Game of Drones (2 page)

#

The light was blinding. The concussive waves were a powerful blow to the senses of the al-Qaeda forces who lost all capability to coordinate their thoughts. They moved blindly about with their minds and judgment too fractured to make any sense of what was happening.

When the members of the PEP topped the stairs, targets were immediately acquired and brought down, the threat of imminent danger quickly erased. Bullets continued to find their marks, all kill shots, either to the head, heart, or to the center of body mass.

In less than twenty seconds, nearly every room had been cleared. Bodies of al-Qaeda lay everywhere.

The high-valued asset, however, was not among them.

At the end of the hallway stood a single door.

The PEP moved forward with the points of their weapons raised and centered.

Silence, and specifically the element of mystery that came with it, was just as disturbing as the sound of battle. No sound issued from beyond the door. The team leader stood his ground. He set his weapon to grenade mode, aimed, and set off a mortar round. The shell exited the barrel and corkscrewed through the air until it impacted with the door, the resulting explosion decimating it into innumerable shards and splintered pieces.

As a wall of smoke moved about in lazy swirls and eddies, another flash bang was tossed into the room. In the explosion's aftermath, the PEP forces found al-Zawahiri huddled against the corner with his mind in disarray from the grenade, his AK-47 abandoned and lying on the floor in front of him.

This man, once a kingpin of terrorism who sat upon one of the most fearsome thrones in the Middle East, was now in the custody of the Punjab Elite Police Force.

The high-value asset had been attained.

The Oval Office, Washington D.C
2012 hours
Two Hours after the Raid in Islamabad

The Oval Office, located in the West Wing of the White House, is the official office of the President of the United States and serves as the nerve center of discussions that do not require input from the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Two hours after the extraction of al-Zawahiri, President John Carmichael, Vice President Connor Madison, Secretary of State Jenifer Rimaldi, Chief Presidential Advisor Simon Davis and Attorney General Steven Cayne, were gathered for a closed-door session to discuss matters regarding Ayman al-Zawahiri in depth.

Secretary of State Rimaldi was an attractive middle-aged woman with raven hair and striking blue eyes that sparkled like precious gems. On her lap sat an accordion binder containing numerous photos, paperwork and dossiers.

“Approximately two hours ago, Mr. President,” she began as she rifled through the folder, “the Punjab Elite Police Force successfully procured the high-value asset of Ayman al-Zawahiri in Pakistan.” She handed the president a series of photos. “Right now he’s in an undisclosed location about fifty miles outside of Islamabad.”

President Carmichael examined the 8x10 black-and-whites. They were pictures of al-Zawahiri in captivity, times/date stamps at the bottom of each photo. He looked worn and weary—certainly not like the man that martyrs bowed before.

“Very good,” Carmichael said. He laid the photos down. “It’s about time that Pakistan made the decision to stop playing both sides of the fence. Either they stand in league with the worldwide community, or they can become a pariah of it.”

“I don’t think they had a choice,” said Vice President Madison. He was referring to the political arm-bending of Pakistani officials who knew that al-Zawahiri was hiding directly under their roof. Surveillance photos from the CIA taken over the past six months showed political principals and captains of industry entering and leaving the estate. One photo in particular was enough to clearly identify Zawahiri through facial recognition software. It depicted him speaking with Ali Nawaz, a high-ranking official within the Pakistan Muslim League (PML), which was ironic since the PML supported a strong and friendly relationship with the U.S.

When the photos were proffered to PML dignitaries, their political arm had been twisted nearly to the breaking point by U.S. Intelligence. Either Pakistan complied with bringing al-Zawahiri in, or the United States would provide evidence to the international courts and plead their case to recognize Pakistan as a country harboring terrorist factions, in turn setting forth crippling sanctions. As an addendum, the United States would send aid to India to shore up and defend the borders along Kashmir as a show of support.

“Didn’t you think that offering to send aid to the Kashmir border was too strong of a commitment?” Carmichael asked Rimaldi.

