“I’ve been expecting you.”
The man registered not the slightest hint of surprise. At a gesture from him the bird flew off, across the living room and out her open sliding glass door.
“Do you normally leave your doors unlocked and your alarms deactivated?”
“I didn’t want you to break anything. I’m having a party tomorrow night.”
“And your security detail?”
“Sent away for the same reason. I’m not foolish enough to resist the U.S. military.” She appraised the man before her. “You’ll have to forgive Henry. He’s a bit naïve and self-impressed. But then, that’s what the young are. The moment he called me, I knew to expect your visit.”
The man said nothing.
“What can I do for our friends in The Activity?”
With his other hand he produced an insectlike robot the size of a toaster oven from around the corner and tossed it into the center of her dining room table. It left several nasty indentations on the rosewood before it clattered to a stop, facing her like a dead black spider.
She grimaced. “Ah, drones.”
“Autonomous drones.”
“And because we’re promoting autonomous drones on Capitol Hill, you think we have something to do with these attacks against the United States.”
“The drone strikes here are just the beginning. I’m more concerned about swarms of kill-decision drones overturning thousands of years of military doctrine and rules of conduct. That’s a lot of hard-won experience to throw away without any debate.”
“Well, we advise everyone from African dictators to country-western recording artists, to supermarkets—and, yes, aerospace. But we have nothing to hide from you.”
“You’re going to tell me who’s running the project.”
Marta pushed the book away. “You of all people should know these things are compartmentalized. Even if our side was somehow behind this, why would I know? And why would I know who knows? Tell me, Mr. . . .”
“You call me Odin.”
“Mr. Odin—you don’t seem like someone who needs to be told what to do. In truth, despite the fact that everyone wants you to stop, you’re still searching for the people behind these attacks.”
He just stared, unreadable.
“That’s because an expert knows what needs to be done. That’s why they’re an expert. I’m a public relations expert. My clients include aerospace interests, and I know that drones are the future. Dozens of nations plan on using drones to shift the balance of geopolitical power—to undo U.S. aerial and naval supremacy at a bargain price. We need to win that struggle. Are we behind the attacks? How the hell should I know? And, frankly, it doesn’t interest me.”
“You have no idea what this will unleash.”
“And if we don’t do it, everyone else will.”
“Clarke and his people were manipulating social media. You were the one giving him access to raw telecom, geolocation, and Internet data—telling him who and what to oppose. How do you get access to that data? Are you NSA?”
She gave a tight smile. “It works the other way around, Mr. Odin. The NSA gets their data from us. A little-known fact got lost in the uproar about warrantless wiretapping: It wasn’t the NSA that did the tapping. The work was outsourced to experienced companies that had already tapped most of the world’s fiberoptic grid for other governments—some not so nice. Privately held companies the public’s never heard of. Those companies have three thousand clients in a hundred and fifty countries—and one of those clients is the NSA. Do you get my meaning?”
“Did it ever occur to you that all this surveillance and data tracking has actually put the country in danger, instead of protecting it? It’s being used to target drone attacks.”
“That’s a use I hadn’t heard of. Although, this is the problem with a surveillance state; once you build it, it always grows. Do you realize how many industries use this data? How many people are busy building the systems to gather and analyze it? How much economic activity that’s generating? Ah, but then, you’ve seen the valuations of social media companies and mobile start-ups. That list will continue to grow, and it will create inertia that resists any attempt to tear the surveillance system down. You’re fighting against the tide of progress, Mr. Odin. It’s not a matter of stopping me. I’m nothing. And there is no one person or group driving this. It’s progress. You can’t stop progress.”
“This isn’t progress. It’s regression. We’ve been here before. Consolidation of power is as old as history. Power in the hands of very few. That’s fundamentally at odds with democracy.”
“I should think you’d be happy to have machines fight your wars for you.”
