Funnelweb
Arms dealers. Secret weapons. And a goat.
The auction was held at a decrepit Cold War missile base, marooned in a pinky-red desert. Julian Cheng looked up from his laptop. ‘This reminds me of the movie where Jason Bourne is trapped on Mars and grows potatoes.’
Rolling my eyes, I saw a bunch of SUVs, parked by two medium-lift helicopters. The other bidders were early. ‘Julian, ain’t that the most unholy tail-gate party you ever saw?’
‘They’re only putting food on the table, Mitch. Just like you and me.’
‘Fair point,’ I replied. I trafficked weapons. I wasn’t – by any objective standard – a good person. Nonetheless, I’d never considered myself a super-criminal. It was a positive variety of imposter syndrome. Anyhow, I was a humble guy, making his way in a cruel, heartless world. Like Han Solo, except I’d traded the Millennium Falcon for a Toyota Hilux. Although, as an illicit weapons acquisition specialist, I know Han’s blaster was a modified broom-handled Mauser C96. Yeah, I’m a hoot a parties. ‘Right, shall we see what the deal is?’ I said, getting out of the truck.
‘It’s gonna be another fucking drone,’ said Cheng mournfully. He dusted cookie crumbs from his tee-shirt. ‘It always is. Why else am I here?’ Cheng was a former ordnance tech on Predators and Reapers. Helping Uncle Sam put warheads on foreheads. Which is to say he helped blow up a farmer, some livestock and a wattle hut.
The future was drones, right? In fact, I saw one of the little bastards, buzzing overhead like a blocky Minecraft bee. Zipping up an old Schott jacket over my plate carrier, I saw the facility’s gates open. ‘There’s Olaf,’ I said.
Olaf Loeb was, depending on who you asked, Swiss-Iranian, Turkish-Latvian or German-Armenian. A global citizen, with a perma-tan, twinkly eyes and really great hair. Pushing seventy, Olaf radiated positive vibes. Like a quarterback, dating three cheerleaders who were all cool with the arrangement. He was the single most accomplished underworld arms dealer in the history of underworld arms dealers. ‘My friends!’ he said, looking super-cool in a white safari suit. ‘Welcome to Kazakhstan.’
We all took turns shaking Olaf’s hand. I checked out the competition. The Albanians were there, because of course they were. Forget the track-suited hoodlum stereotype. Top level Shqiptare were squared-away, dressed head-to-toe in coffin black Prada. The Lancehead cartel from Venezuela were represented by two twitchy goons wearing Hawaiian shirts. The half-dozen Russians from the Black Ravens Battalion (yes, that really was their name), looked exactly what you’d expect a bunch of Warhammer 40K-obsessed Slavic mercenaries to look like. They stood eyeing three Americans from a blue-chip PSC. Two dudes had operator beards and scruffy hair. Ex-SEALs, freelancing in-between book tours. The other, the only female present, was a frosty-looking blonde rocking Levis and a cute Ralph Lauren field jacket. In my mind’s eye, that was her name from now on. Frosty. The last bidders came from an unholy alliance of Columbians and Scotsmen, who operated out of Dubai. The Columbian was a ratty-eyed dude called Manny. He was okay. The Scottish dude had red hair. So damn red, you’d see it from space. He wore a soccer shirt, army boots and was covered in Viking cosplay tattoos. I should know, because I’ve got a sleeve myself. It was a Marine Scout Sniper thing, back in the day.
Inside the base was a security checkpoint. Olaf used Gurkhas – Nepalese ex-soldiers – for muscle. Gurkhas are small and polite, like super-deadly hobbits. They confiscated our phones and electronics and searched us like cops do, pushing and squeezing our arms and legs. ‘Take off your plate carrier, Sir,’ said one, pointing at my armour.
I shook my head. ‘You can scan it, but I always wear my plates,’ I replied.
‘He does,’ Cheng agreed. ‘It’s a superstitious thing. Not a cross-fit accessory.’
‘This is forbidden,’ the Gurkha replied matter-of-factly.
Olaf appeared. ‘Mister Loomis is fine,’ he said.
‘Yes Sir,’ the Gurkha replied, snapping to attention. I strapped my armour back on, feeling naked otherwise. Been the same ever since that gig in Syria. I only wore her at work, of course. I’m not weird. Oh, and her name was Sandra. Yes, I had a name for my plate carrier. Don’t you? ‘Thanks, Olaf. You good?’
