Game of Drones (7 page)

“Right now, Simon . . . nobody is safe.”

Inside the Bunker
One Hour after the Downing of Flight 2194

Aasif al-Shazad sat back with his eyes closed, his chin to his chest and his arms crossed. It had been more than thirty-six hours since he slept. Yet even in rest mode his mind continued to work.

He had carefully outlined his plan, knowing the ‘who,’ ‘what,’ ‘where’ and the ‘how’ of all matters down to the most minute detail. The attack on the JBAB was coordinated such that all hardware could be appropriated, transported to the bunker, and set up with sufficient time for a synchronized drone strike on the senator’s plane. Up to this point everything had gone perfectly.

But now things were different. Once complacent eyes were now wide open and searching. Objectives from here on in would be much more difficult to achieve with success. Nevertheless, Shazad knew tactics, and he knew them very well.

It was his opinion that the president would be removed from the White House to a safer haven incapable of being struck down by a Hellfire missile, which left out Camp David. His projection was that President Carmichael would be lifted to Raven Rock, an underground facility where he could manage the nation through periods of instability.

He needed Carmichael alive so that he could bring one of the most powerful men in the world to his knees in front of his own people. In front of the world. He would do this with missile strikes that would cripple the nation’s consciousness, making the man who sat upon the highest political seat in the land nothing more than a powerless fool.

Carmichael’s command would falter and people would lose faith in his direction. But in the end, after Shazad had destroyed him and al-Zawahiri was freed, it would be too late. By then he would have shown the world that he had hobbled a giant and by extension the nation he ruled, through the guidance of Allah, peace be with him.

“Shazad.” It was Lut, a man of massive size with broad shoulders and thick arms, someone who frequented the gym often and had the sheer size that denoted a man of great strength.

He opened his eyes. “Yes, Lut.”

“Naji says that the drone is picking up airborne activity--military fighters.”

Shazad smiled. He expected this. “Then let’s flex our muscles further, shall we?”

Lut cocked his head, not understanding his team leader as Shazad got to his feet and stretched his arms high. “Sir?”

“It’s all right, Lut. Head back to your post. I’ll manage things from here on in. Thank you.”

The large man saluted, then left Shazad, the lieutenant commander heading towards the center console that was still being managed by Naji.

“Have you slept?” he asked him.

Naji shook his head. “I’m too keyed up.”

“Sleep. You’re no good to me, Naji, if you can’t think straight. Don’t deprive yourself.”

“I will, Shazad. I promise. But we have this.” Naji was a supreme navigator at the drone control station. On the screen, once he zoomed in, three Phantom fighters were surveying the area by flying in tiered steps.

“They’re looking for the drone,” said Naji.

Shazad placed a hand on Naji’s shoulder. “Then let’s not disappoint them,” he said.

Naji knew exactly what the man was saying. Moving the joystick forward, Naji commanded the drone to dive.

The wolf was wending its way to the sheep.

#

“This is Coven One to Covens Two and Three: any visuals?”

“Coven Two, that’s a negative. I’m seeing nothing but blue sky.”

“Coven Three is also negative. Suggest we move to coordinates east at vector two-five-six.”

“Copy that. Moving to vector two-five-six.”

As soon as the last word left Coven One’s lips, the wing to Coven Two’s fighter jet went up in an eruption of flame and broken metal, the section having been sheared off by a remora as the plane began to roll.

A Reaper drone suddenly sped by them as if they were standing still.

“Coven One to Two!”

“I’m going down, One.”

“Copy that! Go to protocol!”

“
Out!
”

As the wounded plane righted itself for a moment, its canopy suddenly popped free and the pilot ejected.

That left two planes with which to engage the drone.

#

The Reaper had zeroed in on the fighter jet that was on the eastern periphery of the trio--the one farthest from the group. As the mechanical predator fell back, the remaining two fighter jets banked away from each other in wide arcs, coming around behind the drone.

