The Archangel Drones (27 page)

“So this wasn’t recorded by someone just passing by the scene?”

Carl shook his head and then seemed to remember he was on the air. “No, I don’t believe it was. If you watch the video frame by frame, there is no evidence of any editing or tampering. Whoever recorded this had access either to a crane or some other aerial device, in addition to some very expensive hardware.”

The studio cameraman then focused back on the anchor’s face. “Thank you, Carl. Our researchers here at Channel 21 have been unable to locate any information regarding the Citizens Observation Committee. Your Eyewitness News Team has, however, verified that HPD did respond to a call at the corner of West 34
th
and Baker Avenue at the exact time and date noted on the video. We are awaiting verification that the recording is from that incident, as well as further details of any arrests made at that time. Moving on to your morning weather forecast….”

Tony muted the television, his mind processing dozens of questions at once. Padding to the kitchen, he put on a pot of water to heat for instant coffee. The only thing he knew with certainty was that he wasn’t going back to bed.

He’d spent the previous evening preparing the captured video for delivery to all of the local newshounds, a task that was complicated by the need to set up dead-end email accounts. Using an abundance of caution, he’d actually created and utilized the fictitious addresses while riding up and down the city’s metro rail line, using an open laptop, just like the dozens of other passengers aboard the electric train. Access to the internet had been accomplished via a no-contract phone’s WIFI hotspot. The cell had been wiped clean, crushed, and deposited in a dumpster after the last email was on its way across the digital landscape. It was the most expensive email package he’d ever distributed, but it was untraceable. The peace of mind he felt was well worth the extra expense.

It had seemed like an eternity passed while he waited for the morning news programs to splash his masterpiece. Far too keyed up to sleep, Gabe had occupied himself installing the latest upgrade to the system software. He had requested the modifications a few weeks ago, hoping the new code would allow even faster response times and more automatic transfers to and from the drone’s computer brain.

After spending the morning flipping channels and relishing the results of his work, he’d finally grown tired of the same old news being repeated over and over again. He could finally sleep, confident that all of his time, expense, and effort were paying off. Jacob’s death would have meaning after all.

He awoke several hours later, refreshed with a newfound purpose and reinforced vigor. After a quick meal, he returned to assembling the G-2’s final components.

The hours passed, the next generation drone taking shape on the large worktable. Gabe, working with an expensive digital kitchen scale, was using the household hardware to weigh and log each component before attaching it to the new airframe. The goal was to reduce the drone’s girth by nearly two ounces in order to extend its maximum flying time.

A beeping arose from the control panel.

The new software was working, he quickly surmised, abandoning what he termed “playing with the erector set,” and moving to gaze at the bank of computer screens. The system was sounding an alarm beep, the electronic brain having recognized certain words streaming across the police radio. Gabe hustled to sit down, rapidly performing the now almost-routine actions required to launch G-1.

“At least it’s nighttime,” he whispered. “Maybe my little toy will get a chance to show off its real technological capability this time.”

What had attracted the computer’s attention was a call for a SWAT team, an armed suspect barricaded inside an apartment. Shots had been fired.

The Gripen performed flawlessly, zooming over the suburban landscape at 250 feet like a hawk chasing a mouse across the field. Again, the monitors displayed a large cluster of flashing emergency lights, announcing that the drone had indeed arrived at the correct location.

The G-1’s microphone began eavesdropping, easily picking up the conversation and commands of the on-site supervisor. The suspect was currently barricaded in a second-story apartment. Apparently, when the cops had tried to serve an outstanding warrant, he had fired two shots.

It was some time later that Gabe discovered a major weakness in his system. SWAT teams specialized in negotiating with suspects, taking their time in order to accomplish their primary objective and “talk the suspect down.” After hovering for close to an hour, it became evident that the Gripen didn’t have enough battery power to wait out the lengthy arbitration process.

Gabe rotated the drone’s camera, trying to identify a suitable location to land his flying machine until the action started. He wanted the drone’s cameras to remain focused on the scene while stopping the electric motor’s thirsty drain on the batteries. This minor adjustment to his plan morphed into quite the challenging task.

Pulling up a publicly available satellite photo of the area, he searched for just the right landing spot, but there wasn’t one available. While he could detect plenty of flat, unobstructed rooftops in the vicinity, none of them provided an unobstructed view of the suspect’s apartment.

Finally, he decided to touch down and trust the radio to handle the work. While he wouldn’t be able to hear nearly as much information as the drone’s on-scene microphones, he hoped he would have enough notice coming across the police scanner to get the G-1 re-launched and into position.

He spied an apparently abandoned gas station less than four blocks away from the standoff. Slowly maneuvering the G-1 over the structure’s flat roof, he gently decreased the machine’s altitude.

