“Perfect,” Akil said, almost gleefully. “I am jealous. Dr. Al-Aran tells me you have exceptional musical ability. When I was young, my father would take me exploring in the desert. I would sing by the fire. My voice was so bad that the Fennec foxes would howl. I often wonder what it would be like to be an American rock-and-roll star who plays at various… how does one say it? Gigs? Sometime you must give me a lesson.”
“Anytime, Omar. I’m not famous yet, but if you’re ever in southern California, look me up. I just got out here. Singing in the desert with Fennec foxes sounds pretty cool to me. You take care, okay?”
“Thank you, Mr. Jones. You as well. Nice talking to you.”
Akil clicked off.
He exited the Camry and walked another fifty yards. The air carried a sour stink from surrounding cabbage farms. He retrieved an old kitchen table and propped it next to a prairie-like field to the south. He scanned the far perimeter with binoculars and gradually focused on an abandoned car three hundred yards away.
He opened the case and removed a drone frame from its foam cradle. It was the first time he’d ever physically touched one. He noted the unevenness in the seam glue. It was lighter than he expected.
Akil inserted a front and rear set of wings into the body slots and then flattened a single piece of paper onto the table with numbered instructions. Next, he reached for his laptop and removed the battery. Inside and to the left of that compartment was a small hollow space framed by two memory chips. He tilted the laptop sideways until four fully assembled switches dropped out. Akil examined the soldering while the laptop rebooted. He inserted the program control disc and connected the USB cable to the controller. He read the next instruction and chuckled at the terminology. Verify tension on surface locomotors. He pinched the drone’s legs together and then pulled them apart. Satisfied, he opened a Radio Shack bag and spilled out a handful of 555 timer-integrated circuit chips. He opened his wallet and unfolded a hand-drawn schematic, written in pencil and labeled computer memory board layout. Of all the times that airport security screeners had removed the laptop battery, they had never questioned the excess chips.
The 555 timer was simple yet elegant. It had one backup relay to guard against premature ignition. When fully assembled, the device consisted of ten watch batteries taped and wired in series, two switches, one capacitor, one resistor, one relay, and a three-inch long circuit board. A pocketed nylon harness held the potassium charge. The contraption resembled a pony express mail delivery system, complete with one small saddlebag draped over a giant dragonfly instead of a horse.
Where is the fuel? he wondered. After a few moments, he spotted a separate compartment inside the case and pulled the Velcro flap. He plucked out two plastic cartridges and laid them on the table.
Next, Akil gently lifted one potassium cube from a static-free container in his jacket. He tore off a strip of clear duct tape and wrapped one fuse packet to the cube, leaving two exposed strands of wire dangling from the tiny circuit board. He scrolled a clock timer on the laptop’s screen until it reached 00:06:00—six minutes.
He carefully inserted the two wires into the clay-like potassium and packed the entry holes tight. He snapped the fuel and catalyst cartridges into place. The wings immediately responded, and he heard an audible tone indicating the unit was communicating properly with the laptop.
He tossed the drone skyward, where it hovered motionlessly above his head. He clicked the screen’s timer button one last time. The seconds began counting down. He clicked the go button.
The drone flew off across the open field. It quickly became too small to track visually, so Akil glanced down at his screen, following it through the camera and watching the car looming larger. In less than a minute, the drone had reached its target and gone into a stationary hover, awaiting further commands.
Akil manually maneuvered the drone over the vehicle’s hood. Unlike practicing online, operating the physical device itself was difficult. Between the camera’s limited field of view and the drone’s quick response to commands, Akil found himself overcorrecting, but he reasoned that his skills would increase with practice. Allah would see to it.
Akil looked at his watch and then gently eased the drone through the open windshield, hovering it above the dashboard. He touched the controller again, and the drone’s legs clamped firmly around the steering wheel shaft. The shaft’s circumference was thinner than that of a commercial aircraft’s landing gear strut, but for this test, the placement motion would be the same. The drone predictably rotated sideways, clinging upside-down. Three wings snapped out of their socket joints. The harness with the potassium explosive held firmly.
Akil lifted the binoculars.
A split second later there was a powerful but muffled explosion.
The violent blast blew the car doors off their hinges and tore gaping holes in the trunk and roof. The steering wheel sailed high into the air like some jet-powered Frisbee.
The fourth drone wing fluttered harmlessly to the ground.
Chapter 14
WITI Fox 6 News general manager Bud Gillespie sat at his desk, grim faced. His station had placed last in southeastern Wisconsin’s April rating sweeps conducted by Nielsen Media Research. That made eight periods in a row.
Neela Griffin poked her head through the doorway.
“You wanted to see me?”
Gillespie pointed to a chair. He removed his glasses and stared at her. It was the same stare a father would give his honor-roll teenage daughter after bailing her out of jail for shoplifting.
“You had quite a trip to Italy, young lady.”
“I can explain.”
“Fine. You can start by giving me your definition of the word ethical.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “Ms. Griffin, I’m going to be frank. I like you. We all like you. Your tenacity and reporting skills have stayed above average even with all your personal problems. I, for one, had serious doubts as to whether you could maintain your professionalism through a public divorce and that unfortunate spousal battery mess. But you did, and I’ll admit here and now that I was wrong. Additionally, your on-camera demeanor in this market still portrays trust. That’s something important to me, your coworkers, and this station.”
His wording was a veiled compliment to her physical appearance, but he knew that he had to be careful. He’d recently reassigned another female employee from the anchor desk, and she immediately filed a discrimination suit. Management claimed it was due to poor performance. Everyone else figured it was due to excessive weight gain.
“However, your Ohio State journalism degree does not give you the right to run around Europe posing as a foreign affairs correspondent for a national cable network. We sent you to Rome to investigate a suspected theft ring of Harley-Davidson motorcycle parts. How did you end up at some science award ceremony bringing up Colin Powell and weapons of mass destruction? Correct me if I’m wrong, but you did introduce yourself as someone from Fox Cable? When exactly did you make that career move?”
“I thought that there might have been a big story—”
Gillespie pounded his fist on the desktop. “We’re all looking for a big story, but you’re not paid to freelance. Now I have to write three apologies. One to this Georgia Tech professor, one to the Pirelli Consortium, and one to our owners, who, by the way, will be ready to chew my head off after seeing our ratings. Neela, I’m not a reporter any longer, and I hate typing.”
“It won’t happen again. I promise.”