Watch Dogs: Dark Clouds

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“There are only certain frequencies these drones are likely to be using, Pearce,” Wolfe said, as he strode into Pearce’s safehouse.

An odd, grubby little man named Morrsky had picked Wolfe up at the bar. He’d driven him in a fading 2000 Toyota Echo to pick up Seline. She’d been waiting outside the safehouse under the billiard parlor. Morrsky had taken them to the safehouse Pearce was in—an apartment in a high rise overlooking Lake Michigan.

Pearce was at a desk overlooking the lake, staring into a computer screen.

“Man,” Wolfe remarked, glancing around. “This place is way better than the safehouses I’ve been in. You’re styling in here.”

“Really,” Seline said. “I want an upgrade.”

Pearce glanced up in mild annoyance. “This is my main domicile. But it’s also a safehouse. What were you saying about the drones, Wolfe?”

“These are based on the Navy’s X-47B drones. Smaller but the same idea. Mostly they use GPS for navigation.” As he talked, Wolfe gazed out the window. He could see passenger planes out there. They could all start raining down on Chicago soon if something wasn’t done. “They can switch to a kind of manual with guidance from the operator, via camera, but it’s not as reliable. They use a set of frequencies they can get away with here, without FAA approval. And I know what those would have to be. I’m going to have to go out there. I need you and Seline here to work on the drones from this end. If they’re launched, you might be able to override the GPS and control them manually… Starling might have blocked direct GPS control from outside, by now. Probably has. Pearce—do you have any hand grenades?”

“Nope. Nothing like that. Take me an hour or two to get any decent explosives. We don’t have time. You thinking of just finding this plane and chucking a grenade into it?”

“Thought about it. But sounds like we’re going to have to do this the hard way.”

“Wolfe,” Seline said, sinking onto the posh sofa—she was sitting now but there was no relaxation in her posture. She was tense with worry. “We need to call Homeland Security… I can go out and call them… but they need to ground every aircraft in Chicago. And detour the planes that are coming in!”

“You can try, Seline. But grounding all those aircraft… they’ll ground one if you tell them there’s a bomb on it. But they’re not going to believe they all have bombs on them. And they’re not going to believe this drone story. And we don’t have time to convince them.”

“They’re probably infiltrated by Purity,” Pearce said. “Look what happened to that DoJ guy, Doolin—and Kiskel.” He shook his head sadly. “Kiskel wasn’t some kind of heroic guy but he put his life on the line and…”

“We have to try,” Seline insisted.

Wolfe nodded. “I don’t have time to wait on them though. I’m going to check out that cargo plane that Verrick’s taken such an interest in. Let me give you the specs and basic methods for the drones, Pearce…”

It wasn’t far to O’Hare airport. Pearce had printed him out a counterfeit access to the cargo field, and Wolfe had swiped a Jaguar to get him there as fast as he dared to go—if he went too fast he’d be delayed, maybe arrested, by Chicago PD.

Now Wolfe was walking up behind the hangar—cargo hangar three, which his PearcePhone designated as the last known location of Roger Verrick.

The orange sun, blurred by the striations of clouds at the horizon, looked like it was spreading out like the broken yolk of an egg. He figured the light was still good for another half hour or so. And Wolfe had to take action within minutes if he was going to stop this thing…

There was a rear corner door, for maintenance workers, at the back of the hangar. Wolfe stalked across the tarmac to the door, opened it, looked out at the interior of the hangar. There was the cargo plane, taking up the hangar floor. The hangar was open to the runway at the front. Lights gleamed from the main airport. Wolfe could see planes taking off—planes full of unsuspecting people who might soon be screaming as the plane crashed into Chicago.

If only he could spot something here—something he could warn the airport authorities about. Something he could phone into Homeland Security— maybe upload a picture to them.

But there was nothing visibly illegal going on in the hangar—nothing that would bring the authorities stampeding here in time. The freight loading ramp at the rear of the cargo jet was down. The aircraft was a 747-400M Combi, a twelve-year-old cargo jet with room for some passengers. Men were loading large oblate canvas covered objects, on wheels, into the back of the fuselage with a roller-conveyer system. The objects just fit. Most of them must already be loaded. One was disappearing into the plane, the other was just going up the ramp. The general shape told Wolfe these were probably the drones—but UAVs could be legitimately shipped—and they were under canvas so they weren’t obvious anyway.