Olaf’s eyes were twinklier than the Christmas tree at Macy’s. ‘I’m trading quality merchandise to discerning customers,’ the arms dealer replied. ‘Apart from love, good food and optimal gut health, what more could a man desire?’
‘For JRR Martin to finish a fucking book?’ said Cheng.
‘I will be selling nano-tech light sabres by then, Mister Cheng,’ Olaf chuckled. ‘Now, come inside. It’s time for tea.’
We all stood in a bunker, lit via a gaping hole in the roof. Pretty waitresses wearing harem pants and sparkly waistcoats served tea – orchid, lemon and mint. There were pastries and cookies. Music played, old-school electronica. Cheng said it was a band called Kraftwerk. The Albanians discussed encrypted comms systems with the Venezuelans. The Russians indulged in trash-talk with the Americans, while the Scotsman flirted with a waitress until Frosty intervened. She said something to the waitress and smiled. Go sister. ‘This is cute,’ said Cheng, mashing baklava into his piehole. ‘Everyone playing nice.’
‘We’ve only just arrived,’ I said, checking the G-Shock strapped on my wrist.
The music stopped, interrupting a song about robots. Olaf appeared, flanked by two smartly-dressed Asian guys carrying ruggedised laptops. ‘For safety reasons, please stay behind the rail,’ said Olaf. The Gurkhas appeared, directing us behind a rusty metal barrier. A rat scurried over a Russian’s boot, making him jump. I laughed, and the Russian shot me a look. I blew the motherfucker a kiss. ‘Behold!’ Olaf announced, like a circus ringmaster. ‘The apogee of fifth generation warfare. Novel solutions, for hitherto intractable tactical problems. The white heat of autonomous weapons platforms, unhindered by the glutinous mediocrity of ethics!’ Then, slowly, a hatch in the floor rumbled open.
Olaf grinned, like Liberace by-way-of Steve Jobs. Lights flickered, revealing a dungeonlike maintenance area. In the middle stood a machine, resembling a bundle of scaffolding poles clustered around a dull metal chassis. It was black and grey and taupe. Urban camo. I looked at Cheng and made a WTF face. ‘Looks like some kind of unmanned ground vehicle – a UGV,’ he replied.
Servos whispered and a power source hummed. The poles began telescoping, extending like articulated chopsticks. ‘It looks like a bug,’ I said. ‘Crossed with a panzer tank.’
Cheng nodded. ‘Either that, or the world’s most disappointing Transformer. Minimus Prime.’
Olaf spoke into his mic. ‘Let me introduce the FUNNELWEB UGV,’ he said, pointing a bejewelled finger into the pit. ‘A cost-effective platform, delivering multirole effect across low-intensity battlespaces.’ I hated defence talk BS. He meant FUNNELWEB was cheap, adaptable and designed for skulduggery.
‘I don’t see any weapons,’ said Cheng, looking unimpressed.
‘Payloads, Mister Cheng?’ Olaf continued, smiling. ‘Observe!’ Suddenly, a trio of quadrotor delivery drones descended through the skylight above us. Each carried a pod, slung beneath steel cables. Two hovered above FUNNELWEB, their payloads attaching themselves to gimbals on the UGV’s spine. ‘We offer multiple ordnance options, both lethal and nonlethal,’ the arms merchant explained.
With a metallic snap, sounding like a dozen M4’s locking and loading, FUNNELWEB’S weapons swivelled into position. Arranged at one end of the pit was a tunnel, filled with a variety of targets. Including, alarmingly, a live goat. ‘Cool,’ said Cheng.
‘No it ain’t,’ I said. ‘I ain’t a huge fan of goats, but that’s cruel.’
‘No, FUNNELWEB, you asshat,’ Cheng sighed. ‘The drones allow for remote arming. Massively reduced operator risk. Man, gimme a couple of these motherfuckers and I could rob Fort Knox. I’d get away with it, too.’ I dug the idea of robbing Fort Knox. I was more about heists than narcotics or politics. There I go again. First I was Han Solo. Now I was pretending to be Robin Hood.
