“Ladies and gentlemen, I applaud all of you. You are patriots and visionaries. You all know what will become of us if the spread of radical Islam isn’t halted. You have envisioned this future, so you were ready to place your resources in my hands to build a drone army. I gladly took on this challenge.
“What you’re about to witness is the result of my efforts. The drones are the latest in personal defense stealth technology. They are my design, technologically so advanced not even our military has this capability yet. Despite these advancements, they are easily manned by even the most inexperienced operator. You don’t need pilots with thousands of sorties behind them to navigate these babies.
“They also have internal gyroscopes allowing them to maintain a constant horizon, which means they cannot be accidentally crashed. You can hand the controls to ten-year-olds, and they’ll be able to fly them with ease. Of course, most of the ten-year-olds we know are so advanced with their computer games that this might seem boring to them.” Pause, laughter all around.
“But not the children where we’re sending these beauties. No, they have nothing to help defend themselves against the constant encroachment of the terrorists. Nothing but leftover weapons from failed wars, guns that barely work, if at all. Thanks to all of you, we’re about to change that.
“It is our goal to stop the incessant march of radical Islam across Africa, across these small disadvantaged countries with no hope of fighting it. We are going to arm the people so they can defend themselves. What Britain and the United States refuse to do, we will do for them. Covertly, quietly, and most importantly, cost-effectively. I will have no overruns on project costs, no excuses, no delays. When you decided to go with Radulov, I guaranteed the massive drone army would be built. And this is my promise, my investment in this amazing venture.
“This is what all of you wanted, what all of you agreed to, and why you hired me to make it a reality.
“And yes, everything you’re about to see here is beyond classified. I am going to pass out nondisclosure agreements for you to sign. This will assure me that even if you want to talk about these weapons, you cannot without disclosing your involvement in their development. None of your own investors would regard this with a favorable eye, to say the least, nor would the government. Call it an insurance policy.”
Whispers and outright hostility swept through the group.
Roman’s partner, Corinthian Jones, Lord Barstow, late of Her Majesty’s Security Services and now a consultant for the Crown, was shaking his head. “Roman, do you think it is necessary? As you said, I brought these six patriots to you to build this drone army in the first place. Of course they will keep silent about their involvement.”
Be quiet, you old fool, I know what I’m doing. “My lord, I’m sure you’ll understand when I say this is for my protection, as well as all of yours. We all know what happened when the Americans tried to arm the Contras. It turned into the scandal of the century, and a patriot had to fall on his sword. I have no desire to be that man. As such, I’d hardly fail to protect my interests on such a large investment, and neither would you. And as you know, this is a very large investment, for all of us.
“Now, we need to get started before the sun sets. Please sign the nondisclosure agreements, pass them back to me, put on your ear guards and goggles, and let’s get this show started.”
There was still grumbling, particularly from Paulina Vittorini, the Madonna bitch, as he thought of her, but finally even she signed the agreement. He wondered idly if he was the richest among the six of them. His firm, Radulov Industries, manufactured cybersecurity software that resided on almost every modern computer in the world. Apple and Microsoft now shipped with Radulov’s flagship program MATRIX already installed as part of their most recent operating systems. In many ways, he’d saved the computer age from hackers and terrorists.
Not that he wasn’t humble about it all, at least in public.
It was fitting he’d made his money in cybersecurity, because cyber warfare was the next—the only—logical step. The terrorists had their own weaponry, their own drones and IEDs—improvised explosive devices—and, in some extreme cases, planes. They moved through the dark web unseen, unstoppable, buying and selling drugs and weapons, accumulating wealth and influence, recruiting more and more lost souls to their cause.
Roman’s entire life had been built on preventing the flow of negative information, stopping black hat hackers in their tracks, protecting the vulnerable, the ignorant, the gullible. His values had made him rich; his brilliance and charm had made him popular. In the last piece Forbes did on Roman and Radulov Industries, they’d called him Cyber Superman—he was Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, and Elon Musk rolled into a single brain, with a touch of Tony Stark’s humorous arrogance. He’d liked that.
When Barstow had approached Roman about an off-book black-ops program he’d pictured in his mind—specifically, putting together a private drone army to help the smaller countries the United Kingdom wasn’t able to legally protect—Roman was impressed. He’d jumped at the chance to stop the evil that was spreading unchecked across Africa.
Barstow had quietly assembled the Money—the six people here for the demonstration who would fund the operation, if, that is, they were impressed enough to transfer half the total funds required to a special account Barstow had set up. When the drone army was ready to ship, the other half of its total cost, two billion pounds, would be paid. Barstow had also assured him the Money had the resources to move the drones into place. As for Lord Barstow, he referred to himself as Roman’s partner, a small conceit Roman allowed him. He would remain the financial bridge between the Money and Roman. He himself wasn’t rich, merely comfortable, but through his title, lineage, and government contacts, he knew everyone who counted. Roman was amazed Barstow had the brains and guts to set this plan into motion and equally amazed he’d managed to convince six wealthy people to pay for it.
It was the make-or-break moment for Roman, but he wasn’t worried. It was the perfect time—the sun was beginning to set, the sky turning lovely shades of pink and orange, signaling the ending of a very good day. It was time to show Barstow and the Money what they were going to get for their incredible investment of two billion pounds.
In the distance, there was a small village crafted by Roman’s people, no living souls inside, of course, with everything a small desert village would have—huts, cardboard people and goats, even a rooster, several large outbuildings for livestock. They’d spent three weeks here in the bloody-hot desert putting it all together.
Roman grinned to himself.
Now came the fun part.
He nodded to Cyrus Wendell, his right hand for nearly ten years now. Cyrus had worked with him on the development of the drones. He was the only one of Roman’s people he trusted to be there for the demonstration. Cyrus pressed a button on the laptop. Roman lifted his arm, now encased in leather. His wrist held what looked like a small computer keyboard and screen.
“All of the weapons are remotely operated through a computer program I’ve written, controlled by this small device on my forearm. As you can see, this weapons system is portable, discreet—you could even take it on a commercial airline flight. It’s rechargeable and runs on a proprietary lithium-ion battery for long life. It has the latest in Radulov’s biometric security—iris coding and facial recognition, with a DNA backup, as well. Should your device be stolen, or, heaven forbid, you’re forced to unlock it against your will, the system is built to recognize distress in your facial features and take an immediate DNA sample to make sure no one else is trying to control it. If it’s not you, it will shut down.”