Sting of the Drone (18 page)

“What happened?” she asked when the call was over.

“We lost control of a Predator and someone else took over control. Landed it at some backwater airport in Pakistan where that pretty boy from WWN just happened to be waiting with a camera crew and a satellite uplink.”

“Fuck!” Sandra exclaimed.

Ray laughed. “I will, just not now.”

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 14

PEG HEADQUARTERS

NAVY HILL

WASHINGTON, DC

“I have to get back to Las Vegas,” Sandra Vittonelli said as she sat down in Raymond Bowman’s office.

“Well, gee, good morning. You finally roll in to work. I had a good time last night, too,” he replied. “A night in bed with me again and you have to catch the next plane west.”

“Keep it down,” she said. “Last night was fun, but there is so much going on, I have to get back to the GCC. I am on the twelve thirty out of Reagan.”

“National,” he replied.

“All right, Reagan National,” she said.

“DCA. Anyway, I want you to meet Dugout, my hacker who I went to Black Hat with,” he said.

“Whom. With whom I went to Defcon,” Dugout corrected, as he walked in, prying the top off of his Dunkin Donuts large black coffee, and sat down at the small table in Ray’s office. “Pleasure to meet you, Sandra, when you are not on a video screen.”

Ray walked from behind his desk to the small table and sat with Sandra and Dugout. “I asked Dug to run some artificial intelligence analytical programs on all our data from the program, see what he could spot.” He turned to Dugout. “Why don’t you run through it?”

“So, the overall observation is that this is not a static environment,” Dugout said. “It’s more like classic two-player game theory. We each learn about the other’s behavior and adjust, but since we are both doing that at the same time, neither side is ever really optimized.”

“Ah, yah. That’s really helpful, I’m sure,” Sandra said while looking at her Blackberry.

“So, there are more specifics. They realized that rifles aren’t very useful against the drones, so some of them acquired Manpads.”

Sandra looked up. “Whose pads?”

“Man portable air defense systems,” Ray added.

“So, Stinger-class weapons. In response, you have kept most flights above ten thousand feet,” Dugout continued. “They noticed that single aircraft are usually unarmed reconnaissance missions, so they do not run from them. In response, you have begun flying some solo weaponized flights and have been able to get some targets who might otherwise have gotten out of sight.”

Sandra looked at Ray. “I know all this,” she said. “We’re putting infrared countermeasure boxes on the Preds to jam their missiles.”

“See, action, reaction. So, did you know that they have greatly expanded the use of tunneling? It is not just a one-off at the fake orphanage. Using the multispectral imaging satellite, we have found over twenty houses associated with targets where they have tunneled between buildings. Enter one and then move to another.

“And, they are no longer meeting in buildings. They know you blow up buildings. So, now they meet in cars. One guy gets out of a car on a busy street and then another guy he’s meeting with pulls up. Guy number one gets in and they drive around the crowded neighborhood, having their meeting.”

Sandra looked at Ray in a way that said I’m bored with all of this.

“Tell her your theory about the drone hijacking last night,” Ray suggested to Dugout.

“Okay, so they jammed the command data link from the satellite and then they jammed the military GPS signal. The bird switched to the commercial GPS signal, as programmed. Except they overpowered that signal from the satellite with their own phony data. When the aircraft couldn’t phone home for fifteen minutes, it did as it was programmed and went home, or at least where it thought home was based on the phony GPS data. And it landed at Mashhad, Pakistan, thinking it was Bagram, Afghanistan,” Dugout said rapidly.

“That’s impossible. To do that, they’d have to be really close to the Pred all the time,” Sandra replied.

“Yeah, like in an airplane maybe?” Dugout shot back.

“If they did that, that would indicate a level of planning and sophistication, aimed at the Program,” Sandra suggested.

“Lady, what don’t you get? They’re after you. They started using Manpads. They knew enough to lure you to a target where they set you up to kill kids. Then they had WWN right there the next day. They know your Rules of Engagement so they use women and kids as human shields. They steal your drone and again WWN just happens to be there waiting. You think this is all just coincidence?” Dugout asked. “They’re not just improving their defensive tactics. They’re on offense against you.”

