Sting of the Drone (22 page)

“I think it was because the Navy guys were using the new Thuraya satellite over the Mediterranean,” Dugout began, as he balanced his mug of green tea and his iPad on his lap.

“I was just sitting here quietly thinking about how George Washington and his friends lost money on the Potomac canal and locks. What the hell are you talking about, Thuraya, and by the way, hello,” Ray replied. “Happy Dead Turkey Day. Shouldn’t you be watching football or stuffing yourself while visiting family members?”

“Happy Thanksgiving, yourself. What I should be doing is having dinner with my band. Here, have a Cohiba. It’s your Dead Turkey Day present. I know you will never buy these things for yourself. You wait for me to be your Enabler.”

Ray unwrapped the cigar and smelled its freshness. “You, in a band?” he asked.

“Yeah, tenor sax in a jazz combo. My undergrad degree is in music, from Berklee. Anyway, you do realize that it’s like drizzling out here? I saw you sitting in the rain on the video cam feed and thought, maybe I should come out and give you a weather report,” Dugout said.

“You’ve hacked our own video cameras?” Ray asked. “Yes, I know it’s drizzling. It’s nice. You know Wild Bill Donovan created this complex up here in like ’43? First real home of U.S. Intelligence.”

“Yes, I knew that,” Dugout replied and handed Bowman a box of wooden matches.

“You know that he had a drone program?” Ray asked. “He put little bombs on this species of really big bats and released them to fly behind Nazi lines.”

“That work?” Dugout asked.

Bowman lit the Cohiba and tried to blow a smoke ring. He failed. “Shit no, of course, it didn’t work. Now what was that you said about the Navy?”

“So, I’ve been working on how that Navy drone went down in Libya,” Dugout replied. “The Navy uses a commercial satellite for its link from its drones in the Med, using X band frequencies. Sometimes when their bandwidth gets too thin, they drop the encryption. It’s against policy, but the operators do it when they have to.”

“So, that’s what they did on the Sea Ghost op in Libya and somebody was waiting. The bad guys had probably seen it happen before and just kept a bot on that link looking for it to happen again. When it did, zap, they slipped into the data stream and nose-dived the bird into the sand. Just your luck it happened when you were trying to stop the Hezbollah guys from stealing some sarin.”

Ray continued gazing out at the river. “The Antonov had engine trouble later. Crashed off Cyprus.”

Dugout chuckled. “I heard. Engine trouble? Is that what you call it when an Israeli F-15 sends four, count them four, air to air missiles through your fuselage and you and your planeload of sarin plunge into the Med?”

“Don’t eat the fish next time you are in Cyprus,” Ray replied.

“I’ll try to remember that for when I finally get my leave approved and I get to have last year’s vacation,” Dugout said.

“Suddenly everybody is messing with our drones. Hezbollah, Pakistanis,” Ray said, turning to look at the man sitting next to him on the bench.

“Well, first off, I doubt it was Hezbollah who messed up the Sea Ghost. They just happened to have been the unplanned beneficiary,” Dugout replied. “I think whoever put the bot out to look for when the Navy dropped sync on its encryption on the link to its drones is likely the same guy who stole the Pred in Pakistan,” Dugout smiled.

“I would normally say you have gotten way too paranoid and are also making the analytical mistake of thinking all the jigsaw pieces are from the same puzzle, but I know that smile. You got something, don’t you?” Ray asked.

“So, the digital master control system on the satellite over the Med and the one being used by the satellite over the Indian Ocean when they stole our Predator, turn out to be using the same operating system. And in both cases the hackers who took control used the same Oh-Day to exploit a vulnerability in the code. No one else, as far as I can tell, has ever used that Oh-Day. So, I would conclude that it’s the same guy in both cases,” Dugout said.

“I have no idea what you just said,” Ray replied. “The only O’Day I know of is Anita O’Day, jazz singer. You should know her if you’re a jazz guy.”

Dugout frowned. “Oh-Day as in Zero-Day. You drop the Zeer part and you get Oh-Day and besides lots of people call zero ‘oh.’ It’s cyber speak for a new trick, a virgin hack, something that no one has known about until that first day when one guy uses it. Point is that the same guy hacked both satellites using a nifty exploit he developed. No one else seems to have used it yet, anywhere.”

