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.”
Paulina Vittorini, who ran a wealthy shipyard for her family and was considering a run for MP, said, “Impressive, Mr. Ardelean. These measures concern me, though. Are you expecting people to try to steal the technology off our wrists?”
Roman smiled, a hint of flirt on his face. “Wouldn’t you? I take nothing for granted in this world, Ms. Vittorini. Protecting my people and their technology is paramount.
“Now, let me show you what you’ll be getting for your buy-ins.”
Roman pressed the button on his wrist, said nothing, waited three seconds.
It sounded like a swarm of bees, coming closer, closer. The murmurs stopped. The five falcons went on alert, but with a muted command from their master, sat back, yellow eyes watchful.
Seemingly out of nowhere, the drones flew directly over the tent and the presentation space, then stopped and hovered overhead. Roman had included six different breeds—he saw the drones like he saw his five falcons: each had a strength, a pedigree, a purpose. From his tiny hovering dragonfly-like Night Hawk to the fifteen-foot long flagship, the Geode, each rose up in unison and got in line, ready for his command.
“Off you go,” Roman said quietly, pressed a button, and they were over the makeshift village in a few moments.
The drones circled their targets, shooting off their specifics weapons—one dropping IEDs on the village, another landing and placing a bomb on the ground before soaring back into the air. Gunfire spurted out of another, loud and deadly, then was almost drowned out by the whistle of a missile launching from the Geode. To the delight of the Money, the small fabricated city and all its cardboard props were destroyed within a minute. Roman swiped a finger on the screen, and the strikes stopped. The drones came back toward them, hovering serenely twenty feet in the air.
Roman handed off the biometric glove to Barstow, who pulled it on and flew the Geode through the skies, trying hard to crash it, marveling at the auto-stabilization, then, as Roman watched, Barstow smiled slyly and dropped a hellfire missile on the city’s smoking ruins.
As flames shot into the quickening night, the Money burst into applause, talking over one another, surprise, awe. It pleased Roman inordinately.
Chapman Donovan said in his gravelly smoker’s voice, “Ardelean, this is brilliant—well done. Well done, indeed. Ah, together, we will halt radical Islam in its tracks! All of you, do we give Mr. Ardelean the go-ahead?”
Applause and enthusiastic nods all around.
Vittorini asked, “What does the little drone do?”
“The Night Hawk is a personal-protection drone capable of delivering a needle-size weapon into the neck of a target from twenty-five yards away. So if you need to assassinate someone, you’ll want to order a few of them.”
Barstow laughed, almost too heartily, gave Roman an avuncular smile, and slapped him on the shoulder. “And whom among us knows when such a need might arise? You’ve thought of everything.”
“Thank you, my lord. I’m glad you’re pleased. Now, I have one last display for you before we get down to business.”
Roman gestured with his hand and gave a short whistle. With a piercing shriek, the falcons took off as one, as if they, too, were programmed by Roman’s computers. The Money gasped in surprise when the falcons attacked the drones, swooping down, grabbing them by their bellies and whipping them to the ground. Within a few minutes, Roman’s small drone army was destroyed.
He loved the looks of shock on their faces and said, in his charming leader’s voice, an eyebrow ar
ched, “You were not expecting a counteroffensive? We must have a proper defense to protect us from the future of unmanned warfare. If the terrorists attack us with their drones, there is nothing we can do but try to shoot them out of the sky, which rarely works. Properly trained falcons and eagles, on the other hand, can watch for incoming drones and eliminate them before they get anywhere near their targets.”
He was pleased Vittorini looked properly impressed. “But how do they not get hurt by the propellers?”
“Their legs and breasts are wrapped in impenetrable specialty Kevlar.”
From the looks on their faces—Barstow had been right—they were all in, as eager as children on Christmas morning. It was a victory for Barstow, whose plan it was, and a victory for Roman, who’d set his own genius to the drone development and succeeded beyond all expectations.
He smiled, nodded. “Please feel free to join me back in the tent, and I will review our production steps with you.” And he bowed. “Your private army awaits. I will be there in a moment—I need to give my falcons their reward.”
Cyrus wheeled up a cart of five dead rabbits. The Money stuck around to see the falcons tear them apart, one rabbit to each falcon, and marveled at their perfect conduct.
And then they followed Roman to the tent, their steps light, each face glowing with enthusiasm and hope.
THE FIRST DAY
TUESDAY