“Whose wars? Who’s to say who controls an autonomous drone? They can build their army in secret and fight wars anonymously, using surveillance data as the targeting mechanism. By that measure, America is more vulnerable to drones than just about any society on the planet. We’re essentially giving an ant-level intelligence policing authority over us.”
Marta took a sip of wine. “Well, I can hardly prevent that. And as you’ll learn, there really isn’t a central authority. There are only . . . interests.” She raised her eyebrows. “Is there anything else I can do for my friends in The Activity, Mr. Odin?”
He stared at her, again unreadable. Marta usually prided herself on her ability to read people. This man was like a stone obelisk. His training, probably.
The man pulled an index card from somewhere with a close-in magician’s dexterity. He approached Marta and left the card in front of her as he collected the carcass of the shattered drone.
“If this surveillance system can find anything, then you’re going to make it work for me.”
She shook her head. “I can’t use it to find who’s behind these drone attacks, Mr. Odin. I thought I made clear that there is no single entity resp—”
He put the card into her hand. “Read it. I want raw intercept data on anyone who’s been dealing with that precise combination of chemicals over the past six months.”
Marta sighed and read the words printed neatly on the index card. She sounded the words out slowly. “Perfluoromethylhexane . . . dimethylcyclohexa . . .” She looked up. “What are these?”
“You have three hours to get the data. The where, the when, the who.” He nodded at the card. “Have your people send it to the FTP share on the card. We hijacked it, so don’t bother attacking the owner. If you don’t comply or try to double-cross me, I’ll take it as a declaration of war from you personally.”
Marta held up her hands in acquiescence. “As I said, I’m always happy to help The Activity, Mr. Odin. And if this data pull will get you to move along, I’ll be happy to accommodate you.” Marta again lifted her wineglass. “You do realize, though, that whoever is doing this might not be so happy to see you?”
Odin cast a parting glance at her as he carried his dead drone toward the exit. “You have three hours.”
Marta watched him go before studying the list again in more detail—and taking out her cell phone.
CHAPTER 27
Proof-of-Concept
Linda McKinney watched an alien world through the slit of her all-encompassing black niqab. The restrictive garment felt like armor—disguising her. After all, Gaddani, Pakistan, was a place she’d never thought she’d be. About thirty miles north of Karachi, it was the third largest shipbreaking yard in the world. An operation conducted almost entirely without the aid of heavy machinery.
As she watched, a rusted freighter three hundred feet long steamed at full speed toward the wide beach. The vessel rode high in the water, its load line twenty feet above the waves, and its interior frame evident in the grid of worn, dented metal plates that showed its age. The tops of the propellers chopped the water into froth as the freighter pushed toward a wide beach littered with derelict ships, winches, rusting scrap metal, and dilapidated worker housing. Sparks and the hiss of a hundred blowtorches cutting through steel extended into the distance. Scores
of men waited on the beach to receive the new freighter, their own blowtorches at the ready.
The ship plowed into the sand with an echoing, deep boom and groans of fatigued metal—like an office building running aground. In a moment it lurched to a halt. Even as the engines shut down, the men moved in to secure it with winches and chains.
McKinney glanced over at Odin and Foxy, who sat on the bench across from her in the back of a canvas-covered Bedford truck. They both wore shalwar kameez with black shemagh headscarves covering most of their faces. They held stubby AKS-74U carbines across their laps.
The idea of people carrying around unregistered automatic weapons in public was something she never got used to, but then she knew Pakistan was a restive place. “How far does this scrapyard go?”
Odin swept his hand northward. “Five miles or more.”
She gazed out at small hills of cut-up, rusted inch-thick steel. Lines of men were carrying newly cut metal plates up their slopes in a way so reminiscent of leaf-cutter ants it was uncanny. “I can see why you thought it was strange that large chemical shipments would be made here.”
Odin nodded as he unfolded a printed map. “They go through a lot of acetylene and other volatile gases, so the chemical shipments wouldn’t attract much attention from locals.” He gazed out at the hills of scrap metal around them. “Plus, this place is busy enough and big enough to conceal a drone project. Welding wouldn’t attract any attention. And it’s a twenty-four-hour operation.”
