Drone Games (8 page)

Murmurs sprang up around the room, and buoyed by the sound, Petri continued.

“And you’re obviously either misinformed or haven’t done your homework on theme parks. Just last week, my family and I attended the pre-season opening of Great America in Gurnee, Illinois. They unveiled state-of-the-art metal detection equipment that every one of us had to walk through. In addition, they hand-searched purses and even baby strollers. As far as your baseball scenario, I highly doubt that such a thing could ever happen. Our enemies wouldn’t dare. Think about what that would mean to the country’s psyche. Besides, we have top-notch security in place to stop those actions. I personally resent even hearing such nonsense.”

Jack Riley held back a smirk. “My ideas aren’t preposterous, ma’am; they’re devastating. Terrorists don’t give a rat’s rear end about what we hold in esteem, including sports. In fact, the more we idolize a cultural icon like baseball, the higher it moves on the target scale. The truth is, we don’t like to hear reality. Americans tend to live in a figurative world where everything—and I mean everything—is taken for granted with respect to open freedoms.

“The ramifications of target vulnerabilities are just starting to emerge, and they are crushing. September 11 cost New York City eighty-three billion dollars and sixty thousand jobs. We estimate that the sporting event we used to call America’s pastime would be completely shut down for two seasons. The forecasted economic losses to cities with host baseball stadiums are in the hundreds of billions. Three small-market teams might never recover. They’d simply be lost to history.

“But it’s more than that. The psychological impacts would last for years. And, of course, we haven’t discussed the date. That, my friends, is utterly unthinkable. The explosion at the end of the fuse. K-Day is a fixed secular holiday, a national celebration, and a time when citizens go about their daily lives having fun and enjoying traditional summer activities. Want to permanently imprint a terror tattoo right on America’s forehead? Destroy the sanctity of her birthday. That’s right. The Fourth of July would signal the beginning of the end of our precious open society.

“The major cities within the US would become military guard posts. With respect to those theme parks, every single one schedules an evening fireworks celebration. The crowds will be enormous, unconcerned, and anticipating noise. If you think 9/11 damaged the airlines, Komodo would sound that industry’s death knell—especially on routes to those locations.

“And to prove that, let’s talk for a moment about travel. Annual theme park attendance is over three hundred million, a number that’s expected to increase steadily. Can anyone here spell
target-rich environments
? After K-Day, an entire generation of prime spenders will never take their families to a theme park again, no matter how safe the physical conditions become. The mere potential that something so horrific and violent could happen again will be enough to dissuade travel.

“But don’t miss the point, people. Americans are resilient, and we would no doubt grow stronger. This isn’t a forever thing. Time would heal the effects of even mass carnage, but by then the damage would have been done in a beautiful and complete fashion. How long can any business survive after losing an entire generation of customers? The US economy would flirt with the country’s second depression primarily because people would be in an extended state of shock and fear. And for those of you who need financial gravitas, we hired the Cato Institute to model the economic impacts.

“Relative to Ms. Petri’s statements on the strength and resiliency of our financial markets, she’s right on point. All I’m suggesting is that we not get complacent with our open freedoms. I won’t bore you with details, but after the events of K-Day, the Dow Jones Industrial Average would snowball downhill for thirteen consecutive months. That’ll make the 401(k) pain caused by the housing collapse seem like Christmas. We call it the Komodo Effect. This small, slow, but dangerous reptile waits in ambush for prey many times its size. With a single bite, infection starts immediately, and is always fatal.”

Petri rose from her seat. “Mr. Riley, point taken. But I certainly don’t have any more time to sit here listening to speculative, rambling propaganda about lizards. You of all people should put a little more faith in our homeland security defenses, sir. If you’ll excuse me?”

Flanked by two aides, she stormed out.

A man in the front row spoke a word under his breath. Riley strolled over and peered at his ID badge.

“I agree with you, Mr. Tom Ross of NTSB Aviation Engineering. It is unbelievable. You’re an airline guy. Tell us about the skies and what you think about our open freedoms. Are we vulnerable or not?”

“Well, first, I’m not TSA,” Ross announced the point loudly. “So I don’t have my finger on the pulse of air travel security if that’s what you’re asking. Second, Nancy . . . er, Ms. Petri offered some good points. Frankly, if it was your objective to scare us today, I’d say you accomplished that. It’s true we’re all seeing more stringent security rules being implemented for electronic devices on planes, especially for passengers traveling to the United States.”

“And why is that, sir?” Riley surveyed the audience. “What are they looking for, people? It starts with a B.”

“Bombs,” a female voice responded.

“Yep.” Riley nodded. “Carried on and undetectable. It’s like an addiction. They’re still trying to sneak explosives on aircraft. One of so many potential vulnerabilities.”

Riley gave Secretary Bridge a stealthy glance and noticed him glance at his watch. Riley returned to the podium and tucked Shaitan under his arm. “I’d like to end things here and leave you with one final albeit sickening thought: if any of the K-Day terrorists are captured and found to be American citizens, they’ll be eligible for constitutionally afforded defenses. And you can bet that we’ll vehemently try and enforce those rights. Good grief, it took four years to convict Major Nidal Hasan for the mass killings at Fort Hood. That miserable son-of-a . . . er, individual admitted he murdered thirteen people, and we’ll be feeding him breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day on appeal for the next fifty years.”

Riley glanced at his watch. “No part of this presentation is confidential. In fact, Komodo needs to be shown and publicized to as many people as possible. But, as you just observed, that’s a tall order, especially when entrenched bureaucrats have their heads stuck up their . . . well, in the sand.

