Drone (A Troy Pearce Novel)

by Mike Maden

  53

  I-30 East, Arkansas

  Traffic was backed up for miles.

  The Arkansas State Police had set up a sobriety checkpoint about halfway between Hope and Arkadelphia, stopping every car in both eastbound lanes for inspections. Of course, they were actually looking for possible terrorists and their weapons.

  A federal judge had recently blocked the governor’s antiterror stop-and-frisk policy, but no court had ever held against sobriety checkpoints, given the scourge that drunken driving had become, taking thousands of innocent lives every year. The governor, a huge Myers supporter, had suddenly become “quite concerned” about drunk driving in his state, particularly on I-30, one of the most heavily traveled highways in the nation.

  The Arkansas state troopers required drivers and passengers to exit their stopped vehicles and perform sobriety tests, the famous finger-to-nose exercise among them. Of course, the real reason why people were forced to exit was in order to get them out from behind the metal shield of their cars and trucks. Using recently acquired terahertz imaging detectors, technicians were able to measure the natural radiation emitted by people and detect when the energy flow was impeded by an object, such as a gun. State troopers also ran sniffer dogs and handheld Geiger counters around the vehicles while the drunk tests were being performed. Vehicles occupied by Hispanics were given special attention.

  An unmarked panel van was racing along eastbound I-30 at 12:05 a.m. when the driver caught sight of a ten-mile-long string of red brake lights shining in the midst of a great curtain of pines. Traffic was already beginning to slow. The Spanish-language news station broadcasting out of Little Rock announced the traffic delay due to the fact that state troopers were stopping all eastbound vehicles at a sobriety checkpoint.

  The Spanish-speaking driver tapped his brakes and eased left into the broad grassy median strip, then made a sharp U-turn and bounded back on the westbound side.

  That was exactly the kind of maneuver someone wanting to hide something would do. Two Arkansas State Police officers on big Harley bikes who were lurking in the dark on the westbound shoulder blasted their lights and roared after the van as soon as it had made the illegal median crossing.

  When the two motorcycles had pulled within a hundred yards of the van, the two panel doors in back flung open and an AK-47 flashed from inside. The blistering 7.62 rounds shattered the windshield of the first bike and the trooper slid his Harley into the grassy median. The other trooper broke off the chase with bullets gouging the asphalt around her, and threw her body and her bike between the fleeing van and her downed partner to protect him from any more gunfire.

  She instantly called in the attack and within minutes a helicopter-based sniper was putting rounds through the van’s roof as a dozen squad cars joined the chase. More gunfire erupted from the van, but a second later it ran over a police spike strip that blew out all four tires. The two men in the back of the van were tossed onto the pavement and skidded like hockey pucks across the asphalt, skinning them alive while the van cartwheeled end over end until it slammed into a pine tree just off the shoulder and erupted in flames.

  The Arkansas State Police had just killed three Bravos and the fiery explosion had destroyed the weapons they’d been carrying. The identity of the fourth man couldn’t be determined, but if they could have run an instant DNA test or found fingerprints on the charred remains, they might have been able to identify him as Hamid Nezhat, Ali’s most senior Quds Force commando.

  —

  One by one, the Bravos were getting picked off by the relentless efforts of courageous LEOs all over the country. Good police work was winning the day. Broken fingers, cracked skulls, and a couple of unauthorized waterboarding incidents loosened up a few tongues, too, along with the vigilance of ordinary citizens. Even the Russian mob helped out a time or two when it suited their interests.

  The Arkansas incident confirmed Donovan’s suspicion that the Bravos had broken up into smaller groups, though how many was still unknown. The attacks also were growing less frequent, probably because of the full-court press the DHS was putting on, or so Donovan hoped.

  Known Bravo and Castillo drug houses were raided and then later staked out, sometimes by citizen volunteers because there weren’t enough uniforms to cover them all. Two Bravos were killed that way, and three more were wounded before they escaped.

