Game of Drones Read Free Page B

and fast.
    The other three sentries opened up immediately, strafing gunfire across the truck’s armor-plated body in a volley of shots that forced Shazad to duck down inside the cab.
    Zero .
    At that precise moment Shazad’s unit exited the vehicles, took immediate position, and then fired upon the exposed guards with punishing shots that gored their flesh. Bullets repeatedly found their marks, the impacts causing the guards to shudder in seizure for a moment before falling.
    As the last shot echoed off into the distance, Shazad sat up and shouted a single command: “Move!”
    Two of Shazad’s computer operatives went to a keypad situated to the left of the doors, removed its panel, and attached the leads from a handheld meter to the motherboard. Numbers began to scroll down the five windows on the meter’s screen at rapid pace.
    And then the warning sirens began to sound off—a high, keening wail that could be heard throughout the JBAB.
    Over his lip mike, Shazad intoned: “Mabad, Azlan, take position and may Allah grant you all your wishes in Paradise. It has been an honor to have you both serve under my command.”
    “Same, Shazad. We will not disappoint you.”
    “I know you won’t. You never have.”
    The two smallest cargo trucks—those not long enough to carry the required payloads—pulled out of formation. One headed for the barracks, the other for the Motor Pool.
    Shazad turned back to his team by the doors, knowing that the numbers on the meter were now beginning to reveal a set combination. The first number was 4, the second was 3, and the third was 8. There were two numbers left to go for the entry code as the numerals in the last two columns moved with blinding speed, then slowed, the final two values beginning to position themselves.
    The numeral 6 appeared and held in the fourth digit position.
    The sirens continued to wail.
    One number left to go.
    Shazad looked at his watch: thirteen minutes . They were falling behind.
    The final number in the window was 0.
    The doors began to part.
    #
    Everyone inside the barracks of Charlie Unit galvanized themselves the moment the sirens went off. They grabbed their weapons and headed for the doors, each man taking a unified position as their commander keyed the radio. “Charlie to Base Unit! I say again, Charlie to Base Unit!”
    Nothing but white static. Base Unit, or the main gate, had been compromised.
    As the defense outfit readied themselves to push forward, they found themselves caught within high-powered cones of light emanating from a cargo truck that barreled in their direction. At first they thought it was support. But as the truck sped up and veered directly toward the barracks with no obvious inclination to slow down, they raised their weapons and fired, the bullets shattering the headlights and the windshield.
    But still the truck kept on coming.
    #
    Mabad had been born in Michigan, and like Shazad, had grown up under the lifestyle of two cultures--one of his people and the other as a natural-born citizen of the United States. And like Shazad, he had found America to be a land of temptations, a place where God had no foothold whatsoever. People were wanton in their ways, always wanting but never giving. They valued goods and precious stones, flaunting luxuries because it was in their nature to do so. They lived in twenty-four carat neighborhoods, while his people suffered in muddy hovels. And they did this with their God being little more than an afterthought, when they should have been showering Him with praises.
    Unlike Shazad, who had grown up in Detroit, he had been raised in Dearborn, home to the largest Arab population in the country. Mabad, like Shazad, had come to enjoy the temptations that America provided. But when nine-eleven happened, he and his people had been vilified overnight, always coming under the sudden scrutiny of government eyes that began to profile members of his community, especially the high-principals who governed the