Reaper: Drone Strike: A Sniper Novel

by Nicholas Irving

  Wolff could hear the click of heels moving at a fast pace.

  “You sound distraught,” he said.

  “This beast just killed two of my best security men, you asshole.”

  “Surely not your best if they’re dead,” Wolff said. He picked some lint off his suit and looked at the Alps. It was 9 a.m. in Germany, and the morning sun glistened off the snow. “Now, listen to me. You’ve authorized an airplane to land on U.S. soil that is carrying weapons of mass destruction. You are complicit in a terrorist plot to attack your homeland. The attack might be on your home state of Michigan. Maybe Wisconsin. Maybe Illinois. Maybe all three. Who knows? Do you understand your role here? Your greed to become the most powerful person in the world has perhaps cost you that opportunity. The irony.”

  Her breathing was shallow and rapid.

  “No…”

  “Andrea?”

  “Wha…”

  Wolff grinned.

  “Six months ago when you fucked me on the truck deal—a billion dollars!—I decided to find a way to bend you over a barrel and let you know how it feels.”

  “Max—”

  “Don’t you dare ‘Max’ me, you conniving bitch! You will do exactly as I tell you or your name will leak to the press as the one who planned this terrorist attack.”

  “It’s too late…”

  Comstock couldn’t pull together any complete sentences. She ran a hand through her perfectly coiffed hair, knelt, and covered her face with her hands. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

  “What … what do you need, Max?”

  “Got your attention?”

  She stood, did her best to shake it off and compose herself. “Definitely.”

  “You’ll tell Senator Nolte that GM can’t meet the manufacturing timelines and that you want it to go to Daimler. You make that call. You make that happen. And I’ll make sure this doesn’t stick to you. You back off, try to weasel me, you’ll see the biggest attack you’ve ever imagined right in your backyard and your name will be released as the mastermind, like the kid who sets his girlfriend’s house on fire so he can save it. Understand?”

  “I-I…”

  “You should be responding with a quick ‘Yes, sir, I’ll get right on it,’” Wolff admonished. “Instead, you’re trying to figure out how you beat this. There is no beating it. Checkmate, bitch.”

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll make that call.”

  “You’ll close the deal. And you’ll do it right fucking now.”

  Wolff hung up.

  Comstock stood in the deathly silent hangar. Her two security guards were dead on the floor. The press was pushing against the gates of the secured cargo portion of the airport. The two containers she had secured passage for were on their way to God knew where. And she had to make a call to Senator Nolte without his son in her presence.

  As if things couldn’t get any worse, she stepped outside, stared at the tarmac and then the fence, and walked toward two lumps on the apron.

  “What the—”

  Two dead, stiff bodies were lying askew at her feet. She ran into the hangar and, self-survival always the first order of the day, called Senator Nolte. He answered on the first ring.

  “Have him?”

  “Not yet, Senator. It seems there’s an additional demand.”

  “There always is, Andrea. Where’s my son?”

  “He’s safe,” she said. “We just need to do this one thing. In my assessment, I was overzealous in my estimation of GM’s capabilities to fulfill the defense contract for the new truck fleet. It needs to go to Daimler.”

  “You’re kidding me. You’re being blackmailed over a defense deal to get my son back.”

  “It’s just my best estimate of our capabilities,” she said.

  His sigh was audible over the phone speaker.

  “I have legislation drafted to undo that deal and open the door for GM. It’s practically a done deal.”

  “Practically is the operative word. We need this to happen. You need this to happen.”

  “You’ll sacrifice a billion to your top line to get my son back? I’m not sure I believe that’s really what’s at play here.”

  “Trust me. It’s the only way he comes back alive.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Do I have your word, Senator? This is all happening right now.” Comstock was shaking. She tried her best to hold her voice steady but couldn’t.

  “Are you being held at gunpoint somewhere? You sound scared.”

  “I’m scared. Not at gunpoint.” At least not literally at gunpoint. Figuratively, yes.

  She heard him call for his chief of staff. They argued for a minute, but Nolte got his point across.

