DRONE SAMPLE

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This novel is a fantasy of the future, a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Great effort has been made, especially regarding those individuals who have recognizable positions with government, or publicly known organizations, mentioned herein, to insure they are not mistaken for past or present individuals in those positions. What the future holds, what possible outside influences may be brought to bear on future participants in those organizations, no one can say.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher, other than for review purposes, is a violation of the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.

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B B Broadington LLC

Cheyenne

Drone photos by Lino Schmid & Moira Prati

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ISBN 978-1-943054-14-5

His name was not Shalik Sarram but it was the name on his passport, and he entered the Customs area at JFK bearing no aerosol cans of infectious disease, no hidden knives or scissors or weapons of any kind. He was in perfect health. He had three thousand dollars in his wallet and a credit card with a limit of five thousand which he needed to show to get into the country on a visitor’s visa, but wouldn’t touch.

The well-dressed Indian — as it said on his passport, flying in from Delhi — presented himself at Immigration Control in his elegant dark blue suit, his pale blue tie. Shalik was a name meant to suggest an outgoing personality. He wore a happy, friendly grin on his nicely-tanned, clean-shaven face.

“Anything to declare?” the Immigration man asked, scanning Shalik’s passport into the computer.

“Just my iPad,” Shalik said, pulling the device from inside his jacket. He turned it on. Held it out.

The man shrugged. “Purpose of your visit?”

“Tourism. First stop — after my hotel,” Shalik smiled, “— the Statue Of Liberty! I can hardly wait!”

Immigration passed him through to Customs, where a female agent searched his blue roll-on bag, glancing surreptitiously at Shalik’s face while she poked through his clothes, watching for the signs — changes in breathing, posture, expression. But the man remained smiling, watching her casually as if the intrusion meant nothing.

Inside, Shalik was seething. The woman’s touch was haram. Forbidden. Unpure. Fortunately, the clothes were merely a prop, purchased to create a specific persona. Once Shalik had left the airport he would throw them away.

“Okay, sir,” she said, flipping the fabric top, sliding the case a couple of inches toward him. “You’re clear to go.”

“Thank you.”

Shalik zipped the bag, set it on the floor and rolled it through the airport at an even pace, looking around enthusiastically — as if fascinated by everything he saw.

Shalik’s real name was Sharik which he’d always thought fit him perfectly, so close was it to the English word Shark — a deadly aquatic beast on patrol beneath the water, wreaking death wherever it went; attacking suddenly without warning. He hated Shalik; the name was Hindi. He was an Arab.

It was a small sacrifice. Sharik was a terrorist, recruited and trained for a specific purpose, a mission that had already begun.

Sharik accepted a yellow cab from the stand out front. Threw his luggage in the trunk, got in, gave an address. He was more than ready for Task Number Two.