“Let’s say I believe that for a minute about the satellites,” Ray said. “It fits into your theory that the drone targets are fighting back. But explain to me how my getting sued fits in. Somehow the family of a victim from the Vienna operation got a video from the security camera across the street from the hotel. It shows the drone going in. As far as I knew, the only people who had that tape were the Austrian Security Service.”

“I checked,” Dugout said. “The Austrians didn’t give it up intentionally. The reason that tape got into the hands of the family of the victim is that someone hacked the Austrian Security Service. Not all that easy. Maybe something Pak ISI could do, maybe. Then they mailed the video to the family’s attorney.”

“Okay, so it might be Pak ISI hacking into networks. But a lot of what is happening to us is on the ground out there, not in cyberspace.” Ray said. “Somebody lures us to a house where they have stashed kids. No hacking there. Some of the targets are shooting back with Stingers; we’ve lost four Preds to that. No hacking there. The improvement in their defensive tactics with the use of cars in crowded areas for meets, the tunnels. Those are not technical solutions.”

“Right,” Dugout reacted. “So, I’d say one explanation is that you’ve got two groups maybe working together, the al Qaeda or maybe Taliban guys on the ground in AfPak and then some hacker unit, like maybe in the Pakistani intelligence, the ISI, or maybe in the Iranian Rev Guards.”

“Yeah, I think you’re half right,” Ray said. “I think it is two groups, but I’m not sure it’s the Paks or Iranians. Could be the Russians just to mess with us. See if you can run with those theories, but add another. Look for a nonstate actor, a Wikileaks Collective on steroids, maybe a group of college kids in Boston or Palo Alto.”

“Okay, I’ll look at all those possibilities, but I am telling you now that it’s no hacker collective or group in Boston or San Fran,” Dugout said as he stood up from the bench and brushed raindrops from his windbreaker.

“Why not?” Ray asked.

“‘Cuz I know all those guys, what they’re capable of, how they’d do it if they could. They’re wicked smart, but the guys we’re up against? They’re a lot better than anyone I know.”

26

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 30

GLOBAL COORDINATION CENTER, OPERATIONS ROOM

CREECH AFB, NEVADA

“The compound that the Pakistani ISI source reported is in that valley up ahead,” Bruce Dougherty said as he flew the Predator on a reconnaissance mission over Afghanistan. “If I fly in there, it would be a perfect place for them to shoot Manpads up at me from the hilltops.”

“Good, then that’s just what we will do, fly in there,” Erik Parsons replied. He switched open his circuit to Sandra Vittonelli in her office twenty meters behind him. “Sandy, you may want to come out and watch this. I think you were right about that Pakistani ISI source. I think we are being lured into a Stinger kill box.”

When Sandra joined them on the floor of the ops center, she could see the unarmed reconnaissance Predator flying toward the valley. That view was being provided by a stealthier drone, a Peregrine, flying in trail and higher up. “Good, this looks like another one of their traps,” she said. “Make sure to turn off the chameleon skin on the Pred so that they can get a good look at it.”

Time began to move slowly for the team on the Ops Room floor as they waited to see if there would be another Stingerlike missile attack, what could be the fifth shoot down of a UAV in a month. On the Big Board were images from both the Predator and the Peregrine above it.

On the hillsides on either side of the valley floor, men also waited, spotters and shooters. Their two SA-24 missile launchers were humming in standby mode. Like the U.S. Stinger, the SA-24 had to be drawing current from the battery pack to keep its highly sensitive infrared sensors warmed up and ready to move quickly to full active search. By flicking a switch next to the trigger, the operator could bring the launcher and the missile inside the tube to full readiness in thirty seconds. Then if the operator pointed the tube toward a target, as soon as the infrared seeker on the missile had locked on to the target’s infrared signature, a high-piercing whine would come from the handgrip of the launcher holding the missile tube. Then, when the trigger was pulled and the missile launched from the tube, the SA-24 would seek that infrared source.

The spotter on the north ridge saw it first. “
Hamdullah,
” he cried and began hitting the Transmit button on his handheld two-way radio. The clicking sound from his hitting the button sent a warning across the valley to the team on the other ridge. The shooters on both teams moved their thumbs up on their grips, bringing both missile launchers into full active search. The shooters began to scan the sky through the optical tracker, looking for the drone. In less than a minute, both missile launchers were emitting an ear-piercing whine. They had locked on to their target, a Predator.