‘Before we begin,’ said Olaf, nodding at the laptop dudes. ‘We shall demonstrate a key element of FUNNELWEB – the AI control module. It can attach to, and control, any FUNNELWEB series variant. The rest of the UGV is, essentially, disposable.’ The third drone descended, its payload an arrowhead-shaped block of ceramic armour. To me, it looked like the nose of an attack chopper – all optics and hatches and warning signs. Olaf sounded prouder than a new father at a maternity ward. All he needed was whisky and a cigar. ‘FUNNELWEB is operated via an intuitive suite of mission prompts. It’s fully capable of nonviolent target discrimination.’
‘Wow, that’s smart,’ said Cheng, narrowing his eyes as he stared into the pit.
‘What?’
‘The AI pod’s self-extracting. Olaf’s probably keeping it quiet for a big reveal, but see those panels on the side of the arrowhead?’
‘Yeah?’
‘When I was in the air force, I saw something similar at the Lockheed-Martin skunkworks. Integrated motors. Retractable rotor blades.’
‘Which means?’
Cheng looked at me like I was dumb, which I probably was. ‘The AI arrowhead’s the most valuable component. If the chassis is compromised, the fucker can fly away remotely. Self-rescue. It’s darn tricky to implement.’
‘D’you reckon it’s Chinese?’ I said. Ain’t everything nowadays?
‘Dunno?’ Cheng replied. ‘Too obvious. Loads of folks working on this stuff right now.’
The music reached a crescendo, then stopped. All eyes were on Olaf, standing in the spotlight’s glare. ‘Now,’ he said, his mane of silvery hair looking better than ever. ‘The firepower demonstration.’
‘Ah,’ said Cheng, a smile forming on his slab-like face. ‘The money-shot.’
Which was when Olaf’s head exploded.
FUNNELWEB raked the balcony with cannon fire. One of the Albanians was cut in half like a sack of offal, reminding me of an unfortunate door-kicking incident I witnessed in Sangin. So we all hit the deck and scrambled for cover. Of which there was none, so I decided to tiger-crawl behind the Russians. They were super-jacked pieces of steroid-primed muscle, right? ‘Cheng!’ I called. My job, ultimately, was to protect Cheng. He was smarter than me and, therefore, more valuable. Cheng crawled towards me as bullets raked the walls. The Scotsman, bawling, got to his feet and sprinted towards the guys with laptops, who were desperately tapping a keypad next to a metal door.
A door they were, clearly, unable to unlock.
FUNNELWEB scurried across the pit floor, optics swivelling, legs scattering pieces of scrap metal. With a cough, it fired something skywards. A sphere the size of a bowling ball, arcing lazily towards the roof, which exploded with a puff of grey smoke. The Scottish guy bawled, red hair like a beacon, a flurry of flechettes slicing into his arm. Darts skewered both laptop guys like voodoo dolls, their bodies tumbling to the balcony floor. ‘We’re trapped,’ said one of the Venezuelans.
‘No shit,’ said a Russian, hugging the stone-cold ground. One of the other Black Ravens chuckled.
‘There must be another route outta here,’ said Frosty, her eyes fixed on the blood-spattered metal door.
‘Yes,’ said the Russian. He was in his fifties, with a widow’s peak of bristly hair. ‘These facilities were built to a standard specification.’
‘Where the hell is it, then?’ The American replied.
The Russian nodded towards the pit. ‘Down there, with that thing.’
‘Quiet! Did you hear that?’ said Manny, the Colombian.
I heard it too. A metallic stutter. It modulated, until finally it sounded almost human. ‘The fucking thing’s laughing,’ I said. And it was. Like fucking Skeletor, after a rare win against He-Man.
I’m a marine veteran, right? Force Recon. Scout Sniper. I’ve got medals, tattoos and a Black Rifle Coffee Company tee-shirt. Usually, there’s a drill for the shit hitting the fan. But I didn’t remember anything about being cornered in a locked underground bunker with an intelligent, armed-to-the-teeth fucking robot. My mind could only summon the scene in Robocop, where the corporate asshole gets blown out of a window by an autocannon-packing droid.
You have five seconds to comply, right?
I guessed the Scottish dude had never seen Robocop. Screaming and hollering and blood-spattered, he leapt over the balcony. He landed, with a thud, on FUNNELWEB’S chassis, his ass hitting the arrowhead AI pod. Kicking the weapons array with his combat boots, he snarled like a crazy dog. His bloody arm shining wetly, he rode FUNNELWEB like a bucking bronco. ‘Jesus, that’s ballsy,’ said one of the American dudes.
