He nodded as he booted his equipment. “Training. They communicate direction, distance, and type of contact. Whatever this is, it’s airborne, and coming in from the east. Navy SEAL teams command attack dogs via headset commands—the only difference here is that ravens are more intelligent.” He logged on. “And can see and hear for miles and cover vast areas over any type of ground without being detected.”
Foxy’s voice came over the radio channel again. He was examining a tablet computer of his own over by the flight deck doorway. “The only radar contacts the techs have in the east are dozens of miles out. American Airlines Flight 733 from Denver to Salt Lake City forty miles out at thirty-eight thousand feet, and two private aircraft, one eighteen miles out, heading north at four thousand, and another at twenty-two miles out heading southwest at five thousand feet. You sure it wasn’t our MQ-1 they saw?”
Odin looked across the cargo back. “Negative. How many times has Huginn been wrong, Foxy?”
Foxy said nothing.
McKinney stood and braced herself on an equipment rack as the plane bumped in turbulence. She looked over Odin’s shoulder. “You’re sounding the alarm on the report of a bird?”
“Huginn and Muninn don’t act this way unless something is seriously wrong.” He looked at the signals officers studying their radar console. “Those sensors don’t reveal everything.” Odin’s tablet was now booted, and he turned the screen so she could see black-and-white thermal imagery from one of the raven’s cameras. The birds were following something at low altitude. The rocks and scrub soared past in the imagery.
McKinney studied the screen. “A raven’s-eye view.”
Huginn was trailing the black silhouette of a bird of prey gliding over the desert terrain at an altitude of perhaps a hundred and fifty feet. The second raven, Muninn, sometimes entered the frame, meaning they were flying together.
McKinney studied the image. “Looks like a hawk.”
Odin spoke into his radio. “You getting this, Foxy, Hoov?”
“Yeah, Odin, Prof’s right. Looks like the twins sent up the alarm over another bird.”
Odin studied the screen. “That hawk has one problem: It’s got no heat signature.” He pointed his gloved hand at the thermal image, and McKinney could clearly see the difference between the heat intensity of the second raven and the interloper.
Odin keyed another radio. “All units red alert. Bogey one thousand meters out and closing on White Sands Base from the east. Designate bogey Target One. Looks like a microdrone in the shape of a bird. Have the Predator swing around to track this thing. I want stable, detailed imagery on it, and port the video to the team at the JOC.”
Another voice came through, possibly Hoov’s. “On it, Odin.”
Odin strapped on a MICH helmet with a monocle over his left eye, then handed the tablet to McKinney. He appeared to be watching from the helmet eyepiece. “Pretty goddamned clever. Even if it showed up on radar, its speed and profile would match that of a bird.”
“A spotter drone.”
“That would be my guess. It’s too small to deliver any ordnance.”
Foxy’s voice again. “Agreed, boss.”
Odin was adjusting channels on a satellite radio on his harness. “Okay, we’re getting the Predator feed. Give them Huginn’s coordinates, and they should be able to pick up the bogey from there.”
“Got it.”
He adjusted the radio. “The attack drone is probably still over the horizon and won’t reveal itself unless this one finds who it’s looking for.”
“Me.”
“Yes. Let’s hope it takes our bait.” He worked unseen commands on his monocle screen with a handheld controller, and suddenly her table computer showed a surveillance camera image of . . . herself, sitting in a well-lit converted hangar somewhere, motionless, except for her fingers clattering away at a keyboard in front of a large window.
McKinney sat down again, the tablet computer in her lap. She kept her eye on the image there. It felt eerie.
Odin appeared to be clicking through screens of his own. “We’ve got a Predator doing a mile-radius orbit of White Sands Base at ten thousand feet. I wanted to get clear video from a separate platform. We’re much farther out and twice as high, but we’ve got lightning pods for our own thermal imaging.”
“Lightning pods.”
“High-resolution thermal optics in a pod on the wing. Here . . .”