Ray’s eye was drawn to the cable news show running on the screen behind Dugout. He picked up the remote, to take it off mute.

It was Congressman O’Connell. “I’m here with Dr. Janet Stroeder of Philadelphia, who today filed a wrongful death suit in federal district court in Washington in connection with the death of her son Wilhelm Stroeder, an American citizen, whom we believe was killed by an American drone attack in Vienna, Austria, earlier this year. The suit names a series of individuals including the National Security Advisor and CIA officials as defendants. It also alleges that they engaged in a cover-up of the operation.”

“That son of a bitch. That’s classified information, top secret,” Sandra said at the television.

O’Connell continued, “We have obtained surveillance camera video footage from across the street from the hotel that was attacked, clearly showing a drone.” As he spoke MSNBC showed the grainy video. “This was not a terrorist bomb that went off in the hotel, not two drug gangs fighting each other as has been suggested, but a terrorist drone attack in the heart of a major European city. And the terrorists in question were CIA officers.”

Ray hit Mute.

“So, as I was saying about adaptive behavior and two-person game theory,” Dugout observed. “There is an organized, sophisticated, well-planned effort to attack the Program. And, it looks like, maybe you personally.”

20

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 22

AL AMIRIYA MOSQUE

RADDA, YEMEN

“
Asalam Alekhem,
” Bryce said to the Imam. “May I enter your mosque?”

“Your Arabic is good, but you are not one of the faithful,” the elder replied, “but all may pray here, if they show respect.”

Bryce removed his shoes. “I was told that you might talk to a traveler.”

“The Prophet, blessings and peace be upon him, taught us to give hospitality to the traveler.” The Imam added, “But travelers from some places may not be safe outside of the mosque.”

“I am from Canada,” Bryce insisted.

“Welcome. What brings this traveler to this town?”

“I seek to learn, to know what has happened here,” Bryce began. “There are stories one hears. Tales of death from the sky. I seek to learn who is dying and who is killing and why.”

“This is not hard to learn, my friend. At first it was the fighters, mainly up in the hills. Some of them were not from our country, some were. Their camps were hit. Then when they were driving through the desert, their cars were hit. Then when they took over some villages, buildings in the villages were bombed. That’s when the women and the children died.”

Bryce had activated his digital voice recorder and was hoping it could hear the soft-spoken Imam. “And these attacks were from the Yemeni Air Force? That’s what they tell me in Sana’a.”

“
Pfft,
” the Imam spit. “Those fools could not hit one carmel in a herd. It was your friends, the Americans. You know that. Their little white planes. You can hear them all the time. You can see them some days, here. They are flying here now, killing here now.”

“Here? Could I see where? I would like to talk with the families,” Bryce suggested.

“It would not be safe for you,” the Imam replied. “Some people may not believe that you are Canadian. Some people may think you are American. And they are very mad at the Americans now, very mad.” He pulled worry beads from his pocket and began to finger them.

“Imam, I have come to learn, but also to teach. I wish to teach people in North America, Canada, and the U.S. what is happening here. There are good people there, too. If they know what is happening, things may change. But if the suffering is a story that never leaves the places where it happens.…” Bryce spoke softly.

The Imam rose from the floor on which the two men had been sitting. “You will walk with me. You will not leave my side. You will not speak. You will listen. You will use no camera. You will learn. Come.” Then the Imam turned and pointed at Fares, who was acting as Bryce’s cameraman. “You, stay here. Stay in the mosque. Pray.”

The streets were unpaved, packed sand and dust. The few people on the streets and in the doorways showed reverence to the Imam. The Imam turned off into an alley, and then another. The houses were close together, the smells of cooking and spices wafted out of some of the windows as they passed. Then the alley opened onto a little square. On the other side of the sandy square was an abandoned building, the roof gone, the signs of a fire around the empty windows.

They walked to a different building, on the left of the square. Two little girls ran to the Imam. “Ask your father to come out to meet me,” the Imam instructed. After several minutes, a man appeared, sweating and wearing a work belt with carpenter tools. The Imam spoke to him in rapid Arabic, in the local dialect. Bryce captured only a few words.

