Game of Drones (11 page)

Stephen dropped his lure, the incomplete knot coming undone. Still dressed in his fishing gear, he got into his SUV and drove rapidly to The Facility.

OUTCAST Facility,
Bethesda, Maryland.

Within thirty minutes everyone had met up at The Facility. A nondescript building of gray cinderblock walls, there were no posted signs or outward indications of any kind as to the structure's purpose. The only hint that it was even occupied were the few cars sitting in its parking lot.

Inside was a different matter altogether. The carpets were lush and immaculate. The furniture and electronics were all top-of-the-line. Even the palms and rubber trees were alive and thriving.

In the meeting room, which was the largest space inside The Facility, the Outcast operators were seated in chairs made of the finest leather.

Nay and Chance looked clean and beautiful, always trying to look their best for the sake of each other, Tanner supposed. Liam was dressed in his martial arts uniform--no real surprise there-- his black belt in contrast with the white of his attire. And Danielle, who always dressed in colors and hues that were intensely bright and nuclear, like some kind of post-modern hippy, stared through Lennon-like glasses that gave her eyes a slightly magnified look to them. Most bizarre in appearance was Dante Alvarez, who sported a five-o’clock shadow early in the day and looked very raw. Apparently he was unaware of the fact that he had his polo shirt on backwards, the V-neck revealing his hairy back. For a moment Tanner thought that he was standing on the set of
Let’s Make a Deal,
especially after laying eyes on Stephen Shah, who looked ready to step into a mountain stream.

But in the end it came down to one thing: he measured all these people by the content of their character. And as far as he was concerned, these individuals, no matter their outward appearance, were the absolute best at what they did.

There were none better.

For the next forty-five minutes, Tanner went into detail about the raid on the JBAB, the number of drones taken, and the subsequent loss of life, including those on the senator’s plane. He also spoke of the key players, Aasif Shazad and Naji Mihran, who were American born and had served in elite U.S. military units. Everyone else on their team still remained unknown.

“We’re going after our own people?” asked Chance. “These guys are Americans?”

“Yes and no,” said Tanner. “They were born in the United States. But their religious culture is deeply rooted in Islam. You see where I’m going with this?”

He went on to review their objectives and then to assign each of his operators to specific tasks. As usual, Danielle would remain at The Facility and helm the computer and radio stations. She would handle data acquisition and analysis, field communications, and the interception of third party transmissions via hacking, wire-tapping or radio frequency scanning, including for cellular calls and internal law enforcement broadcasts. All information into and out of OUTCAST would begin and end with her. The remaining specialists would serve in the field as soldiers, their skills imperative for enemy engagement. Tanner would lead these troops.

“But we don’t even know where to begin,” said Nay after hearing Tanner's skeletal plan. “We need a real start-point. We need something. Anything.”

Tanner agreed. He wished he could give his team more direction. All he could give at the moment were assumptions based on the travel capabilities of the drones. But that was something. "Let's review what we know," he began.

The Reaper drones could fly a distance of nearly 500 miles one way, or half that for a round trip, which kept them within striking distance of the D.C. area. And since drones required a launch point that was most likely far from populated centers to avoid detection, Tanner believed Shazad to be west of D.C., somewhere within the wooded corridor between the northwest and southwest. The downing of the senator’s plane supported this notion when it was air-intercepted nearly two hundred miles west of D.C. According to the map hanging against the wall, locations west were forested areas far from the congested cities along the seaboard, but not so distant that certain positions could not be targeted. But the corridor was long, the landscape heavily forested.

It made perfect sense.

Tanner would contact Director John Casey to approve satellite codes for real-time surveillance of the corridor in question. They would direct the attention of their eyes in the sky to areas most likely to be used as a garrison for covert operations—such as old warehouses or depositories, wasted buildings and factories, locations that had been forgotten over time.

Still, they needed something more.

