Drone Command

SIXTY-EIGHT

They’ve launched the Wu-14!” General Onstot shouted, pointing at the screen. A cacophony of panicked Japanese blasted over the audio system. Lane’s advisors sat in stunned silence.

“Cut the sound, please,” Lane said to a VTC technician manning the video teleconference controls. The MIC OFF sign flashed a moment later. Lane glanced at Ito’s cabinet room video monitor. Everyone there stood on their feet and pointed excitedly at the Ningbo missile launch. Lane swore Tanaka was smiling. Myers was clearly shocked.

“How long do we have, Admiral?” Lane asked.

The chief of naval operations stared at the screen. “Best guess, six minutes at most. Probably half that. Once that bird reaches terminal velocity, it will be traveling at nearly eight thousand miles an hour. Whatever you have in mind, sir, do it now.”

The George Washington lurched into flank speed. Giant white wakes foamed behind her fantail. With two nuclear reactors cranking two hundred and sixty thousand horsepower, the hundred-thousand-ton vessel could make more than thirty knots, half again as fast as World War II — era battleships like the USS Arizona.

“Can the George Washington outmaneuver the Wu-14?” Wheeler asked. She was a foreign-policy expert, not a military one.

“We don’t think so,” the CNO said. “But it’s damn well worth trying.”

The giant American aircraft carrier began launching its aircraft, too.

“Options?” Lane asked.

“Call President Sun. There must be a self-destruct on that thing,” Shafer said.

“Too late. Not sure he’d do it anyway,” Lane said.

“Pearce, you said you’ve got a software bug planted on board?” General Onstot asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you crash the damn thing into the drink?” the admiral asked. “Or can we blow it up ourselves?”

“Yes. To both,” Pearce said.

“Can we capture it?” Garza asked. “Guide it out into the Pacific; let the Navy pick it up off the ocean floor?” He turned to the admiral. “Would that even be remotely possible?”

“Depending on where and how you dropped it. Yeah, it’s possible.”

The service chiefs launched into a fevered discussion about pulling a salvage operation together on short notice.

Pearce’s voice rumbled on the audio speaker. “Mr. President, I need to speak with you privately.”

“The clock’s ticking, sir,” Garza said.

“You’ve got thirty seconds,” Lane said. He dashed to a private secure conference room designed for just such a meeting. Lane slammed the door shut. The room’s only window fogged electronically, shielding him from view.

“What’s on your mind, Troy?”

“I’ve put an option in play.”

“What option?”

Pearce explained.

Lane couldn’t believe his ears.

“You’re sure?”

“Ian guarantees it. That’s good enough for me.”

“You could’ve told me this before.”

“Wasn’t an option until the missile was launched.”

“Does Margaret know?”

“No, sir.”

A knock on the door. Garza’s voice. “David, you’re out of time.”

Pearce had just handed Lane a live hand grenade. Most presidents would have panicked. But Lane wasn’t like most presidents. His pilot training kicked in. John Boyd’s famous OODA loop popped into his mind: “Observe, orient, decide, act.” It had saved his life many times before.

Maybe it would save his country now.