McKinney warily scanned the hazy sky. “Can you trust your contact?”
Foxy and Odin nodded confidently. Odin added, “He’s not a company asset. We’ve known Azeem for years. Syrian. Ex–suicide bomber.”
McKinney’s look showed that had done nothing to ease her mind.
Odin shrugged. “He got disenchanted after he found out how much corruption there was. Wherever there’s fighting, criminals capitalize on the chaos. They thrive in lawless environments. A lot of faithful teenage jihadists arriving here found themselves in rough company—heavily armed men more interested in moving heroin than defeating the infidel. We rescued Azeem from a criminal gang. He’d lost a lot of his idealism. He stuck around to rescue other idealists from their clutches and send them back home. That wasn’t popular with my high command, but it opened up channels of communication.”
The truck’s diesel engine rattled in low gear as they navigated a tangled warren of dirt roads bustling with workers walking to and from their shifts, vendors hawking food, or phone cards, or cheap electronics. The carcasses of rusting cargo ships being cut to pieces loomed over the flat, dry landscape. It all seemed so dirty and industrial—not what she imagined Pakistan would look like. It made her realize that life goes on wherever you happen to be. She could see the tired faces of Pashtun workers treading along the roadside, goggles up on their foreheads, and tools over their shoulders. Some squatted in front of shacks, heating up tiny pots of tea with blowtorches. Not many of them had beards—a measure of practicality amid a daily shower of sparks. She could see just how hard these men worked, and she did not doubt that they supported families in distant villages. Life was a struggle.
McKinney heard Smokey’s voice in her radio earpiece. “We’re arriving at Mantoori Industries. I see Azeem at the gate with two other men—both armed. He’s giving the all-clear signal.”
Odin nodded and examined the Rover video tablet to see a raven’s-eye view from Huginn and Muninn, who were covering them from overhead. “I don’t see anything suspicious in the work yard. It looks aban-
doned. Keep weapons at the ready, and let’s go in.” Odin looked up at McKinney. “The presence of women here is unusual, Professor, but I need your expertise. So please don’t speak or look any of these men in the eye. Basically, act like you don’t exist. You and I will confer in private, like man and wife.”
McKinney winced.
“We’re undercover. Goes with the territory.”
The engine of the truck slowed, and soon the Bedford truck turned to drive through a battered rolling gate painted in bright colors. The truck came to a stop. Odin and Foxy immediately opened the tailgate and leapt down, weapons held casually but at the ready.
Several Pashtun men, also in shalwar kameez, approached, weapons slung over their shoulders. A young, neatly groomed Arab man in his late twenties flashed a bright white smile and straight teeth. “Odin . . .” The two men shook hands and kissed each other on the cheek.
Odin nodded, “As-salaam alaikum, Azeem. Kayf haalak?”
Azeem nodded. “Fine, praise God. We should speak English. My friends here do not know it.”
Odin gestured to his own companions. “You remember Foxy.”
“Of course, my friend. . . .” They also exchanged handshakes and cheek kisses.
Ripper, Mooch, and Smokey emerged from the front cab. Ripper was likewise covered head-to-toe, but in a light blue burka. At least McKinney had company in this indignity. Azeem shook hands with the men but completely ignored the two women.
Odin was already studying the wide scrapyard, littered with rusting pieces of steel and derelict equipment. “How long has it been abandoned?”
“The security guard says the landlord is owed rent for two months now, but the tenant is gone. They paid cash.”
One of Azeem’s companions, a Pashtun man in his fifties, was speaking in what McKinney assumed was Pashto to an elderly man with a timeworn AK-47 slung over his back. Azeem listened intently to their conversation.
“He says the men who came here wore black—their faces always concealed with shemagh. Much like you, and they spoke through translators.”
Odin exchanged looks with Foxy. “Does he know what nationality they were? Were they tall? Short?”
