Strike Matrix

by Aiden L Bailey

  “I’m afraid to tell you, my dear, we’ve lost him.”

  “Lost him? How?”

  “Dawson’s just told me. The Nevada drone pilot reported Ashcroft regaining consciousness before you did. He was checking you over, then he fled. We think he was assessing if you had any wounds—”

  “So where is he now?”

  Szymanski shook his head. He looked worried. “We don’t know how. We’ve lost the drone.”

  “What? What do you mean, you lost it?”

  He scratched his head, paced. “It went offline, then… nothing.”

  Peri patted herself down. Her gun, her purse and her telephone were missing. She touched her head and hands, abrasions everywhere but nothing serious. She would need a shower and a thorough scrubbing to ensure she caught no further infections or viruses, and to get the stench off her. Then she’d need a strong round of antibiotics.

  “We need to get out of here, Peri.”

  She nodded, dazed but determined. As they walked north, with her stumbling but always finding her feet, she asked, “What’s our sitrep Paul? What else don’t I know?”

  When the NSA officer swallowed, it was loud and difficult. “It’s not good.”

  “Tell me all. You know I need to know.”

  “Cassian is dead. Visser killed him.”

  Peri shuddered. Szymanski hadn’t prepared her for the devastating news. She felt shock and revolution at the young man’s sudden murder, just as she had when Ashcroft had gunned down Pfündl. Their enemies were merciless, but only one was a priority. As rage overcame her, she felt more determined than ever to hunt Ashcroft down and bring him to justice, or failing that, execute him. Only when she had Ashcroft in custody or killed, would she deal with Gridley-Brooks, Visser and their band of interfering mercenaries.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Paul. I am. We’ve lost two good people today.”

  Szymanski nodded. “We can’t clean the scene either. The local police are all over it.”

  She wanted to say something meaningful but she couldn’t find the words. It was apparent that their situation was uncontained, and that damage control was a priority. But first she needed good news. She hoped Paul had some. “Anything else?”

  “We have Skaffen in custody. I reached her in the abandoned vehicle. She was still unconscious when one of our team took her back to our tactical ops center on Kale Marg Road.”

  “You didn’t return with her?”

  “When I heard about the drone strike, I — I was worried about you… I came back to see if you were… okay?” He scratched his neck. Peri noticed he did this often when circumstances worried him. Was his concern about her? He seemed genuinely interested in her well-being?

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He turned, looked at her like he wasn’t sure he had heard her.

  “I mean, thank you Paul, for looking out for me. I don’t deserve that.”

  He looked away, nodded and scratched his head.

  The conversation stalled. The silence became uncomfortable. Soon Peri felt compelled to speak. “Everyone thinks I’m a…” She paused, Peri didn’t like to swear, but now seemed the moment to do so. “Everyone thinks I’m a bitch, don’t they?”

  “Not everyone—” Szymanski stopped when he realized he had said too much. “Not everyone hates you, Ma’am. Some of us damn-well respect you.”

  “Peri, please. Call me Peri. I need a friend right now. I consider you a good friend.”

  He smiled. “Okay, Peri.”

  She realized what a sight they must be, him in his tan suit and panama hat, with sweat patches under the arms looking like he’d stepped out of the 1950s, and her with her disheveled hair and soaked head to toe in sewer muck. People stared as they pushed past. Peri kept a steady pace knowing the police would soon come asking questions and someone would remember them.

  “I respect you, Peri.” Szymanski spoke.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I know what you have lost, and I see how you deal with your loss. I understand why you do what you do.”

  She nodded. The conversation was becoming emotional, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for it.

  Szymanski wasn’t ready to stop now that he’d expressed his deepest feelings. “Do you know what it’s like, to have a photographic memory? Well, not a photographic memory, but an eidetic memory. That’s what I have. Always have. It means I can recall information I’ve seen with excellent accuracy, as if I was still there, in any moment from my past, anytime I recall it. It is why I’m good at my job, breaking codes and testing security systems—”

  “What are you saying, Paul?”

  “The trouble with an eidetic memory means I also remember all the bad stuff. Horrible things I’ve seen. Terrible things I’ve done. Those memories don’t fade like they do with normal people. It can be a terrible burden. It’s why my three wives left me. We would argue and I would recall exactly what they had said even if it was from an argument we’d had years ago. Being correct all the time is not always a good thing.”

  Peri listened, taking in what he was saying. She hadn’t realized such a gift could also present so many downsides. She now understood his awkwardness.

  “Peri, I know you blame yourself for the President’s death, but subconsciously you want it to be someone else’s fault. People don’t like you because you pick up on every mistake they make. You don’t give them a chance because you don’t want to be the only one who’s failed, so you are always looking for faults in others. But I see there is more to you than that, and that your drive to be a better person is winning. Your guilt is driving you, to bring Ashcroft and Skaffen to justice. So, at a deeper level, what drives you is what makes yourself a better person, even if you have skewered intentions.”

  The revelation stunned Peri. At first his ramblings sounded like he was criticizing her. The trouble was, she couldn’t fault his analysis of who she was, regardless of how much she didn’t want to hear it. “There might be truth in all of that.”