But the Reaper curved into an upward path, making an arc of its own, sweeping back to engage the jets.

The last remora on the drone’s back disconnected from its holding clamps and streamed forward on a preprogrammed route. It moved with immeasurable speed, the vehicle bobbing and weaving in open space, flipping and gyrating with uncanny ease as it bore down on the second fighter jet, chasing it as if in play. The jet rolled in clockwise revolutions before banking hard to the left, then to the right, trying its best to shake off the remora that was closing fast.

In a move worthy of an air show, the fighter flipped and executed an immediate vertical rise. But the remora did the same, following in the jet’s path until they collided, the remora and its five pounds of Semtex igniting a fireball explosion four miles above the Earth’s floor.

The pilot never had a chance to eject.

Coven One continued its pursuit of the Reaper that had emptied its entire payload. The drone headed east, then south, its course a winding one as the jet locked on and fired a missile. The projectile disengaged from the plane’s undercarriage and took flight, closing the gap between them in seconds. It struck the drone, ending the service life of a fifteen million dollar piece of artillery.

“Coven One to Base.”

“Go, Coven One.”

“We have one for pickup and one KIA. Do you copy?”

“We copy, Coven One. We have support on its way.”

“Also note: the tango is down. I repeat: the tango is down.”

“We copy, Coven One.”

Raven Rock, the Underground Pentagon

By the time Marine One landed safely at the Raven Rock helipad, Base Command was up and running.

The nerve center was a cavern-like room with banks of LCD monitors occupying the entirety of the east wall. A massive, rectangular table acting as the space's centerpiece was large enough to sit two dozen people comfortably, with each seat fronting a computer station including an integrated flip screen.

President Carmichael had flown in key people from his administration, including the leading principals of America’s intelligence agencies, including the CIA, NSA, the DNI and the FBI; his national security A-listers. Before them, each had their high-definition tabletop screens raised while images downloaded.

“Remoras,” was all the president said, his voice flat as he stared at his monitor. On the screen was a detailed schematic of the mini-drone, no larger than a Bald Eagle. An NSA staffer gave a brief run-down on the remora's specifications and capabilities, filled with words like
elusive
,
acrobatic
, and
Semtex
...

“The first jet never saw it coming,” said Director of National Intelligence David Wilcox. The DNI was subject to the authority and control of the president and required to serve as the chief advisor to the commander in chief, to Homeland Security, and to the National Security Council about intelligence matters connected to national security. He was also the head of the sixteen-member Intelligence Community who oversaw the National Intelligence Program, in general. The responsibilities were huge. And the man who helmed this agency appeared as strong and powerful as his station, sporting a large frame, a sturdy jaw line, and stress lines that were deep notches grooved into a face that should have appeared much smoother for a man of fifty-three.

“When the first remora struck it,” he continued, “the pilot ejected. And then the Reaper drone took on the remaining two fighters. In that ensuing battle, the second remora was released from its mooring carriage to engage with craft number two. According to Coven One, the surviving pilot, it wasn’t even a close contest. The remora engaged with its target and eliminated it despite the jet pilot’s efforts to evade.”

“And the Reaper itself?”

“Taken down by the remaining fighter. But the drone had completely exhausted its payload by then--both Hellfires and both remoras.”

The president steadied his eyes on the screen. That meant Shazad had four Predators and ten MAUVs left at his disposal, and an infinite amount of targets to choose from. “Are we getting anything from the Internet? Any insurgent chatter that could lead us to Shazad and his team?”

This was specifically directed to the NSA and CIA personnel, those responsible for national security abroad. But the answers were the same:
None at this time, Mr. President; we’re getting little from our sources, Sir; there doesn’t seem to be any reactionary response, Mr. President.

Not a thing, Mr. President.

Not . . . a single . . . thing.