‘Willie was raw-dogging PCP in the truck,’ Manny, the ratty-eyed Colombian, explained.
‘Then thank God for substance abuse,’ said Frosty, turning to her tame ex-SEALs. ‘Don’t you think you guys should, you know, swing into action?’ The she rolled her cold, grey eyes. Which, if I’m honest, was kinda hot. The ex-SEALs simply nodded and jumped. Everyone else, except the remaining Albanian (who was bleeding from a gut-shot), followed. Like I said, we were sketchy underworld assholes. But we were badass underworld assholes.
I dropped and rolled, like they taught me in jump school, my plate carrier digging into my ribs. Coughing, I sprung to my feet, looking for Cheng. Lowering himself off the edge of the balcony, he dropped onto a pile of mildewed boxes. ‘Stay there,’ I ordered.
‘Yes, Sir,’ Cheng replied.
Now the Scottish guy’s face was the colour of chalk. He kicked again at FUNNELWEB’S rear weapons pod, which spun as it opened fire. One of the Venezuelans took a volley to the head, turning it into a gristly pink spray. Then, making an electronic wail, the drone collapsed its legs on one side and rolled, the Scotsman disappearing beneath its armoured carapace. Then, FUNNELWEB righted itself, arrowhead optics shining, weapons readied. The Scottish guy was squashed. Like a bug. Hissing, FUNNELWEB crouched and backed up a little, reversing into a tunnel. ‘It didn’t like him climbing on it,’ said one of the Russians. ‘It’s vulnerable.’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Frosty snapped. ‘I bet the fucking thing speaks English.’
The Russian shook his head and said something in his own language. Then, chittering, FUNNELWEB reared up on its back legs. ‘Ya tozhe govoryu po-russki,’ it said.
‘What the hell did it say?’ I said.
‘It says it speaks Russian,’ Frosty replied.
Then FUNNELWEB laughed again. It really did sound like Skeletor.
I spotted a tunnel on the opposite side of the pit. It looked like it would be a tight fit for the drone, unless it crawled on its belly. Which, I figured, would slow it down. Following the other survivors, I grabbed Cheng. Two of the Russians grabbed pieces of scrap from the machinery littering the floor, circling the drone like gladiators facing off against a battle elephant. Despite their dumb name, I had to admit the Black Ravens were brave. Dumber than a bag of hammers. Sure. But balls of steel. A slim metal barrel appeared from FUNNELWEB’S rear weapons array. It spat a beam of liquid fire, setting the Russians alight. The drone’s spindly legs crunching into the burning men’s ribcages, it scuttled after us. There were two tunnels. The surviving Venezuelan had, for some reason, headed for the one containing the tethered goat. That was a dead end, the cartel guy swearing as FUNNELWEB turned on him. The goat, bleating, stepped to one side as the drug lord began screaming,
I ran harder. I passed Manny, who was limping badly. ‘Come on,’ I said, grabbing the Colombian’s arm.
‘Thanks Mitch,’ Manny gasped.
Snatching a look over my shoulder, I saw a hatch open in FUNNELWEB’S matte grey chassis. A half-dozen objects – the size of tennis balls – burst from a compartment and buzzed towards us. ‘Microdrones,’ said Cheng.
‘What do they do?’ I asked.
‘Airborne frag grenades,’ Cheng replied. ‘Heat-seekers.’
‘Shit,’ said Manny, shaking his ratty little head.
‘Hold on,’ I said, ‘I’ve got an idea.’ In war movies, grenades go off like huge fiery bombs, right? That’s bullshit. The explosion from a grenade’s quite modest. That ain’t to say you want to be next to one when it goes boom, but on the other hand? It ain’t Oppenheimer either. A boot from my outfit threw himself on a Taleban frag grenade. Audie-freaking-Murphy, however, had the foresight to slap his helmet over the fucker and lie on top of it. Full battle-rattle – IMTV armour with ESAPI plates. And you know what? He got a Silver Star and runs a tackle shop in New Smyrna Beach. Fat and happy, telling war stories at his local VFW.