She nodded. “It was a gamble, Mr. President. But with all due respect, we do have al-Zawahiri in custody.”

“That we do,” said President Carmichael as he fell back into his seat. “What are the plans for extradition?”

“Right now, Pakistani officials are being very careful in regards to possible retaliation by al-Qaeda insurgents. So they’re proceeding with extreme caution in the matter. In the meantime, we’re sending delegates to question al-Zawahiri as we speak.”

“You mean Company men.”

She nodded. Then: “We’re looking at possibly five, maybe six days until Zawahiri is in the States.”

“Do we anticipate incursions within Pakistan?” asked Vice President Madison.

“There’ll be some backlash,” she answered.

“If that’s the case,” said the Chief Advisor, “then we do the right thing and support Pakistan with military support, if need be.”

“I agree,” said the President. “The war on terrorism may have just escalated a few notches, people. Both here and abroad." He turned to his advisor and continued. “Once the media gets hold of the fact that al-Zawahiri is to be extradited to the U.S., how do you rate the likelihood of a heightened threat on American soil?”

His response was immediate. “
Extremely
high. That’s why we need to get him to Gitmo so that we can mine him for information in a secure environment and develop a course of defense.”

“Agreed. But that won’t make us safe—not completely. Al-Qaeda will still hold us responsible.”

A hush fell over the room as the President got to his feet and stood before the center window of the three behind his desk. He looked out over the nighttime D.C. skyline as he spoke.

“Cells are here in the homeland. There’s a reason why we need to keep our enemies close. Watch all Internet sites, all telecom lines. Get all agencies involved to monitor insurrectionist thinking and attitudes. Identify those willing to use this event as an excuse to take up the march in the name of Allah. We're always funding those research grants to develop software to identify these people before they strike. Now's the time to put those apps into practice. Is all that clear?”

There was a chorus of agreements, mumblings really.

The president went on. “We have al-Zawahiri, and because we do we need to be at the top of our game. He may be the key to bringing down al-Qaeda for years to come.”

He turned away from the window to face his audience of friends, people whom he had come to trust with his ideas and agendas over the term of his presidency. “There will be retaliation,” he stated evenly. “So let’s not forget who we are and what we’re capable of.”

VP Madison nodded smartly. “Understood, Mr. President.”

“Keep me posted.”

The Secretary of State spoke before everyone moved to leave.. “This is a great victory for us, yes?”

Carmichael nodded. But deep in the back of his mind he knew that victories could be short-lived. It was the
war
that they needed to win, not a single skirmish. And the capture of Zawahiri certainly had the potential to be earmarked as the start of a violent chess match.

The next move was al-Qaeda’s.

Bolling Air Force Base. 0211 hours
Approximately 30 Hours after the Extraction of al-Zawahiri

Aasif Shazad had served the U.S. military for sixteen years, earning the rank of Lieutenant Commander in the Navy, serving as an executive officer for SEAL teams before he disappeared amidst his own rising fundamentalist beliefs. Born in Dearborn, Michigan and raised in Detroit, he found religion to be more of a crutch in his youth than a mainstay of beliefs, attributing his wayward attitude to the influence of American culture at the time.

Then the world changed as did
his
cultural landscape when the twin towers fell on nine-eleven. It was also the day that his sense of neutrality began to gravitate towards his Muslim roots, finding religion the salve of healing for the sudden and painful vilification he had suddenly come under, despite his loyalties to the American banner.

In time he had grown inwardly hostile and angry as his repugnance matured into intolerance, his intolerance then evolving to fundamentalism, and finally his fundamentalism becoming the burning hatred of all things not Muslim.

Two years ago, while stationed at the JBAB, the Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling, a military installation located in Southeast Washington, D.C., he absconded from service with vengeance in his heart.

