Billy Bongo skilfully maneuvers the joystick, smoothly traveling between Point A and Point B. He is very patient and careful. A single drone can be priced at hundreds of thousands of dollars.
* * *
Today he is droning over Syria, weaving in and out of the rubble, studying the lay of the land, observing the mosque in the square, and the movement of the locals. Everything has a meaning. He spies a pair of jihadists on a dirt road leading into the city. He clicks a button. Done. They never knew what hit them. Symmetry in motion.
“Nicely done,” Carley Carter says.
Lord. What is she doing here? That is never a good sign.
“Okay, wrap up with the towelheads.”
Billy squeezes the trigger and lets the last of the bombs fall, and then points the drone toward the base.
“Forget about it,” Carter says.
“Forget about what?”
“Just crash the thing, okay? I give you permission.”
“Are you giving me permission to crash it?”
“Yes,” she screams. “Crash it into that fucking mosque. Get rid of it.”
“This is from The Top,” Carter says, using her finger to illustrate, just in case there was any doubt. “New orders. Starting right now. No deviation. Understood?”
“Not yet,” Billy says, and he gets a laugh.
“Fuck off, Billy. Okay, really and truly. Everyone log out of your MilSec account and sign in under DB-Local and await further instructions. Understood?”
No, he does not understand. DB-Local accounts were once used to train new recruits droning in a foreign country in case they accidentally droned something that might start a war.
“What do you think?” Monroe says to Billy.
“Fuck me,” he says.
“Not good,” Monroe says. “Not good at all.”
Carter hands out the new assignments. Billy’s drone is based in New York. That does not make sense. A drone stationed in New York could not make it to Canada or Mexico, let alone Europe or the Middle East.
“Fire them up,” Carter says. “Start circling your airfields to get a feel for these drones.”
Each of the drones is equipped with four guided missiles, making them much heavier than usual, so it takes more push and pull to control them. One wrong turn, and they could crash into just about anything.
“Okay, here are your coordinates. Just concentrate on hitting your targets. We are going to be working two-hour shifts, on and off until the end of this mission.”
“Mission?” Billy says. His FireZone is New York City.
“I don’t have time to hold your hand. You have your Operational Goals. Do your job. Start with four hits each. Then you’ll get a new drone and a new OG.”
She does not say “understood.” That is how Billy always trips her up.
Billy has four targets in and around New York City, so unless a shitload of jihadists arrived in New York overnight, he will be firing on civilians. US civilians.
He punches in the coordinates for his first hit, brings the drone up to cruising altitude and settles in for the ride. It won’t take too long to reach the first target.
Billy turns on the spycam and watches the city lights passing below. It looks peaceful, but he can see flames off in the distance.
The DroneBoys are keeping their heads down. They were about to witness the killing of American civilians.
A red light flashes on Billy’s drone. They are armed. The payload launches. The missile drops free-fall for a few seconds and levels off. It is on course. A bomb is heading toward a small civilian protest on a busy street in New York.
Impact. Explosion. Flashing flames. Smoke.
The vid cuts out before he can see the full extent of the collateral, but he reckons he has hit a few hundred people.
A DroneBoy is throwing up in the hallway. He did not even make the head. Billy averts his eyes. He is afraid he might throw up as well.
The control panel resets with new coordinates. It will take about ten minutes to reach the next target.
The target? Can he refer to American civilians as targets?
This is insane. No one is going to believe this, man.
By the end, they had launched at least 50 missiles. Thousands of people must be dead.
He has blood on his hands. “Fuck you, jerkoff,” he thinks to himself. “You have always had blood on your hands. How many towelheads have you killed? That’s what you do for a living.”
Carter tells them to move aside for the next shift. They follow her orders like robots. Killer robots.
No one says a word. They are overcome with personal sorrow. There will be no post-murder beer-drinking parties tonight, young men.