Implementing his scheme was far more difficult than he’d imagined. There was a slight delay between his commands and the Gripen’s response. That time lag was further enhanced by the gap in video feedback displayed on the monitor. After a few white-knuckle moments, the drone was safe and sound, it’s altimeter reading 4.6 meters and refusing to drop any lower. The camera confirmed it was resting safely on the metal pavilion that protected customers from the elements while they filled their tanks.

Gabe sat for what seemed like hours, trying to filter the multitude of police voices discussing the scene, waiting for something to change. He’d actually nodded off in the control station’s chair when the tone of the scanner’s broadcasts changed. “I think he’s coming out,” an excited voice reported.

“Does he still have the weapon?” a different voice asked.

“Unclear.”

Bolting upright, Gabe’s eyes zeroed in on the G-1’s battery indicator, his foggy brain having no idea how long he’d been sleeping. A few quick mental calculations indicated the unit contained about 20 minutes of on-scene time before having to start for home.

It took a bit longer to reprogram the drone’s flight path, this being the first time he’d had to override an existing set of instructions remotely. Finally, the Gripen was airborne and moving the short distance toward the apartment complex.

The infrared cameras made the scene below crystal clear. A ring of man-shapes surrounded a three-story building, their outlines bulging with helmets, body armor, and chests swollen by pouches. It was easy for Gabe to pick out the SWAT team, their AR15-style battle rifles glowing with a unique heat signature.

With a delicate touch on the controls, he managed an angle on the apartment’s door. Again, it was easy to zoom in on the right threshold, two heavily equipped officers bracketing the opening and clearly on high alert. The image was crisp enough to see the exit splinters of two bullet holes on the door’s surface.

Using the Gripen’s parabolic microphones, Gabe could hear their negotiations with the holdout. “Come on, Benny,” one of the SWAT cops was saying through the door. “For the hundredth time, there’s no way out of that apartment but through this door. It’s getting late, dude. Everybody’s tired and getting itchy. Come on out, and let’s just call it a night.”

“Fuck you!” a muffled voice from inside yelled. “I ain’t tired, and I know the minute I come through that door one of you fuckers is going to plug my ass.”

“Nobody is going to shoot you, Benny. That shit only happens on TV. Put down the pistol; put your hands on your head, and come out. There are 15 damn television stations out here filming away. Ain’t nobody getting shot unless
you
get stupid.”

There was a pause, Benny obviously weighing his options. Again, his voice rang thick with defiance, “Bullshit! I know damn well what happens when you shoot at a cop.”

“Are we going to go through this again? You already told me you didn’t know they were cops. I heard you loud and clear. It’s okay…. Shit happens…. Accidents are a part of life. I give you my word, Benny. Come out the right way, and nobody’s going to get hurt. If the cops serving the warrant didn’t identify themselves like you say, then no harm, no foul. Convince the judge of that, and you’ll not be charged for the shooting.”

“I don’t believe you,” the voice from inside the apartment shouted. “I’m as good as dead anyway, so you’re going to have to bust through that door, and I’m taking as many of you bitches out as I can. I ain’t going to spend any more time behind bars…. No way, no how. So come on in, Gents, and let’s dance.”

Gabe watched as the SWAT negotiator bent his head to a shoulder-mounted radio. The video stream was like watching a badly translated movie, a slight delay between the officer’s movements and his lowered voice rumbling over the scanner. “He’s not going for it. Let’s take this up a notch. Bring up the breaching team.”

There was movement in the foreground, the rapid hustle and flash of more man-shapes. Before Gabe could zoom the camera back, the two officers bookending the apartment door were joined by several others, all of them hugging the outer wall of the structure.

“Stun grenade through the window?” whispered one of the new arrivals.

“No, he’s got a mattress blocking the glass on the inside. The door is the only way,” the tense responder advised.

Keeping low, two of the officers cut out of line, one of them wielding what appeared to be a heavy, round pipe with handles fused on the exterior. His partner was brandishing a shield. Gabe could see the team exchanging hand signals, and then the pipe was banging into the door, propelled with significant force by the burly cop.

The battering ram drew back for a second strike, but then the door flew inward, immediately followed by a man appearing in the doorway, his hand firing a pistol at the opening.

A nearby SWAT officer tossed something into the apartment.

The officer manning the battering ram ducked low behind the shield as twinkles of light continued to flash from inside the doorway. And then the entire interior of the apartment blinked bright white, as if a bolt of lightning had suddenly struck from the heavens. “A flash-bang grenade,” Gabe whispered. “Damn.”

The thunderous explosion was still echoing through the control room when the first cop entered the breach, his rifle high and sweeping. Gabe heard another shot, obviously the suspect’s pistol, and then the officer’s rifle ignited with a roar that sounded more like a buzz saw than a discharging weapon.

A few heartbeats later, it was over. The cops poured into the small dwelling, weapons on shoulders, sweeping right and left. Soon the interior was full of light, and the scene suddenly transformed to a cluster of armored-up men standing around, completely relaxed.

A blinking light on the monitor drew Gabe’s attention back to his equipment. The G-1’s battery was getting low. It was time to bring her home.