Free Drone by Mike Maden Page A

Strasburg sat strategically across from her.
    Protocol, not preference, put the vice president on Myers’s immediate left. If it were up to her, Greyhill would have been seated in the men’s room.
    Everyone had hot coffee or bottles of water and iPads on the table in front of them. They listened intently.
    Jackson adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. He was a bookish, middle-aged African American just under six feet tall but well over three hundred pounds. He shifted in his chair, a nervous habit. The chair creaked under the enormous load. He picked up the video controller.
    “One of my IAs, Sergio Navarro, brought this video to my attentionjust three hours ago. Whoever shot this was lucky they weren’t killed in the attack. We estimate they were standing about one hundred yards south of the north-facing vehicle at an oblique angle of approximately forty-five degrees. That meant the camera operator was out of the shooters’ line of sight, otherwise they likely would have been gunned down as well.”
    “Any idea who shot the video?” Greyhill asked.
    Jackson nodded at Navarro. He knew his IA was not only racked with fatigue but also intimidated by this morning’s briefing. The young analyst had never even met the DEA director before, let alone the president and other cabinet officials. But Navarro had made the discovery and Jackson wanted him to get the credit.
    “The video was posted to Facebook under a pseudonym,” Navarro said. “I ran the sensor pattern noise profile against SPNs in our database, but we came up short.” SPNs were the unique digital fingerprint that every silicone chip embedded in a digital-camera image. “We’re still working on that.”
    “Where was it posted from? Maybe that will give us a clue,” Greyhill suggested.
    Navarro leaned forward. “That’s the interesting part. We can’t locate the server. We can’t even identify it. Pretty sophisticated firewall.”
    “Isn’t that suspicious?” Myers asked.
    “Not necessarily. Whoever posted it was smart enough to know that they would be the only material witness to the killing. They probably wouldn’t have posted it if they weren’t sure they couldn’t keep their identity secret,” Donovan said.
    “Which makes them a prime target,” Early added.
    Myers referenced her iPad. “What do these comments mean?” She was referring to the viewer posts on the Facebook page.
    “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Spanish. I came up through the Russian desk,” Jackson said.
    “You didn’t get them translated? There might be a clue,” Myers asked.
    Jackson hesitated. “Actually, yes. Agent Navarro translated them for me. I have it on a separate report.”
    “What do they say?” she demanded.
    Jackson shook his head. “Just a bunch of crackpot comments. Vile. Not worth the time.”
    “I’ll be the judge of that, Mr. Jackson. Read them aloud, please.”
    Jackson reluctantly opened another file folder on his iPad and pulled up a sheet of translated comments. “Most of the names are nicknames or posted as ‘anonymous,’ but we’re running them down.” Jackson cleared his throat. “I’ll just start at the top, the most recent posts. The first one reads: ‘The whore’s son deserves it.’ Signed, RicoPico. The next one reads: ‘Man, I wish I had a gun like that. I’d kill me some gringos, too.’ Signed, PanchoVilla247. The third one reads: ‘What was he doing there anyway? Probably hitting the bong and banging his students.’ Signed, AztecaNacion. The next one reads—”
    “Thank you, Mr. Jackson. I think I catch the drift. Please continue with your presentation.”
    Jackson gratefully closed the document and pulled up the original presentation file folder. “We estimate the person shooting the video was between five ten and five eleven, judging by the height of the image, which means that the camera operator was most likely a man,” Jackson added.
    “So I take it we have some good video footage?” Jeffers asked. He was