He had become nameless and faceless inside American borders, working simple jobs to stay under the radar when he was, in fact, developing a cell made up of the most seasoned warriors who abided by the same intolerances toward the ‘infidels’ as did he. When the U.S. military employed around 20,000 Muslims as part of their fighting force, recruits were easy to come by. So in the two years that he’d gone missing, Aasif Shazad had become a conduit working through a network of mosques on U.S. soil, eventually becoming the eyes, ears and mind of al-Qaeda on the D.C. front. With ties to two cultures and the vision to see as his enemy does, and with tactical training by way of the U.S. military, Aasif Shazad would become much more than just an enemy of the state.

He would become the scourge to a superpower in the name of Allah.

When he was contacted twenty-four hours ago regarding the extraction of al-Zawahiri from Islamabad--presumably with the influence of the American government--his patiently developed cell had been activated. Plans went into motion.

As an officer he had driven the route to the JBAB many times before, where the Naval Support Facility Anacostia and Bolling Air Force Base were joined together as a single base.

He knew the facility well, knew the enemy even better, as he drove the first of seven military cargo trucks to the front gate. Sitting beside him was former Army Ranger Naji Mihran, his second lieutenant.

A sentry posted at the guardhouse with an MP5 submachine gun slung over his shoulder held his hand up. A second sentry remained inside, pecking at the keyboard of a computer.

“Papers, please.”

Shazad smiled. “Certainly.”

As he reached into his shirt pocket, Naji Mihran leaned across the truck’s cab with a suppressed firearm and did a double tap, the two bullets finding the sentry’s head, killing him instantly.

When the sentry inside the guardhouse saw his comrade fall through his peripheral vision, he sprung to his feet, reaching for his holstered Glock pistol. Before his hand could reach his weapon, three quiet shots from a suppressed weapon impacted his chest and drove him to the wall. As the soldier slid to the floor with a surprised look regarding his own mortality, a trail of blood marred the wall behind him.

Good shooting
, thought Shazad. But then again, he expected nothing less from his team, especially from Naji. “Maintain the guardhouse,” he told him. “You’re the first line of defense. Make sure that no one enters or leaves. Should there be problems...” He lowered the curved arm of his lip mike. “Then advise. Is that clear?”

Naji nodded.
Quite clear
.

Shazad held up his wrist to show his lieutenant the face of his watch.
Eighteen minutes left to complete the mission.

Naji understood as he jumped down from the truck along with two others. They exited from the rear, all dressed in the same uniform as that of the downed guards. While the others dragged the bodies out of sight, Naji lifted the arm gate to allow passage.

They had seventeen minutes left.

#

In a housed facility approximately six hundred yards from the main gate stood a hanger with the number ‘17’ stenciled on the doors. It was massive, with enough interior space to contain several Boeing jets. But this particular hanger contained items of far more value.

When Shazad pulled up to the doors, four heavily armed guards stood their posts, one of them holding up a hand and patting the air for him to stop.

Shazad whispered into his lip mike. “Four tangos, all armed. One approaching the vehicle. The others are manning their posts by the doors. On five.”

“
On five. We copy
.”

Shazad glanced at his watch, which was synchronized to the second with those of his team.

Four seconds
.

The guard approached the vehicle with a questioning look on his face, then settled about ten feet from the vehicle, advancing no further.

“Sir, state your purpose.”

Shazad noticed that the sentry was holding the mouth of his weapon toward the truck.

Three seconds
.

“Sir, I'm asking you again to state your purpose.”

Shazad nodded, produced a set of counterfeit documents, and held them out the window for the guard.

Two seconds
.

The guard reacted with a measure of caution by arching a brow as he reached for the documents. He eyeballed them briefly.

“We have no confirmation of your arrival from Main Gate."

One second
.

Shazad gave a cocky grin. “I don’t think that really matters much."

The guard’s eyes suddenly detonated with the realization that the JBAB had been breached. He raised the point of his firearm. But Shazad beat the guard to the draw, directing his suppressed weapon to a particular point on the man’s forehead.

He pulled the trigger.

The guard stood for a long moment as a ribbon of smoke exited from the bloodless wound, his eyes now alight with wonder as the moment of death approached, and then he fell like a stone to the ground, hard and fast.