Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland) by Jim DeFelice, Dale Brown

come before. “Let’s see what Wendy can make for you, and then we’ll go downstairs.”
    R AY R UBEO H AD ASKED IF THEY WAN TED FOOD AS A way to delay the briefing, if only for a few moments, but now as he watched Turk Mako eating the turkey sandwich he couldn’t help but feel worse, as if he were watching a condemned man’s final meal.
    At least in that case the man would have deserved his fate.
    “How much have you figured out on your own, Captain?” asked Rubeo, walking to the side of the basement conference center, a secure area dug deep below the main floor of the house. The building belonged to one of Rubeo’s companies, as did the range where Turk and the Delta team had been practicing. Occasionally used by Special Technology to test out equipment, the property was mainly leased to Delta and SOCCOM, the U.S. Special Operations Command, for various training and practice exercises. It had once been three separate ranches; Rubeo bought them all and merged them to make a property large enough to keep the curious far at bay.
    “I’ve been too busy to make guesses,” said Turk. “They’ve been running me nuts. But if we’re talking Iran, I assume we’re going to strike their nuclear facilities.”
    “One facility,” said Rubeo. “Just one.”
    “This one is special,” said Danny. “It’s hard to get to, and it’s their newest facility. We need to move quickly, while we still have a chance. Even more quickly than we anticipated a week ago.”
    “OK, sure,” answered Turk.
    Rubeo rubbed his earlobe. There was a small gold-post earring there, its tiny surface smooth from his habit of touching it whenever he encountered a difficult moment, large or small. He waved his hand in front of a small glass panel on the side wall. The lighting dimmed and the wall at the front of the room turned light blue, a presentation screen appearing as lasers in the floor and ceiling created a visual computer screen that took up most of the space. “This should answer most of your questions. It will show the target and the general theory. Please wait until it has finished to ask questions.”
    “OK.” Turk took another bite of his sandwich.
    Rubeo folded his arms as the video presentation began. There was no sound; he supplied the running narrative.
    “The target is accessible through a set of air shafts, utility conduits, and hallways. The main obstacles are at the mouth and a pair of air exchange mechanisms about fifty meters into the facility. Once you navigate past those, the rest becomes easy.”
    The screen showed a louvered metal air scoop about three feet high by eight feet wide. The next image showed a mesh screen behind the louvers; this was followed by a schematic.
    “We haven’t actually seen the face of these,” added Rubeo, hitting pause by pointing at the lower left corner of the screen. An infrared camera read his gestures. “Due to some technical problems with detecting fine mesh. That means it’s possible there will be no screen. But we are planning for a screen.”
    He lowered his finger and the video continued.
    “The first thing you’ll do is blow a hole through the screen,” said Rubeo. “There are no electronics in the area of the intakes, and we assume therefore that there are no detection devices, and the explosion will go unheard. In any event, it’s doubtful that there are any measures they can take to stop the attack.”
    “I’m hitting it with missiles?” Turk asked.
    Rubeo halted the show and glanced at Danny.
    “The nano-UAVs,” said Danny.
    “That’s why you’re here,” said Rubeo. “Why did they say you were chosen?”
    “The Hydras are still being tested.”
    “They’re the only weapon that can destroy the bunker,” said Rubeo. “Because of the configuration. You’re going to fly them right into the deepest part of the facility and blow it up.”
    T URK LEFT THE REST OF HIS SANDWICH ON THE PLATE as Rubeo continued. The mission he was outlining was radical in the