So, standing in that murky freaking tunnel, I began stripping off my plate carrier. Sandra. I turned to Cheng and Manny. ‘Run,’ I said, sounding braver than I felt. I suddenly – badly – wanted to get fat. Run a tackle shop. Barfly at the New Smyrna Beach VFW. ‘I got this.’
The first drone approached, wobbling gently on tiny rotors. Grabbing Sandra by the shoulder straps, I used her like a big, flat baseball. Slapping the drone into the tunnel wall, the critter sounded like a wasp caught under a beer glass. Then, a light blinked and I ducked. The drone exploded, peppering the air with slivers of shrapnel. Hugging Sandra close to my head, several bit into my legs and hand. Fuck, that hurt. Ramirez, our unit Corpsman, used to say pain was good. So was hollering. It meant you were alive. I sprung to my feet, ready to parry the next drone-grenade. ‘Come on Sandra’, I growled, bashing another airborne bomblet with the plate carrier. Like the last, it behaved like a sugar-drunk wasp, tumbling away before exploding. This time, it caught one of the other microdrones, floating near the tunnel roof. It exploded too. The other three drones held back, as if unsure what to do next. Then, back in the pit, I saw FUNNELWEB hunker down, it’s telescoping legs shortening into stumps. Then, slowly, it began crawling towards me.
Which was my cue to run.
There were six others further along the tunnel – the older Russian guy, Manny, Cheng and the three Americans. Frosty was talking, in Russian, to the last Black Raven. She saw me and raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s a hatch thirty yards that way,’ she said, pointing at an intersection in the tunnel. ‘It’s locked.’
‘Hey, I’m fine,’ I said.
‘Well done you. Die here instead. You see, like I said, the door’s rusted shut.’
‘We fight,’ said the Russian, hefting a piece of scrap metal. ‘There is no other choice.’
Cheng stood, eyes closed, mumbling. ‘What’s he doing?’ said Frosty matter-of-factly. I’d named her well.
‘Thinking,’ I replied. ‘He’s smart. He was an air force UAV tech.’
‘Then he needs to be smarter, faster,’ Frosty replied. She turned to Cheng. ‘Hey, Einstein, what’s the plan?’
Cheng opened his eyes. ‘We need to get back into the pit,’ he said.
‘Then what?’ I asked.
‘Did you notice FUNNELWEB killed the Venezuelans, but not the goat?’
‘It’s true,’ said Frosty. ‘Mebbe the AI’s prompt exempted goats from its targeting package?’
‘That’s what I was thinking,’ Cheng agreed.
‘Then why tie up a goat as a target?’ said the Russian. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘It does if someone screwed around with FUNNELWEB’S AI,’ said Cheng. ‘I mean, it killed Olaf, which I’m pretty sure wasn’t part of the plan.’
‘Yeah,’ said Frosty, shaking her head. ‘Now you mention it, Cheng? That kinda makes sense. Now, let’s move!’
Our plan was simple. The Russian, who it turns out was called Lev, would distract FUNNELWEB by bashing the arrowhead with his piece of scrap metal. The drone, we figured, wasn’t designed for tunnel fighting. Its weapons pods were near-wedged against the roof, unable to manoeuvre. As Lev attacked (the crazy sonofabitch seemed genuinely excited by the prospect), we’d flank and double back to the pit. ‘Then,’ I said to Manny, ‘you grab the goat.’
Manny looked pissed. ‘I get it,’ he said. ‘I’m just a Montañero, right? A Colombian. So I’m an expert on goat husbandry? Jesus. Fucking gringos.’
‘It’s ‘cuz your ankle’s screwed, Manny,’ I said, kinda upset he’d think of me that way. My aunt Maria was from Ensenada. ‘You can’t be in the pit with the drone, right?’
‘You can report him to HR later,’ said Frosty. ‘Just get behind the damn goat, Manny. Then pray.’
‘Okay,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Just don’t expect any miracles. Goats are stubborn.’
We filed back along the tunnel, towards FUNNELWEB. ‘I am ready,’ said Lev, rolling his neck like a boxer. He bounded forward, smashing his makeshift club into the arrowhead mounted on front of the drone’s chassis.
‘Go,’ I hollered, holding Sandra in front of me like an old-timey knight’s shield. ‘Move!’
‘Copy that,’ said Cheng, hopping over the drone’s legs like a guy on an obstacle course. He was followed by Frosty and her SEAL dudes, one of them helping Manny hobble away. As I figured, the weapons arrays were stuck, pinned against the ceiling.