  “Okay. My chief is pulling the bill. The Germans get the deal. Where’s my son?”

  “Thank you. I’ll communicate this message and then call you back.”

  She hung up, dialed Wolff, relayed the message, and asked where Nolte Jr. might be.

  “When I see that the bill has been pulled and get a new letter of commitment, I’ll release him to you,” Wolff said.

  “You can’t keep moving the goalposts on me, Max.”

  “Letter of commitment. Now. Then I’ll give him to you.”

  “Okay. Quickly. The senator is impatient.”

  Wolff hung up.

  Comstock turned, her mind spinning. Called Nolte, but no answer. Called again. No answer. Left a message.

  “My contact wants a letter of commitment first.”

  She hung up and dropped to her knees. What had she done?

  CHAPTER 29

  Vick Harwood

  “I’m okay, Dad, but we can’t tell anyone,” Clutch said to his father over speakerphone.

  “I’ve got Comstock calling into my phone. Answer me this to verify it’s you, son. How many seconds were on the clock when you made that clutch shot for Notre Dame?”

  Clutch smiled. “Trick question. Point zero eight. Less than one second.”

  “Okay. My God, you had me worried.”

  “Senator, this is Vick Harwood, Clutch’s Ranger buddy. You’ve got a lot to be proud of with your son. We’re in a situation now, though, and I’m curious how you left it with Comstock. She’s in communications with a terrorist organization.”

  “Thanks for that, Vick. She’s asking me to undo some legislation that was going to ensure General Motors won a billion-dollar truck deal.”

  “She’s giving away a billion-dollar deal?” Harwood asked for clarification.

  “Exactly my thought.”

  “Being blackmailed,” Harwood said, looking at Cartwright. “Wolff, the Mercedes guy.”

  “Exactly,” said the senator and general in unison.

  “What happens if you don’t give her what she wants?”

  “No idea. She just said, ‘This is happening now.’”

  “Can we ask that you don’t call her back for a bit?” Harwood said.

  “I’m not calling her back until I hear from you guys, but should we alert the National Command Authority?”

  “I’ve got that covered, Senator,” General Cartwright said.

  “Okay, I’ll stand by, then.”

  “Roger that, Dad. We’re getting another call. Got to run,” Clutch said.

  Harwood punched the phone and switched calls.

  “Vick. It’s Valerie. Two of presidential candidate Andrea Comstock’s security personnel have been shot dead. Comstock is in the hangar. She was supposed to meet someone to facilitate the return of Corporal Nolte,” Valerie Hinojosa told Harwood.

  He kept her on speakerphone so that Clutch, Cartwright, and Sassi could hear her report.

  “Sawyer?” Harwood asked.

  “Yes. I’m on the way up there. We never really looked at it. It’s way north on the Upper Peninsula. It’s a stopover for a lot of logistics and cargo and services the city of Marquette. Comstock convinced TSA that she was cleared to land this thing. Corporal Nolte was supposed to be on the plane.”

  “That’s a
politician,” Clutch said. “She got owned.”

  “Did they off-load two containers from an airplane?” Harwood asked.

  “How did you know? The airport director said the plane took off directly after they off-loaded.”

  “I just know. That’s the plane Clutch and I were on. Where are those containers? Still in customs?”

  “With the circular reporting, this all happened about ninety minutes ago. And no. Comstock’s people worked with customs to allow the containers to move unimpeded into the cargo yard. They’re gone now.”

  Comstock was a minor tool in this cog, but an important one nonetheless.

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?” Harwood asked. He knew Hinojosa had a penchant for delivering the best or worst news last.

  “Right. You know me well, Vick. Comstock said she had secured the release of two captured Rangers but that the terrorists had killed them.”

  “Patalino and Ruben,” Harwood said.

  “Politicians,” Clutch said, shaking his head.

  Harwood eyed him, thinking about Clutch’s father, as Valerie continued, “Locals are on the ground with a field agent who was checking the airport up there. He’s on the scene, and it’s all a bit sketchy.”