Odin had brought up another thermal image on the tablet. This one was far more clear and stable than that from the ravens. The image showed what was now clearly an artificial bird with a small propeller mounted on the tail. Odin’s ravens ducked in and out of the frame, dogging the interloper, shadowing it.
“Probably electric. Silent.” Odin spoke into his headset. “Huginn, Muninn. Return. Return. Confirm.”
One by one a seeming confirmation caw came in over the radio, and the ravens broke off from trailing the artificial bird on the tablet screen.
McKinney looked at him. “You’re shitting me.”
“I told you they were smart. I don’t want them in the middle of this when the fireworks start.”
The radio crackled. “Odin, signals team says this thing just went into an orbit over White Sands Base. Looks like it detected either the professor’s cell phone or the Bluetooth ID of her laptop.”
Hoov’s voice chimed in, “It’s probably getting a PID on her physical likeness now.”
Odin added, “Stay alert, everyone. When it summons the attack drone, we won’t have much time to intercept it.”
Hoov’s voice. “Best bet’s to head east. That’s where the most likely radar tracks are.”
McKinney and Odin exchanged looks in the semidarkness as they waited and watched.
“Heads up.”
Odin spoke into his mic. “What?”
“It’s signaling.”
The FLIR imagery showed a pulsating laser on the top of the birdlike minidrone. It was flashing rapidly in a variable pattern.
“All right, that’s the attack signal.”
Foxy’s voice. “Yeah, we see it.”
“Could it be signaling a satellite? What sats are overhead at the moment?”
“Got my hands full at the moment. I’ll check later.”
Odin spoke into his mic. “Tailhook, Tailhook. This is Odin. Do you copy?”
“This is Tailhook. Go ahead, Odin.”
“Where are we in our orbit?”
“We’re . . . about fifteen clicks southeast of White Sands Base.”
“Copy that. You see those two echoes east of us? Head to a point midway between them. It’s likely that the main attack drone will be coming in from the east.”
“Copy that, Odin.”
Foxy waved from over on the far side of the plane, where they manned the electronics console. His voice came over the radio. “Odin. Whoo boy, we’ve got something interesting here. That northbound radar contact to the east just turned west on a vector that will run it right over White Sands.”
“Private plane?”
“Affirmative. VFR. No flight plan registered. It’s fifteen miles out and coming in at just under two hundred knots. Altitude one-zero hundred.”
Odin gave a look to McKinney but spoke into the radio. “Here we go. Battle stations, battle stations. Tailhook, you know what to do: Intercept that bogey from above and behind once you confirm it’s a drone.”
“Wilco, Odin. On our way.”
McKinney grabbed the seat as the C-130 went into a steep, banked left turn and an equally steep descent. The g-forces were strong enough that the cargo would probably have stayed in place without straps. Odin remained planted as well, standing without even grabbing a handhold. He was apparently well used to airborne operations.
“Foxy, focus the plane’s lightning pod on that bogey and get me a visual as soon as possible. Put it on channel four.”
“Copy that.”
“Hoov, have the techs review the radar tapes to track that boge
y back to its source, and get a Ranger team airborne. We might be able to catch whoever launched this thing before they get far.”
“Already on it. We just got the info from the FAA on that contact. Looks like it hooked north from a western course fifteen minutes ago. It first came on the radar screens over the Denver metro area. That’s two hundred thirty-six miles from here.”
“Damn. Whoever launched this thing would be long gone by now. Get the info to the local FBI office. Have them work with the FAA to pinpoint the exact GPS coordinates where it first came up to radar altitude. Hopefully we can get some surveillance video that shows where it was launched from.”
“A city. It figures. Must have hid in all the private air traffic.”
After a few moments the C-130 leveled out. The engines throttled up, and McKinney noticed several of the other team members scurrying around, prepping the pallets. Odin, too, was rummaging through Pelican cases and racks on the edge of the cargo bay.
She looked at him. “What happens next?”
“We hope this is our drone. If it is, we bag it before it can self-destruct.” He pulled a black flight suit and parachute from a case and tossed them to her.