‘Lev, you good?’ I said.
‘Go,’ he ordered, whacking the drone. Which was when the arrowhead spat a taser-dart, the tip spearing Lev in the chest. Groaning, he fell to his knees. Then, his hair smoking, and with a sickly barbeque smell, the Russian disappeared beneath the drone’s ceramic carapace.
I withdrew, threading my way past the drone’s chopstick legs. Lev had bought us precious time – there was no room for FUNNELWEB to turn around. It would have to reverse back the way it came, slowly, on stumpy, retracted legs. Which was great. It gave us time to prep the goat, right? The goat?
Jesus.
Back in the pit, the others stood by the shorter tunnel. The Venezuelan, splashed across the walls, looked like a piece of modern art. Even Frosty looked a little put out. ‘Here’s your damn goat, Mitch,’ said Manny, holding the beast by the scruff of the neck. It fixed me with its spooky devil-eyes and bleated.
‘Easy fella,’ I said, patting the goat on the head. The darn thing bit me and Cheng laughed. ‘This was your idea,’ I said to my partner. ‘What now?’
Cheng looked at Frosty. He frowned. ‘Come here,’ he said conspiratorially.
‘It’s hardly the time for classified intel,’ Frosty sighed, dusting off her jacket. Like I said, it was Ralph Lauren and kinda cute.
Cheng wrapped an arm around my shoulder and whispered his plan in my ear. It was crazier than using a goat as a counter-AI shield. ‘Good luck, Mitch,’ he said, slapping my back. Which hurt a bunch.
‘Thanks, Julian,’ I said, readying Sandra for battle. With my free hand, I grabbed the piece of rope around the goat’s neck. ‘Right, everyone back in the tunnel,’ I ordered. Then, like a matador, I stepped forwards to meet FUNNELWEB. The drone’s legs extended, the beast stood twelve feet tall. It’s optics swivelled in their sockets, fixing me with dead black eyes. I crouched behind the goat, remembering Cheng’s instructions. ‘Hey, FUNNELWEB? Remember your mission prompts, okay?’ I said. ‘You can’t harm goats. No collateral damage. Big trouble.’
The drone stood still, weapons pods ready. I suddenly remembered Lev being tasered to death. I glued myself to the goat, which smelt pretty bad. FUNNELWEB shifted uneasily on its legs, as if making a robotic shrug. Weapons circled on their gimbals, sniffing for prey. By now I was hugging the darn goat. FUNNELWEB’S front leg brushed past me. ‘Move, civilian,’ it ordered.
To the goat.
Dammit, Cheng was right. The weapons arrays snapped back into place, aimed towards the shallow tunnel.
Come on Mitch, time to jump on that damn grenade. Win yourself that tackle shop and an extra slice of Key Lime pie.
Grabbing one of the drone’s legs, I hauled myself on top of FUNNELWEB’S chassis. The ceramic armour was surprisingly warm to the touch. Like it was alive. Then, I straddled the monster, sandwiched between the arrowhead and the frontal weapons array. I figured – prayed – it couldn’t hit me if it couldn’t see me. Grunting, I swung Sandra, my beloved plate carrier, over the arrowhead’s optics. Fastening the Velcro straps, I’d made the drone a blindfold. The arrowhead began swivelling, trying to dislodge Sandra, but she was stuck fast.
Then the rodeo began. And, as it happened, it was my first. I’m from Springfield, Massachusetts, which ain’t known for its cowboys. FUNNELWEB bucked and rocked, servos whining, legs flexing. I hugged the arrowhead tight, Sandra’s faded sandy fabric pushed against my cheek. ‘Go!’ said a voice. Cheng.
The others surged out of the tunnel, carrying pieces of scrap metal and circling the drone. Frosty and one of the SEALs scrambled up and joined me, ducking as the weapon’s array hissed, firing volleys of flechettes skywards. ‘It’s blind,’ said Frosty to the SEAL.
The SEAL slid a piece of piece of metal beneath the weapons array. ‘Let’s fuck some shit up,’ he grinned through his beard.
Cheng was hiding behind the goat with Manny. The goat, to its credit, seemed chilled. ‘Mitch! Now. Do it now!’ Cheng hollered.