  “How long until you’re there?”

  “I’m in the King Air. Maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay, we’re maybe an hour out from Sawyer, if that.”

  “Want me to tell her that the senator’s son is alive and well?”

  “No. Hold that. We need to smoke out who’s controlling this thing.”

  “Wilco,” she said, then hung up.

  Harwood turned to Cartwright.

  “They landed in Marquette. Probably caught wind that we were mobbed up over Chicago and everywhere else. Sawyer airport is small. Never heard of it. Patalino and Ruben are home, which is a huge deal.”

  “Okay, that’s good,” Cartwright said. “Now we can execute with violence and not concern ourselves with finding our brothers in the aftermath.”

  “Roger that. The question is, where are they taking those containers?” Harwood said.

  Sassi spoke up. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before, but on that rehearsal map, as you guys are calling it, was a picture of a slave ship, it seemed.”

  “Slave ship?”

  “The oval hull of a boat with stick figures lying on that bottom like you’ve seen in the drawings of how slaves were transported overseas. They were chained down to the bottom of the lower hold of the boat, head to toe and toe to head.”

  “How’s that relevant?” Cartwright asked.

  “I know how,” Harwood said. “He’s got to load those containers on a ship. The ship is going to serve as a mobile launchpad for the UAVs. This has always been about the drones. My man Clutch here was a target of opportunity. Using him as a cover probably helped get the airplane cleared and the cargo passed through customs. Why not get one of the most powerful people in the country to pull a few strings and land a couple of harmless containers? Tankian probably had a plan already, but why not have some insurance? What she actually has done is facilitate a terrorist attack on the United States.”

  The plane bored through the night. It banked slightly with the new instructions. The only questions Harwood had were: Which ship? Which port?

  “Nearest port?” he asked.

  “I’ve got a map up here, Vick,” Sassi said, holding the general’s iPad. “The nearest container port is Green Bay. There are some other smaller things, but that’s our best shot. It’s maybe a three-hour drive. So, we’ve got about ninety minutes, if that’s the case.”

  “I know Valerie is headed to Sawyer, where she needs to be, but do we land at Sawyer or Green Bay?” Harwood asked, looking at Cartwright. These were the types of decisions generals got paid the big bucks to make. Cartwright didn’t hesitate.

  “Give me the pros and cons of each,” the general directed in his most general-like way.

  Before Harwood could do that, Valerie called him again. He put it on speaker. “We just had an anomaly pop up on our system. Might be something. Might be nothing,” she said.

  “Send it.”

  “We track any last-minute changes in rental cars, airplanes, trains, buses, and, if it’s coastal, ships or boats.”

  “Wisconsin is coastal,” Harwood said.

  “Right. More shoreline here than just about anywhere else in the world. My point is that a ship called the Sieg had berth time scheduled in the Port of Chicago for tonight, but it canceled, which put the transaction, or lack thereof, on our radar. When I check the papers on it, I can’t really tell where it came from or where it’s going. Only that it supposedly has over a hundred containers of balsa wood. Maybe from Africa?”

  “Balsa wood? Okay. No other ports alerted to inbound traffic?” Harwood asked.

  “None so far. If this is like the airplane thing, the ship may be calling an audible midstride. Hard to move an airplane and a ship, but they’re doing it. Ask General Cartwright if he knows what’s on those containers. How concerned do we need to be?”

  “This is Cartwright,” the general said over the open speaker of the phone sitting between them on the table. “We’re on an unsecure line, and none of you are cleared for this compartmented information.”

  “I’m sure that will look good during the congressional testimony, General. I can see the headlines now: ‘General Preserves Key Information: Allows Major Terrorist Attack to Occur,’” Valerie said. Harwood smirked. She was never one to hold back.

  “I hope you feel better getting that off your chest. We have no idea who’s listening in on this unsecure line. I’ll discuss with the team on board, and then we can talk face-to-face. Suffice it to say that our intel indicates that it is the highest national emergency to find these containers and detain them, but not to fire on them with any munitions. And there will be no testimony, because we’re going to stop it from happening.”

