Sting of the Drone (12 page)

Erik turned the car into the base, flashing his identification to the Air Force policewoman at the gate. “Well, we are flying in all of those places. It’s a target rich environment. And it’s employment for the likes of us well into the future, no matter the other budget cuts.”

“Remember that intercept last month about something happening around Christmas?” she asked.

“Yeah, whatever happened to that?” Erik said.

“This is why these trips back to DC are essential, even though they take a lot out of me. You’d never know it on the outside, but people on the seventh floor at Headquarters, people downtown, are all trying to figure out how to stop the Christmas Bombings. That’s what they’re calling it, but they don’t want it to leak to the press, especially since there may be nothing to it.”

“Nothing to it?” Erik replied. “That just means they haven’t been able to develop any leads.”

“That’s exactly what it means.” She looked out at the variety of drones on the runway and in the hangars as they drove down the flight line. There were some of the older Predator and the larger Reaper drones based there for the pilots to use in training flights, some of the large Global Reach drones that went anywhere in the world from the United States, and some of the newly arrived Homeland Security drones to patrol the Mexican border, on both sides.

“That’s what struck me, Erik. We are the only thing that they have that works. We shoot at the bad guys and keep them so they can’t really set up shop and start training thousands of terrorists the way they used to do in Afghanistan before 9/11. But we can’t drone every guy who gets radicalized on the Internet in his dorm room. And we can’t shoot Hellfires into houses in the U.S. where they may be planning the next one. All we can do is get some small fraction of the guys overseas.”

Erik pulled up to the single-story, windowless white building that was the Global Coordination Center. “Maybe, but let’s go kill a few more of them,” he said, thinking about Jennifer alone in the hotel suite.

*   *   *

Walking onto the floor of the GCC gave Sandra all of the adrenaline rush the coffee had failed to deliver. She felt at home here, like she had a purpose. She strapped on her wireless headset and began the drill. “Okay, what have we got here? Let’s start with Virginia. CIA, what’s your story?”

“We have a HUMINT source with excellent access and substantiated previous reporting on the Qazzanis. He beaconed the vehicle of Musuhan, number three in the group. They’re meeting just over the Pak border inside Afghanistan, so the strike won’t raise concerns in Islamabad.”

Then the voice from Maryland came over the speakers, “NSA here. We geolocated the beacon at the coordinates of this compound that you are looking at on screen.”

Bruce Dougherty continued the story from his cockpit cubicle on the floor of the GCC. “We found the compound at those coordinates. Checked the plates on the vehicles parked outside. One is the vehicle we associate with Musuhan and the other is a vehicle of another HVT named Fadl Kaprani.” Bruce zoomed the camera in on vehicles parked outside a high-walled compound of one large and two smaller buildings. “They have been inside for hours. Some sort of cartel board meeting maybe. The usual smattering of guards on the roads in and up in the hills, one-zees and two-zees.”

“And you said the collateral score was zero?” Sandra asked.

“Yes, ma’am, we have imaged the area for seven hours now and there is no sign of any civilian activity. We have looked back at historical images from satellite sweeps and never any women or children. They had some guys there recently erecting that outbuilding there at the top. We think it’s a new, private hooch for a senior guy, so he doesn’t have to stay in the big house with the guards and cooks.”

Erik was flipping through the supporting documents on his iPad. “Legal has signed off on it. Pentagon and Agency have cleared the shot. The White House has been notified to stand by.”

“Okay, patch me in to Dr. Burrell,” Sandra agreed, looking up at the image of the isolated compound on the Big Board. “That’s a hell of a long meeting they’re having. Let’s get the shot off before it breaks up.”

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 19

KUNAR PROVINCE

AFGHANISTAN

The children were mainly Tajiks. The man who took them from the orphan school had promised that they would be resettled in a new school for Islamic orphans in Saudi Arabia, a beautiful new campus funded by a Prince. The man had also made a generous gift to the orphan school, so that even those children who could not yet go to Saudi Arabia would live in better conditions. No doubt some of that gift actually made its way to fixing the dilapidated building, buying some food. Most of it probably went into the personal bank account of the headmaster.

