Sting of the Drone (19 page)

He had told Fred Garrison in New York that they were driving out into the country. Garrison had expected a call in from them last night when they returned to the hotel. By now Garrison had probably called the embassy. Maybe the embassy could get someone in the Yemeni Security Service on the phone. Maybe Garrison would give someone in the U.S. Government their mobile phone numbers to track them. That would get them to where the roadblock had been, but they were at least an hour away from there now.

He tried to remember whether AQAP took ransom money when they kidnapped Westerners. Or did they just kill them? He thought of the pictures of Danny Pearl from
The Wall Street Journal
being decapitated in Pakistan. Bryce shuddered. He tried to take control of where his mind went. He willed himself to think of breakfast at the Tim Hortons near campus. He dozed again.

Bryce jolted awake as the door flew open and hit the wall. Bright light streamed in, as did the men, four of them with balaclavas hiding their faces. The leg irons came off and he was lifted. They were in a corridor, then a small, bright courtyard. Fares sat at a table with another man. Bryce was forcefully seated at the table. He made eye contact with Fares, who stared back, wide eyed.

“Wash your hands before you eat,” the man at the table said in British-accented English. He pushed a bowl of water toward Bryce and handed him a small towel. Bryce noticed a second bowl, with fruit.

“You are CIA, yes?” the man asked. He looked to be in his forties, his bushy beard already speckled with gray.

Bryce tried to answer, but his throat cracked from the dryness. The man pushed a glass toward him and Bryce eagerly took it and swallowed the carrot juice.

“No, WWN. World Wide News,” Bryce said. “I am a Canadian citizen.”

The man nodded his head, agreeing. “Yes, yes. I saw the passport. And your bio on the WWN Web site says you went to the University of Toronto. Still, you could be CIA. They told us to expect you.”

“I’m sorry, who told you what?” Bryce asked, reaching for a banana.

“We have mutual acquaintances in Pakistan, Mister Duggan, but I wanted to be sure for myself what you were doing here, what your report would say.” The man rose from the table as a boy appeared with flat bread and a teapot. “I watched your videotape this morning. It tells the truth. But now you can say that you met with an AQAP leader, Mr. Duggan, and he told you that the drones are bringing us more brothers than anything we ever tried.”

Two men with AKs appeared in the courtyard. “They will take you to your vehicle,” the older man said as he left the courtyard. “The drones are working, CIA man. They are recruiting for us.”

21

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 27

PEG HEADQUARTERS

NAVY HILL

WASHINGTON, DC

On the Big Board, they could see the speedboat. It was doing twenty-eight knots when the boat driver cut the engine and began to ease the boat toward the back of the yacht. From twelve thousand feet above, the camera on the Global Reach drone zoomed in on a face. “Facial Recognition Confirmation,” the CIA officer said from Virginia, “Abu Yahya al Yemeni, the head of al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. That means our source may be right. The heads of the two biggest al Qaeda affiliates, Somali Shabab and AQAP, al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, meeting each other. This could be big.”

Ray Bowman had just joined the Kill Call. “We’ve seen indications of those two AQ groups coordinating, doing mutual support, but if their two top guys are meeting, they must be planning something more. Have you seen any of the Shabab guys on the yacht yet?”

“No, we got here by following Abu Yahya’s speedboat. Haven’t been looking at the yacht,” Erik responded. With Sandra Vittonelli in the air flying back to Las Vegas from Washington, Erik Parsons was running the Kill Call from the GCC.

“So we don’t know whether there are civilians on the boat?” the Justice Department lawyer asked.

“Actually, we will shortly,” the CIA officer said from Virginia. “Our source, and this is ultrasensitive, is actually the speedboat driver. He’s supposed to go on board and check it out, then signal us. Can’t do better than that. Human eyes on target.”

“Okay, keep circling. Try to see through the windows on the yacht,” Ray suggested.

“We can do better than that. Remember this is the big drone, Global Reach. It carries all sorts of tricks, including an audio collection mini-drone. We might be able to pick up conversation using its laser parabolic microphone,” Erik said.

“Do it,” Ray replied. “Have it drop its mini-drone.”

