Sting of the Drone (20 page)

“It’s on the old side. Needs new snow tires, but it runs. Might be better if I got a new one.”

“No, do nothing to attract attention. Do not spend money, especially after the job. Not here. Go to Europe after Christmas. We can show you a good time in Paris, girls, whatever. We will pay for all of that. Then we will give you the rest of the money and you can buy what you want, but in Europe, not here.”

They were now standing outside of the Portland Lobster Company. The sign had a picture of a large red bug. Bahadur did not know how people could eat them. It was not just that, as bottom feeders, they were
haram
. They looked scary. How could they taste good? It would be like eating a scorpion.

“Do you eat lobsters?” he asked the Somali.

“I do, all the time. Get them off the boats. They’re cheaper than anything else I can get. Like two and a quarter a pound on the docks. But the Somalis who came here from over there, they get all freaked out about us eating them. They say they’re dirty. They ain’t dirty, you wash all the sand out, get rid of all that yellow stuff inside. Over there, my mom says the beaches were full of them, but little ones without the claws. But the Somalis over there don’t eat them even when they’re starving. Crazy.”

“Enough,” Bahadur said. He extended his hand for the Somali to shake. In his palm there was a thumb drive. “On this are your instructions. It will not download. You can only open it and read it once. When you close the file, it will erase. Then drop it off the dock when no one is looking. There is a boat that leaves from this street and goes to Canada, yes?”

“The Blue Nose, yeah, every day, from up the street.”

“Show me,” Bahadur said. “Point it out and then walk away. If you do this work well, you do it exactly at the time I will give you. It must be precisely simultaneous. You will never have to work again, not for us, not for anyone. Understood?”

“I am down with that,” the young man smiled. Sensing Bahadur’s confusion, he added, “I get it, man, I understand. Rich man.”

Bahadur smiled back as they walked together toward the Blue Nose. No, he thought, dead man. Just like the Yemeni in Philadelphia and the Nigerian in Chicago. They would probably all succeed in the missions. Some would die in the explosions because the timers were set differently than the boys were told. Some would survive, for a while. A few weeks later they would travel to France, to Mexico, to Jamaica to collect the rest of their money. There his men would meet them and wipe the trail clean.

23

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 23

FOUR MILE RUN

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

“I don’t wear makeup,” he said.

“Well, you will for this,” Linda Greene told Raymond Bowman as she drove her Prius down the interstate. “I am your public affairs advisor for this, assigned by Winston Burrell. And I am not going to have you do badly or look badly. It would reflect poorly on the Administration, Dr. Burrell, and me. You are going to be persuasive. And you are going to wear makeup.”

They were driving together to the PBS Washington studios, which were actually in Arlington, Virginia. And they were lost. “I know, we are late, but we will be there in time for the show. Just tell me again where we turn,” Greene said into her iPhone as she drove. “No, I don’t see the Weenie Beenie. What the hell is a Weenie Beenie? Yes, I know it’s a live show and we have to be on time.”

As they finally pulled up to the nondescript building surrounded by high fencing, Linda Greene summed up one more time what Ray should say, “We have extensive checks and balances, a thorough review of every proposed mission. These missions are essential to the safety of the United States. They save American lives. Any Administration that had the capability to do this and failed to act would be guilty of dereliction of duty. Got it?”

“I know what to say,” Ray replied as he stepped out of the car.

Raymond Bowman was about to defend the drone program on nationwide television, because the National Security Advisor had told him to do so. He was not looking forward to it. For over twenty years in government he had remained out of the public eye; now he was going to be cross-examined for twenty minutes by one of the nation’s best-informed television personalities, Charlie Cross. After the opening introductions, Cross got right to it.

“Who decides who dies?” Cross began.

“I think our purpose is to prevent Americans from dying,” Ray replied. “Terrorists may think they can decide on which Americans will die and when. It’s our job to make sure that they don’t succeed.”

“That’s not what I meant, and I think you know that,” Cross countered. “Who decides who America kills with its drones?”

“American forces attack enemy forces based upon credible intelligence. When we use Unmanned Aerial Vehicles, UAVs, there is an extra process, involving lawyers, experts, and senior officials from five federal agencies. We have Rules of Engagement that require high confidence that the target is an active threat to American lives and America’s national security interests.”