“Tell him about that house,” the Imam said more clearly.

“It was my brother’s,” the man said. “He lived there with his family, two wives only, seven children. He also rented rooms. Three months ago, it blew up, the house. Most of his family, thanks God, were at the marketplace and at the schools. My brother was working on the new rooms he was making on the roof. I have now taken his wives as my wives three and four. And the five of his children that survived, my children now. Maram and Munira, the beautiful girls, they died with my brother.”

“How did the house explode, why? Tell him,” the Iman spoke.

“It was a drone. I heard it twice, maybe more times, in the days before. Then I saw it again on that day. It was not just me. Others, they heard it and saw it on the day, firing its rockets at my brother’s house. Why? I don’t know. The Americans did not know my brother. He owned the house with me, the house they droned. He ran the supply store downstairs. We also rent rooms out to people. Maybe he rent to someone from the mountains, but only he die. He and the girls. I don’t know why, only Allah knows now,” the man seemed moved almost to tears to have to recount this story. Then he recovered and a wave of anger crossed his face. “But I do know that if I can ever find them, the Americans, Ibrahim will be revenged. And if I can’t find an American, I will find one of the soldiers from Sana’a. At the right time,
inshallah
. Have you learned enough now? Have you?” The man stormed back into the house.

Fares emerged from the mosque when they returned. He quickly joined Bryce in the Toyota. Bryce thanked the Imam again, profusely. “Go now. You will be safe if you leave now and keep going. Keep going,” the Imam said and then turned and went back into the little mosque.

Just outside the town Bryce told Fares to drive off road, up the hill overlooking the town. There they set up the camera and did a long-range zoom in on the burned-out house. Fares pulled the focus back, revealing Bryce standing on the edge of the cliff above the old town.

Bryce, looking into the camera, began, “In Yemen’s capital they told us about a recent success by the Yemeni Air Force, whose ancient MiG aircraft had destroyed a terrorist bomb factory in the town of Radda. Five terrorists, and only terrorists, were killed, they said.

“So we came to Radda and what we found here is very different. The villagers here tell us that the building was a family’s home, the family business, a supply store, and some rooms to rent. They tell us that a drone fired rockets into the house, killing only its owner and his two young daughters, Maram and Munira.

“So, what we learn by coming out here is that the locals believe no terrorists were killed here and the Yemeni Air Force was not involved. Two young girls died, they say, killed by an American drone. What we can be sure of is that in this region, the people believe America is killing innocent people with drones and that is making Americans a lot more enemies. Bryce Duggan, WWN, Radda, Yemen.”

Fares quickly folded the camera tripod. “All right, Bryce, that was good enough. One take. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

They drove back to the road and, one mile out of the town, as the path turned at the base of a hill, they saw the roadblock. It was two Hilux pickup trucks and an old Toyota SUV, not a government roadblock. It was too late to turn around, so Fares slowed down and turned on his blinkers. They counted eight men initially, all armed with AKs, all pointed at them.

“Get out,” one of the men yelled in Arabic. “Hands on your heads.” Once they stopped out, men stood in front of them with rifles. Others came up behind and pushed them down onto their knees. Quickly, deftly, the men behind them grabbed their hands and bound their wrists with plastic strips that cut into the flesh. Then Bryce and Fares were frisked, their wallets, mobile phones, and passports taken. Swiftly, they were carried to the old Land Cruiser, blindfolded, and thrown in the back of the SUV. Within three minutes of their seeing the roadblock, they had been taken and were being driven off. It had all happened very quickly.

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 23

OUTSIDE RADDA

YEMEN

They had each spent the night in a darkened room, alone, cold, hungry. Fares in one room, Bryce in another. Their hands had been unbound, but only after their feet were bound together at the ankles with heavy, old chain. The rooms had no windows and only the slightest ambient light near the high ceiling. Bryce thought maybe his room had been a storage closet of some sort. The walls were stucco, the floor dirt. He had heard talking in the distance, but could not discern a word he knew. Twice, since the time when he thought the sun had come up, he had heard a vehicle. His mind drifted, a result, he thought, of hunger, the low blood sugar.