lives of everyone here to satisfy your macho bravado? Just let me have the money. After that, it’ll be the job of the real cops to find me. Don’t be a hero, Gavin,” the speaker growled. “Besides, the amount I’ll take from the bank today won’t even register as a rounding error on the ledger. Now do everyone a favor… and open the damn door!”
One of the customers near the entrance pulled the door open and the RC dump truck quickly entered. In the ensuing confusion, the customer ran out, along with five others.
“Close the door, Gavin!” the tinny voice demanded. “If another customer leaves I will set off the bomb, and believe me when I say this. Doing so will only cost me a couple hundred dollars in material, as well as a few sticks of the dynamite I stole from the Greater East River Reclamation Project a month ago. I won’t be harmed in any way, and I’ll still have enough dynamite to come back here and do this all over again. Maybe then I’ll be taken more seriously. Of course I’ll be dealing with a whole new set of employees, because all of you will be dead! Now get me my goddamn money… and no paint bombs, either! If I find any I’ll come back here with the sole purpose of blowing the hell out of this place.”
The dump truck had positioned itself between the original vehicle and tellers row. Francine Howell now motioned with her hands. “Hurry up, all of you. Empty the cash drawers and put the stacks in the can.”
The eight tellers on duty obeyed, worry clouding their eyes and visible in their frantic movements; however, in less than a minute, a fair amount of money filled the trash can.
“See, that wasn’t too hard, now was it? And no one got hurt. Now, Mr. Williams, it’s your turn to open the door so we can leave.”
Robert Williams was now closest to the exit, and he bit his lip as a vein pulsed in his neck. The tiny two-vehicle caravan took off for the front door, slowing to a stop as the guard stood firm with his left hand on the door handle and the other resting on the grip of his company-issued Glock. A standoff ensued.
“Don’t be stupid, Williams,” the voice said with steely purpose. “It’s not your money, so don’t die for it.”