“We’ll get to that, but my question was who decides. Is it the President? What is his role?” Cross persisted. “Or is it you?”

The studio lights were so bright that Ray could see nothing in the room except his interrogator. It reminded him of one of the advanced interrogation techniques he had helped to put an end to. “The President approves the list of people designated as High Value Individuals. He is presented with the recommendations of the departments. He is given the dossiers, demonstrating that the individual is an active threat to Americans. These are people, Charlie, who are trying to kill Americans. Such people, regrettably, exist. They have to be stopped, before they kill,” Ray said warming to his argument.

“So the President of the United States has become an executioner, deciding on who lives and who dies?”

“Charlie, the President is the head of the government. The government’s first duty is to defend its people. He does that,” Ray said, reaching for his glass of water. After taking a sip, he continued, “Another President might delegate this job, but he has chosen to be directly involved because, in his view, ultimately it is on his authority that these actions are being taken and he believes that he has a moral responsibility to ensure that we are acting ethically and responsibly.”

“Ethically killing?” Cross asked.

“Ethically using force, including lethal force, in self-defense,” Ray replied, “as Presidents have since George Washington.”

“So what are the Rules of Engagement? How are we acting in self-defense when we surprise some group of Arabs in a small town in Yemen? What are we defending, the corrupt Yemeni government?” Cross pressed.

He felt sweat breaking through the makeup on his forehead, but decided to ignore it. “If we attack a target in Yemen, it is because we have very good reason to believe that those people are sitting there actively planning to kill Americans, training people to kill Americans,” Ray answered.

“So we don’t attack targets or people who threaten other governments? The attacks in Yemen aren’t meant to prop up the regime there? You have never attacked a target there except to stop an attack on Americans?” Charlie Cross asked.

“I am unaware of any attack in Yemen except against AQAP, al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, and they are committed to killing Americans,” Ray hedged.

“Well, that’s a little different from saying all the attacks were to prevent some imminent attack on Americans. We also used drones against Qadhafi’s forces in Libya. Were they threatening America?” Cross asked. He had found a clear case when drones had been used when Americans were not in danger.

“In Libya, yes, back then we acted to enforce a UN Security Council resolution and under the authority of NATO. But now,” Ray responded, “we are only acting to defend Americans. Sometimes the people we target simultaneously threaten Americans and others, but the determinative criterion, the ultimate question is ‘Will these people kill Americans?’”

“Let’s leave that. Let me ask you, you know the people who pull the trigger, the people who you call the pilots even though they never leave the ground. Doesn’t it seem like a computer game to these guys after a while?” Cross probed.

“We call them pilots because they are. They have flown F-16s, F-18s in combat,” Ray shot back. “They fly on average twenty-two hours on patrol or in transit for every hour that they are engaging a target. They know they are flying real planes, with real weapons. And it is not up to them to fire their weapons; they have to be given approval after an extensive review. They don’t look at the target for seconds, the way other pilots do. They stare at the target for hours to be sure that they have the right target and that attacking will not endanger innocent people.”

“And yet, you blew up an orphanage,” Cross said.

Ray expected the orphanage question. “Charlie, we have flown over fifty thousand missions in the last five years. We do not want to make a mistake on any mission, but we have made rare mistakes. But we did not bomb an orphanage,” he replied. “Orphans were kidnapped by terrorists and hidden in a target. We learned from that and we take even more elaborate steps now to be sure that there are no civilians in the target area.”

“So how, then, did you kill an American, Wilhelm Stroeder, in Vienna, Austria?” Cross drilled. “Couldn’t the Austrian police arrest any terrorists, and was the American a terrorist?”

Ray did not see that coming. “Charlie, I can’t talk about specific operations. I can’t confirm allegations that there was a U.S. drone flight over this or that specific country.”

“Well, that sounded like an admission, but let’s get back to whether this new kind of weapon is a good idea. Is it really fair? You fly so high overhead, the enemy may not even be able to know you are there. Isn’t it like shooting fish in a barrel? The pilots are not at any risk, they can’t be hurt. Doesn’t it lower the barrier to lethal action?” Cross asked.

“It’s not fair,” Ray replied.

Cross was flummoxed for a moment. “So you agree with me?”

“The beauty of these weapon systems is that they defend American lives without risking American lives,” Ray said. “Our pilots are invulnerable.”