They needed one of two things: either communication from Shazad, or another drone strike so that they could make an attempt to triangulate Shazad’s position.

They would get both.

Raven Rock

“Mr. President?” The aide's voice sounded hollow and tinny coming from the room’s intercom.

“Yes?”

“Permission to dispatch a live audio/video transmission to Raven Rock from the White House, Sir. Its point of origin is unknown. But the requestor --we think it's Shazad--is demanding a conversation with you regarding the 'state of the nation'.”

“How do we know it's Shazad?”

“When asked to identify himself, he said: 'five Reapers and twelve remoras'.”

President Carmichael examined the faces of his team sitting at the table, each registering their certainty that this was Shazad, who was specifying the objects taken from the JBAB to confirm his identity, since the exact inventory of stolen hardware was only known to those at Raven Rock. “Patch it through.”

On the far wall was a series of high-definition flat-screens that were pieced together to create a single massive screen. The picture quality was phenomenally clear, almost three-dimensional. When the mote of light in the center screen expanded to a full picture, everyone was looking at a head-and-shoulders image of a man wearing a ski mask with red piping around the eyes and mouth.

“Good day, Mr. President.”

Carmichael tried his best to take control of the situation. “You can knock off the masquerade, Shazad. We already know who you are.”

The person on screen sat still for a long moment before raising his hand, grabbing the top of the mask and then pulling it free, the action leaving his hair in wild tangles, which he summarily smoothed over with quick sweeps of his hand.

“If you know who I am, Mr. President, then you know what I’m capable of, am I right?”

“I know you’re capable of killing helpless civilians who had no chance to protect themselves.”

“Casualties of war."

“You think this is a war, Shazad? Really? This is nothing more than the act of a cowardly madman." The president fell back into his seat.

“Perhaps in your eyes, Mr. President. And in the eyes of those sitting around you. But I can guarantee you this.” He leaned into the camera, his stern face and unwavering gaze occupying more of the screen.

“Each army standing at opposite ends of the battlefield always believes their cause to be the just one. For the longest time I walked the middle of the field, weighing the merits of each side. In the end I made my choice.”

The president raised his voice a notch, a signal that he was beginning to lose composure. “You made the
wrong
choice, Shazad. Don't make it any worse than it already is. Turn yourself in. You’re American-born. You served at a high level as a lieutenant commander. Don't you have any sense of gratitude whatsoever for what this country has given you?”

“The stripes don’t make the man, Mr. President, only the content of his character. When nine-eleven struck, my people became vilified for the actions of a few. From that day forward I no longer saw myself as a man with the same freedoms I once cherished. As a result I no longer felt duty-bound to preserve them. And for every year thereafter while I served as an officer, I felt a sense of hypocrisy by targeting those I shared a moral and ethical kinship with. So I left--a move I will never regret.”

“You’re an American, damn it!”

“A station in life I renounced on the day I deserted my post as lieutenant commander.”

The president began to feel a heated boil from within, a strong stewing of emotions that culminated with: “We will find you.”

“No doubt. But in the end, Mr. President, the United States will be laid to ruin--physically and psychologically. You will be the one who allowed it happen, and history will record it as such.”

“What do you want, Shazad? You know that we don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“Mr. President...” Shazad remained exceedingly calm. “Don’t play me for a fool. I know that you're trying to keep me on the line as long as possible so that your computer forensics team can trace my IP addresses, but they’ll only exhaust themselves in trying to do so since I planned for every contingency. So I'm not afraid to keep our line of communication open. But if you refuse to negotiate—”

Suddenly a new image came into play on the screen. It was video of a Reaper drone with its turboprop engine idling. Twin Hellfire missiles were visible hanging from its belly. On its back were two remoras as additional payload.

“This is why I wanted the live stream, Mr. President. I want you to see that I have a Reaper on deck. Depending on your willingness to negotiate, this drone will either stay where it is . . . or it’ll be launched to its new set of coordinates. The call is yours.”