  There were a few setbacks. A Claymore mine exploded on a popular camping trail in Yosemite, killing a newlywed couple. An empty one-hundred-pound bag of rat poison had been found adjacent to a water reservoir near Birmingham, Alabama. A car racing past Temple Emanuel in St. Louis, Missouri, fired an RPG and hit the building, but fortunately it did little damage and no one was inside at the time of the attack. However, a U.S. Marine private at home on leave from active duty in Afghanistan saw the attack and chased the vehicle as it raced up I-270. St. Louis police units joined the chase and shot out the tires, slamming the car into the guardrail. The three Bravos inside came out shooting and were killed by a river of lead.

  The LEO community began to suspect that a significant corner had been turned in the hunt. They didn’t know how right they were. But Ali Abdi knew. His rogue teams were required to report in on a regular basis by means of a covert encrypted cell-phone network that the Iranians had deployed throughout the United States. Fewer and fewer teams reported in, and fewer and fewer media reports about terror acts were going out. That was all Ali needed to know. His latest plan to provoke an American invasion of Mexico had failed.

  The Iranian commando had just two more cards to play, then he’d have to resort to last-ditch measures. He prayed it wouldn’t come to that, but he was more than willing to pay that price since the reward would be his triumphant entrance into heaven.

  Washington, D.C.

  Senator Diele hung up the phone, fighting the desire to shout for joy. His Democrat counterpart, Cleeve Gormer from Ohio, the Chairman of the House Armed Services Committee, had eagerly agreed to Diele’s proposal and guaranteed he could deliver a majority vote on the Democrat-controlled House Judiciary Committee if they acted quickly.

  Gormer hated Myers’s guts. She had sided with the Pentagon when the army requested the Lima Army Tank Plant to temporarily quit manufacturing M-1 Abrams tanks that it said it no longer needed for wars it had no intention of fighting anytime soon. Gormer was furious. It didn’t matter to him that the army estimated it would save the taxpayers over $3 billion to shutter the facility for just three years. The LATP provided hundreds of highly paid jobs in Gormer’s district. Like most politicians, he viewed military spending as another source of constituent employment and, hence, his own source of job security. Luckily, he’d managed to defeat the generals on this issue, but he swore retribution on Myers if he ever got the chance and Diele had just offered it to him.

  There was a soft knock on his door.

  “Come.”

  Diele’s personal assistant, a pretty young freshman intern from Brown, entered with a tray larded with fried eggs, bacon, hash browns, and coffee, and set it in front of him at his desk. She was a beautiful girl and his eyes raked over the curves of her body. But the era of incriminating Facebook and Twitter posts had curbed Diele’s animal appetites for volunteer staff. Instead, he thanked her politely and she left.

  Diele’s mouth watered. This was a real workingman’s breakfast. Not like the prison fare of oatmeal mush and tepid green tea his haggard wife served him at home these days.

  Dolores Hidalgo, Mexico

  It was a warm September evening in the provincial city, and the night was exceptionally special. September 15 was the eve of Mexico’s Independence Day, the night on which the warrior-priest Father Hidalgo uttered the grito from his pulpit, declaring Mexico’s independence from Spain. Father Hidalgo had called for the abolition of slavery and led a peasant army to its first victories against the ruling Spanish government. He was the George Washington of Mex
ico, “the Father who fathered a nation.”

  But tonight President Barraza—ever the showman—would be the one to utter the cry from the pulpit of the Hidalgo church instead of the local priest. The symbolism was as subtle as a telenovela romance, but perfect-ly effective for the bold young president to project his growing defiance and contempt toward the colonial aspirations of los norteamericanos. At Hernán’s urging, he’d been stoking Mexican nationalism ever since the Aztec Dream attack and promoting the conspiracy theory that the Bravo attacks in the U.S. were part of an elaborate plan to justify an American invasion of Mexico.

  Antonio was just as glad that Hernán had elected to stay home in Mexico City to enjoy the festivities with his own family this evening. Lately, his brother had become increasingly grim and too unpleasant to be around. The president was thankful, however, that his wise and efficient sibling had arranged for a live national television broadcast of the event tonight.

