—DE
June 2020
Prologue
Northern Nevada
Seven months ago
Lewis Blackhawk, a proud Shoshone, stood tall in the midday sun. He wore dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed Stetson, the headband discolored from sweat. His weathered face bore the wrinkles of age, but his mind was sharp, and he had the energy of a man twenty years younger. His fingers were adorned with gold rings, while he sported a Rolex Oyster.
He’d made a fortune parlaying earnings from gambling into huge returns on the stock market. And his wealth was the reason he was here in the desert.
Although it was fall, the temperature was already approaching ninety degrees, and it wasn’t even noon yet. The elder man looked like he was baking in an oven. A cooling breeze would have been welcomed, but the air was still—ideal, they said, for the forthcoming demonstration.
Despite the heat, Lewis wore black jeans and a turquoise long-sleeved shirt. He removed a water bottle from a cooler and pressed the cold container against his neck before downing the contents in one long swig.
Standing beside him, in a sleeveless cotton shirt and a grease-smudged ball cap, was Leonard Cloud. His hair, the color of raven feathers, was braided into a ponytail that extended to the middle of his back. His skin was bronzed and tight, not yet showing the cumulative effects of a life of sun exposure.
He squinted his brown eyes as he searched the horizon.
“Looks clear. I don’t see any vehicles.”
He didn’t expect to encounter anyone. The land was desolate for miles in every direction, too poor even to graze cattle. But the isolation and clear field of view were ideal for the demonstration he had prepared.
Lewis wiped his brow with his sleeve. “You call yourselves the Indigenous Peoples Movement, is that right?”
Leonard nodded. “That’s right.”
“Catchy, but why not just work with the American Indian Movement? I mean, they’ve been around for a long time. Had a lot of press back in the 70s and 80s. The organization is well-funded, based on what I hear. Why do you need my support to start a new organization?”
It was a fair question, one Leonard had been expecting.
With a wry smile he replied, “The AIM has become too mainstream. They prefer to lobby various congressmen from time to time, producing catchy sound bites to drum up more donations. They refuse to embrace new directives, and they won’t admit that the same old process is doomed to fail, as it always has.”
Lewis squinted and cast an appraising gaze at Leonard.
“And you’re telling me, you know how to effect real change, when everyone else has failed?”
“I’m not just telling you. I know. I’m going to show you.”
Lewis drew in a breath and exhaled. “Okay. Let’s get on with it.”
Leonard smiled. Unlike Lewis, he was acclimated to the desert heat.
The men were standing between two pickup trucks, separated by about fifty yards. In the cargo bed of each vehicle sat a young man holding a radio controller. Lewis had seen this type of controller before. It was used to fly drones, especially the helicopter drones that were popular with hobbyists.
With a swirl of dust, two quadcopters, each nearly three feet in diameter, rose from the desert and climbed to a stationary hover. Lewis estimated they were twenty or so feet high. The electric buzz sounded like a beehive, only much louder.
Three gunmen, each armed with an AR-style semiauto rifle, were positioned ten yards in front of Lewis and Leonard. Another hundred yards beyond the shooters was a line of orange flags on ten-foot poles. On Leonard’s command, the drones flew over the shooters and soon passed over the line of orange flags.
The rules were simple—shoot down the drones, but only once they had crossed over the line of flags. Each pilot was to fly his quadcopter at constant altitude along the row of flags, and they could not return the drones until given the order by Leonard. Each of the riflemen had three thirty-round magazines—ninety bullets each, 270 rounds total. Once all the ammunition was spent, the drones would be recalled—if they were still operational.
As encouragement for the drone pilots and gunmen to do their best, Leonard offered a $500 cash reward to any shooter who dropped one of the drones. The same reward was offered to each pilot if they could return their aircraft safely.
The air lit up with the crack of rifle fire. Lewis jumped at the sound of the first rifle shot, and clasped his hands over his ears. Bullets streamed at the drones. The pilots moved their quadcopters back and forth—fast, slow, sometimes coming to a dead stop, only to race left or right. It was a one-dimensional game. A handicap to the drones, which were not allowed to use either altitude or distance from the shooters to evade the attack. Even so, no hits were registered.
Each gunmen chewed through their first magazine, exhibiting over-confidence, and firing for volume rather than carefully aiming. On the second magazine, they slowed the rate of fire, taking more time to aim. But still no hits.
With the third and last magazine, each rifleman was deliberate. Aim, shoot. Aim, shoot. It took more time for them to empty their last mags than it took for the first two mags combined.
After the last shot and magazines were ejected, both drones flew back to the pickup trucks and landed. Wasn’t so much as a nick on either of the remotely piloted aircraft.
Lewis Blackhawk shook his head, a big grin plastered across his face.
“That was certainly definitive,” he said. “I’m convinced those flying machines are dammed hard to hit. But they’re small. What can one or two achieve?”
“Not just a couple,” Leonard said, “but a swarm of drones. All loaded with some of the deadliest shit known to man.”
“A swarm. Like a swarm of bees, huh? And you’re telling me they’ll do more than just deliver a sting, right?”
Leonard nodded, his teeth clenched, eyes narrow slits. Lewis worked his jaw
