Drone Games (17 page)

“Once, at a White House press briefing, a news correspondent repeatedly asked US officials about the motivation for Muslims wanting to harm us. Assassins were targeting Americans for death, and she wanted to know why. The answer is in that website, specifically in the
Email Response from Readers
section. It’s really a titanic clash of two cultures. One touts its right to draw, publish, view, and laugh at virtually anything under the auspices of freedom. And the other culture is absolutely outraged at how those rights are used to the point of blood violence. No disrespect intended, but it’s the revenge, pure and simple. Why? Because a bunch of fools neither sees nor cares about the potential danger. Islamic jihadists are reigning terror upon humanity because their religion is under verbal and artistic attack. Sounds like reasonable thinking to me, but what do I know? I’m the crazy guy who cries wolf. Take a long, hard look at that site, Mr. NTSB. Infidels celebrate their free speech while Muslim extremists seethe. We must believe that their threats are serious. And a certain percentage will turn those threats into actions.”

Ross stared into his drink. “I’m so glad we had this chat. I feel like I could throw up. Either that or move to a remote island . . .” Ross sat motionless, clutching his side.

“Are you all right?” Riley asked.

“Oh man . . . I hate that,” Ross finally spoke. “Every once in a while I get a sharp pain, always in the same spot. It comes and goes. I’m fine. Where were we? Oh yeah, a remote island. You mentioned the Florida Keys the other day in your presentation. I heard it’s a great vacation getaway. What’s down there?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“No terrorists, huh?”

Riley chuckled and shook his head. “Like I said before, a lone suicide bomber would blow up a kindergarten class and think nothing of it. But even that kind of ‘damage,’ for lack of a better term, is manageable. Sure, people usually die violently, but so does the terrorist. The super-terrorist will orchestrate the destruction of an entire city and then quietly and carefully move on to the next. That’s the guy I fear. One time in Norfolk, I escorted four Saudi nationals to dinner. Radio technicians. They got in my car, and I politely asked them to fasten their seat belts. They refused. They said if Allah willed that they died in an accident, so be it.”

“How did they get that way?” Ross asked.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Riley replied, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Time for a culture lesson. Put that drink down and listen. No one knows how many radical religious killers there are in the United States. And that’s including those who are Catholics, Lutherans, Methodists, Baptists, and so on. That’s like trying to identify and count the number of people willing to murder. It could be fifty or fifty thousand. No one knows. But just nineteen individuals were responsible for 9/11. Twenty if you count that snake Moussaoui. And they all just happened to be Muslim—followers of the Islamic religion. All Muslims are not jihadists. If 9/11 were committed by radical followers of the Nordic gods Odin and Thor, we wouldn’t condemn all blue-eyed, blonde-haired Scandinavians, right? The problem is, some followers of Islam are perfectly willing to use violence to get a point across. And no sane person would condone that. In America, a museum can display a painting of Jesus with his head covered in feces and the worst that’ll happen is someone will try and revoke their tax-exempt status. If that were a portrait of Mohammed, I guarantee that the artist would end up with no head, and the museum would be set on fire. Religious fanaticism. You can’t reason with it, you can’t change it, and you certainly can’t eradicate it. All you can do is keep fighting on and on and on. So, in answer to your question about stadiums and theme parks, as long as some radical human beings think we’re a threat to Islam, yes, it can happen. And believe me, we’re talking all-out war. You and I go about our daily routines following a life goal to some happy, peaceful end. Contrast that to Mr. Super-terrorist’s goal—to destroy the enemies of Islam. And in case you’re wondering, that’s you and me.”

“I think anyone who plans or commits violence in the name of religion is just outright insane,” Ross said matter-of-factly.

Riley nodded repeatedly and twirled his index finger. “Now finish it.”

“Huh?”

“Your testimonial. Finish it.”

Ross swirled his drink and after a few moments, his eyes widened, and he blurted the answer like an enthusiastic schoolboy. “Anyone who plans or commits violence in the name of religion is outright insane and should be condemned and then stopped.”