  Traditionally, the president of Mexico uttered the grito from the balcony of the National Palace at 11 p.m. on September 15, as would mayors all over Mexico in their respective towns. But this year, instead of occupying the National Palace, President Barraza wanted to stand in the symbolic heart of his people.

  Father Hidalgo’s church, along with the giant statue and monument towering out front commemorating him, was a big tourist draw, and the town plaza was always crowded on the holiday. But this year, the nation’s patriotic fervor had been stoked to a fever pitch by perceived American injustices and carefully orchestrated Barraza jingoism. The spirit of revolution was in the air.

  For security reasons, the crowds had been kept far back from the entrance of the church, though there was a standing-room-only audience inside. President Barraza’s image was projected on a giant portable JumboTron erected in the plaza for the event, and stacks of Marshall speakers thundered with his voice as he delivered his patriotic sermon. The plaza rang with the noise of the liquored-up crowd, hundreds of popping firecrackers, blaring patriotic music, and Barraza’s ear-busting harangue.

  And then the screams.

  Two rockets whooshed out of the sky, smashing into the crowd like the fists of an angry god, tearing flesh, shattering bone.

  The cries were drowned out by the roar of the Reaper’s turbofan engine as it swooped in low over the treetops and dove toward the wide-open doors of the church.

  The drone’s wide, fragile wings were clipped off as they slammed against the heavy wooden door frame, but the large bulbous nose and slender fuselage shot through like a spear into the sanctuary. The big four-bladed prop sliced into skulls, torsos, and limbs as it raked over a line of pews. The blades finally stopped spinning when the drone ran out of fuel, but the scalding-hot engine pinned a keening middle-aged German tourist to the floor who later died of severe burns on her upper body and face.

  Miraculously, the president wasn’t killed or even injured when one of the wheels from the landing gear broke loose and slammed against the pulpit where he had been standing seconds before. The members of the audience who hadn’t fared as well were wailing with pain. Medics rushed in to treat the wounded. Dozens of cell-phone cameras recorded the carnage, most of them focused on the American flag still visible on the wrecked fuselage. The big television cameras inside the church caught everything in glorious 1080p HD broadcast quality.

  —

  Hernán watched the live breaking newscast with keen interest. It was on every channel; the attack was played over and over again. With any luck, he thought, this would become Mexico’s Twin Towers moment. Then the people would rally around his brother.

  But that wasn’t the plan.

  Hernán wondered why the missiles weren’t fired at the church. If they had been, the church would have exploded in flames and Antonio would have been crushed beneath the smoking rubble.

  That was the plan. And then the people would rally around him.

  Hernán picked up his cell phone to find out what went wrong. He’d give Ali one more chance to kill heaven’s favored son.

  —

  Ali’s phone rang. He answered it with a question.

  “What went wrong?”

  Mo Mirza was on the other end. “It was the cheap Chinese crap. Missiles wouldn’t lock on. Had to improvise. I’m sorry.”

  Ali shrugged. “It was already written in the Book.” He clicked off.

  54

  Gulf of Mexico

  The looming shadow of a Cuban fishing trawler rose and fell in the swelling sea. It was just after midnight.

  The ARM Joaquín approached cautiously. The Mexican skipper of the Azteca-class patrol boat had spotted the stranded trawler on his radar thirty minutes earlier. No distress signals were flashing on his radio. Lights out on the vessel meant no electricity. But not even a backup battery? His radioman tried to raise them, but got no response.

  The dark outline of the ship looked familiar through his night-vision binoculars. It was a sturdy East German design built back in the ’70s. A limp Cuban flag hung off the stern. His radar man confirmed they were the only vessel within a reasonable distance of the stranded trawler.

  A moment later, a red distress flare arced from the trawler deck. That was a good sign. He had been worried he was going to find a murdered crew or an abandoned ship that would be hell to deal with in these conditions.

  The skipper gave orders to the radioman to report back to their base at Veracruz that he was lending assistance to the Cuban boat and that he would let them know when the fishing vessel was either secured or the crew rescued.

  That was the last time the authorities in Veracruz heard from the captain or crew of the Joaquín.

