Drone Ace A James Barlow Adventure

CHAPTER 1

PRESENT DAY

Talking heads on television were losing Grant Levy’s interest despite the buxom anchorwoman who really didn’t need to say anything –– just looking at her teased blonde mane and sculpted legs behind the see-through desk was usually entertainment enough. Despite the appeal of lusting over someone he’d never have a chance in hell of hooking up with, the bachelor reporter kept looking down at an op-ed piece in Sunday’s New York Times lying open on his coffee table

–– 5 feet closer than the television.

Hot reporter –– or Times bullshit –– tough decision, complicated more by the fact he hadn’t been laid in months. By a narrow margin print trumped boobs, and the Times finally won the attention battle –– so much for his primal urges.

Levy lived in a closet-sized one bedroom flat on the 4th floor of a 100 plus year-old building in Manhattan’s colorful Garment District. His sole roommate was an overfed, purebred Russian Blue tomcat named Joey. Predictably, Levy’s nightly entertainment was 15 minutes of playtime with Joey followed by FOX’s evening news. The conservative news, especially delivered by FOX’s former Miss America - Mandy Thomas, made the liberal reporter rethink his political alliances.

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Who’d have thought a conservative sex goddess had the power to change ones view of world politics? Grant congratulated FOX nightly –– if you want a man’s attention, give him something blonde and hot to look at. Gone were the Trust this hound dog face days, of Walter Cronkite.

On dull news nights, Levy would dive head first into one of his thousand books about war –– his specialty as a journalist.

Picking up the paper Levy’s bifocals enlarged the paper’s text to a readable size.

ELEVEN YEARS AGO TODAY, AN ATTEMPT TO ASSASSINATE

PRESIDENT JOHN PARKER CAME TO A DRAMATIC CONCLUSION

AS UNMANNED AERIAL VEHICLES –– UAV’S, AND SPECIAL-FORCES OPERATORS UNDER COMMAND OF ADMIRAL JAMES

ROBBINS SUCCESSFULLY BLOCKED WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN A DISASTER RIVALING 9/11. THE ATTEMPT. ROBBINS, THEN

COMMANDER OF THE UNITED STATES SPECIAL OPERATIONS

COMMAND, HAS SINCE TAKEN HELM OF THE UNITED STATES

AS ITS SITTING PRESIDENT. A RECENT SURGE IN GLOBAL

TERRORIST ACTIVITIES HAVE MANY OF THOSE WHO PUT

HIM IN OFFICE ASKING IF ROBBINS IS STILL UP TO THE

CHALLENGE OF KEEPING AMERICA SAFE.

Bullshit, Levy horse whispered, continuing to read the article.

This half page above-the-fold missive rankled him. Most New York Times reporting, although liberally biased, was usually accurate despite political agenda.

This story was full of inaccuracies. Well, not exactly inaccuracies so much as omissions and half-truths, he mused.

Reflecting back, Levy remembered events leading up to the famous incident.

A week before that assassination attempt, Levi had been ordered by the New York Times managing editor to sit on a story he was developing on drone warfare.

Levy’s story hinted at the possibility of an attempt on President Parker or another high-level politician’s life. Because of required obedience (and loyalty) to the former editor, Levi missed scooping what was heralded as the most significant news event of the decade –– maybe even the century.

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The bigger story, not mentioned anywhere in the current op-ed, was how an 18-year-old deliberately crashed a small homebuilt drone into a terrorist built drone-bomb. The lethal RPV was on a collision course with Air Force One during its final approach to landing at Daytona Beach International Airport. If the plot had gone as planned the enemy drone could easily have downed the president’s airplane.

President Parker, and potentially thousands of others were saved that day by the skills of this young man. The media milked the story for weeks labeling the young man, Drone Ace –– James Clancy Barlow. News sources later revealed his first name was in honor of a family friend who ironically happened to be USSOCOM commander –– James E. Buzz Robbins.

Fuck me, Levy whispered, Robbin’s is President of the United States, he knows better than anyone what happened. If Robbins [who publically admits to reading the Times everyday] doesn’t ask for a rewrite of the piece –– I’ll bet this is a cover-up, or a forced disappearance at the very least. Levy’s keen nose-for- news was not far from wrong.

Robbins’ name appeared 23 times in the article. Young James Barlow was not mentioned at all.

Grant read the entire article twice. The blatant omission was strange considering the enormous amount of press the incident garnered. It was very odd there was no mention of James Barlow. He was the real hero of the thwarted assassination attempt. Levy reread the article several times convincing himself there was a purposeful avoidance of any reference to Barlow.

