Collateral (Tier One #6)

Ember Up-Armored SUV

Odessa, Ukraine

1651 Local Time

“Dude, why are you driving so slow?” Dempsey said, glancing at the speedometer from the passenger seat. For some reason he’d agreed to let Munn drive, a decision he was now beginning to regret. “My friggin’ grandmother drives faster than you.”

“First of all, I’ve met your grandmother, and the only thing that woman does faster than me is down expensive scotch, which is not something to brag about,” Munn fired back. “And second, I’m driving slow on purpose—to give Wang time to get his shit together.”

Wang, who normally would have come back with a defensive zinger, did not reply—because comms with the Boeing had gone down the moment they closed within ten blocks of the target, a development Dempsey knew to be telling in its own right.

“Do you think they know we’re coming and are jamming our comms?” Grimes said from the back seat, her voice uncharacteristically uneasy.

Dempsey considered her question for a moment, then said, “Probably.”

He knew the near miss in Mariupol had spooked her. Getting almost bombed tended to have that effect on people. From the day he’d joined Ember, their secret sauce had always been tactical and technical superiority. When the enemy was a bunch of Afghani goatherds with AK-47s, their tactical advantage remained comfortably large. Even false flag operations run by Iran’s VEVAK had been no match for Ember’s superiority. But when the enemy was Russian covert operatives, their advantage became practically nonexistent.

The key to victory is to seek parity with your enemy—said no one ever.

“What are you smiling about?” Munn said with a sideways glance.

“Nothing,” Dempsey said, “just thinking about how nice it’s gonna be to order a big fat Kansas City strip at Bern’s when we get back home, and have Mike Casey pay for it.”

“Dude, I told you not to do that shit to me,” Munn said, shaking his head. “Now you’re gonna have me thinking about steaks the entire op, and my aim is going to suck.”

“Your aim always sucks, let’s be honest.”

“For once, can you guys knock it off and get serious?” Grimes said.

“No reason to get bent outta shape—”

“Jus . . . just stop,” she stammered, cutting Dempsey off. “For once, could you please just stop?”

“All right, Freckles, we’ll shut up.”

“I told you, I don’t like that nickname,” she said, using her exasperated voice. “I’d rather you go back to Long-Gun Lizzie.”

“Okay. Sorry,” Dempsey said, and everything got quiet. Martin, who was riding in the back next to Grimes, hadn’t said a word since leaving the airport. Dempsey twisted around in his seat and looked at the Marine. “You good, Luka?”

“Oorah, brother,” Martin said, but his face was all business.

Dempsey twisted around a little more to make eye contact with Grimes, who shot him her I’m epically annoyed with you eyes. In response, he flashed her his best love ya, kid big brother smile and held it until she shook her head and looked away.

“Do we pause?” Munn asked.

Dempsey laughed out loud.

“No,” he said. “With every ounce of strength we’ll accomplish our mission,” he added, paraphrasing a line from the SEAL creed.

“Agreed. But if we don’t get comms back, what do you want to do?” Munn said.

Dempsey pulled out the tin of Kodiak he’d snagged from Chunk and packed a wad into his bottom lip. “Every time we operate with Chunk, he gets me back on this shit.”

“Don’t change the subject, bro. You didn’t answer my question.”

Dempsey gutted the first swallow of tobacco juice. He pulled a tablet PC from his vest pocket and pulled up the imagery of the warehouse where the Astrolog missile transport vehicle was being stored. “They certainly can’t launch the missiles from inside. At a minimum, they’re gonna have to drive that Astrolog out into the street . . . so, I suppose we could conduct a little ISR and see what we see.”

“Do a perimeter drive-by?” Munn said.

“Yeah,” he said, hollow and unconvincing.

“Great idea,” Grimes said, her voice oozing with sarcasm. “That way if there are pre-positioned Zeta snipers, they can cut us to ribbons right away.”

“It’s a risk, yes,” Munn countered, “but the problem is, we’re running out of time. Casey thinks the launch is imminent, so we don’t have the luxury of surveilling this thing to death like we normally would.”

“We don’t even know how many Zetas we’re dealing with,” Grimes said. “We don’t know if they’re augmented with local assets or Spetsnaz shooters like we augmented with SEAL Team Four in Mariupol.”

Dempsey exhaled with irritation. Why did it always have to be like this? In combat, nothing was ever simple, easy, or obvious. There was always a rub . . . always some unknown variable waiting to bite you in the ass.