Twelve thousand feet over the Indian Ocean, a panel slid back on the bottom of the large drone. A rotary launcher inside the aircraft spun, until the mini-drone was in position to be dropped. When it was released, the mini-drone fell toward the water, a small parachute opening at one thousand feet above the surface. As soon as the parachute had slowed the fall, a propeller on the rear of the fuselage started up. The parachute broke away from the drone, which pushed forward toward the yacht, twenty-two kilometers ahead.

“Let’s hope they didn’t see that,” Ray said.

“Very unlikely,” the Pentagon officer on the call replied.

On the Big Board, Erik could see the speedboat pulling away from the yacht. Only the boat driver appeared to be on board. A few minutes later, Erik heard the CIA voice on the speaker, “Just signaled us with a data burst on his cove comm. Four crew, six shooters, two principals. That’s all he says are on the yacht.” The source had gone on board, looked around, left on the speedboat, and used a CIA-provided covert communications device to beam an encrypted, data compressed message up to a satellite and down to CIA Headquarters.

“Does he say the Shabab guy is there?” Ray asked.

“That’s all I got,” the CIA answered.

“We’ve programmed the mini-drone to circle the yacht and throw its laser against windows and generally to search for conversation,” Erik reported. “The laser beam is invisible to the human eye and the bird has the chameleon skin, so they shouldn’t see it. Any audio will be fed from here straight to NSA for translation.”

The minutes dragged. The image from the Global Reach drone stayed on the screens in each of the operation centers as the big drone flew circles over the ocean. It could stay up for two days from its base in Djibouti on the Red Sea, or from the airfield in Seychelles, in the Indian Ocean. What its sensors collected was beamed by radio up to a satellite in a stationary orbit above the Indian Ocean. From there it was relayed by laser beam to another satellite parked over the U.S. and then down to the GCC, outside of Las Vegas. The GCC then routed it out over a high-speed fiber-optic cable to NSA in Maryland, CIA in Virginia, and five offices in or near Washington: the White House, the State Department, the Justice Department, the Pentagon, and the Policy Evaluation Group.

“Okay, here’s our analysis,” the voice from NSA said. “We have detected four distinctly different adult male voices. We have detected no female voices, no children. It’s difficult to maintain continuity on a conversation because the bird keeps moving, but we did hear one snippet between what we think is a Somali and the Yemeni. They’re talking in English. Makes sense. The Somali probably doesn’t speak Arabic. Here it is: ‘At the same time as the Taliban hits, we go and you go.’ That’s all we caught of that.”

The main camera on the Global Reach zoomed in on two men sitting on the fan deck on the yacht’s stern. “Facial recognition of these two,” the voice from the CIA said. “Abu Yahya from AQAP and Ibrahim Afrah from Shabab.”

“Fascinating, both groups sent their top guys,” Ray replied. “All right, we have two sources that indicate no collateral targets on board. We also have video from both the Global Reach and the mini-drone that only shows targets. Does anybody object to a strike on this ship?”

“State’s good. Go.”

“Justice clears off.”

“DOD chops. Clean kill.”

“CIA approves.”

Ray Bowman had been on the secure phone to Winston Burrell at the White House and obtained his approval.

“All right, GCC, execute the strike,” Ray ordered.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 27

GLOBAL COORDINATION CENTER

OPERATIONS ROOM

CREECH AFB, NEVADA

Erik indicated to the pilot to drop the two small torpedoes. Again, the panel on the bottom of the Global Reach opened and the rotary launcher spun about, until a torpedo was in position. When it detached and dropped, another one rotated into place and was then released. Like the mini-drone, they dove toward the water and then popped parachutes. Unlike the mini-drone, the torpedoes cut loose of their parachutes, fell below the surface of the water, and then fired up high-speed motors that sent them toward the yacht, their sensors programmed to detect the audio and magnetic signature of the large boat.

As the torpedoes sped ahead, Ray said to everyone on the circuit what they probably all were already thinking, “This is perhaps the biggest hit we have ever done. The leaders of the two most active AQ groups, and apparently planning some sort of simultaneous attacks, which we might just head off.”

