Spiders from the Shadows

SEVEN


Raven Rock (Site R), Underground Military Complex, Southern Pennsylvania


The former FBI Director let himself out of the tiny bathroom. His hands were shaking and he knew his face was ashen but there wasn’t anything he could do. If they were suspicious, they would search him. If they searched him, they would find the electrical device he had regurgitated stuffed inside his right pocket, and he would be killed. There wasn’t much more to it. In the next few minutes, he would know.

The two Marines were waiting, obviously impatient. They walked toward him as soon as he appeared. One of them glanced inside the bathroom, pushing the door back to check it out. The room reeked. He instantly recognized the smell. He hesitated just a minute but didn’t say anything.

If the Marine were being dragged to see the president, he would feel sick as well, James thought to himself.

Holding James by the elbows, the Marines started walking down the hall.

Inside his pocket, James kept the tiny drone tucked in a loose fist, protecting it as if it were as fragile as a butterfly, which, of course, it was. Ahead of him, he saw the set of double glass doors etched with the presidential seal. According to the briefing, he’d have to pass through a final electronic sensor on the other side of the glass doors.

He had to get rid of the drone before he got there or they would find it.

Twenty feet or less now.

He had to let it go.

He glanced behind him. No one was there. The hallway up ahead was crowded. More guards waited—two Army officers, one of them holding the door. Pulling his hand out of his pocket, the bug tucked gently in the open space between his fingers, he pretended to cough, and brought his other hand to his mouth as a distraction, then dropped the bug behind him on the carpet floor.

He held his breath, waiting. The men kept walking. No one said anything. One step. Two steps. Three steps. The set of double glass doors was only ten feet before him now. He faked another coughing fit, and turned his head. Looking over his shoulder, he saw tiny electronic bug was in the air, its paper-thin wings buzzing. It lurched, then climbed and landed think you should gou eto the on the ceiling, where it started crawling forward, moving toward the open door.





Offutt Air Force Base, Headquarters, U.S. Strategic Command, Eight Miles South of Omaha, Nebraska


The video screen suddenly burst into light. The image was grainy and halting, but reasonably clear.

“I got it!” one of the technicians yelled from his cluttered console. “I got it! I got it! OK, he dropped the bug. It’s been deployed! I’ve got good imagery. Partial feedback . . . OK . . . OK . . . we’re good to go. I’ve got control of the Dragonfly. I say again, I’ve got control. It’s responding to my commands now. We’ve got hover. I’m moving upward. Going to get some space between the drone and the people there so they don’t see it. OK, OK, up on the ceiling . . . hooks deployed . . . we’re on the ceiling now.”

The tiny lens, no larger than a fly’s eyes, transmitted from the hallway outside the presidential suite. It showed a picture from about shoulder height, then hovered upward toward the ceiling, where it stopped and hung, suspended. The camera angle suddenly inverted as the tiny reconnaissance drone approached the ceiling, then flipped over as the bug dug its Velcro hooks into the tile. Looking down, the lens continued broadcasting to the receiver/transmitter left in the bathroom forty feet down the hall. Then, slowly, as if on tiny legs, the image started moving toward the double glass doors. Seeing through the bug’s tiny lens, the men inside Offutt’s command center were able to make out a small group of people in the hallway. Closer, almost directly below them, they saw three men, two of them in uniform, a black man in the middle, the guards’ hands on his arms. The audio started cutting through, transmitting the mix of voices from deep inside of Raven Rock.

The technicians shouted congratulations to each other.

Dragonfly was a go.

Brucius jerked forward in his seat, his chief of staff beside him, their eyes intent, their faces drawn with equal fascination and concern. Brucius couldn’t believe the image they were receiving from what was essentially a reconnaissance aircraft not much larger than a fly. The grainy image was not perfect—it paused and halted and was grainy as a first-generation security camera—but he could clearly see his best friend being led toward two Army officers waiting near a set of etched glass doors.

The Dragonfly was inching forward. James and the two guards in the hallway moved much faster. It quickly fell behind.

Brucius leaned toward the main screen on the wall. “Can you make it fly to get into the presidential office suite?” he demanded of the technicians.

“We can’t risk it, Mr. Secretary. If we fly now, they’re going to see it.”

Brucius turned around. “It’s got to get through the doorway!” he yelled.

The men were now ten paces farther up the hallway. They were walking quickly. The drone was moving forward just a bare inch at a time.

“It’s not going to make it,” the chief of staff repeated. “It’s going to get locked outside the door.”

Brucius turned back to the pilot technician. “You’ve got to take a chance and fly it. If the drone doesn’t get inside the presidential suite, all of this will be for nothing.”

The technician jerhe door as he