Drone Threat by Mike Maden Page A

there yet. Keep pushing.”
    â€œI’ll do my best.”
    â€œYou need us to help you pack up or anything?”
    â€œNah. I just need to rest awhile and think on a few things.”
    Pearce and Stella shook hands with Ponder and drove off in separate rentals, heading for a plate of pulled smoked pork at a little joint Pearce remembered just up the road. He hoped the old man would figure out the laser problem. But the clock was running out on the cancer.
    And maybe the nation, too.

11
    CHEBOYGAN, MICHIGAN
    Norman Pike was in a foul mood.
    The group charter he was supposed to take out for chinook salmon this morning was running an hour late already when they called and canceled on him. Sure, they’d lose their deposit and they were apologetic, but the
Ayasi
, his thirty-six-foot Tiara, was kitted out and ready to go, and so was he. He loved to fish and was disappointed he wouldn’t be heading out.
    But Pike’s mood brightened when a late-model Ford Taurus pulled up to the curb and a man came strolling down the pier and straight for his dock. He was built like an athlete. He flashed a broad smile with gleaming white teeth. Pike thought maybe he was Italian or Greek, or maybe even from the Middle East.
    â€œI’m looking for a day charter. I don’t suppose you’re available?”
    Pike noticed the man’s West Coast accent. He had a polished L.A. vibe about him, too. Merrell boots, Oakley sunglasses, Columbia fishing shirt, and a Tag Heuer wristwatch. Typical yuppie tourist, Pike thought. More money than sense. He’d hauled a thousand of them out onto the lake over the years for good money.
    â€œYour timing is impeccable. It just so happens I am.”
    The man extended his hand. Pike shook it. The man had a strong grip. “Great, man.”
    Pike glanced around. All of the other charter boats were already out on the water. “I’m usually all booked up this time of year. I had a last-minute cancellation.”
    â€œThen it’s my lucky day.”
    â€œClimb aboard. I’m all ready to go. Even have five box lunches if you get that hungry.”
    â€œAwesome. Let’s get going.”
    Pike quoted a full-day rate and the man counted off five Benjamins from a stack of ten in his wallet. Pike asked for ID and the man showed him a California driver’s license. His name was Daniel Brody. Twenty-seven years old. Los Angeles, California. Just as Pike had guessed.
    â€œGot a fishing license, Mr. Brody?” Pike asked.
    â€œNo. Do I need one?”
    â€œYes, but I can sell you one, no problem. A twenty-four-hour license is only . . . twenty dollars.”
Ten for the license, and ten for my trouble
, Pike told himself.
    â€œSounds good.”
    The man pulled out a twenty and Pike pocketed it. “I’ll write that up as soon as we get under way.”
    â€œAwesome. So we can get going now?”
    â€œSoon as we untie. You’re in kind of a hurry, I take it?”
    â€œJust excited, I guess.”
    More like nervous
, Pike thought.
Maybe he’s afraid of the water. Probably means he’s going to be hurling his guts out, too. Should’ve charged him more.
    LAKE MICHIGAN
    ON BOARD THE
AYASI
    The water was choppy but Captain Pike was trolling with the swell and Brody hadn’t complained, even after devouring a roast beef sandwich with horseradish.
    Pike had fished these waters for fifteen years, first as a hobby and then as a paying gig. He was a good fisherman. He knew all of the tricks that all of the other charter captains knew as well, and his charter boat carried state-of-the-art fish-finding radar. Pike knew LakeMichigan like the back of his hand, and he knew chinook, and that this late in the morning the big salmon would be running around 120 feet deep in the cold, dark water. To get the bait rigs down to that strike zone he fitted Brody’s rod with copper line and down riggers and trolled at twelve miles per