Drone Games (15 page)

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.”

“What was the name of that entertainment piece you were developing to identify a mystery person in some pop song? Something about narcissism or vanity?”

“ ‘You’re So Vain,’ ” she said halfheartedly.

“Yes, now there’s something newsworthy.”

“That’s not exactly the kind of story that’ll benefit society,” she gently protested. “I have a new lead that exposes a security hole at a major airline. A passenger can gain access to a firearm on a commercial aircraft just by having the right form—a form that no one is cross-checking or verifying. Delta has refused to respond or even comment and—”

“Stop,” Gillespie said, exasperated. “Will you please tone down the drama and keep a lower profile? So far, none of our competitors have picked up on your little Italian stunt. I hope for your sake it stays that way. We’ll wait and see. I’ll give you one more chance. I know we talked about weekend anchor, but I’ve decided to keep you on the tip line and out of trouble. No more special assignments and no more travel. I want you working local and nothing more. It’ll help you learn a thing or two about patience.”

Atlanta, GA

Technology Square Research Building

PROFESSOR MICHAEL Robertson unscrewed the cap from a bottle of non-drowsy Dayquil and guzzled a hefty swallow. He flopped into his desk chair and reached for a wad of Kleenex.

His landline phone chirped.

“Welcome back, son,” the voice of Dr. Winford Garton III said. “I suppose, now that you’re famous, you’ll want your own building?”

Don’t call me “son.” You sold me out.
“We’re comfortable right where we are,” Robertson said, sniffling deeply.

“I heard you weren’t feeling well. We were quite concerned.”

You don’t care a whit about me or my team
. “I had a bad case of the flu, and now I think it’s just a bad cold. I’m about seventy percent, but thanks for asking. The Association of Unmanned Vehicle Systems International is hosting their annual Symposium in DC next month. They’ve asked me to be their keynote speaker. They’d like me to debut my drone.”

“You mean Georgia Tech’s drone,” Garton quickly corrected. “Go ahead and do all the speaking you’d like as long as we lock down the second half of this Saudi thing. I’m sure you know that we’ve finalized a deal with Mr. Al-Assaf. Dr. Al-Aran has made all the arrangements. Good grief . . . all we have to do is let them fiddle with your bugs for a few weeks, and we get a windfall for the university. I repeat, I want you to make sure Faiz has everything he needs to satisfy their requests. Five million dollars is a heckuva down payment, son. After all those hours of dedication—a tangible and fitting reward. You should be proud.”

They’re not bugs
, Robertson wanted to scream. Instead, he said, “I’m not an expert on desert oil reserves, but this Shaybah field is about as hospitable as the planet Mercury. Winds routinely reach fifty miles per hour, dunes stretch one thousand feet high, and the field itself is forty miles long. The drone can’t possibly cover such distances with its current signal strength. This whole idea is an unqualified disast—”

“Nonsense,” Garton interrupted, unconcerned with the technical limitations. “Not another word. Dr. Al-Aran can work through any minor shortcomings. He has everything well in hand.”

“I’m sure he does,” Robertson said through clenched teeth. “Where is Faiz?”

“Why don’t you take a few days off? You’ve certainly earned it,” Garton said. “I’d love to chat, but I have another commitment. And by the way, we mustn’t forget NASA. That’s my favorite kind of project—fat and federal. Between the Pirelli Award and the Saudis, your bug has managed to bring five and a quarter million dollars into our coffers, not to mention keeping Tech’s good name in the spotlight. I know it, and so does the board. That brings solid credibility. If this Saudi venture pans out, perhaps our next research center might bear your name. Look me up next week. We’ll do lunch. That is, if you can stand lowly American food again. I hear the Italians really know their cuisine.”

Garton clicked off.

Robertson Research Center
. He envisioned the exterior lettering.

When his digestive system got back to normal, he would eat a cheeseburger for lunch. A large American cheeseburger with fries.

There was a knock on Robertson’s office door.

“Have a seat, Mr. Zibinski,” Robertson said, waking up his desktop computer and clicking the Skype icon.

Kevin Jones’s face appeared.

“Morning, professor. Welcome home.”

“You settled out there?” Robertson’s voice was curt.

“Sort of. San Diego’s a great music town. I signed up to play guitar at an open mic session at Seaport Village next to the harbor. I’m really nervous.”

“That’s awesome, Kev,” Zee spoke up. “Wish I could be there to cheer you on.”

Robertson blew his nose in a loud honk, and the room turned awkwardly silent.