The seventeen boys, the oldest of whom was ten, had been thrilled by the bus ride, at first. The trip, however, had taken eighteen hours and the snacks they were given were not enough to quench their hunger. Thus, when they got to the compound, they gorged themselves on the hot food that had been prepared for them. There were sleeping rolls for twenty and soon, tired from the bus ride and drugged by what was in the food, all of the children were settled quietly in their bedrolls.

As the first of the boys began to wake, to try through the fog of the remaining sedative coursing through their systems to figure out where they were, they discovered that they could not open the doors to go out. One boy found a hatch door on the floor, the one that led to the tunnel, but that, too, was locked from the other side. The men who had fed them were gone. They were alone. The three boys who woke first learned this and began to be afraid.

The others never knew that fear. They had gone to sleep with full stomachs for the first time in months. They had settled happily into new, clean bedrolls, thinking of the ride in the airplane that the men had promised would take them to their new home.

The Reaper was circling at twelve thousand feet in a light ten-knot wind from the north. A Predator was two thousand feet above it to provide a second set of eyes. Occasionally, the Predator’s pilot would use its camera to scan the skies for any other aircraft. There were none in the area. The antennae on board the Predator scanned frequencies for mobile telephones, handheld radios, any electromagnetic signatures emanating from the valley below. There was only silence.

At Creech, the Reaper pilot’s control panel showed all systems nominal. On the Reaper’s underside, toward the front of the thirty-six-foot fuselage, inside a protective dome, the multispectral camera moved slowly, always pointing at the target below. The camera could zoom in close and provide High Definition images in daylight or zoom back and show the entire valley. At night, the Low Lite camera would flip into place, providing green or gray images as clearly as in midday. Toward the back of the aircraft, inside a four-foot blister, a synthetic aperture radar scanned the ground below, feeding data to an onboard computer that generated photographic quality images from the radar’s return, day or night. Below each of the thirty-six-foot wings, hanging from the weapons racks were two laser-guided 250-pound bombs and two Hellfire missiles.

The first Hellfire penetrated the roof of the house where the boys slept, and then it exploded. It had an antipersonnel warhead, one that spread smaller balls of explosives and razor sharp metal. The second Hellfire had a high-explosive warhead, designed to knock over walls from the overpressure created by its blast wave. Hellfires three and four hit each of the two smaller outbuildings inside the compound wall with high-explosive detonations. All four hit in less than a minute. Each impacted within eighteen inches of their designated aim point. The wooden gate in the compound’s wall was blown open from the blast. An alarm on one of the SUVs outside the wall began to wail.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 19

GLOBAL COORDINATION CENTER

OPERATIONS ROOM

CREECH AFB, NEVADA

“No secondary,” Bruce Dougherty observed. Normally terrorist camps were filled with enough of their own explosives that the Hellfires triggered additional detonations. “And no rescue party from the watchers in the hills.”

“Yeah, well they’ve all learned by now that we wait around and pop the rescue parties, too,” Erik Parsons observed. “Nothing’s going to happen. Might as well bring the birds home and call it a night.”

*   *   *

As they walked to the door of the GCC, Erik asked Sandra, “So we killed the number three in the Qazzani group. How long ’til they have another number three? And why don’t we like the Qazzanis again, remind me?”

As they walked to the car, Sandra wearily replied. “The Qazzanis support al Qaeda and the Taliban. They have set up their own little country that spans the two sides of the AfPak border. They sell heroin all over Europe and the Middle East,” she paused. “And they killed three senior Agency people last year in an ambush they set up because they wanted to kill CIA officers.”

“Ah, so it’s personal?” Erik asked.

“We don’t do revenge killings, they do,” Sandra replied. “But for me, for the guys at Headquarters that set the priorities, yes, it’s personal. I went to two of those Agency funerals, saw the kids. We may sit back here in CONUS perfectly safe, but what we do here only works because we have some guys out there on the ground, in the shit.”

As they drove down the flight line, a large Global Reach drone was taxiing into launch position. Erik stopped the car to watch it take off into the night for its thirty-six-hour mission. “Where is that big boy going?” he asked.