  “Please don’t take it the wrong way. I don’t wish to offend.”

  She shook her head. “You’ve worked all that out just by observing me?”

  Szymanski nodded. “I know this mission is falling apart around us, but it’s not your fault. It’s not mine, and it’s not the team’s fault.”

  “Then whose fault is it, if it’s not mine?”

  “My profession requires me to study the chaos and spot patterns., I’m looking at today’s pattern, and what I see were three separate and competent groups brought together, intending to kill each other. I don’t know how, but I know all three groups are being manipulated. Someone wants all of us to fail.”

  “You don’t think Ashcroft and Skaffen are the cyberterrorists we’re hunting?”

  Szymanski shrugged. “If they are, then they aren’t at the top of their organization.”

  They came to a road bisecting the slum. Szymanski waved over one of their armored SUVs waiting on the opposite side of the road. The driver pulled up, and they clambered into the back. Soon they were on their way to the operations center.

  Szymanski took two water bottles from the driver, handed one to Peri and guzzled the other. “Don’t blame the team on this one Peri. They are all doing an excellent job, and you know it.”

  She nodded. As much as she hated hearing what Szymanski was telling her, she was in agreement. It had come as a shock to learn these failings about herself, but an insight into her motivations was also helpful. First it was the malaria at fault, then Afghan insurgents, then the NSA and the U.S. Government, and when she had secured her own team, she was blaming them. It was time to accept the situation for what it was, stop blaming and deal with each scenario as it presented to her.

  “I know,” she responded. “Thanks Paul, you’ve given me some great perspective.”

  “I’m glad to have helped.”

  Szymanski’s cell phone rang. He answered. “Alfa One. Go ahead… Copy that… Copy that… Good work Al
fa Two. We’ll be at your location in thirty-five minutes.”

  They drove through streets lined with apartment blocks and jacaranda trees before turning onto a feeder road leading onto the Western Express Highway and turned north. Even on the multi-lane collector, the traffic was back to back.

  “That was Saanvi Dara. She says Claire Skaffen has regained consciousness. They are preparing her for interrogation.”

  Peri turned and looked at the crawling traffic. She wondered how many problems everyone in this megacity had to deal with every day. “Good. Finally, we might sort out this mess.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates

  The dust clouds had spread over much of Abu Dhabi. It was difficult for Conner, McIntyre or Nahla to see more than a few dozen meters in any direction. They stumbled on regardless, despite the uncertainty to which direction they headed and the heat raining down from an unseen sun.

  An open tray truck speeding past startled them, reckless in the low visibility. The white lettering on a black flag of the Islamic State draped on its sides rippled with its speed. A dozen men armed with assault rifles and black concealing head scarfs yelled abuse as they passed. One fired an assault rifle in their general direction, missing but forcing them to take cover. McIntyre almost fired back but changed his mind when the truck sped on and disappeared. Better to conserve bullets until they were under direct attack.

  “What do we do?” Nahla asked, trembling.

  “We keep moving,” McIntyre said without emotion.

  Conner nodded in agreement as they picked up their pace. They crossed several city blocks without incident. McIntyre seemed to know where he was going, which was fine with Conner, because he had no intention of using the map app on his cell phone, alerting the NSA where he was.

  Soon they heard distant gunfire, then explosions. Conner knew these sounds all too well. Abu Dhabi had degenerated into an urban war zone.

  As they advanced, he worried about Nahla. Her eyes were unfocused. She would only walk when Conner encouraged her. The terrorist attack had sent her into shock, which was not surprising. He considered if the airstrikes she had experienced in Syria were far worse than she had let on and had left her with a mild form of post-traumatic stress disorder that today’s brutalities had aggravated.

  It reminded him of his own post-traumatic stress. Less than a month ago he’d witnessed a massacre in the jungles of South America. A young woman within arms’ reach had begged for her life, seconds before a soldier put a bullet through her head, shattering her skull. Conner couldn’t stop imagining her death over and over again. Was it like this for Nahla? If so, how would she cope over the coming hours and days if the someone didn’t deal with the invaders, or if they couldn’t reach a place of safety?

  They pushed on.

  Soon two dead bodies materialized out of the dust clouds. Islamic State soldiers, blood seeping from head shot wounds and limbs at odd, unnatural angles. McIntyre approached without fear, kicked them each to check for a response, but they were both dead. He took their two AK-47s, slung one and threw the other to Conner.

  With a nod, Conner checked the first body securing spare clips while McIntyre did the same with his dead terrorist.

  Conner froze when he realized the dead man wore a suicide vest, heavy with improvised explosives. He stepped away cautiously.

  “What did you find?” Nahla asked.

  “IEDs,” McIntyre answered for him. “Mine has one too.” They retreated from the corpses, but close enough to just see them through the dust cloud. McIntyre fired several times until a bullet hit an explosive, disintegrating the two men and their suicide weapons in a bright red-orange fireball.

  “Good!” McIntyre said then kept marching.

  Nahla was sick, threw up where she was standing.

  Conner went to her, stood by her side. “We will get out of this alive Nahla, I promise you.”

