Game of Drones (26 page)

#

From their position by the mobile units, impotent to do anything to save their hero drone operator, the remaining members of OUTCAST watched the fireball carrying Chance's ashes rise skyward, then go black. What followed was a concussive blast that rattled the brush as it rushed toward them, shoving everyone back like a push from a warm hand.

Nay lay on the ground, wracked with sobs, her ring hand pressed tightly against her bosom, against her heart, calling out Chance’s name over and over again. Somberly, and with all the comfort they could provide not only to Nay but to each other, her fellow operators helped her to her feet and eased her into the front seat of the SUV.

As seasoned as they were, as hard-shelled as they had become, no one had a dry eye, nor were they ashamed to display the emotion of such immeasurable and sudden loss.

OUTCAST had lost one of their own.

Raven Rock

As the last drone was taken down before it could launch its Hellfires, everyone applauded and shouted with fist pumps--the Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Power Plant was spared--and with it the lives of tens of thousands.

President Carmichael finally had a victory.

Furthermore, Shazad’s arsenal was at last exhausted.

“Can you patch me through to Tanner Wilson?” he asked good-naturedly to Casey, who in turn conveyed the message to the connecting dispatcher so that the call was on speaker.

But instead of being upbeat, Tanner sounded despondent.
“This is Tanner. Go.”

“Tanner Wilson, this is President Carmichael. I, along with my staff, would like to congratulate you on a job well done. Fantastic! You and your team of operatives pulled off the impossible. But like I always said, the word
impossible
doesn’t mean it can’t be done. It only measures the degree of difficulty.’ And you proved me right.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“And Shazad--what became of him?”

“We’re not sure, sir. We never made contact with the man. But he’s presumed dead.”

Carmichael picked up on the dejected quality of his tone. “Something wrong, Tanner?”

There was a pregnant pause over the air, a beat of silence and a faint signal of white noise. Then Tanner spoke:
“We lost a man, sir. He stayed behind to see the mission through . . . He sacrificed himself to make sure that the drone was taken out. If it wasn’t for him, then
Calvert Cliffs
would be destroyed.”

Carmichael nodded his appreciation, although Tanner could not see it. “Then this man will be honored,” he answered.

“His name is Chance Zanetti.”

“Chance Zanetti. Understood. A fine man. And men like him don’t come—”

#

Tanner could feel the thickness of emotion welling up when he spoke his friend’s name. “His name is Chance Zanetti.”

“Chance Zanetti. Understood. A fine man. And men like him don’t come—”

But Tanner didn’t want to hear anymore. He removed his headset and dropped it on the ground, the president’s voice coming over the ear buds as nonsensical and muted sounds while OUTCAST finally drove away.

OUTCAST Facility
Three Hours Later

The mood was somber and quiet, a dim pall casting itself with a syrupy thickness. When Danielle Sunderland heard that Chance had been a casualty, she broke down, joining Nay with a series of deep-racking sobs.

But Tanner moved on quickly through the stages of mourning, having already gone from grieving to anger. He grabbed the phone and contacted FBI Director John Casey on a secure line.

“I’m sorry about Chance,”
Casey told him.
“Really. You and your team did a magnificent job. We here at Raven Rock appreciate what you have done.”

“Done?” Tanner stared at an imaginary point on the opposite wall, letting his anger brew. “We’re not done with this mission yet.”

“What do you mean? The stronghold’s been taken down. The arsenal—”

“I’m talking about Zawahiri,” he interjected.

“What about him?”

“Certain conditions exist,” he told him. “And certain actions are warranted.”

“Tanner—”

“What does the Pakistani Council plan to do?”

“Tanner, this is above and beyond—”

“What do they plan to do?” he repeated.

Casey hesitated.
“We’re not sure yet. But the consensus here at Raven Rock is that they’re going to release him . . . that they’re trying to save face by brokering a peace with the added condition that Zawahiri leave Pakistan. Considering what al-Qaeda was able to do in such a short period of time over there, they’re hoping that the U.N. will understand that peace had to be arranged at any cost in order to stop the mayhem. They’re banking that the U.N. will postpone any consideration of sanctions.”