“Bravo.” Riley smiled, clapping his hands. “It’s easy to stand up at a podium and tell the media and the world that you condemn something. Our politicians do it all the time. But condemning something without physical action doesn’t mean jack, and our enemies know it.”

“So how do you deal with it?” Ross wondered.

“How do you deal with an airline crash involving hundreds of people?” Riley returned. “I can’t imagine it, but then we both continue to fly, right? You and I have the ability to turn it on and off. Problem is, I don’t believe most people can do that. Americans are simply too nice. We hold feelings high on a pedestal, as though they really mattered to terrorists. Wanna know something? They don’t. Congressional rep Petri is a perfect example. Don’t get me wrong. She may be a nice person, but sadly, she either can’t or won’t accept the fact that the world has dangerous people. And there are still way too many Americans who believe
we’re
the problem. We need to remember history. Kinder and gentler just ain’t gonna cut it in our future. The bottom line is this: if we don’t or can’t bring war to the terrorists, they’ll bring it here.”

“So what else do you do when you’re not chasing the super-Iranians?” Ross asked.

Riley smiled slyly. “I already told you—the Keys. I have a small place on the water near Marathon.”

“Aren’t you afraid of hurricanes?”

“Hey, we’re not talking about a New Orleans soup bowl. If a category-five storm hits the Florida Keys head-on, the coral and sand are still there. You rebuild. It’s the chance you take to occasionally visit paradise and drive a thirty-two-foot Boston Whaler 305 Conquest with twin 225 hp Mercury OptiMax outboards. It’s my one and only toy. Whenever I get the chance, I head down there and chase my grouper, Shaitan.”

“Oh yeah,” Riley said, smiling. “That’s your fish that looks like a bass.”

“Uh-huh. But Shaitan is much more than a fish. I named that ugly guy myself,” Riley said proudly. “Satan the Grouper, the baddest of the bad. He’s got a bad, ugly head with bad, ugly lips lined with bad, ugly hooks. My hooks. I figure he’s at least one hundred pounds.”

“One hundred pounds?” Ross asked skeptically.

“Groupers can get huge. The world-record black grouper is 124 pounds. Some Goliath groupers reach eight, even nine hundred pounds. The largest was twelve feet long and weighed fifteen hundred. There’s an unofficial report that it ate a diver. Well, every time I hooked Shaitan, he’s burned me. He hangs out in a series of underwater caves in a deep channel off Duck Key. Problem is, he never stays in one spot. He keeps moving to and fro on the Earth just like the real Satan. I’ve made it my life’s ambition to catch that clever SOB, and when I do, I’m going to pack him on ice and introduce him to a new dark cave right in my backyard. It’s called a Weber grill.”

Ross chuckled at that. “So what’s the name of your boat? Shaitan-Killer?”

“Not bad, but I named it after my island. Just-Duck-Key. Get it?”

“And where’s home up here?”

“My wife, Kissi, and I have seventy-two acres outside of Middleburg, west of Dulles. She has five horses and boards two more right now. Horses are her thing. They don’t like me, and the feeling is mutual. I’m too jumpy. They can sense uneasiness in certain people, and I guess I’m one of them.”

“Kissi?” Ross chuckled.

“Short for Bhekisisa. She teaches economics and finance at Howard University. It’s a long drive in, but we like our privacy. Her family owns a stud farm in South Africa.”

“Big money in horses?”

“Don’t go there,” Riley warned, licking two fingers. “If you want to make a million dollars on horses, then start with two million.”

“Any family?” Ross asked.

“Just one very smart daughter in first-year law. She wants to specialize in corporate real estate. You?”

“I live two miles from here, downstairs from, um . . . well, let’s call her a difficult tenant.”

The conversation abruptly stopped. Riley glanced at his watch. “I know you NTSB folks can’t spend a nickel on meals, so why don’t you let me pay for this?”

“No way. I appreciated the company. Even though you did give me indigestion.”