“I know you’re upset, Professor,” Jones finally spoke. “I swear we wanted to call and keep you informed, but Dr. Al-Aran said he’d take care of everything. He just took control. What were we supposed to do?”

“Whoa, why would I be upset?” Robertson said sarcastically. “Someone literally overtakes my project without my knowledge or permission, and you two simply let it happen? But wait . . . maybe I’m overreacting. After all, I only invented the thing.”

“Hey, Zee?” Jones’s screen face was distorted. “Didn’t Al-Aran say he’d keep everyone in the loop, especially about the hotel demo?”

Robertson raised one eyebrow. “What hotel demo?”

“The Swissôtel,” Zee said. “In Buckhead. I guess one of the Saudi people leased a meeting room for some sort of demonstration. Meal service, private waiters. I think his name was Ibrahim-something. He and Dr. Al-Aran were even talking about making a video.”

“Faiz took my drones off campus and is flying them in a hotel?” Robertson checked his watch. “When?”

The Skype video connection failed, leaving Jones’s face frozen on the screen.

“Um, Dr. Al-Aran said he didn’t need us,” Jones said. “He figured he could handle everything himself.”

“People have gone to jail for this kind of thing,” Robertson seethed.

He recalled a Tennessee professor working on plasma actuators for Air Force drones. The US government considered the actuators to be controlled technical data, and thus sharing it with foreign nationals even inside the United States was prohibited. The professor was convicted on eighteen counts, including charges that he provided controlled defense technology and defense services to University of Tennessee graduate students who were nationals of the People’s Republic of China and the Republic of Iran.

“When does it start?”

“I’m not sure,” Zee admitted. “I think they changed the schedule.”

Robertson’s face flooded red. He dialed his phone. “Buckhead, Georgia . . . the Swissôtel.”

Administrative Services Supervisor Sharon Tillman cracked the office door. “Excuse me, Professor Robertson. Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a Mr. O’Neill from NASA on hold. He says it’s urgent.”

Robertson slammed the phone onto its cradle. “Sharon, would you find Professor Al-Aran for me? I don’t care where he is or what he’s doing.”

“I’m sorry, but Dr. Al-Aran is out of the office on vacation. He’s on a cruise for the next three weeks.”

Robertson sat, stunned.
This can’t be happening
.

“Do you want to speak to Mr. O’Neill, or should I take a message?”

“Huh? No, it’s fine.” Robertson touched the speakerphone. “Stuart?”

“Michael, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll get right to the point. We’re trying to make numbers work, but our whole program is under severe scrutiny. Everyone is running for cover. The Mars mission is still alive but with certain reductions. I’m afraid your project has been impacted. We’re releasing the official announcement shortly. I wanted you to know before I called Garton. I’m sorry.”

Robertson’s face turned ashen. He sat motionless, staring across the room at the set of red-and-silver Coca-Cola Entomopter wings pinned inside a glass display case.

“Impacted how?”

“The sub-project has been canceled. Funds have already been reallocated to the moon project. Looks like that’s a go. You need to put all your schedules and any other work in progress on hold indefinitely.”

“What about future planning? Couldn’t we at least continue to test the—”

“Don’t you understand what I’m telling you? We just don’t have the funding for your drone. I wanted to tell you myself.”

“The moon project is the dumbest idea I’ve heard this year. We’ve already
been
to the flipping moon.”

“Michael, I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry.”

“Stu, we’ve known each other for years. We roomed together in college. I named my kid after you. Help me out here.”

“I’m sorry.”

Robertson leaned into the speaker. “You’re sorry? Tell that to the students on my research team who turned down other highly sought-after appointments to meet
your
time frames. Tell that to benefactors who donated the funding just to satisfy
your
needs. Tell that to the Pirelli Foundation, who just became the world’s biggest fools for giving a golden plaque to something that’s already been canceled. Exactly where would you like me to stick that?” Robertson heard a dial tone. “Hello? Stuart?”

Outback Restaurant

Arlington, VA

Friday, May 15

“I JUST think it’s best,” Tom Ross said quietly into his phone.

“You think?” Marcia’s voice screeched. “Let me tell you what I think: I think you’re a failure, and a miserable one at that. A failure to me as a partner, and a failure to yourself as a human being. You haven’t got the faintest idea of how to treat a lady, to buy her things and take her places and hold her on a pedestal. That’s what a real man would do. You haven’t got the guts. The only thing you’re good at is whimpering on and on about losing your precious Amy. She’s gone, so get over it. Nothing you do will ever bring—”