“The last thermal pass from before kickoff showed only three people in the warehouse,” he said.

“And thermals everywhere else around, any of which could be operators, snipers, a QRF like the one hidden in the cold storage facility—anything,” Grimes said. “I think the fact that our comms are down is a strong indicator we are working against an experienced Russian team that has prepared for our intervention. We should expect friction at every point.”

“Grimes is right,” Martin said, finally speaking up. “Going in blind and deaf would be a big mistake. Even if it’s just for ISR.”

“All right,” Dempsey said, turning around in his seat once again to look at Martin and Grimes. “We’ll park two blocks out, get the PIXIEs in the air, and take a look.”

“They’re going to see the swarm. Hell, everybody on the street is going to see it,” Grimes said.

“Then what do you suggest, Elizabeth?” he said, getting short for real now. “This is the mission. We’re out of options and out of time. It’s either we drive a loop or use the PIXIEs. Those are our two choices.”

When she didn’t respond, he turned to Munn. “Pull over along the curb.”

Munn nodded and eased the SUV into a gap along the curb. Instead of shifting the gear lever into Park, he left the transmission in Drive, engine at idle, and held the brake depressed with his left foot in preparation for a quick getaway. Without Dempsey having to give the order, Martin climbed through the gap between the middle row captain’s chairs into the SUV’s rear cargo area, where he opened the lid of a large plastic hard case containing forty-eight fist-sized drones. Working quickly, he lifted out the first tray of a dozen drones and set it down inside the lid. Beneath the first tray, a second identical tray was stacked atop two more.

Dempsey opened the PIXIE app on the tablet and initialized the startup sequence, just as Wang had taught him. The software, which relied on no small amount of AI, did the rest. The first flight of triangular-shaped micro-UAVs buzzed to life in their cradles, then lifted off in a tightly spaced, unified hover.

“You can open the cargo hatch,” Martin said over the thrum of thirty-six miniature-ducted rotors.

Munn pressed a button on the console, and the powered tailgate drifted open. With a swipe of his thumb, Dempsey guided the first flight of drones out the back of the SUV and into the air. Martin and Dempsey repeated the process with the next three flights until the swarm was fully deployed.

“Dude, what are they doing?” Munn said, craning his neck to look out the driver’s side window at the drones. “They’re bumping into each other.”

“Here,” Dempsey said, making no attempt to hide his aggravation as he passed the tablet to Martin. “Wang promised me these things used AI and I wouldn’t have to troubleshoot them, but he was apparently full of shit.”

Martin accepted the tablet and got to work, opening the application settings menu.

“You do realize you just gave a Marine an expensive and complicated piece of computer technology,” Munn said, looking at Dempsey. “Words and numbers are like kryptonite for grunts. Hell, there are no crayons involved at all . . .”

Martin paused his tapping, flashed Munn a middle finger salute, and said, “I think the problem with our comms must be local because it’s affecting the drones too . . . They must be jamming across the spectrum.”

“Shit,” Dempsey grumbled. “I was hoping it was just over-the-horizon comms that were down. This changes everything. We’re dead in the water until Wang finds the source and shuts it down.”

“Not necessarily,” Martin said, looking up with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Apparently, the Marine was the only guy paying attention during the PIXIE training session, because these little guys have a backup comms option.”

“Oh yeah,” Dempsey said, nodding. “I do remember Wang saying something about a zero-ES stealth mode—whatever the hell that is—and then he started blabbing, blabbing, blabbing and I tuned him out.”

“Look out the windshield now,” Martin said, climbing back into his middle-row seat.

Dempsey leaned forward and looked up. Where moments ago he’d seen a chaotic blur of ghost-grey shadows tumbling over each other, he now saw a stable swarm. “What did you do?”

“Changed them over to IR comms. If we were on NVGs, it would look like a swarm of fireflies on crack, with each drone flashing its neighbors multiple times a second.”

“Like a remote control and a TV?” Munn said.

“Yeah,” Martin said. “Same principle as our helmet strobes. IR signaling, only visible in night vision or by an IR receiver. Except instead of strobing, the drones are communicating by signaling each other with infrared light pulses.”

“Nice work, Luka,” Dempsey said and extended his hand to get the tablet back. Then, with a crooked grin, he added, “When we get back to Tampa, I’ll put in a transfer request with Casey for you from SAD to Signals.”