The video screens now showed images from two cameras on the Global Reach. One showed the white lines made in the water by the speeding torpedoes. The other showed a high-definition close-up of the two AQ leaders talking on the aft deck of the yacht. Erik, as Flight Controller, could also see the video feed from the mini-drone. It startled him. Erik saw that there was another speedboat headed toward the bow of the ship. In the boat were two men and four boys, and fishing poles.

Erik’s eye darted to the many controls on his console. One of the buttons would detonate the torpedoes before they made contact with the yacht. Another would kill the video feed from the mini-drone. His left hand snapped out. He stopped the video feed.

The image on the Big Board from the Global Reach showed the water erupting, engulfing the rear of the yacht. Then a second explosion and then a third as the fuel tank erupted. What had been the yacht and the water around it was now a column of water and black smoke rising into the air, throwing pieces of metal and wood up and out.

Erik heard Ray over the headset, “Good job, guys. Big deal. And nice, clean kill.”

Erik spoke into the microphone, “Kill Call closed.” He flicked the switch that ended the videoconference.

22

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 12

EXCHANGE STREET

PORTLAND, MAINE

“Have anotha?”

What was the question? Bahadur thought. He had struggled to learn English as spoken by the Australians, which had been very difficult. Now he tried to comprehend the American dialects. He assumed the American woman was offering him more coffee. “Oh, no, thank you. One cup is enough.”

“Let’s see, you were only on the Internet for ten minutes and had one cup. Let’s say five dollahs,” she said.

He paid the bill, with cash as he had been paying all of his bills, and walked out of the Java Net Cafe onto Exchange Street. Its bright aqua facade had been easy to find. He had used an iMac to check one of his Gmail accounts, but he had first connected to an anonymizing Web site so that Google’s servers could not record the Internet IP address of the café. The Somali was to meet him when he walked out of the café.

On the sidewalk in front of the café, Bahadur saw the Somali and then looked to see that there was no one else within earshot. Bahadur spoke aloud the code words from the Hadith that were in the green moleskin notebook for this sleeper. “Give to a beggar even if he comes on a horse.”

The Somali, who had looked nervous standing waiting on the sidewalk, seemed now suddenly calm. He bowed his head briefly. He knew that Bahadur was not from the FBI because this man knew a phrase to use with him that only two or three men in Pakistan knew, a personal phrase from the Prophet that had been assigned only to him when he had pledged
bayat,
allegiance to al Qaeda.

“Shall we walk down to the water?” Bahadur suggested. It was a chilly, late autumn day. There would be few people walking on the piers. They turned right on Commercial Street and looked out at the boats, then they strolled slowly out onto one of the docks. When they were far from anyone else, Bahadur began.

“Why do you want to do this?”

“Really, bro? For the money? I could tell you it’s because my granddad got killed by the SEALs in Baidoa, but he didn’t. He’s still alive. Moved to Mog. I do hate the Americans, but truth is I am one, too, technically. I was born here. There’s a bunch of Somalis live here. Here and in Minnesota. The Americans must have thought it was funny. Move the Somali refugees to the coldest-ass places in the country. Have them freak out when they see snow.

“But get it straight dude, I ain’t no suicide guy. My cousin asked me if I had the balls to do this for a lot of money. He said he can’t do it because he was born there. The FBI keeps an eye on them, the guys who came here, even when they were like two years old at the time they got to the U.S. of A. If I do it, I got to split some of the money with him. I’m okay with that.”

Bahadur raised his hand to stop the Somali from talking. Otherwise, the Pakistani thought, the young man would have kept jabbering all day. He might look Somali, but he sounded very American. That was good.

The al Qaeda people he had met in Karachi had been right, this young man would raise few suspicions.

“We do not want suiciders. They are too crazy. They screw up. We want someone smart. You place the bomb in the tunnel then you leave. You have been to Boston before? Been on the T?” Bahadur asked.

“Sure, man. Done Beantown a shitload. Concert at the Garden last year. Then we took the trolley over to BU, Green Line. Still have the Charlie Card with money left on it.”

Bahadur was unsure what all of that meant, but did not ask what a Charlie Card was. “You will have to go back and do some trial runs. See where you can leave the bomb. Check out the security. Look for the police, the cameras. Carry a backpack with books. Do nothing to raise suspicion. Do you have a car?”