Azeem shook his head. “The workers in neighboring plots stayed away because they thought they were either extremists or a drug gang. You must understand, the workers here are of the lowest social rank. They want no trouble. So they kept their distance.” He gestured to the rusting hulk on the beach behind the place. “That’s why no one’s touched the salvage ship left behind. They’re afraid these men will return.” Azeem listened again to the old man talking. “He says container trucks made deliveries at all hours, and these people did not observe Salah—or any of the Five Pillars.”
McKinney had noticed that Odin was listening to the old man himself, and she suspected he didn’t need Azeem’s translation.
Odin studied the cinder-block warehouse in front of them. “You’ve checked the place out?”
Azeem nodded. “Whatever they did here was very strange, Odin. It doesn’t look like any drug-processing lab I’ve seen. The old man says they cut ship steel but only at night.”
“Wait here, Azeem.” Odin nodded to his team as he moved toward the warehouse.
McKinney followed, surreptitiously producing the jury-rigged chemical detection device Tegu had made for them in Mexico. She unfolded the severed drone antenna that had been connected to the old voltmeter housing and powered up the LED display.
As they walked into a wide, almost empty warehouse, perhaps two hundred feet on a side, the faint peppery aroma of oleoresin capsicum immediately came to her. The entire group exchanged looks.
“That smells familiar.”
“Colony pheromone.” The detection wand in McKinney’s hand started displaying parts per billion of perfluorocarbons as well—the odorless, colorless taggant chemicals that did not occur in nature.
McKinney showed Odin the red LED readout. “It lit up the minute we entered.”
Foxy moved to the nearest wall, where empty plastic barrels were piled haphazardly. “Hey! Look here.” He brought his face near to it but then turned away. “Empty barrels of ‘anger juice.’ From the looks of it. And probably some of the other chemicals too.”
Odin was moving toward a forty-foot orange storage container sitting with its doors open at the far wall. McKinney walked alongside him, checking the readout occasionally. Odin readied his carbine an
d motioned for Smokey and Mooch to approach from other angles.
Odin peered weapon-first into the opening of the container.
Foxy called out. “What’s in it?”
“Empty metal racks.” Odin stepped inside, examining what looked to be built-in metal shelving. They looked like purpose-built storage racks, with odd dimensions and metal rollers built in.
McKinney scanned the container with the wand, getting only middling readings on her meter. “Not much residue here. Do you think these racks were made for drones?”
“Hard to say.” Odin noticed something and moved to the container wall. He slung his weapon and grabbed what looked to be a sliding panel with handles built into the side of the container. With some effort he slid it down to open a five-foot-wide, two-foot-tall hatch. He was now staring at Foxy, who approached across the warehouse floor.
“Hidden panel.”
Odin nodded as he examined the edge of one rack. “Doesn’t look like this one was finished.”
“Maybe they left in a hurry.”
McKinney was already walking toward the far wall, watching the chemical readings going up again. “Hey! It increases in this direction. . . .”
Odin and the others followed her, weapons ready. “Stay alert, people.” He made a circling motion in the air with his hand, and the team spread out in a skirmish line. They were moving toward a metal overhead door that faced the beach. The door was closed.
As they reached it, Foxy noticed a cracked tan fiberglass mold about ten feet long leaning against the wall nearby. The mold had a wing-shaped depression in it. He tipped it over with the barrel of his gun, and it rolled back and forth for a while on its rounded aerodynamic shape.
“Carbon fiber mold?”
Odin studied it while McKinney scanned with the detector. She looked up. “That’s not where my readings are coming from.”
“Let’s get this door open. Move clear.” Odin watched as the team took up positions to either side of the loading bay door, and then he pressed a worn button mounted on the wall. With a hum and a rattle the metal door started to ascend. The din of distant blowtorch cutting and diesel winches came to their ears as fresh air blew into the warehouse. Looming a hundred meters away was the rear half of a rusted cargo freighter, standing five stories tall in the water, its near end closed off by corrugated interior bulkheads.
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