She caught them with both hands. The suit was as heavy as a dry scuba outfit but was made of thicker synthetic material. “What’s this?”
“Cold-weather flight suit. If this is our target, we’ll be opening the cargo door, and it’ll be sixty below in here soon. Be sure to close every flap.”
She put the tablet down and started pulling herself into the suit. It felt expensive, and she had no doubt it was military-grade special operations gear. She looked up to see Odin doing the same thing. “So how you planning on bagging this drone?”
“We’re going to deploy an oversized air sock of sorts. NASA tech, specially made Kevlar, Nomex, and ceramic fabric—stuff designed for inflatable space-station sections to withstand micrometeorite impacts. Vented to release pressure. Should be relatively explosion-proof. We’re going to trail that air sock two hundred meters behind this aircraft, then come in from above and behind the drone and scoop it up. If it explodes—as we think it will—almost all the wreckage should remain in the bag.”
She nodded. “And that gets you a complete drone.”
“The wreckage, anyway.” He gestured to the huge block of concrete attached to the first pallet by steel cables. “After we net it, we push this deadweight out the back of the plane, which drags the whole thing down to earth.”
The peculiar cargo now made sense, but then she narrowed her eyes at him. “We’re going to intercept a flying bomb. Did I really need to be here for this?”
He pulled on his black hood, then pulled on a jump helmet with integral headphones of its own. “After your last stunt, you’re not leaving my sight. Besides, with a drone incoming, the ground is not the safest place to be right now.”
She nodded reluctantly and pulled off her own headphones. It suddenly got very loud—the engines howling. She pulled her own integral hood on and was soon quite warm despite the cold. McKinney examined the fabric and shouted, “What’s this material?”
He shouted back, “Classified. Here . . .” He approached her with a sophisticated-looking facemask, flight helmet, and goggles. “Oxygen. In case we need to climb rapidly to chase this thing.” He handed her the goggles first.
She nodded and put them on.
He placed the helmet on her head, took it off, made a few adjustments, and then put it on again. It was heavily padded and had integral earphones. In a moment she heard his radio voice again. “Have you ever used a PHAOS rig?”
She shook her head.
He clipped the aerodynamic oxygen mask onto her helmet. Then he rigged the oxygen bottle into the flight suit. He then held out her parachute pack.
“So you have paratrooper training.”
He eyed her. “I’ve done a few jumps. . . .” Then he also held out the leg loops of a yellow nylon harness. The moment she stepped into it, he quickly buckled it around her. McKinney traced her hand from the harness to a strap that led to the ceiling.
Odin spoke as he worked. “Monkey cord. It’ll keep you from falling out of the aircraft.”
She nodded. “I’ve used them before.”
He smacked her shoulder and gave a thumbs-up. “You’re good to go. Just stay out of the way when all this stuff goes out the hatch.” He gestured to the payload.
McKinney could see that the others had donned their high-altitude and parachute gear as well, along with helmets and monkey cords.
The pilot’s voice came over the radio. “Odin, this is Tailhook. We’ve got eyes on that cyclops. Repeat, eyes on the cyclops. Sending the image on channel four. Over.”
“Copy that, Tailhook.” Odin clipped on his own monkey cord harness, then grabbed the tablet computer. He flipped to channel four.
McKinney leaned in to see a highly detailed black-and-white thermal image.
Odin nodded to himself, then keyed the radio. “Been looking for that son of a bitch for a while. Tango Yankee, Tailhook.”
“Don’t mention it.”
There, on-screen, was the image of a delta-shaped unmanned aircraft, tracking above the badlands in the night, shades of gray on gray. It was visibly different from the drone that had tried to kill her in Africa: a flying wing with a propeller on its trailing edge. The wing surface itself appeared to be of patchwork material—at least on the thermal image. As though it was a hobby project.
Odin keyed the mic. “Foxy, get us as much video imagery as you can on our approach. If it self-destructs, this is all we’re going to get. So I want video from every angle while we’re bagging it. Top, sides, bottom. Got that?”
