Drone Command

“Thanks,” Troy said.

Will nodded his thanks to the desk officer and tossed the paper bag at Troy. He opened it. A hooded Stanford sweatshirt.

“We gotta roll,” Will said, turning for the exit. Troy followed suit, yanking on the hoodie.

* * *

The drab downtown jail facility was an unremarkable building on the outside. The kaleidoscope of broken people inside provided the color.

Will pushed open the glass door and dashed for the parking lot, Troy on his heels.

“What’s the hurry?” Troy asked.

“You kidding me?”

“Oh, shit.”

“‘Oh, shit’ is right. Your thesis defense is in an hour. It’ll take an hour and twenty to get to Encina Hall.”

Will unlocked the doors to his Porsche 911 and they both fell in.

“I can’t go like this. I need to change, take a shower.”

The Porsche engine roared to life and Will turned around to back out. “I’ve got your slacks and sport coat under the hood, along with a shirt, tie, and shoes. No point in looking like a complete slob.”

Troy smelled his underarm. His nose crunched. “Don’t suppose you have a shower under there?”

“There’s a bottle of Old Spice under your seat. Go ahead and slap some on now, use plenty of it. It’s gonna be a long ride.”

* * *

Will gunned the Porsche down the I-880 on the east side of the bay to avoid the traffic in San Francisco.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Will asked. “I thought you gave that shit up.”

“I told you I’d quit fighting when I had enough cash. Can’t exactly make serious money flipping burgers at Carl’s Jr.” Troy had been cage-fighting in the underground circuit since his sophomore year at Stanford. The infamous Chinese triad Wo Hop ran the illegal gambling enterprise throughout the state, especially in the Bay Area.

“You almost threw everything you’ve worked for out the window last night.” The warehouse where Troy was fighting had been raided by the Oakland PD’s gang unit.

“Still have bills to pay.”

“Your dad’s debts were his, not yours.”

“My dad was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a bum.”

“That’s what bankruptcy laws are for.”

“He couldn’t do it.”

Troy leaned back his seat to close his eyes. He hadn’t slept all night in the holding tank. The stink of stale urine and vomit was stronger than his fatigue. They drove along in silence for a few minutes. Will finally calmed down. Couldn’t stay angry with the kid. He risked his life in the no-holds-barred cage fights to earn money to pay off his old man’s debts. It was stupid, but honorable.

“So you won.”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“I used to be a spook, remember?” Started to tell Troy that he was the one who had tipped the Oakland PD to the location, but the boy was already sound asleep, the unopened bottle of Old Spice still clutched in his hand.

FIFTY-FIVE

ENCINA HALL WEST

STANFORD UNIVERSITY

STANFORD, CALIFORNIA

MAY 1999

The three faculty members sat on one side of the conference desk and Troy on the other. The air reeked of too much Old Spice but no one said anything. Troy was better dressed in his sport coat and tie than the faculty who wore Levi’s, collared shirts, and loafers.

Troy’s master’s thesis was brilliant but controversial. He applied a quantitative game-theory approach to the qualitative work of William S. Lind and others on fourth-generation warfare. He proved the hypothesis that 4GW was the future of conventional warfare in the third world because it was superior to the current forms of warfare deployed by the West. The Black Hawk Down incident in Somalia a few years earlier wasn’t just a tragic error, he argued; it was a portent of things to come.

Troy’s thesis defense for his master’s degree today was a technicality, but it was also a chance for the department chair, Dr. Fagan, to get even with him. Troy had embarrassed him publicly on a number of occasions in seminars and colloquia, successfully challenging the professor’s indefensible positions on security issues and his slavish devotion to political correctness.

Dr. Fagan was also an intellectual bully, and Troy wouldn’t put up with it. Fagan was infamous for publishing articles in his own name that had been researched by talented graduate students in his department without giving those students proper attribution. Troy had publicly denounced that practice in faculty meetings, earning Fagan’s undying enmity.

Drs. Garth and Pembroke were the other two faculty members on his thesis committee, men he deeply respected for their scholarship and integrity. He was glad they were there. Garth was his thesis advisor, and Troy had been a teaching assistant for Pembroke’s undergraduate poli sci classes.

Garth opened with a softball question and Pembroke followed up with a few technical clarifications of Troy’s game-theory analysis. They were both satisfied with his responses and spoke effusively about his graduate work in general and the thesis in particular.

Then it was Fagan’s turn.

He waved a copy of Troy’s thesis in the air.