He saw two Graywater mercs standing near the jet, watching the loading, with Mack 10s over their shoulders. No sight of Verrick yet.

Nearer were a number of fueling pumps, washing hoses, and an unloaded freight truck. Wolfe slipped through the door and went stealthily to the left, quickly getting under cover of the fueling pumps. The smell of jet fuel was strong. He waited, looked cautiously around the pump. No one was looking his way. He moved on, and got to the freight truck. It was angled toward the front so he was able to use it for cover to get closer to the cargo plane.

The big spaces of the hangar echoed with voices, the clank of machinery, the whir of the loading machine. Someone laughed.

He had no hope of pretending he belonged here. They had to be on the lookout for him.

But he was close enough, now, to hack the plane’s controls. If he could do it—he could put the kibosh this whole project of Verrick’s, quick and easy.

Squatting in the cover of the truck, Wolfe took out the PearcePhone, and tapped it to aircraft automatic pilot hack…

And got an app error message. It read:

He wanted to shout, “Fuck!” but he crouched silently near the grill of the truck, trying to think of a plan. He had to stop this plane from leaving. If it meant he had to pull out the .45 and shoot every son of a bitch here, he had to do it. Countless lives were at stake.

Could he get the truck started—maybe smash it into the plane? Should he try to call Homeland Security? Seline had probably gotten some sort of message to them but it might be too late…

Then he heard, “All clear! Shut the hatch!”

“Shit,” Wolfe muttered, peering over the top of the truck’s hood. The ramp was clear, and beginning to go up on hydraulic lifts.

The two Graywater mercs were walking toward the front of the plane—which was warming up, its engines beginning to whine. The cargo jet was getting ready to taxi for takeoff.

There was no time to do anything…

Except what he did.

He ran for the back of the fuselage, jumped, caught the edge of the rising ramp, did a pull up, and scrambled up onto the metal lip. As he went he imagined it closing—and cutting him in half. Verrick would be pleased, and amused, standing there and looking at him dangling, dying, spitting blood…

But then he was over the steel lip, sliding down into the cargo hold of the aircraft just as the hatch finished closing. The plane jolted forward, and started out of the hangar and Wolfe was thrown forward, fell on his belly with a grunt.

The noise of the engines covered for him. The three men at the other end of the hold, buckling themselves into a short row of seats forward of the six chained-down drones, were facing away from Wolfe and they didn’t turn around. None of them looked like Verrick from here. He was probably in the cockpit with the pilot and maybe Starling.

Wolfe thought about sabotaging the drones. But that would take time, it would make noise, and there might be a short cut to get them neutralized… probably in the cockpit.

The plane was taxiing onto the runway…

Wolfe thought he was probably going to have to sneak up behind these guys and shoot two of them, one after another, rapidly, in the backs of their heads. He’d need the other one alive—he’d have to put the gun to the guy’s head, force him to talk that cockpit door open. Like any large jet, post 9/11, the cockpit would be locked from the inside to prevent hijacking.

He wasn’t looking forward to shooting two strangers in the back of their heads. He couldn’t be sure these guys knew what was going down, here. But he had to do whatever he needed to.

Including, maybe, crashing this plane with himself aboard it, if that was the only way to stop it…

The first thing that came into his mind when he thought of crashing the plane, and going down with it… was a picture of Seline.

She was just sitting on the sofa with her hair up in a towel, her feet bare, looking up at him. Very grave look in her eyes…

He’d probably never see her again.

Just get this done, Wolfe.

Wolfe drew his gun, went into a crouch, and moved alongside the drones toward the men up front. Then the plane took off, steeply and rapidly. Wolfe was thrown off balance, and slid backwards. He grabbed a frame on the bulkhead and held on—then saw that one of the men up front was unbuckling his seat belt, and getting up.

Wolfe flattened, and crawled under one of the drones.

If he tried to take this guy down right here and now, the others would become aware of it—he’d be outgunned and he’d lose the element of surprise. He needed to wait his moment.

He looked at the deck, saw that the drones were locked into some kind of railing. The plane had been retrofitted to facilitate their launching.

Wolfe watched the shoes of the man walking up toward him. The man paused by a drone, and unfastened something with a clicking sound. Then he threw the canvas off the drone. He was getting them ready for launch…

Another fine mess you’ve got yourself in, Wolfe.