“What if drones were used against us?” Charlie Cross queried.

“We know that these weapons are not something that only the United States possesses. We would hope that any nation that uses them would use them with the care and high standards that we employ. If they are used against us, we will defend ourselves,” he answered.

“Do you think the people the U.S. is targeting with drones should defend themselves?” Cross asked.

“I’m glad that they can’t,” Ray shot back.

“So far,” Cross observed. “How long will these drone strikes go on, forever?”

“That’s up to the President, of course,” Ray answered. “But I think we all hope that the day would come when there is not an active terrorist threat to the United States.”

“Indeed, but maybe, just maybe as long as you are killing people, and leaving behind their sons and brothers, you are creating more and more terrorists and this becomes a war without end. Thank you, Raymond Bowman, for being with us tonight. We will be right back.” The bright lights faded.

Ray felt that he had been bettered by Cross, that he had not been as persuasive, as convincing as he wanted to be.

“You were great,” Linda Greene said as he walked off the set. “Dr. Burrell said to tell you.” She handed him a towelette to remove the makeup.

“I bet he says that to all the boys,” Ray said as he smeared off the makeup.

“And Dr. Burrell said to tell you that a K Call is under way, whatever that is,” Greene said as she dabbed his forehead. “They sent a car for you. It’s outside. So I guess I don’t get to drive you back.”

“That’s a shame,” Ray said, as he moved toward the lobby, “but thanks for your help.” Through the glass front door he could see a black Suburban sitting in front of the building. Nice, he thought, Burrell had sent the truck to rush him back to the PEG for the Kill Call. It probably had red and blue flashing lights in the grille, maybe a siren. As he approached the Suburban, the passenger door opened and an older African American woman emerged. “Are you Raymond Bowman?”

“You found me,” he said, smiling. “Thanks for coming.”

“This is a subpoena, Mr. Bowman. You have been served,” she said as she jumped back into the Suburban.

He looked at the document. It had the name of a plantiff, Janet Stroeder. He noticed that the list of defendants included Sandra Vittonelli. Her employment by the Agency, her relationship to the program was classified. “Fucking O’Connell,” he muttered.

“Mr. Bowman?” a pimply faced young man in an Army uniform said from inside a white Chevy Impala. “I’m your driver, sir. Where do you want to go?”

“Home,” he sighed, “but let’s go to Foggy Bottom.”

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 23

ABOARD THE USS
ABRAHAM LINCOLN

THE GULF OF SIDRA, MEDITERRANEAN SEA

The large elevator reached the flight deck, ninety feet above the surface of the sea. It carried from the hangar below two men in blue vests and one thirty-eight-foot-long, matte gray, Sea Ghost aircraft, its wings folded up above the smooth, rounded fuselage. The drone, designated Caspar Six Charlie today, was reporting for duty. A man in a yellow vest, holding a remote control box with a joystick, steered the Sea Ghost from the elevator, across the flight deck, by the two alert F-18s, past a Seahawk helicopter, to a fueling area. He hit a switch that caused the aircraft’s wings to descend and lock into place. Its wingspan was now over sixty feet wide. Men in purple vests, known as grapes, leaped into action, running hoses and locking them onto each wing of the Sea Ghost.

Within minutes, the Sea Ghost’s tanks were filled and the yellow-vested controller moved the joystick again, gliding the Sea Ghost to the steam catapults that would launch it. Men in green vests bent below the drone, locking the aircraft’s wheels into the catapult’s channels. Nearby on the flight deck men in red vests, the armorers, watched. They had no role in this aircraft’s flight. It was flying unarmed, on a reconnaissance mission, patrolling the waters off Libya. Its bomb bay was filled with electronic spy gear instead of weapons. Two other Sea Ghosts sat below deck. If needed, they could be armed with air-to-air and air-to-ground missiles, fitted up inside a bomb bay in the smooth fuselage. When flying together the bat-shaped Sea Ghosts could swarm, flying in formation, communicating with each other with no human in the loop, deciding which of the drones should launch missiles against which of their assigned targets. If one were shot down, another would automatically assume its mission. If fired at, the aircraft could quickly pull such sharp turns that were there a human on board, he would quickly pass out. There were, of course, no humans on board. That would just have made the aircraft heavier, slower, and less effective.