  “Noted,” Valerie said. “We’re about to land at Sawyer.”

  The line went dead. Harwood looked at Cartwright, whose face was lined with worry. His eyes were somewhere else, lost in thought. Maybe he was visualizing the packed hearing room Valerie referenced, or perhaps he was considering how best to stop the attack that seemed to be materializing.

  Harwood snapped him out of his reverie.

  “Pros and cons, General. We have to make a decision now. And whatever we do, we can turn Valerie around or split our efforts to maximize coverage. If Green Bay is the destination, we could beat them there and set up an ambush, plus find whatever they’re delivering it to.” Something hung in the back of Harwood’s mind, but he couldn’t grab it, so he continued, “If it’s not the destination, then we’re pissing up a rope, wasting time.”

  “What’s your recommendation?” More general talk from the general.

  “I recommend we take five minutes and do a quick analysis of the roads out of Sawyer and if there are any ports closer in.”

  Cartwright nodded. Harwood turned to Clutch and said, “Use that iPad to pull up all the ports within three hours of Sawyer. Sassi mentioned Green Bay. I’m sure there are others.” He turned to Sassi and said, “Can you look at ships leaving Beirut and Tripoli? I’d focus on Tripoli. Have Sergeant Flanigan help you find the right databases. Might have to cut some corners.”

  “I can do that,” Flanigan said from the communications console.

  Sassi said, “You’re thinking a different ship left the Med a long time ago and is just now here?”

  “It’s a possibility. Your slave ship thing. I’m thinking what you saw wasn’t new. This could be the second shipment. Or third. Or fourth. We have no way of telling when we came into the cycle.” It was more than a possibility, Harwood thought. It was a probability.

  “I can tell you that my mission—your mission—was predicated on intelligence chatter we were picking up about a potential drone strike of some type. Nothing was adding up, just a few random logistics calls referen
cing Hunter and Sobirat drones operating as teams. Most of the intel was coming from the Beqaa Valley. Then Syria and Hezbollah attacked the Golan, and we lost focus,” Cartwright said.

  “Intentionally so,” Harwood said. “What Clutch and I were seeing was almost a deliberate attempt by the Syrian Army to impale themselves on the wire in the Golan. Like a fixing effort. A feint, but with significant contact.”

  “To convince us the Hunter drones were part of that effort. Meanwhile, they were shipping drones to the United States, literally. But to attack what?”

  “The political convention,” Harwood said. “That starts tomorrow and lasts several days.”

  There it was. The aircraft fell silent, the only sound that of the metal-on-wind whistle and the whine of the Rolls-Royce jet engines forging a path through the sky.

  “Damn,” Clutch said. “But if they’re burned, they’ll want to act now. How far can those drones fly?”

  “The Hunter is a Russian fighter drone with specialized swept wings. They can fly over 500 miles. So, make it 250 out and 250 back.”

  “And the recon drones we saw? They were armed also,” Harwood said.

  “Smaller, less payload, but still lethal. They call them the Sobirat, Russian for ‘gather.’ Hunter-gather.”

  “Only it works the other way around. They gather intel, then they hunt. Okay, take five minutes and let’s do some research. We have some decisions to make,” Cartwright said.

  After five minutes, Clutch had a list of ports, which included Marquette, Marinette, Escanaba, Port Inland—which was a private terminal—Dolomite, and a few others.

  “Marquette is the most convenient, being thirty minutes away by truck, but they’d have to get the boat back through the channel between Lake Superior and Lake Michigan if they wanted to be mobile into Lake Michigan. That’s a major choke point. Green Bay is right at three hours but has the best facilities for containers. Escanaba is an hour and has decent equipment. This Port Inland thing is maybe an hour and a half. It’s small and private, and I’m not sure they would have the equipment to move containers. They do mostly bulk and break-bulk. Dolomite is the same, only farther,” Clutch said.

  “Maybe they don’t need the ship at all,” Cartwright said. “Maybe Tankian will ground-launch.”