The Purity mechanic uncovered the last of the drones, then turned—

“What the fuck,” the mechanic said. “Who—”

Wolfe rolled, jumped to his feet, came up face to face with the man, and cold cocked him hard on the forehead with the butt of his gun. The mechanic went down.

Wolfe turned—saw that the engine noise had once more saved him from notice. The other two weren’t looking over.

Wolfe dragged the mechanic to one of the canvas tarps, and rolled him up in it, locking him in place with its clips.

The he turned and started toward the other two…

He got within a few feet and one of the men turned to see how the mechanic was getting on. The Graywater’s eyes widened. He unhooked his seat belt and jumped up, pulling his Mack into play. Wolfe just had time to recognize the merc as the one who’d killed Doolin and Kiskel, before he shot him in the face, twice.

The other merc, a chunky man with round cheeks, was struggling to unbuckle his seat belt. In his panic he couldn’t quite get it done.

Wolfe stepped up to him and pointed the gun at his face. “You want what the other one got?”

The merc shook his head.

“What’s your name?”

“Prebo.” The name came out like a squeak.

“Okay, Prebo. Very slowly unbuckle yourself, and stand up, and drop that gun. If it looks like you’re gonna do anything else with it I’ll blow your face off your skull.”

Prebo swallowed, and nodded his head several times, fast. “Sure. Sure. You got it.” He looked at his seatbelt as if it were a complicated puzzle. He licked his lips, then he reached down and slowly unbuckled it.

Wolfe stepped back, a little unsteady in the plane’s turbulence. “Put the gun on the deck carefully and shove it toward me with your foot.”

Prebo obeyed. Wolfe picked up the gun, keeping his eyes and the .45 on Prebo.

“Now,” Wolfe said. “Look at your friend there, the one I shot.”

Prebo stared at the dead man.

“You see his face?” Wolfe asked. “See how I put one through his right eyes and the other right in his teeth? I bet if anyone does an autopsy they’ll find teeth in his brain. You see all that, Prebo?”

“Mm-hm, yes,” Prebo said, his voice still squeaky. “You don’t do what I tell you, you’re gonna look at least as bad as that when I’m done with you. Only it’s your nuts I plan to blow up into your skull. I’ll start with that. Sound good?”

Prebo blinked. “Good?”

“Not so good, right? Let’s avoid that ugliness. Just go over to the cockpit door there, and pound on it. Stand right in front of that peephole. Tell them that something’s stuck out here. Problem with the drones. You hear me?”

Prebo nodded. “You won’t shoot me?”

“Not if you obey me to the letter. Be convincing! Go on—the door!”

Prebo went to the cockpit door. Wolfe followed closely, and flatted to one side of it, and whispered, “Stand close to that peephole so they can’t see anything but you. And do what I told you!”

Prebo cleared his throat, and then banged on the door. “Uh—boss! Mr. Verrick! Um… Mr… Mr Starling? We got a problem out here with the drones! We can’t get ’em flight ready!”

Wolfe nodded and mouthed, Good.

A few seconds passed. Then the door opened—quicker than Wolfe had expected.

Wolfe grabbed Prebo by the collar and shoved him through the door, to make sure it couldn’t be shut quickly.

Then he stepped up behind Prebo and pointed the gun—right at Verrick.

Roger Verrick was just pulling a .44.

“Hold it, Verrick!” Wolfe shouted. “Don’t touch that—”

He didn’t get the word gun out because Verrick was firing his.

Unfortunately for Prebo, he’d straightened up, trying to get out of the line of fire, and stepped right into it. He caught two rounds from Verrick.

One of them went through Prebo, and into Wolfe. He felt it tear open his right side. The other one caught Prebo in the throat. Prebo was going to his knees, clutching at his throat, spitting blood.

“Out of the way you fat slob!” Verrick snarled, shoving Prebo back at Wolfe.

Wolfe was trying to figure out where to place his shot without risking the pilot, or Starling—two guys he needed. He decided to shoot Verrick in the heart and hope it didn’t go through him into the instruments.

Verrick snapped off another shot, catching Wolfe in the outside of his left shoulder, just missing the bone.

Wolfe grunted with the impact, staggering back—the plane shivered in turbulence and he fell onto his back.

“Starling—star the launch now!” Verrick shouted.