“That guy is flying to Mali tonight to take out a big camp AQIM has set up just north or Timbuktu,” she replied as they watched the 737-sized drone lumber down the runway loaded up with both bombs and missiles. “I got the mission approved in DC. Quote: The several hundred casualties expected will do irreparable damage to al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb. Unquote.”

Erik resumed driving the Camaro toward the base gate. “Well, yeah. Death is kind of irreparable.”

14

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 20

SIND CLUB

KARACHI, PAKISTAN

“Over here,” Fares called out as Bryce Duggan entered the bar at the Sind Club. Fares Sorhari was the reporter’s traveling producer, the guy who made things happen no matter where in the Middle East and South Asia. “We’re drinking to the new little Princess, born this morning in London.”

The Sind Club had been the elegant retreat of the Colonial era. It was now where elite Pakistanis and expat Brits wined and dined. It was the place Fares had said they had to go, perhaps because he had reciprocal rights from his club in Dubai. The club was a relief from the crowds, the noise, the traffic, the knife’s edge of madness that was Karachi.

“This is Duncan Cameron from
The Guardian
. Duncan, Bryce Duggan from WWN,” Fares made the introductions. Cameron did not look the type who could make the transition from the print world to television, Bryce thought. The guy would have to stop sleeping in his suit. Bryce guessed that the Brit was thirty years older, but the older man could well be the type that had really gotten to know the place. Bryce had learned in Cairo, in Aleppo, in Benghazi, from the old hands.

“Welcome to the most violent city in the world,” Cameron said, raising his glass of Balvenie. “Fares, here, tells me you are in search of drones. Well, go north, my friend, go north. Plenty of droning going on up in Waziristan. You could get lots of pretty pictures of bombed-out houses, if they let you in, or rather, if they let you leave.”

“That’s our hope,” Bryce began. “But I want to get behind the pretty pictures, tell some of the stuff that you’ve done in
The Guardian
. How the Pak military is playing both sides, letting the U.S. fly the drones, but complaining publicly when they do, having them strike the Pakistani Taliban but helping the al Qaeda remnants and the Afghan Taliban.”

“You’ve read my stories on that?” Cameron smiled. “Well, you and two dons in Oxford. I didn’t know that my readership had grown to three.”

“I’d also like to talk to some villagers. Get their reaction, maybe contrast it to a more modern, secular type, maybe in Islamabad, who may think it’s a good thing that the Americans are keeping the radicals from the gates,” Bryce said. “Do you think that works?”

“Let’s sit at a table,” Cameron suggested. “Afik, give us that bottle of the Balvenie, will you now.”

They sat in a corner, well apart from the few others in the room. “Never know who else tips Afik,” Cameron began. “Listen, my friend, if you are going to do stories on what the Pak mil are doing, especially their intel people, the ISI, you have to be very careful. Reporters die out here.”

“We know,” Fares replied. “But, unlike you, we don’t live here. They won’t see our story until we leave country.”

“Well, if that’s the plan, let me suggest that you do the voiceover after you leave. They will hear what you say on camera when you are shooting here, and what people say to you.” Cameron refilled the three glasses. “Got myself lectured to up in Rawalpindi by the ISI when I suggested that they were playing both sides. Truth is that they are, of course. They want the Taliban to succeed somewhat in Afghanistan, but the local variant, the Pak Taliban, they see them as a threat. Okay to have the crazies running the asylum next door, but not here.”

Bryce was not used to straight Scotch, but he knew better than to ask for a mixer, or even a chaser. “Isn’t it true that some of what we think is ISI activity is actually some retired intel guys who are more Islamist than the people now running the service?” Bryce asked.

“That’s what they put out. They’d like you to think that,” Cameron replied. “It’s only partially true.”

“Like all things,” Fares said. “Excuse me one second, I’m going to get us some waters from our man Afik. I have a feeling we may get fairly deep, and deep into the bottle.”

“Duncan, if I am reading between the lines in your stories, you don’t just have ISI sources, you’re talking straight to the Lashkar guys, Pak Taliban, the Qazzanis, AQ. How the hell do you do it?” Bryce asked.