  Coronado, California

  Pearce was running on the beach. Sunrise wasn’t for another twenty minutes. Keeping in shape was one of the few things he had any control of at the moment. His cell phone rang. He clicked on the earpiece but kept running.

  “We found Ali.” Ian was on the other end.

  Pearce stopped in his tracks. “Where?”

  “Greyhound bus depot in Stockton, California. Caught him on camera at the ticket counter. Purchased a one-way ride to L.A. just under two hours ago. Bus pulled out at four-twenty this morning. Scheduled to arrive at twelve-thirty.”

  Pearce marveled at Ali’s ingenuity. Security would be lax at a bus terminal compared to the airports.

  “Anybody else know about this?”

  “No, sir. Not that I can tell.” Myers and her team were focused on the Bravos and at this point they had too much information to keep track of even if they wanted to keep tabs on the Iranian. Ian had to create his own data-mining software package in order to sift through the tsunami of intel coming out of the Utah Data Center.

  “And he definitely got on the bus?”

  “Yes. And the bus is sold out. Packed like a tin of sardines, I’m sure.”

  Pearce heard the concern in Ian’s voice. “Don’t worry. He’s not going to blow it up. He would’ve just planted a bomb or ambushed it along the way if that was his target.”

  “Want me to contact the local gendarmes? Pull him off?”

  “No. Can’t take the chance they’ll lock him away and we won’t get a crack at him. Besides, if he gets cornered, he might shoot it out and then there really will be a massacre. Let him come all the way to Los Angeles, and we’ll see what he’s up to. Good work, Ian.”

  Pearce clicked off, turned around, then jogged toward his condo two miles back on the beachfront. His mind began racing through checklists, preparing for a showdown with the Iranian.

  But a nagging thought dogged his steps. Why did Ali suddenly appear out of nowhere? He was too careful to let himself get caught on a ticket-counter camera, even at a bus station. It was too damn convenient. Ambush? Feint? Or something else?

  Washington, D.C.

  Congressman Gorman gaveled the House Armed Services Committee
hearing into session. The gallery was full. A parade of expert witnesses handpicked by Diele appeared one after another all morning.

  Each of the witnesses had impeccable defense and intelligence credentials with prior government service, and each of them currently occupied a prominent position in the defense industry or academia. And each scripted answer they gave was designed to draw the inevitable conclusion that President Myers was incompetent, negligent, and quite possibly dangerous—charges that could easily rise to the standard of “high crimes and misdemeanors.”

  Myers’s defenders on the committee offered up the best arguments they could before the hearing was gaveled to a close, but it was the damning quotes of the anti-Myers experts that lit up the news cycle all day.

  No one in the mainstream media either noted or cared that the experts who testified against Myers all had skin in the game if she suddenly found herself impeached.

  Gulf of Mexico

  In 1950, the American merchant marine fleet comprised nearly half of all shipping vessels at sea, but in the twenty-first century that number fell to the low single digits. The U.S. merchant fleet was probably the first great American industry completely outsourced in the twentieth century.

  In 2013, there were fewer than three hundred American-flagged cargo ships, and one of them was the Star Louisiana, a fifty-one-thousand-ton Panamax containership hauling Pennsylvania-built high-tech power-generation and transmission equipment destined for Shanghai, China.

  The captain of the Star Louisiana, Angela Costa, was a third-generation merchant mariner, the child of a Portuguese sailing family with roots in Massachusetts and, generations before that, the Azores. Fifteen minutes earlier, she’d greeted a new day standing on the outer bridge wing sipping hot coffee while watching the great silver disk of the sun rise out of the gray gloom. The long, white foamy trail churning behind her vessel reached straight toward the eastern horizon. Sunrises and coffee were her morning ritual, and she’d performed it on every ocean she’d ever sailed. She savored this morning’s sunrise ritual especially. There wouldn’t be many more for a while. When she got back to home port, she would inform her husband that she was, indeed, finally pregnant. It was time to exchange the chart table for a changing table, at least until the little skipper started school.