“A guy tries to take initiative, and look what happens,” Martin said, shaking his head. He deployed the remaining drone flights and then, grinning, handed the tablet to Dempsey.

On-screen, Dempsey now saw a split image, with the right side displaying a fuzzy cloud on a map of the city, and the left side, an unusual panoramic camera view. Wang had explained that every drone had multiple cameras and that when working together, the swarm functioned like a dragonfly’s compound eye, with the AI software knitting together all the camera feeds into a 360-degree viewing experience.

“That’s fucking weird,” Munn said, looking down at the revolving and ever-changing video feed on the screen.

Dempsey directed the swarm around the corner and down the block by dragging his finger over the map, tracing the path he wanted the drones to take. Unlike with a regular drone, the PIXIEs did not require a pilot. He wasn’t even steering them, just communicating the target location. The swarm AI did all the navigating and the flying.

“If you tap that eyeball icon on the upper left, the imagery will change from video to thermal,” Martin said, leaning forward in his seat.

Dempsey pressed the icon and the streaming video changed to the high-contrast heat-color scheme utilized in thermal imagery. He remembered from the training that he could manipulate the video “bubble” with standard touchscreen gestures—pinching, swiping, rotating, et cetera. It took him a moment to get the feel for it, but the AI was so intuitive that he quickly mastered the interface and conducted a systematic survey of the approach and the buildings across the street from the target warehouse, while his teammates looked on.

“Whoa, that’s pretty fucking cool,” Grimes said, leaning forward and looking over his shoulder.

“Don’t tell Wang I said it, but he’s really outdone himself this time,” Dempsey said, and placed the tablet on the center console armrest so everyone could see. “All right—coming up on the warehouse now . . . Hard to tell with all the structural interference, but I think that is the missile transport vehicle . . . The engine’s cold, but it looks like someone is working on something on the driver’s side.”

“He could be programming the missiles for launch,” Munn said.

“Maybe . . . probably,” Dempsey said as he steered the floating lens around the screen. “There’s another heat signature . . . probably a sentry . . . yeah, I think we can consider this target confirmation.”

“Can I drive for a sec?” Grimes asked.

“Go for it,” Dempsey said and lifted his hand off the tablet.

Grimes repositioned the video bubble and began systematically scanning the upper-level apartments across the street for potential shooters. “Third floor, across the street—one, two, three, four windows in from the north corner—could be a problem, possible shooter and spotter duo . . . I’m gonna try and see if I can see anything through the window without them seeing us. Switching off thermal . . . This guy pacing is definitely a shooter . . . and then this guy, on the fifth floor of the building kitty-corner, in the middle apartment, could be a problem . . . or he could just be watching porn by the window. We won’t know for sure until he gets prone.”

“Scroll back down to street level,” Munn said once she’d finished her scan. “Yeah, good, now slide up the street . . . okay, stop, zoom in on that homeless guy sleeping against the side of the building. Could be coincidence, but his location has sight lines to the warehouse and both the possible snipers. I think he’s their eyes. I’m no signals expert, but I imagine they’re jamming across the spectrum, and this guy is their watchdog.”

“Agreed,” Dempsey said. “Let’s loop the PIXIEs around the block. Check the back of the warehouse, get a complete tactical picture, and then we can plan the assault.”

“What the fuck is that?” Munn said, pointing to a large object positioned tightly against the rear wall of the warehouse as it came into view.

“Looks like a construction dumpster,” Martin said. “And it’s blocking the door.”

“Fuck,” Dempsey growled. “There goes that idea.”

“Were you thinking a rear breach?” Grimes said.

He nodded while zooming in on the bottom of the metal container to see whether it had rollers or skids.

And it has skids . . . of course it does.

“Think we could move it?” Munn asked.

“No fucking way,” Dempsey said, his expression going to a scowl. “But even if we could, it would take too long and make too much noise . . . Shit, we’re going to have to go in through the front.”

“I don’t like the numbers,” Munn said, scratching at the five-day scruff on his neck. “I’d feel a helluva a lot better if we’d kept Chunk around and we had another stick.”

“I know, but you go to war with the army you have, not the army you want. Right now, this is our army,” he said, gesturing in a circle, “and we’re just gonna have to find a way to get it done.”

“If we don’t get comms back?” Grimes said. “Then what?”

Dempsey blew air through his teeth. “Then I guess we better get our psychic connection dialed in, because we’re blackholing these assholes, one way or another.”