Robbins was clearly the man-in-charge of protecting the President back then, but young Barlow should have, at the very least, warranted honorable mention in this recounting of the event. What Grant didn’t know, couldn’t know, is that for over a decade, James Clancy Barlow had been slowly buried behind a veil of government imposed secrecy. Responsible for this secret life was none other than Admiral, now President, James E. Robbins.

Grant turned on his computer and did a quick name search. He found no reference to James Barlow on Wikipedia, Google, Facebook, Twitter or any other social media. In fact, Barlow’s part in thwarting the assassination attempt wasn’t

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mentioned in any story about the globally publicized incident. Somehow facts had been rewritten and transparently redacted to eliminate any mention of the part James Barlow and his family played in preventing the president’s assassination and the downing of Air Force One.

Grant followed young Barlow’s life up until his third year at Annapolis, the United States Naval Academy. As he recalled, Barlow had been involved in some sort of training accident while at the academy. Levy reasoned incorrectly that the accident had probably sidelined Barlow’s military career –– at the time it seemed that was the end of the James Barlow story.

Joey, this smells like a story, what do you think pal? Levy reached out and stroked the lanky blue shorthaired body of his well-fed cat as it casually cruised across his keyboard.

Note to self, Levy said aloud, Find out what the fuck happened to James Barlow, and why he’s been eliminated from any story about the assassination attempt.

Grant Levy had hit a dry spell in his journalistic career. He’d grown weary of reporting war news and thought a novel would be his reawakening as a writer.

Biographies of heroes were always a good sell. Maybe the Barlow story was a dead end, but then again? As it would turn out, James Clancy Barlow’s story was just beginning, and any written or verbal accounting of his remarkable life would be challenged to do it justice.

CHAPTER 2

A SIMPLE HELLO — SAME DAY

Hi Mom.

Jim, what a pleasant surprise –– are you in town? The words were sticky in Leigh Barlow’s throat.

Sorry, can’t say.

Oh –– sorry, she paused, searching for the right words.

James Clancy Barlow hated being so cryptic. Their relationship had been even more strained since the death of his grandfather several months earlier, his mother’s father. He was unable to attend the funeral, and did not call her until several weeks after the military burial at Arlington National Cemetery. Leigh Barlow was naturally distressed over her only son’s need to be secretive with her, and mystified at his insensitivity to the death of his own grandfather Leigh’s husband and only offspring worked on Top Secret projects for the U.S. government. She knew the game, but didn’t like the rules or how it was played.

Finally words came. Any chance I’ll get to see you soon?

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Not sure mom, Barlow replied haltingly. , I’ll be out of pocket for at least the next two months. Is dad around? Barlow already knew the answer –– the deceptions never seemed to end, he thought

He’s TDY overseas, I think he’ll be home in about two weeks. Westech emailed me today and relayed a message from him that all is well, be home soon.

James Barlow was less than 10 miles from his parent’s home in Daytona Beach. He could have made a short visit, but chose not too.

Barlow already knew his father was overseas. He just wanted to hear the sound of his mother’s soothing voice –– perhaps hoping it would ground him emotionally –– but most likely to ease his guilt at not visiting her personally. The call was not working as planned. Hearing her only made him sad and ashamed of how cold and calculating he’d become.

For over a decade James Barlow had kept secrets from both parents. Mostly from his mother, who seemed to never run out of questions he was not allowed to answer mostly in the interest of national security. His dad Dave Barlow also had little contact with him. Both of their government directed jobs were highly compartmentalized. They seldom knew what the other was involved in.

The urge to drive over and surprise her should have been overwhelming –– for some reason it wasn’t. Deep down he knew. a visit would only open an ongoing argument or bring up emotions he wasn’t ready to deal with.

In a few minutes, he’d be airborne in a one-of-a-kind machine that would transport military airpower into the 22nd century and beyond. For now that was the only task he could focus on. Besides, to the few people at Westech who’d seen him on the property, none of which knew his mother, the standing directive when James Barlow was on Westech property was he was never there and what he was involved in never took place. Fortunately Leigh Barlow would never know he was near.

How’s everything?

It’s all good Jim, I just miss having my two men around. She was hoping that over time that would change.

The social void between Barlow and his family had widened. His biggest regret

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was the inability to share his life with them. Both parents understood the nature of his work, but as the veil of secrecy thickened around him, communication with them had become necessarily limited and mostly cryptic.

Barlow sighed quietly, listening patiently as his mother unloaded details of her day that sounded like white noise. He wanted to be interested, but it wasn’t happening. The phone grew silent at a point where he should have said something.

Jim, are you still there?