Wolfe sat up, grimacing with pain. Spots swam in front of his eyes. He knew the drill—he was experiencing some shock from the bullet wounds. Symptoms of blood loss would start soon. He raised his gun and aimed at Verrick

Verrick stepped awkwardly over the dying Prebo. Whose body was still blocking the door. “Wolfe…”

Verrick’s mouth contorted into a stressed grin and he pointed his gun at Wolfe’s chest.

Wolfe fired first, but the plane was shaking as the rear cargo hatch opened and the shot didn’t go where he wanted it to—it caught Verrick in the trapezius muscle, between his neck and shoulder. Verrick shouted wordlessly. Blood spurted, but it wasn’t a killing wound. Verrick tried to steady himself to fire again.

Wolfe got to his feet, Wind roared through the cabin. They were at a fairly low altitude still. He stepped to the side, close to the bulkhead in front of the seats. A bullet zipped by. Wolfe was conscious of losing blood. It was trickling down his sides, thick and hot and sticky. He could smell the iron scent of his own blood.

A clacking sound drew his attention to the left. He could see the drones were already offloading.

They were rattling out through the back of the plane, on their railings—and dropping.

Maybe it was too late. Maybe he’d failed. He needed to call Pearce, tell him to—

Then Verrick was there, stepping into view, swinging his gun up toward Wolfe’s head.

Wolfe knocked Verrick’s gun hand to the left, brought his own weapon up to fire. Verrick grabbed the wrist of Wolfe’s gun hand and they scuffled for dominance—then Verrick went over backwards, falling onto the deck with a pained grunt, Wolfe on top of him, Wolfe catching the wrist of Verrick’s gun hand in his own left hand.

Wolfe brought his right knee up hard as he could into Verrick’s crotch.

Verrick groaned as Wolfe connected with his testicles. “Fuck! Goddamn you! You’re too fucking late!”

Wolfe felt his strength ebbing. He was losing too much blood.

He put his all into ripping his gun-hand free of Verrick’s grip.

He fired—but Verrick had blocked the shot with his arm. The bullet shattered the bone of Verrick’s left forearm.

Verrick shrieked in pain, arched his back, and pitched Wolfe off him.

Weakened, Wolfe fell back, but managed to struggle to his feet—and he fired again, hitting Verrick in the left shoulder. Verrick spun around, staggered back, floundered blindly toward the rear of the plane, looking for cover.

Wolfe raised the gun and aimed. But the plane jolted and Verrick fell onto the last of the drones. He clutched at it, just as it went down the rail and launched.

It took Verrick with it.

Wolfe turned toward the cockpit, saw Starling struggling to move Prebo’s dead weight out of the doorway.

Wolfe pointed his gun at Starling and shouted, “Starling! Back up! Get in the cockpit and siddown!”

Starling looked up, paling, and raised his hands. He backed up.

Wolfe got the phone out with his left hand, hitting the speed dial. The signal was good.

“Wolfe?”

“Pearce—they’re launched! Use the codes…”

“We’ve tracked them already—they’re heading for an airliner! Seline’s got Homeland Security to ground flights on the runways but the ones in the air are vulnerable. Starling’s blocked the GPS hack—only thing I can do is take over manual, one drone at a time!”

“Pearce—try to block them, dammit! Try to control one, use it to block the others!”

Wolfe went to the cockpit. He could see two drones through the windshield, the Unmanned Aerial Vehicles flying off below the plane. They were over Lake Michigan at the moment. Up ahead was a passenger jet.

The pilot on the left was a tall, Nordic looking man wearing a headset. He was muttering to himself. “I didn’t sign up for shooting on the plane…”

Starling was half turned in his seat beside the pilot; he stared at Wolfe, mouth hanging open, as if seeing an apparition.

Wolfe had the .45 in his right hand; in his left the PearcePhone, pressed to his ear. He was leaning in the doorframe to keep from falling over. He’d lost a lot of blood. His knees were weak. The cockpit seemed to slowly sway back and forth in front of him… the black specks were swarming more thickly over his vision…

Then Pearce’s voice in the phone jolted him alert. “Wolfe—I’ve got control of one of the drones… holy shit, that one ahead… there’s a man clinging to it!”

Verrick was alive out there.

“Shoot it down!” Wolfe said.

“No weapons on this thing. It’s all about hacking into passenger jets… which it’s gonna do in about one minute, Wolfe! It’s getting in range of that airliner up there!”