Two indicator lights linked to the Predator’s onboard sensors turned red and began blinking on the pilot’s dashboard, indicating that the Predator had detected that it was being lit up by an infrared seeker. “We’ve detected missile lock on. Two, one on either side of the valley,” Bruce Dougherty said into his chin microphone. “Tallyho.”

The slowly moving minutes with little happening were suddenly transformed into lightning quick seconds, with multiple simultaneous actions directed by sensors, not by humans. Two plumes of smoke could be seen on the video from the Peregrine as the SA-24s were launched toward the Predator. Almost simultaneously, red stars began shooting from the Predator, infrared heat sources with the same signature as the Predator itself had just seconds earlier. Near the rear of the Predator, two gray-white boxes began to emit new infrared signature patterns for the Predator, rapidly changing to prevent the upcoming missiles from switching to it and locking on.

To the sensors on the SA-24s, there were now dozens of objects with the infrared signature of the Predator and then there were other objects with different, new infrared signatures, constantly changing. The missiles were programmed to recognize that the many Predator signatures were probably flares designed to fool it. Therefore, the missiles attempted to lock on the new signature source, but there were too many of them and they were too rapidly switching and transforming to permit target acquisition and lock on. Given that pattern, the missiles were programmed to fly to the general area of infrared activity and then to detonate, in the hope that some of the shrapnel from their explosion would strike the real target.

As the SA-24s streaked into the sky and the red star flares shot out from the Predator, the sensors aboard the Peregrine triangulated where the shooters were. Within two seconds of the Stingers leaving their launch tubes on the hillsides, four missiles with equal velocity leaped from the launch bay of the Peregrine, which was flying slightly above and behind the Predator. They raced toward the areas where the SA-24s had been fired. Once over the launch areas, the air-launched missiles exploded, spreading thousands of sharp, strong, antipersonnel razors out in a density such that anyone within two hundred meters would have been hit by a minimum of a dozen blades, each of which would be an artery-shredding, lethal attack.

The spotters and shooters stood watching their SA-24s climb through the air, but within seconds of their missiles being launched, just as they were beginning to see the red star flares come from the Predator, the eight men on the hillsides had become hundreds of shredded body parts. Almost simultaneously, the SA-24s erupted above in midair.

Bruce had programmed the Predator to go into a 12-g force turn and climb out as soon as it launched the red star flares and the Infrared Counter Measures pod began to light up. No onboard human pilot could withstand anything more than an 8-g turn. No human pilot could have executed such a fast maneuver by hand as quickly as the Predator executed the preprogrammed command. The machine was doing what no human pilot with a joystick could do. By moving so quickly, the Predator avoided most of the shrapnel from the SA-24s, picking up only small fragments of metal hitting its wings to no effect.

The op center floor broke into applause. Pilots stood in the cubicles and gave each other high fives. “Shoot at my birds, you little fuckers, and we will shred your asses,” Erik Parsons yelled above the din.

Sandra Vittonelli shook hands with Bruce Dougherty when his aircraft were stabilized and returning to base. She turned to Erik, “You see this is basically a two-player game theory exercise in which every player-move generates a response. Anticipate theirs.” She walked back to her office, off the operations room floor.

Erik Parsons looked at Bruce Dougherty. “What’d she say?”

27

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 1

30TH STREET AMTRAK STATION

PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

It was a giant angel, carrying a sleeping man. No one else was looking at it. The train station was filled with people, but no one looked at the giant sculpture that dominated the vast hall. It was such an odd country, so filled with religious symbols and so filled with sin, Bahadur thought.

It had been a long ride from Boston on the Acela train and the food had been awful. All of the seats had been taken, many by students returning from the Thanksgiving break. The rocking and swaying of the train car had made him almost ill. Bahadur knew that he should never go to any of the targets, but it would have been hard to arrange another way. He walked over to the map of the station. Yes, it was like New York’s Penn Station, but smaller and less protected. On one level there were the city subway trains and the trolley cars. On another level were the suburban commuter lines. In the middle were the long-range Amtrak trains to other cities. It would work. Three men, three bombs. All rail traffic would be stopped. And none of the men would know that there were others, just in case one got caught or backed out.