Drone Threat by Mike Maden

his throw, he lifted the ball far behind him and swung it down hard with a vicious curling spin. The ball exploded out of his hand and down the lane, hugging the right gutter until it smashed into the ten pin just right of center. The force of the strike was so strong it threw the ten pin crashing into the back wall at an oblique angle from whence it rocketed back out onto the pin deck and smashed into the seven pin.
    â€œThat’s a spare, I believe,” Chandler said, grinning ear to ear.
    Tarkovsky stood to his feet and slow-clapped his admiration. “And that’s the game. Congratulations.” He added, “Again.”
    Chandler fell back into his chair and grabbed up the can of Coke in the koozie marked with the vice presidential seal. He held it aloft. Tarkovsky raised a bottle of water and they toasted. “Cheers.” Chandler took a long, satisfying pull. He loved the burn.
    The two of them were all alone in the little two-lane White House bowling alley Nixon had originally built in 1969. It was one of Chandler’s favorite hangouts. It thrilled him to think that every president from Nixon to Greyhill had stood exactly where he was and bowled the same game he loved so dearly. It was a good omen.
    Few people outside the White House knew about this place—most were familiar with the Truman bowling alley over in the EEOB—and even fewer had access to it. Thankfully, neither Lane nor his children cared for bowling, so Chandler had it all to himself. White House staff knew to stay clear of it no matter the day or time. It was Chandler’s sanctum sanctorum.
    Chandler liked to bring down very special guests to his secret sanctuary. It made them feel like insiders. It was also one of the rooms that he could keep his Secret Service detail out of when he was using it without arousing any kind of suspicion, and he was assured by the senior agent that the room was free of surveillance cameras and recording equipment.
    â€œNext time you’re in Moscow, I’ll have to take you out on the ice for a little hockey. Bowling is too hard.”
    â€œYou’d wipe the ice with me like a Zamboni. But I appreciate the invitation.” Chandler took another sip, wondering if Tarkovsky had finally made his opening bid.
    Tarkovsky pointed his water bottle at one of the muted TV monitors. CNN was showing footage of yet another village in the Middle East. Still more crying women and dead children in the midst of fire and ruin. “So tell me, Clay, how would you navigate something like this?”
    Chandler rose and crossed over to Tarkovsky. “Are you asking me personally, or the American government?”
    â€œThe two aren’t the same?” Tarkovsky smiled.
    â€œI’m a loyal servant of this administration, no matter how misguided it can sometimes be.”
    â€œAre you referring to the ‘no new boots on the ground’ policy? The so-called Myers Doctrine?”
    â€œIt’s a glorified form of isolationism. The world goes to hell without strong American leadership.”
    Tarkovsky nodded thoughtfully. “Some would argue that ‘strong American leadership,’ as you have put it, has caused just as many problems.”
    â€œStrong American leadership means forming strong alliances with reliable partners to manage the world’s problems. We haven’t done that. The world is in chaos now because we’ve failed to bring order.”
    â€œAnd out of that chaos comes the Four Horsemen, flying the black flag of ISIS.”
    Chandler nodded. “We must first deal with ISIS and then with all of the other Islamic terror groups. The Europeans have proved to be largely worthless in that regard, especially in the Middle East. Only your country has proven it has the strength and determination to tackle the Islamic terrorism issue.”
    Tarkovsky raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised. I thought your country viewed mine as an international