“Odin, this is Tailhook. We’re a mile behind this thing and coming up fast, but we’re still going to be tight on time if we want to bag it before it drops its payload.”
Odin exchanged hand signals with Foxy. “Copy that, Tailhook. Get us in there, man.”
The plane lurched in sudden turbulence. McKinney grabbed Odin’s arm to steady herself. She focused on the camera image. They were nearly on top of the drone, and she could see the texture on the composite surface.
Another voice came on the intercom. “Stand clear of the cargo doors. Opening in three, two, one . . .”
A loud sucking sound was followed by a rushing roar as the upper rear floor of the cargo bay raised up beneath the tail. A moment later the lower ramp leveled, with hydraulic pistons holding it in place to either side. McKinney could see Foxy and Tin Man moving toward the payload, while the loadmaster and flight engineer looked out the open cargo door with thermal binoculars at the yawning gulf behind them. The view of the vast Utah wilderness below them was beautiful in the crisp winter moonlight.
Odin walked toward the ramp. McKinney stood up but remained where she was as the plane passed close above the mystery drone. It was a hundred or more feet below them and a bit farther back, but the entire team was riveted by it—apparently never having seen their enemy with the naked eye.
Odin’s voice came in over McKinney’s headphones. “Let’s hope One was right about these things not having eyes on the back of their heads.”
In a moment Singleton’s voice came over the radio in response. She hadn’t seen him down at the camp, but he was evidently there. “They’re a Spartan, single-use platform. Their targets are all below them. Eyes above would mean they’d need software to interpret what they’re seeing in a different context. It wouldn’t be justified.”
Odin nodded. “Thanks, One.”
Behind him the loadmaster readied the first pallet with the folded tentlike object on it.
Foxy’s voiced crackled. “Tailhook, this is Foxy. We are deploying the interdiction bag. Get ready for some drag.”
“Copy that.”
Odin motioned for McKinney to stand back, and he moved against the wall next to her. A moment later the small drag chute deployed, pulling the folded bag pallet toward the emptiness beyond the cargo door. In a moment
it tipped off the edge and started unreeling steel cable that quickly pulled taut on the concrete pallet. The securing straps there snapped tight.
McKinney saw the loadmaster checking the cable assembly. He gave a thumbs-up. On Odin’s handheld screen, a night-vision image showed the interdiction bag open like a parachute canopy at the end of a curving, one-hundred-meter length of steel cable behind the C-130.
The loadmaster radioed the pilot. “Interdiction bag deployed. Tailhook, you are GO for interdiction.”
The pilot’s voice came over moments later. “TOC, interdiction bag deployed successfully. We’re moving in to capture.”
“Copy that.”
From this distance it looked like the bag was pathetically small. McKinney decided to edge closer to the ramp alongside Odin. He gave her a brief glance, but she was busy taking in the fantastic view. She could also see the drone more clearly from this vantage point. It was only a hundred or so meters back. It looked even less impressive up close, with perhaps a twenty-foot wingspan. She could hardly believe all this ruckus had been caused by this jury-rigged hobby aircraft.
The drone seemed to be inching back relative to the billowing containment bag, the pilot maneuvering it into position. The bag was aerodynamically stable, apparently due to small fins on its side. Hoov was watching the scene intently as he manipulated a handheld joystick. It occurred to McKinney that he must be controlling it.
The whole team watched in tense anticipation.
The pilot’s voice crackled. “Fifty meters.” A pause. “Thirty meters.”
In the green night-vision camera image the unsuspecting drone eased back toward the bag.
The pilot’s voice came over the radio. “Odin, we’re just three miles to Target One. Altitude ten thousand feet.”
“Just keep it steady.”
On-screen the drone pulled up slightly, and a voice came over the radio. “Bomb in! Bomb in! Target Two has deployed ordnance.”
Odin spoke. “JOC, you’ve got ordnance inbound. All personnel take cover.”
Singleton’s voice came back with a siren wailing in the background. “Copy that, Odin.”
The drone began to climb steeply.