Yes-yes, I’m still here –– you were saying? He really had no interest in her ramblings, and felt a growing guilt because of his disinterest. Minutes passed and Leigh Barlow finally ran out of steam or came to an obvious realization that the call was one sided or more likely over with. Neither seemed interested in continuing, so the conversation stopped and goodbyes were exchanged. That was not what he’d intended, but then what had he expected her reaction to be.

His biggest fear had become a reality. His job, the secrecy, and months of isolation on top of his restricted contact with the outside world had made him a stranger to his own family. He mentally avowed to change this but, for now, just didn’t know how.

Barlow felt an urgency to say something meaningful.

Mom, remember you can call the number I gave you if you need anything and dad’s not around.

Yes, I have the number, Leigh answered, frustrated at the meaningless exchange.

Barlow knew she’d never use the number knowing it was actually to a CIA switchboard operator. The reminder had actually angered her; regardless, he felt the need to remind her. She hated the CIA.

I have to go mom. I’ll call when I can. I love you. He paused awaiting a response.

A long moment passed. Love you too son, be safe.

With that, his mother disconnected as if on cue, and James Barlow left for the ready room to suit up for the long evening flight. The price for fucking freedom shouldn’t be this high, he muttered to himself.

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* * *

The pilot ready room at Westech was not your typical fighter jock shop with plush leather seats and fold down writing tables. It was conspicuously absent squadron plaques and other macho testaments to the superior skills of the airmen within. Unlike fighter or bomber pilots who worked as teams relying on the skills of their fellow pilots to watch their backsides, drone pilots worked alone, without wingmen –– camaraderie was not a necessity for the job.

Drone pilots typically flew from the ground, far away from the action. The exception to this rule was James Barlow. As he was fond of saying to his boss,

I fly drones both ways, which usually confused anyone within earshot. Only a hand full of people knew what Westech’s latest flying toy was capable of. All who worked on Westech drones were cleared for TOP SECRET projects. That would not change in the foreseeable future. Unfortunately with secrets came responsibility. Not everyone was inclined to keep secrets, especially when huge sums of money compelled them to do otherwise. But money was not always the most powerful motivator –– as Barlow would learn.

Accessing the super secret control room that also served as a ready room for the drone operators required retina and thumbprint scans plus a full body x-ray each and every time you re-entered the room. It was an aggravating, but necessary precaution considering the top-secret nature of ongoing drone operations at Westech.

As Barlow entered the darkened control room, affectionately called the Pilot Palace by drone operators employed by Westech, he marveled at the world he’d help create. Replacing traditional stuffy leather chairs of a military ready room were ergonomic mesh chairs that would look appropriate on the set of a science fiction movie.

Three long, curved, concentric workstation consoles stretched across the room’s 100-foot width –– almost every mesh chair facing the consoles was occupied.

Spaced every 10 feet along the consoles, each monitor station was manned by two people: a pilot and a sensor operator. A monitor station was comprised of a primary display for attitude control of the drone, a navigation display, a systems

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display and a weapons status display. There were 32 such stations in the room.

Currently 28 were manned. It was a busy place.

Westech was a specialty drone provider meaning they provided unique drone technologies and operating personnel to military, security and intelligence customers around the world. Their largest customer was the United States Government –– more specifically the CIA. Twenty-seven of the 28 drones now being controlled by Westech were on clandestine CIA sanctioned missions. The 28th drone was high over the Gulf of Mexico on a drug interdiction mission for Homeland Security.

When Barlow entered the control area, no one looked up. Each operator was focused on a mission.

At the back of the room, thumb-print-scan accessible lockers lined the wall.

Each had an engraved letter and number affixed to its door –– no names were used.

The alphanumeric name on Barlow’s locker was A41. The A stood for Attack pilot; the 41 referenced his seniority among the other attack drone operators.

Barlow’s father Dave had a locker placarded A06. It was next to his locker.

Barlow reached out as a reflex and touched his dad’s locker –– an unexpected static spark met his palm.

Shit, Barlow whispered, retracting his hand quickly from the zap.

The two Barlow men, father and son, weren’t just connected by blood. On a mental level they were like identical twins. Any contact with his father, however visceral, always made him feel stronger. Barlow whispered, Wish you were here dad. The metal locker now felt unusually cold to the touch. Barlow slowly removed his hand –– a feeling of unexplainable emptiness swept over him.

Barlow knew his father was off campus somewhere in the Middle East. They had not spoken for a month, and their paths had not crossed for over three months.

He loved his job, but the toll paid by his family was at times like this, untenable.

* * *

The Daytona Beach Westech compound had an underground drone launch facility two hundred yards behind its brick and mortar research building ––

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building 104. It was normally hidden by a realistic fake Alligator swamp that was actually a roof covering the launch pad. It discouraged prying eyes and reduced likelihood of overhead (satellite) view of the facility.

