“Did you see that?”
“Huh?”
“Turn that TV back on.”
Ross complied and raised the volume.
A narrator was standing inside a sports stadium underneath a football goalpost. He was holding some kind of mechanical, bird-like creature.
“… the Mars project due to severe federal budget cuts. It’s the brainchild of Professor Michael Robertson, who designed the flying insect for Georgia Tech here in Atlanta. As you can see, it actually looks and feels like a toy with wings. That makes the Entomopter quite different from traditional unmanned military drones. It has a built-in camera, and thanks to its pincer-like legs, can carry up to double its weight in rock samples from the Martian landscape. Unfortunately, even the best inventions never get off the ground. Next, we’ll look at some of the military’s high-tech land robots.”
Riley’s eyes and mouth couldn’t grow any wider. By the time he turned to Ross, his face resembled that of some wild, raging beast. The TV screen showed a commercial touting Taco Bell’s late-night drivethrough. Neither man heard a word. They spoke in unison.
“Drones.”
Linda Robertson sat up in bed, awakened by what sounded like voices and radio static. She fell back to the pillow, wondering why the boys would be up so early. The bedroom door cracked open, and she heard the sounds again. She nudged her husband.
“There’s someone in the house. It’s your turn. And don’t pull my covers off this time.”
“That’s far enough, buddy,” Michael groaned, rising on his elbows. “You’re gonna need more than a Nerf gun. I’m serious. If you come in this room, I’m going to tie you to a tree outside and squirt you with the garden hose.”
There was silence.
The door burst open.
Seven federal officers armed with AR-15 assault rifles surrounded the bed.
A second team swept onto the premises.
Linda pulled the covers up to her face, gasping in disbelief as they whisked her pajama-clad husband outside and into a waiting vehicle.
A young, clean-shaven Abe-Lincoln-ish man strode into the room and gently laid an envelope on the bed.
“Ma’am, y’all need to be advised that this is a federal warrant served by authority of the US attorney’s office to detain a Mr. Michael C. Robertson,” FBI Special Agent Harlan Ellis said in a soft Southern drawl. “Your husband will be at the FBI offices on Century Parkway in Atlanta. If y’all have a lawyer, then you can call the number on the back for further information. Y’all need to get up and get dressed, ma’am. We need to search this room.”
Riley stood outside the secure detention cell, peering through its thick glass window and studying his prisoner’s physical appearance.
He opened the cell door and nodded to the two agents inside. They removed Robertson’s hand and leg restraints.
“I sure hope you’re in charge, mister,” Robertson said, rubbing his wrists.
“My name is Jack Riley, and as a matter of fact, I am.”
“Well, you’re going to pay, Mr. Riley, because I demand to call my lawyer. You had no right to do what you did to me. You had no right. Why won’t anyone tell me anything? I’m going to sue you and your whole department, whatever it is.”
“Homeland Security,” Riley clarified, pulling up a chair.
“I want a phone and my lawyer. His name is Ray Mills.”
Riley produced an evidence bag and slid out a piece of red plastic. “Do you know what this is?” Robertson glanced at it briefly, then turned away. “I don’t have time for games,” Riley said sternly, repeating the question.
“Of course I know what it is. It’s a wing. A drone wing. I want a phone. I won’t say another thing to you or anyone else.”
Riley moved closer. “Sir, this wing was recovered from the wreckage of United Flight 605 in Bellevue, Nebraska. It was stuck to one of the landing gear tires. We believe it had something to do with the crash. We also presume that someone smuggled it aboard or otherwise placed it on that plane. Trust me, you’ll feel a whole lot better if you tell us how it got there.”
Robertson pointed his finger. “Mister, you storm into my home, place me in handcuffs in front of my wife and my boys, and then cart me off to jail like I’m Timothy McVeigh. I’m a decent, God-fearing man who’s lost every ounce of patience. I’ve been sitting in this stink hole for over five hours, and no one has said a thing to me about why. I demand to be released, I demand a public apology, and I want my lawyer.”
Agent Cheng cracked the door. “Jack, could I see you a minute?” Riley stepped into the corridor. Cheng opened a notebook. “This guy’s a professor. He works downtown at a Georgia Tech research extension on Fifth Street. He’s in charge of some kind of remote-control drone project. He’s got a list of accomplishments on Wikipedia a mile long. He has an exemplary academic record and recently received worldwide attention in the scientific community for inventing some kind of a flying insect. I’ve got one right here. It’s called an Ento—”
“Mopter.” Riley examined the device.
“Uh-huh. Entomopter. According to his wife, he hasn’t been out of Atlanta since they got back from Italy. He won some prestigious science award there. She’s a high school teacher and seems credible. She’s really furious. Maybe they’re both in on it?”
Riley gave Cheng a doubting look. “We need to be smarter. Why did Ellis have to drag him out of his house like that? All we need is a front-page photograph of federal agents manhandling an innocent citizen. If he’s not involved, then we’re going to be up to our ears in lawsuits. Do me a favor and have Ellis track down a local attorney named Ray Mills. He’ll want a piece of us too.”
Cheng jotted the name. “There’s one more thing. His wife is on her way down here with a bus load of students. The media is already setting up outside.”
Riley returned to the cell with the drone and a paper cup of water.
“Professor, I just wanted to tell you that we probably could have brought you here in a more respectable manner. I’m sorry. And if you’re not involved, then I’ll give you your public apology. It may take a while. Please try and be patient.”
Robertson slammed his hand onto the table. “Involved in what?”
“The loss of three aircraft and the death of 264 passengers.”
Robertson choked twice. “You think… the airline accidents… that I… seriously, do I look like some Arab terrorist?”
“Looks can be deceiving, pal. They’re not all Arabs.”
“All right, that was inappropriate,” Robertson admitted. “I’m sorry, but truly, the drone is nothing more than an exploratory tool. I built it exclusively for NASA. It was supposed to be part of the manned mission to Mars until it got cancelled. That’s all there is. I have absolutely no idea how a piece of one ended up in Nebraska. These drones aren’t secret, and neither are the components. Anyone could’ve picked one up and walked off with it.”
Riley sipped his water. “This can really fly?”
“It can fly.”
Riley felt his leg twitch.
“For carrying tools or rocks,” Robertson said. “They can also hold it in position — on the roll bars of a moving Mars rover, for example.”
That roused Riley’s curiosity even more. “Anyone else make these?”
“I can name hundreds of universities and corporations all over the world working on aerial robotics. For its size, ours was the first of its kind. We had high hopes until—”
“Mars got cancelled. You mentioned that before.” Riley set the drone down. “So, if this can carry a rock, then why not something else?”