Riley slid out of the booth and peeled off a few bills. “My boss may not let me take extended vacations, but he sure doesn’t skimp on much else, especially when terror’s involved. Don’t tell anybody, but I can use his plane whenever I want. Someday you and I might have to conduct some official business in southern Florida. It’s a G-1159 and plenty fast. Seats eleven. Two private passengers round-trip would cost twenty-five grand.”

Ross recalled a recent media report about Homeland Security lavishly overspending on employees at a local DC hotel. He wanted to mention that the NTSB also leased a private aircraft whenever rapid transport was required, but he let it go. It was a modest Learjet 25 that seated half as many people and cost one-third less to operate.

“Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

“If there’s ever an aviation incident on your watch, you can count on it,” Riley promised. “Fair warning—I can be a real pain in the neck.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

Riley nodded curtly. “Do me a favor and ease up on the salty white seeds. Next time you’re online, check out ‘diverticulitis’ on
WebMD
. You got an umbrella?”

“Why? Is it raining?”

“Not yet.” Riley patted Ross’s shoulder. “But it sounds like your ‘difficult tenant’ is brewing one heckuva storm at your house tonight. Peace.”

Milwaukee, WI

Monday, May 18

1:00 a.m.

NEELA GRIFFIN finished her Pilates-like stretching exercises and fell into bed. She reached for her phone and dialed her station’s tip line. There was one recorded message from Sunday, May 17, at 9:00 p.m.

“Hello. My name is Dave from Mequon. There’s a Pakistani guy who lives in a twenty-thousand-square-foot house on Pioneer Road. He lets his teenage son run around the property with an AK-47 assault rifle. They just spent $285,000 on landscaping, and the kid blew every one of the saplings in half. I’ve seen him shoot from the road. I heard that they’ve even got grenade launchers. You should check it out. If there’s any kind of terrorist reward money, you can reach me at—”

She deleted the message and hung up.

—

American Legion Post 154

THE PARTYERS downstairs were still going strong. Akil’s eyes watered from the tobacco smoke that had somehow, along with the blaring speaker music, drifted upstairs and into his room. He was nervous. Far too many critical factors were in play. Factors that, should even one go wrong, offered little hope of success for his mission. He flopped onto his sofa and pressed the moisture from his eyes.
What if the Delta aircraft never comes to a complete stop at the departure point
? At least, in that case, the mission could be temporarily aborted. He could retrieve the drone and choose another plane.
What if the communication signal between the drone and the laptop is interrupted or lost?
That would be complete disaster. He’d have to pack up and leave the area immediately. The drone would fly aimlessly until falling, probably onto an open runway. Authorities would immediately discover it was carrying a timed explosive and then issue a terror warning to airports across the country. That would bring unbearable defeat to al-Qaeda and a resounding victory to the infidels—a crushing scenario.

Akil bolted upright at the knock on his door.

“Hey, Sean Penn Jr. It’s Chief. Open up. One of the girls made you a plate of food—a fat ham sandwich. We’re playing poker. We already got five. We need one more. You in?”

“I need to rest,” Akil answered through a fake yawn. “I think I’m getting the flu. Just leave it by the door.”

“You’re no fun,” Watts slurred, setting the plate down. “I’ll check on you in the morning. G’night, Sean. Sleep tight, you little funky monkey.”

Akil crept to the kitchen and tuned the radio to 88.5 FM, a rebroadcast of Mitchell Airport’s tower frequency. He waited another minute before opening the door. He collected the sandwich plate and set it in the refrigerator. He double-checked the seal on a Ziploc bag isolated on a lower shelf, which imprisoned the bottle of potassium cyanide. He slid out a plastic tray. His watch said 2:00 a.m.
Good timing
, he thought. The potassium chlorate explosive needed three hours to reach room temperature.

—

Mitchell International Airport

5:20 a.m.

IT WAS ten minutes before general boarding.

Delta Airlines Captain Joseph Falk hurried down the passenger boarding ramp with a six large coffee cups. One cup was special. The Starbucks ladies made a special blend of rich, dark cocoa for Falk and marked it with a distinctive red
X
. The early flight crews always flipped coins for breakfast. This was his third loss in a row.