Just prior to takeoff, the fake swamp rooftop split into an odd shaped opening that allowed a vertical takeoff and closed immediately after the drone cleared the surface.

Westech’s Florida drone port was one of the most highly guarded secrets in North America. All Westech drone platforms had vertical launch and retrieval capability. This undetectable launch facility proved invaluable as a means to guard their secret base, providing virtually undetectable deployment of drone missions for their customers.

"Westech’s business model was the envy of all government contractors. They never sold their hardware, choosing to lease, (at premium rates) its services and equipment to an ever-growing customer base. They held a unique position in the drone market place. They were openly acknowledged as being light years ahead of the competition. The United States Government had funded a majority of their research and development through DARPA and numerous Black Banks in exchange for more reasonable lease rates and some exclusivity on the more secretive products developed by Westech. The company brain trust was the sway that earned almost unlimited U.S. Government funding to this small Florida based company. Westech employees, by any measure, were the brightest on the planet when it came to RPV design.

CHAPTER 3

THREE HOURS LATER

Mojo, Tank –– ten north, inbound one point five, Navy Commander James Clancy Barlow ––, call sign Tank, released the transmit button on the right side stick. He’d used his personal call sign, noting fuel remaining as 1,500 pounds.

The hum of the drone’s high bypass jet engine pulsed a comforting vibration he could easily feel.

The tight drone cockpit wrapped tightly around Barlow’s athletic 6’ 2" frame.

For over an hour his muscles had begged for a seventh inning stretch. He kept reminding himself the express purpose of this drone was to rescue high value individuals – not provide them with airline service. At that moment he wished first class accommodations had been a design consideration. In a few minutes he’d be on the ground and could unfold his lanky frame. He added a little power to speed up the approach to landing.

Before leaving Daytona he’d requested a military escort. Powers above his pay grade deemed that a potential security concern –– the request was denied. Flying without an escort, he was ordered to carry a HK MP7a1 suppressed submachine

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gun in the event an unplanned landing might require him to provide security for the valuable drone until help arrived.

Carrying the weapon across his chest with its stubby barrel pointed down at his left thigh made the already crowded cockpit even less hospitable. The drone’s single seat compartment, unfortunately, had not been designed with comfort or weapon storage in mind. Barlow thought the machine gun was an unnecessary precaution. He lost the argument when Westech’s president Philip Harmon asked him how good a knife fighter he was. He responded, I don’t even own a knife.

Well now you own a machine gun, so you won’t need one, was the glib reply.

Barlow sighed uncomfortably, Gotta rethink this fucking seat design. His low back screamed louder with each passing minute.

On the ground, a lone individual wearing a Nomex flight suit looked northward keying his handheld mic, "Roger Tank, one point five. The LZ is 30

meters east of dock 2. Winds calm, altimeter three – zero – zero – three, cleared for the option –– ChemLights located four corners of landing area, negative contact, replied Commander Mike Costa, aka Mojo."

There is no option Mojo. I’m landing this thing or ejecting, replied Barlow grimacing as he tried to relax his tensed muscles.

Roger that, you’re cleared to land –– chute arrival not authorized, Costa answered, smiling.

Costa’s FUJI 10 by 70mm FMT-SX binoculars were designed for low light use. He was looking in the right direction, but was unable to pick up the drone as he scanned the starless night sky above the Interstate 95 Bridge a mile north of the shipyard. Getting a visual on the stingray shape was virtually impossible at night, even if you knew where to look. The drone was designed primarily for night operations. Its airframe skin was a night adaptive refractive material designed exclusively to reflect and bend light waves. It made the drone virtually invisible in a night sky. It was never intended to have daylight visual cloaking like its big brother the DREAMER. The one of a kind MQDM-1 DREAMER mini was hiding as advertised as it blended seamlessly with the pitch colored Connecticut sky. Night vision goggles or binoculars, could see the drone’s small heat signature

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if you knew where to look. Costa made a mental note to wear NVGs next time he observed a night landing of the drone.

The MQDM-1 was unique in that it could be flown from outside remotely, or inside, personally. While this concept was not new, it had never been utilized in this manner. The mini was designed primarily for nighttime extraction of a single hostage or rescuing a downed pilot. Normally it would transport its pilot/

operator to a position of safety close to the target, drop off the pilot, who would then remotely fly the drone in for the grab, or into battle as the mission required.

Tonight it was completing a repositioning flight from Daytona Beach, Florida to Groton, Connecticut. It would soon be mated to the back of a