Tanner shook his head disapprovingly. “And meanwhile Zawahiri can go on dictating his terror schemes?”

“It’s not our call,”
Casey said.
“Believe me. Carmichael wants to get his hands around Zawahiri’s throat as much as we do.”

“Maybe I’ll do it for him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Where’s he being held?”

“Tanner—”

“John . . . where is Zawahiri being held?”

After of moment of hesitation, John Casey told him everything, including the name of the man who was spearheading the cause, Saj Usmani.

Islamabad, Pakistan. Office of the Pakistani Council
Seven Hours after the Bunker Explosion

The president of Pakistan eventually had to concede. Proposals were brought to the table and arguments ensued, each political principal voicing their opinions, with Allah the key element of discussion.

Saj Usmani led the debates, promising to broker a peace with the al-Qaeda leader on the condition that he leave ‘town.’ When asked if this was possible, Usmani smiled arrogantly, saying that the freedom of a wasteland was far better than a restrictive cell at Guantanamo.

In the end a consensus was met with overwhelming numbers, the political principals agreeing to Zawahiri’s release so long as the hemorrhaging stopped soon.

And this Usmani guaranteed. He also guaranteed that the U.N. would be significantly weakened by their attempts to burden them with weighted sanctions after the devastation of Islamabad, news of which had played worldwide. Commiserations would be at an all-time high.

The Pakistani president appeared defeated and tired, his own burdens and failures giving him that hang-dog face, that looseness of a man aging by the inches.

Usmani, on the other hand, appeared fresh, a new political feather in his cap. “Then it’s agreed. I will broker a peace with al-Zawahiri. And for this he will be released.”

Agreed!

Saj Usmani fell back into his seat feeling absolutely glorious.

Benazir Bhutto International Airport
Rawalpindi, Pakistan
Eighteen Hours after the Bunker Explosion

Rawalpindi is the twin city of Islamabad. Since Islamabad was essentially shut down, Stephen Shah disembarked at Bhutto International in Rawalpindi. He was smartly dressed in thowbs and a turban. In his hand was the Koran and another sacred text. So when the officer inspected the false passport and noted the spiritual works, he allowed Shah to pass uncontested.

Being an expert in Middle-Eastern languages and fitting the profile as a Middle Easterner, Shah was the perfect candidate as an OUTCAST operator to see the mission to its end. Gathering a few essentials at the baggage carousel, Shah immediately headed for the transport area where he was picked up by a CIA contact, also a Middle Easterner.

After pulling away from the curb, Shah set the books aside. “Do you have the items?”

With one hand on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road, he handed Shah a small box that contained two things.

Shah opened the box, nodded in consent, and then closed the lid. “What do you know about Zawahiri?” he asked. His speech was even and clipped, having somewhat of a stoic manner.

“The Pakistani Council has agreed to his release,” the agent told him. “It’s being arranged by Saj Usmani. A man—”

“I know who Usmani is,” he interrupted.

“The Council wants to keep it low key, so Usmani--after he concludes the deal with Zawahiri--will transport him from an undisclosed location, which we know is not undisclosed to us.”

“Alone?”

The driver nodded. “Except for his chauffeur."

Stupendous, thought Shah. Things were falling into place. Now to actually execute the feat—that was going to be the hard part.

He lifted the box and considered its weight.

It’s always about the execution
.

Undisclosed Location
Fifty Miles from Islamabad

The building was aged, almost historical, its style of construction making it look like an ancient fortress built with stones the color of desert sand.

Usmani was quiet throughout the journey, the man poring over documents that were approved by Zawahiri and the councilmen. All that was needed to make the accord legitimate was Zawahiri’s signature.

As the vehicle skirted the old fort and made its way to the rear where the sally-port was, the driver waited until the gates parted, then drove up to the metal doors that led into the facility.