Clamping my knees tight, like riding a damn torpedo, I forced my fingers into an aperture on the side of the arrowhead. Cheng said it was an extraction port. It had the word DANGER written across it in three languages.
No shit.
Then the SEAL was hit. Tumbling off FUNNELWEB, he hit the pit’s oily black floor. ‘Shit,’ said Frosty, ‘it’s firing blind.’
FUNNELWEB’S voice was matter-of-fact, albeit muffled by the plate carrier strapped over the arrowhead. ‘COUNTER-COMPROMISE PROTOCOL INITIATED!’
Frosty shimmied towards me. ‘Does it mean self-destruct?’
‘Mebbe? Grab my belt,’ I replied, ‘and hang on.’
‘You got it.’ I yanked the extraction port open. Inside was a handle, which I pulled as hard as I could. With a hiss, then a whoosh, the arrowhead flew skywards like an ejector seat. However, unlike an ejector seat, I saw no trace of a parachute to break our fall. ‘Shit,’ said Frosty, her arms wrapped around my waist.
The arrowhead hurtled towards the hole in the bunker roof. As Cheng predicted, it was powered by two pop-out rotors. We cleared missile base, the sun hurting my eyes, the desert floor below candy-pink. The rotors, suddenly, stuttered. I gulped.
‘Drone!’ Frosty yelled.
The cargo quadcopter swooped towards us, trailing four tentacle-like cables. They snaked towards the arrowhead, snapping into the apertures in its armoured flanks. Reaching for Frosty, I hauled her up next to me. ‘Thanks,’ she said, looking over the desert. ‘Nice view.’
‘Sure is.’ The drone descended towards the old missile base. The whirring quadrotors, loud enough to hurt my ears, were the sweetest sound ever.
‘Is Sandra you’re wife? Or girlfriend?’ asked Frosty, who was almost smiling. ‘I heard you say the name. That’s almost sweet, actually.’
‘Sandra? She’s my plate carrier. Your sitting on her,’ I replied.
‘Dammit, Loomis, you’re a freak,’ said Frosty.
‘You know my name?’
‘I know a lot of stuff,’ she said.
Frosty stood by one of the helicopters, dressing the injured SEALs wounds. With her was the waitress she’d spoken with before the auction. Turned out it was one of her people. ‘So,’ said Cheng, who was eating a stash of leftover baklava, ‘you guys are CIA, right?’
‘Wrong’ Frosty replied, watching guys in fatigues load the arrowhead into the chopper. ‘And even if we were, you think I’d tell you? You’re on the INTERPOL watchlist, Mister Cheng.’
‘Fame at last,’ Cheng shrugged.
‘Still, whatever your plan was, you fucked up,’ I said.
‘There were teething problems with the coding,’ said Frosty, pulling a shit happens kinda face. ‘Nonetheless, we’ve achieved everything we set out to achieve. Plus, the Black Ravens are off the board.’
‘Hell yeah,’ said the injured SEAL. ‘Brave motherfuckers, though.’
‘Semper Fi,’ I agreed.
Frosty patted the SEAL on the back. ‘Jared, you’re good to go,’ she said.
‘And us?’ I asked.
‘I could justify killing you, Loomis. But I won’t. Consider it a thank you.’
I thought about why I was here in the first place. To illegally purchase a lethal autonomous weapon system. For very bad people. Mebbe Frosty had a point. ‘Okay then, I’ll take the win. We’ll pop smoke.’
‘Very wise,’ said Frosty.
‘Hey, maybe I’ll look you up another time,’ I said. Now I’d gotten away with it? I was Harrison Ford. ‘Maybe a beer after work?’
‘Fuck off while you’re ahead,’ Frosty replied. At least she was smiling. ‘I know where you live.’
‘Hey, so there’s a chance?’
‘No, Loomis, there ain’t.’
We drove off, into the sunset. Me, Cheng, Manny and the goat. Cheng played music on his laptop. The Beach Boys, for fuck’s sake. Kokomo. ‘Hey, Mitch, what just happened? It reminds me of that movie.’
‘Which movie?’ I asked.
‘Danny Ocean goes to Iraq with Ice Cube. They steal a load of gold.’
‘Gold? We’re empty handed, doofus,’ I replied.
‘Were alive,’ said Manny. ‘Now put your foot down.’
The goat bleated, as if in agreement. I figured it had a point.