The picture then shifted back to Shazad.

President Carmichael looked over at the faces of his team, perhaps expecting the lettering of an immediate answer to be written on their countenances. “We need time, Shazad.”

Shazad made a sad face and shook his head. “You knew that I would contact you, Mr. President. Stalling changes nothing.”

“You still haven’t told me what it is that we’re allegedly negotiating.”

“For the record, I’ll say this: We both know that the United States was instrumental in the capture of al-Zawahiri. And we know that he’s now in the custody of Pakistani authorities who are getting ready to hand him over to you within the next twenty-four hours. So here is what we are negotiating: If that man is not released, then the drone you just saw, Mr. President, will launch. Please keep in mind its stealth capabilities and the expansiveness of open sky. I know you do not have enough planes to cover the entire airspace. That drone is a ghost, Mr. President, ready to haunt the American people.”

The image of the activated drone resurfaced on the screen. “Make your call.”

Beads of sweat were clearly visible on President Carmichael’s brow. “Our policy is that we do not yield to the threats of terrorists. However, as Commander-in-Chief I concede that concessions may need to be made in this particular case. But you have to give us time to come to an agreement, Shazad.”

“I
have
to?” His tone had an edge to it now. “Choose your words carefully, Mr. President. Concede immediately, and I mean
right now
, or the launch takes place.”

The image of the drone remained on screen, the aerial destroyer ready for lift-off.

President Carmichael looked at the monitor, then to the faces of his team, then back to the monitor. Normally he would discuss matters with his people by tendering possible solutions and brainstorming the best possible courses of action to take. But Shazad was disallowing him this opportunity.

“Shazad, I need to discuss this with my team.”

“And I’m telling you, Mr. President, there is not time for discussions, debates or further negotiations. It is as I laid it out. Release al-Zawahiri or the drone lifts. I want to hear the call go through live. If there is any deception, then the catastrophe will be of your own creation due to poor decision making on your part. I won’t be patient much longer. Decide, Mr. President, or I’ll decide for you. You now have ten seconds.”

“Where is your loyalty?” the president cried in desperation.

“My loyalty to my religion runs much deeper than to either of the two governments who pretend to like each other, the United States and Pakistan. Now make your choice.”

The president looked to his team. Even Simon was caught off guard, the man shrugging in a way that suggested he didn’t know what to propose with so little time. The circumstances favored Shazad greatly.

“You now have five seconds.”

“We need more time!”

“Two seconds.”

“Shazad, all I ask—”

“Time’s up.”

The screen showed the drone revving, its engines in lift-off mode. It began to race along the makeshift airstrip until it was out of the camera’s view.

Suddenly the image reverted back to Shazad, his features set with a stone cold intensity. “What happens next, Mr. President, falls on your conscience.”

The picture winked off.

“Shazad! . . . SHAZAD!”

“He’s offline, Mr. President.”

Carmichael slammed his fisted hand to the tabletop in frustration. Then in a more reserved tone: “Get every plane and drone we have to circle the D.C. area now. I want that Reaper knocked out of the sky immediately. If this son of a bitch wants to play games, then I’ll play.”

"Yes, Mr. President."

He addressed his team again. “Trace the relay points of his live stream,” he said. “I want to know where that transmission was coming from.”

“We’re working on it, Mr. President,” said Rimaldi.

“Work harder, people! We have a hostile weapon in the air with an unknown target!”

“Mr. President...” This from Attorney General Stephen Cayne. “We have drones in lift-off mode. They’ll be airborne in moments.”

Carmichael nodded, but his thoughts were dominated by a single question:
How do you track something that can’t be seen until it’s too late?

Closing his eyes and trying his best to let the tension flow and ease, he knew the clock was ticking and that his citizens' lives were in great jeopardy. All he could do now was to wait and hope and pray that the drone would be taken out before the death toll could rise again.