  She stood, rubbed away the bile around her mouth as she nodded.

  “We need to keep moving.”

  She nodded again. They had to jog to catch up with McIntyre. Conner kept his AK-47 raised ready to fire. He expected plenty more surprises to materialize from the carnage before this day ended.

  In the distance they heard another detonation. Then more screaming.

  “We should help?” Conner volunteered.

  More gunfire interrupted them.

  “No,” McIntyre said. “Islamic State is everywhere. We’ve got until nightfall to escape this, only a few hours away. Otherwise we’re as good as dead.”

  “Those bodies we found on the street…”

  “What about them?”

  “Their wounds, they looked like executions.”

  McIntyre considered what Conner was suggesting. “They did, didn’t they? Like a sniper took them out.”

  “Aren’t you worried about snipers taking us out too?”

  “I’m worried about a million fucking different things.”

  Conner gritted his teeth. “You know what I’m most worried about, Thomas?”

  “If you are smart, the same things as me.”

  “That attack, at the Burj Lanihaya. With a single strike, the terrorists took out half the key players in UAE politics.”

  “They probably did.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you? Think about it? That was a strategic attack. They timed it to occur just before a whole army of sleeper Islamic State soldiers went into action.”

  “I don’t give a fuck—”

  “Yes, you do. You know something big is behind all this, pulling all the strings. Why else would you be so accepting about what’s going down?”

  McIntyre stared at Conner. “You have no idea what is going on.”

  “Then why don’t you enlighten me?”

  McIntyre didn’t answer, just kept walking. Conner watched him for a second, then supported Nahla with a hand under her elbow and followed behind the CIA agent.

  They soon arrived at a traffic jam with cars packed up against each other filling the streets. A few vehicles had rammed into others and one had rolled onto its roof. Most people huddled in their sedans and four-wheel drives. Some cars wedged in by the standstill traffic were empty. No one they passed harassed them because of the weapons they carried. McIntyre marched through the crowd, refusing to catch anyone’s stare. He never slowed and never stopped, even when they passed people receiving basic first aid for horrific wounds. Conner wanted to help, but he was already dealing with Nahla who was struggling to keep up. The carnage was just too horrific to help everybody. The dust wasn’t settling. They couldn’t see more than a hundred meters in any direction, which meant the chances of an ambush were still high, and a good reason to get away.

  Then an eerie silence swept over the scene.

  A minute passed, and nobody moved. Everyone could sense something was wrong.

  Dust clouds whirled in the skies above them.

  Conner heard the approaching drones long before he saw them. They seemed to materialize out of the skies and there were dozens. Each was about a meter across, controlled by eight propellers arranged in an octagonal formation. Beneath each drone hung a Colt M4A1 assault rifle. Conner watched as one flew towards a car and with laser precision, identified a target inside, fired a single bullet then flew on. Screaming erupted from that car, then the surrounding cars. They had killed only one target.

  Conner watched in disbelief as the macabre operation continued. Each drone found a target, pedestrian or driver alike, executed them with a single precise shot, and then moved on.

  The scene was no longer silent. People screamed. Many ran in fear. One man took a shotgun from his car and shot a drone out of the sky. Three drones stopped in their hunt, changed directions, and all raced inwards towards the man. Synchronized shots from each drone ensured the attacker was dead before he collapsed onto the pavement, blood seeping like crimson milk spill on the asphalt.

  McIntyre came up behind Conner. “What’s going on?”
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br />   The carnage was horrific, worse than South America or the suicide attack at the Arab Nations Economic Forum. Conner almost lost his voice when he said, “Precision killings… Those drones are taking out specific targets.”

  McIntyre raised his AK-47 and lined up a drone in his sights.

  Conner pushed the weapon down. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “You destroy one, three will come after you. I’ve already seen it.” He pointed to the corpse of the man with the shotgun. “If they were coming for us, they would have done so already.”

  McIntyre shuddered. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you knew?”

  “Not this. Not like this.”

  “If I was to guess, I’d say we are witnessing a new form of surgical warfare.” Conner remembered what he had learned about the Shatterhand program these last few weeks and that its operational intelligence capabilities were far more accurate than anything ever seen anywhere in the world. Rather than destroy a city with an airstrike to take out a few terrorists and a hundred innocent civilians, the NSA had become more accurate in their dirty work. “My guess is those drones are only taking out combatants. Psychopaths, funders of terror, enablers, and so forth, while leaving innocents untouched. It’s how the whole world wants our battles fought anyway, so we can all sleep at night with a clear conscience.”

  McIntyre frowned, “How do you know this?”

  “I know nothing,” Conner shrugged. “But a lot of things are starting to make sense now.”

  They watched in shock as the drones finished the last of their victims. All seemed to be men. Many of the dead had guns. Despite what he had said to McIntyre, it surprised Conner the drones had not come for them, because if the NSA still planned on silencing him, now was the perfect opportunity to do so. Instead, when all their targets were dead, the drones flew up the side of a skyscraper and disappeared into the dust cloud.

  “This is creepy,” Nahla Asem said from behind them.