“They don’t want to know. Why? Because they don’t believe in taking either preemptive or drastic measures to stop potential threats. They claim it tramples on the Constitution. Many don’t have the funds to do anything about it anyway, even from a planning perspective.

“Secretary Bridge and the president have already listened to my ‘scare tactics’—twice. It’s one of their top priorities. Needless to say, they’re already receiving plenty of heat from people who share the congresswoman’s opinion that I’m indeed crazy and that such events could never happen. Just the other day, five thousand law enforcement officers in San Francisco went on alert after someone saw a suspicious rubber boat puttering around the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Anyway, I’ll be at the Martin Luther King Federal Building in Atlanta on May 11 and the Peck Building in Cincinnati on May 18. If you have contacts in those offices, I’d appreciate it if you’d give them some feedback. My video should be finished by then. It’s free.

“My best advice to you today? Be safe, be alert, and start thinking about the unthinkable. And since Congresswoman Petri brought it up, I’ll say one more thing about top-notch security and trusting your family’s freedom and safety to state-of-the-art equipment: Six Flags Great America at Gurnee, Illinois, has an employee entrance with no detection equipment at all. It’s staffed by a seventy-year-old security guard named Fritz. He’s had two knee replacements, and he’s addicted to caramel corn. Have a safe day.”

Rome, Italy

Saturday, May 9

GEORGIA TECH Professor Michael Robertson stood up from a kneeling position in front of the commode. He was in the men’s restroom at the Sheraton Roma Conference Center. He braced himself inside the stall until everything stopped spinning.

He listened quietly, almost able to hear echoes bouncing off the red-black marble walls. It was both humorous and frightening that a forty-year-old human being could make such outrageous noises. Thankfully, he was alone.

Noting the pungent smell on his breath and hands, he twisted the door latch and gingerly made his way to the sinks. His face was still warm, and his heartbeat was elevated, but his gag reflex had slowed, indicating that for the moment what little was left in his stomach had opted to stay.

He swished a mouthful of water from cheek to cheek and spit. He envisioned the lead story in the Atlanta Constitution: “Hometown Finalist Pukes at Pirelli International Technology Awards Ceremony.”

Didn’t that happen to someone else at a foreign banquet
? he wondered.
Yes. President George Bush Sr. Right next to the Japanese Prime Minister
.
Wonderful
.

The scarlet towel draped over Robertson’s shoulders made him look like an escapee from some princely barbershop. He patted his face with more water and examined the outline of his month-old beard. It had filled in nicely. His wife was right—he did look more European. Every little bit helped.

Robertson folded the towel and then his hands. He wasn’t overly religious, but he occasionally chatted with the Almighty whenever he needed help. This was such a time. “Dear Lord . . . you know how I feel about winning. In the meantime, please make the food disappear, and please . . . don’t let me get sick in front of two thousand people and world media. And if I do, then please let it be on the Germans. Amen.”

Robertson returned to the banquet room and his seat at the head table. His entrée had been whisked away.

One prayer answered.

It had started with the appetizer, bread piled with tomatoes and thin-sliced meat soaked in olive oil. He should have known from the stench that something was wrong. Ham wasn’t supposed to be translucent blue. It had obviously outlived an expiration date.

No one else complained, which meant it was either a conspiracy against Americans, or the Italians had simply developed a tolerance for sunbaked pig. Then the main course—oily, deep-fried sea-something with an odor of catfish stink bait. After two bites, his stomach went over the edge.

Linda Robertson bent for her purse and caught a whiff of her husband. “Oh my, did you throw up?”

“Throw up?” he squeaked. “Why would you think that?”

“Your knees are dusty, and I do have a nose,” she quipped. “Michael, look at me. You did, didn’t you?”

He grimaced. “The fish had a funny aftertaste.”

Carlo Burno, the master of ceremonies, was making his way down the lengthy table, greeting each of the ten finalists and their spouses.

Linda checked the time and tore open a roll of antacids. “Do you want to lie down? There’s a lounge upstairs.”

Robertson’s only response was a sour belch.

“Professor, I’m your wife, and I love you.” She turned his head. “See that saxophone player? If you make a scene at this table, I’m going back to the hotel with him. Chew.”

“You barely ate anything,” Carlo observed as he reached their table, massaging Robertson’s shoulders. “Perhaps we should have prepared something a little more American. I hear y’all are partial to fried chicken.” The remark drew a table chuckle.

“It’s the competition,” Linda spoke up. “He’s a little queasy. He’ll be fine.”

Carlo smiled sympathetically. “Parasites. Sometimes they hide in the suction cups. It’s rare, but it happens. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. I’m reminding all the finalists about the press conference. The winner will have a few minutes to address the media. With so many reporters here, we might as well take advantage of the publicity. Good luck.”

Suction cups?
Robertson felt his stomach undulate. His mouth filled with saliva.
Focus. Concentrate on the audience . . . no—read something
.

He snatched the ceremony’s program booklet. Candidate biographies. The inflow of information successfully routed his brain away from suction, stomachs, and food. He had never seen his name in gold leaf before. He flipped to the back page and an English version of the menu. His eyes widened:

. . . remove eyes, outside skin, and intestines . . . cut off head and tentacles . . . combine ingredients into cavity and sew closed . . .

“I’m sorry I missed such a delicious meal. Calamari imbottiti is an Italian tradition,” a heavyset man announced in a thick German accent. “Good to see you again, Michael. I’m so pumped I really don’t feel like eating. The world’s most prestigious technical competition can ruin an appetite, even in Rome.”

“Hello, Gerhard,” Robertson said, setting the program booklet aside and closing his eyes again. “I thought Germans were always prompt?”

“I was trimming my acceptance speech. It was much too long.”

“Gerhard Bender, this is my wife, Linda.”