Game of Drones by Rick Jones, Rick Chesler Page B

of light in the center screen expanded to a full picture, everyone was looking at a head-and-shoulders image of a man wearing a ski mask with red piping around the eyes and mouth.
    “Good day, Mr. President.”
    Carmichael tried his best to take control of the situation. “You can knock off the masquerade, Shazad. We already know who you are.”
    The person on screen sat still for a long moment before raising his hand, grabbing the top of the mask and then pulling it free, the action leaving his hair in wild tangles, which he summarily smoothed over with quick sweeps of his hand.
    “If you know who I am, Mr. President, then you know what I’m capable of, am I right?”
    “I know you’re capable of killing helpless civilians who had no chance to protect themselves.”
    “Casualties of war."
    “You think this is a war, Shazad? Really? This is nothing more than the act of a cowardly madman." The president fell back into his seat.
    “Perhaps in your eyes, Mr. President. And in the eyes of those sitting around you. But I can guarantee you this.” He leaned into the camera, his stern face and unwavering gaze occupying more of the screen.
    “Each army standing at opposite ends of the battlefield always believes their cause to be the just one. For the longest time I walked the middle of the field, weighing the merits of each side. In the end I made my choice.”
    The president raised his voice a notch, a signal that he was beginning to lose composure. “You made the wrong choice, Shazad. Don't make it any worse than it already is. Turn yourself in. You’re American-born. You served at a high level as a lieutenant commander. Don't you have any sense of gratitude whatsoever for what this country has given you?”
    “The stripes don’t make the man, Mr. President, only the content of his character. When nine-eleven struck, my people became vilified for the actions of a few. From that day forward I no longer saw myself as a man with the same freedoms I once cherished. As a result I no longer felt duty-bound to preserve them. And for every year thereafter while I served as an officer, I felt a sense of hypocrisy by targeting those I shared a moral and ethical kinship with. So I left--a move I will never regret.”
    “You’re an American, damn it!”
    “A station in life I renounced on the day I deserted my post as lieutenant commander.”
    The president began to feel a heated boil from within, a strong stewing of emotions that culminated with: “We will find you.”
    “No doubt. But in the end, Mr. President, the United States will be laid to ruin--physically and psychologically. You will be the one who allowed it happen, and history will record it as such.”
    “What do you want, Shazad? You know that we don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
    “Mr. President...” Shazad remained exceedingly calm. “Don’t play me for a fool. I know that you're trying to keep me on the line as long as possible so that your computer forensics team can trace my IP addresses, but they’ll only exhaust themselves in trying to do so since I planned for every contingency. So I'm not afraid to keep our line of communication open. But if you refuse to negotiate—”
    Suddenly a new image came into play on the screen. It was video of a Reaper drone with its turboprop engine idling. Twin Hellfire missiles were visible hanging from its belly. On its back were two remoras as additional payload.
    “This is why I wanted the live stream, Mr. President. I want you to see that I have a Reaper on deck. Depending on your willingness to negotiate, this drone will either stay where it is . . . or it’ll be launched to its new set of coordinates. The call is yours.”
    The picture then shifted back to Shazad.
    President Carmichael looked over at the faces of his team, perhaps expecting the lettering of an immediate answer to be written on their countenances. “We need time, Shazad.”
    Shazad made a sad face and shook his head. “You knew that I