The drone, once in range, would take over the passenger jet’s automatic pilot, and crash it into a pre-picked target in Chicago. Probably the Blume building. The other electronically-hijacked jets would be hitting power plants, City Hall, hospitals, anyplace they could create maximal damage and panic. The special ctOS power backups would come on, and restore ctOS control to most of the time… A state of emergency would be declared, and Verrick would use it to take over the area…

Wolfe could almost taste what was about to happen, if Verrick succeeded—taste it like a poison pill melting bitterly on his tongue.

He saw an explosion, out the windshield, about two hundred feet below and well in front of the cargo jet. A drone had struck another.

And he thought he saw the flaming shape of a human body spinning away…

There goes Verrick, burning his way down into Lake Michigan and Hell.

“I’ve got another drone, Wolfe,” Pearce said. “But I don’t think I can get the others… they’re locking on their targets…”

“Pearce—the one you’ve got control of. Can you head it toward my position? Straight on, right at the cockpit. Fast.”

“What?”

“Just go. Make it happen.”

The black swarm was back, swirling like a cartoon tornado between Wolfe and Starling.

And Starling was staring at the gun. Maybe seeing Wolfe was dazed; maybe thinking about making a grab for it…

“Starling, you go for that gun, I’ll pull the trigger. Now I see that monitor, you’ve got set up there, between you and the pilot. Says Drone Command on the screen there. You just go to that interface, Starling, and you deactivate those drones. All of them. All four of the drones remaining. Now. Or you’re going to die and you won’t live to see Purity’s glorious triumph.”

“You won’t kill us,” Starling said. “If you do, the drones do their job anyway. And you’d crash the plane. And it might hurt a lot of other people…”

“Starling—look out the windshield…”

“What is that up there?” The pilot said. “Starling! That drone! Turn it away from us!”

“Steer away from it!” Starling said.

Wolfe pointed a gun at the pilot’s head. “You change course I’ll blow your brains out. I can pilot this piece of junk.”

The pilot froze in his seat. “But—it’s going to hit us!”

“Yeah. Unless Starling does the right thing it’ll hit us in a little more than than,, forty-five seconds. Look at it, Starling! It’s coming!”

Starling stared out the windshield at the oncoming drone. It was getting bigger. Heading for them as if in a vengeful mechanistic fury. “You won’t let it hit us, Wolfe! You’d die too! The plane will crash and…”

“Yes. I will. We’re still over the Lake. Screw it, let’s all go down together right now. Tell you the truth I think I’m bleeding to death, anyway. Let’s go out with a bang, Starling. We’ve got control of one drone. No time to deal with the others so we’ll just crash that one into this…”

“It’s gonna hit us!” the pilot yelled. “It’s getting close!”

“Verrick is dead,” Wolfe said. Everything was spinning. He was afraid he was going to lose consciousness at any moment. “Who’s your boss now, Starling? It’s me, now! You deactivate those drones right now. And then you land this thing, and I won’t tell them about the thing with Bullock—he was a dirt bag anyway. I’ll tell ’em you’re a valuable man. You won’t do much time… I’m your new commander. And I’m giving you three seconds to make up your mind…”

The drone was headed for the windshield…

“Sir yes sir,” Starling said.

And he turned to the drone command interface, hit the deactivate button.

The oncoming drone wavered, then lost power, and went diving downward, spiraling into Lake Michigan.

“Wolfe!” Pearce said. “The drones—they’re going down!”

The pilot said. “We’ve got two fighter jets on us…”

“Cargo jet 322,” said a voice over the radio. “This is Air Force Interceptor 2441, you are now required to head for runway 3, immediately. That is immediately, proceed on a heading to land at runway 3, or we will open fire…”

The pilot banked toward the runway. Wolfe shoved the Pearcephone deep in his pants. They’d have to really dig for it…

“What now,” Starling said. “What happens now?”

“Now, Starling,” Wolfe said, struggling to remain on his feet. “We’re going down and you’re going to surrender and tell the people what Verrick was up. That’s an order. From me. So…” The black tornado was sucking at him. Drawing him in. His own voice sounded so distant in his ears. “So… just you… turn around in your seat, Starling, and you let the pilot land this thing, and you surrender to the nice people, or I’ll knock you… I’ll knock you…”

He didn’t manage to say that last word out loud.

Unconscious.