“Wait here,” said Usmani.

The driver nodded.

After being allowed through a series of doors, Usmani was led into a large area that was filled with metal tables and attached chairs, a meeting center for prisoners and their loved ones. When Zawahiri was escorted into the room, he summarily dismissed the guards with a wave of his hand, then joined Usmani at the table.

“You have the documents?”

Usmani lifted the folder filled with the proper documents. “Right here.”

With a look of indifference, Zawahiri said, “I will look at them as we leave.”

“But the agreement was to have you sign—”

“When we leave,” he said sternly. “I don’t want to spend another minute here unless I have to.”

“You will sign the accord?”

Zawahiri gave him a strong and sour look. “Have I not given you my word?”

This was a different man, Usmani thought. Zawahiri was far from the affable gentleman he had come to know on past visits. But then he supposed that life in prison would do that to you.

“You have,” he finally said. “But what I have here is the best I could do, given the circumstances,” he stated. “I debated long into the morning to have you released. All I ask is that you skirt the borders of Afghanistan for a while before reentering Pakistan covertly, and continue to lay low. Should international communities find out that you have broken the accord with Pakistan and we do nothing about it, then we will surely come under international fire with sanctions delivered to us by the United Nations.”

“I have agreed to the terms of the Council,” Zawahiri said. He didn’t need or care to read the documents, knowing that they were as worthless as the paper they were written on. He flexed his fingers in a beckoning manner, the English behind his action universally known as
give here
.

After the papers were spread before him, Zawahiri simply grabbed Usmani’s pen and scribbled his name on the last sheet.

“Don’t you want to examine the documents before you sign them?” Usmani asked.

Zawahiri handed the councilman his pen back. “What I want you to do, Usmani, is to get me out of here. Now.”

Usmani nodded. “Yes, al-Zawahiri. Right away.”

#

When the vehicle left the fortress, al-Zawahiri delighted in the air-conditioned cab, closing his eyes and sighing with relish. In the meantime, Saj Usmani was packing away the papers into a briefcase.

“Tell me,” began Zawahiri, “what of al-Shazad?”

Usmani shrugged. “We don’t know,” he said. “It’s believed that he died in the attack against the stronghold. We haven’t heard from him.”

“Then we shall honor him as a martyr,” said Zawahiri. “And the United States?”

“Their president has taken credit for correcting all that has gone wrong on American shores. Of course he has made false promises to bring those responsible before the peers of the highest international courts, specifically you.”

“A false promise indeed.” Zawahiri smiled. “People will listen to anyone they think might have a solution to the terrible. They will always fall back on the familiar in order to feel peace. The Americans will eventually rebound—they always do—but in time they will also fall complacent again, as always. No doubt there will be other opportunities for al-Qaeda to strike at the Great Satan,” he finalized.

For the next ten miles the conversation between Zawahiri and Usmani was nonexistent as the al-Qaeda leader seemed to enjoy the smooth, cool ride of the vehicle.

On the eleventh mile, however, the driver pulled the car over, set it into PARK, and applied the door locks.

Click . . . Click.

Usmani looked out at the expanse of desert landscaping, confused. “Driver, what are you doing?”

The chauffer opened the small window that separated the front cab from the rear, and handed a small envelope through the opening. “For al-Zawahiri,” he said in Arabic.

The moment Zawahiri grabbed the square envelope, the driver exited the vehicle and made haste, removing the chauffer’s hat and tossing it aside.

Both men in the vehicle were immediately concerned. Usmani called after the driver.

“Hey, where are you going?”

But the man picked up the pace, drawing distance between him and the car.

“Hey!” cried Usmani.

Out of curiosity, while Usmani tried locked doors and watched their driver running away, Zawahiri opened the envelope and pulled out the card inside.

It read:

وهذا
هو
فرصة،
يا
ابن
العاهرة
(This is for Chance, you son of a bitch!)