He never felt so powerless in his life. The drone was a dead end. He willed himself to keep his team moving, to keep looking for
something
they might be able to latch onto. He'd learned long ago during his political rise not to get too bogged down in the details. Let his people handle the technical crap--MUAVs and whatnot. Follow the big picture and you can't go wrong.

“Zawahiri's the focus of all this," he came up with. "What’s his status?” Carmichael directed his gaze to the Director of the CIA.

Marsden Manetti's appearance could be summed up with a single color: he always sported a gray suit, gray tie, and gray shoes to go along with his gray hair and eyes. In the decade or so he'd known him, Carmichael had never seen the CIA top dog with a beard, and he suspected it was because it, too, would be gray. A concession to overkill. Even without the beard, though, Manetti had occasionally been teased about his color scheme (the women tittering something about Fifty Shades), but his response was always the same: "The world is not black and white."
Indeed
, Carmichael thought as he watched his Central Intelligence director begin to respond.

“We think that Pakistani officials are debating whether to hand him over to us. They’re apprehensive since al-Qaeda started verbalizing threats. So far, I'd say their commitment to this matter is tenuous at best.”

“What’s the point of having the eighth largest army in the world if you’re not going to utilize it? They need to make a stand and not be bullied.”

“You won’t get an argument from me, Mr. President, but that
is
where they stand. As best we can tell, at least some of their political elite are mulling over the pros and cons of the situation, now that al-Qaeda has reared its head.”

“But they had to know al-Qaeda would get involved, yes?”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Then get on the phone or the video line and push back. Tell them that we need Zawahiri in our custody and we need them to stop playing games.”

“Very well, Mr. President.”

Carmichael eyeballed his table monitor, where a list of key points now magically waited to trigger his impromptu agenda. He supposed Wilcox, his DNI man, put them there earlier when he was afraid he might be unsure how to proceed. The president noted with grim satisfaction that he'd already addressed what Wilcox saw as the number one point--al-Zawahiri. With Manetti now tasked with acting on that, he moved down a progressively unpleasant bulleted list.

“I assume that Shazad has yet to call in his demands? Which we anticipate to be the release of Zawahiri?”

Simon fielded this. “No demands yet, Mr. President. It’s our belief that Aasif Shazad is flexing his muscles to demonstrate to us--and the world--that he’s on top.”

President Carmichael closed his eyes and inwardly cringed. Shazad was sitting at the top of the food chain defecating on the U.S. with malicious amusement. Meanwhile it was he--the POTUS--who was relegated to a godforsaken hole in the ground, hiding in a fucking cave like bin Laden had been forced to do when the U.S. had relentlessly pursued him in the wake of nine-eleven.
How quickly the tables have turned
.

He consulted the flip screen again. “What about the media?”
Jesus.

This time it was Cayne who spoke. “Right now, as they usually do, the news outlets have taken the material we gave them and are running wild with all manner of speculation. Some of the more informed of this holds that the JBAB and the senator’s plane may have been targets of terrorism connected to Zawahiri's capture, but then in the same breath they report how the two events may well be unrelated.”

“And the state of the citizenry?”

“They’re scared, Mr. President,” Wilcox said with rigid certainty. “Airspace is closed nationwide, which is only fueling the media's speculative fires. And word may be leaking to the press from credible sources that the attack on the JBAB was at the hands of terrorists, domestic or otherwise. Again, everything is pure conjecture at this point.”

He hesitated a moment before continuing. “But in the end, you know the truth will come out . . . It could be like nine-eleven all over again.”

“Which is why I want the Press Secretary to move on this and engage the country with nominal facts about the JBAB. Although I want the nation to prepare itself, I don’t want the people to feel as though the situation is hopeless or unmanageable."

Carmichael held his breath, silently daring any of his people to utter the question that threatened to burst through his own skull:
Isn't it, though?
He went on before someone could ask it. "We will ride out this storm, people. I promise you that.”

He scowled at his flip screen as he fell back into his seat, and then looked at the Director of the FBI with a sidelong glance. After a period of silence, he asked him a single question: