Game of Drones

by Rick Jones

  O.U.T.C.A.S.T. Ops: Game of Drones

  By

  Rick Jones and Rick Chesler

  Copyright © 2014 Rick Jones and Rick Chesler. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: rick@rickchesler.com

  Cover art by J. Kent Holloway

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  Islamabad, Pakistan. Awan Town

  North of the Punjab Province

  0416 hours

  Fourteen members of the Punjab Elite Police Force (PEP) quietly approached a compound southwest of central Islamabad, just inside the sector of Awan Town. A two-story structure located upon a small rise afforded a complete view of the entire estate that was hemmed in by ten-foot walls.

  Using darkness as their ally and dressed in black, they wore domed helmets with a collection of gadgetry marching up one side and down the other, including assemblages of night vision goggles (NVG) and thermal ware. Their faceplates were a convexity of opaque plastic, the overall ensembles exuding a ‘Robocop’ feel replete with custom designed composite shin and forearm guards.

  Beneath a crescent moon that cast an eerie glow upon the landscape that was the color of whey, the PEP traveled along the wall’s baseline using their NVG scopes to guide them.

  When they reached their designated point at the south-side wall, the team leader made a series of predetermined hand gestures to communicate with his unit, mobilizing two members of his team to remove piton guns from their backpacks. They loaded the pitons, already tethered to metal lines, and took aim. They fired off two quick shots—the sounds no louder than a couple of spits—with the sharpened tips embedding deep into the wall's upper reaches.

  The team began to scale the lines in coordinated effort. When the first two responders reached the top, they placed mesh-wire tarps over the points of the spikes to blunt them. Once they were up and over, others quickly followed.

  As soon as the last man scaled the wall, the team leader examined the facility through the NVG lens of his rifle scope. Along the balconies on the second-tier, guards with assault weapons were stationed as solo or paired teams.

  He lowered his scope and signaled his lieutenant: advance the Team Alpha unit under guidance and take out the guards.

  Shooting him a thumbs-up, the lieutenant led Team Alpha forward with their weapons at eye level. When they were within range, Alpha Leader lowered his lip mike.

  “Team Alpha to Team Bravo, we have four tangos in sight.”

  “Copy that, Alpha, we see four, too.”

  “Coordinate termination in thirty,” he said.

  “In thirty. We copy.”

  The members of Alpha Team began to acquire assigned targets by centering the guards within the crosshairs of their assault weapons.

  “In twenty,” whispered Alpha leader.

  “In twenty. We copy.”

  As zero moment approached with the momentum of a bullet train, their orders were clear: terminate everyone with extreme prejudice excepting the high-value asset.

  “In ten.”

  “In ten . . .”

  The snipers by the wall were scoping the area at ground level for guards walking the perimeter of the residence. So far everything was working to their advantage; the area was clear.

  “In five . . . In four . . .”

  Adrenaline coursed through their veins like a narcotic, bringing on a dual sensation of euphoric bloodlust for the hunt and the anticipation of mission success.

  “. . . In three . . .”

  “. . . In two . . .”

  Breaths became measured.

  “. . . In one . . .”

  Fingers began to pull back on the triggers.

  “. . . Zero.”

  Suppressed weapons fired in perfect synchronization.

  On the balcony where the four hostiles gathered, eruptions of red mist exploded from the chests of two guards who immediately went down as boneless heaps. Before the other two guards could register what happened, bullet holes magically appeared in their foreheads, the shots dropping them just as quickly, the post completely sanitized. As the final body was making its fall—before it had a chance to settle upon the balcony floor—the Punjab Elite Police were already on the move to set a perimeter around the residence.

  #

  Ayman al-Zawahiri was at rest upon a mattress on the floor and reflected, as he usually did on nights that he couldn’t sleep, on the glorious past of his younger days.

  In 1998 al-Zawahiri was the leading principal of the Egyptian Islamic Jihad. During that year he united with Osama bin Laden, merging their groups to become al-Qaeda. Although he was the leading lieutenant and bin Laden the financier, it was al-Zawahiri who truly governed the forces since he was a man of military sophistication, something bin Laden lacked.

  Plans for mass destruction were formulated and missions were carried out all over the planet, the organization depending upon the personal sacrifices of foot soldiers with the promise of Paradise at life’s end. As these martyrs came and went and the body count began to rise in the name of Allah, Zawahiri--not Osama bin Laden--became the mastermind behind the war effort of nine-eleven.

  With a single attack against American sovereignty, a powerful nation had been brought to its knees. And in the following years during which recuperation moved at a glacial pace, the national psyche remained as fragile as glass. America was no longer invulnerable.

  He had never been so proud or vain or self-appreciative as he was on that day. He had become
the David to the ‘Great Satan’s’ Goliath. But as he gloated in self-glory, he failed to realize that he had awakened a sleeping giant.

  The United States had opened its eyes, stood tall, flexed its muscles, and moved relentlessly through troubled waters like a shark, looking to feed a hunger that could never be satiated. Then, on May 2nd, 2011, after America had trolled the waters long enough, U.S. Special Forces invaded a compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, killing Osama bin Laden.

  It was also the day when Zawahiri discovered that the world—as big as it was—was really too small of a place to hide in. And with a twenty-five million dollar bounty on his head, he went into seclusion in Islamabad, realizing that the United States would not attempt another invasion on Pakistani soil without proper authorization from the country’s top principals. Such an incursion would diminish diplomatic ties between the two nations, straining their already tenuous relationship. So he felt safe knowing that no such invite to collar him would be given, especially in the heart of Pakistan.

  As he lay there with images of the past parading through his mind’s eye, he started when he heard a crash coming from down below. Explosively loud, as though a concussive wave had passed through the house, the ripples shook the walls and floors to the roots of their foundations.

  Zawahiri got to his feet and grabbed his gun, an AK-47. He barked commands for his guards to take position along the tops of the stairwells and to ‘fight in the name of Allah.’

  But Allah would not side with Ayman al-Zawahiri on this night.

  #

  The front door to the residence appeared incapable of being breached. Made of thick wood pieced together with black bands and rivets, it was like something from medieval times; perhaps it even was from medieval times, but the detonation specialist who prepared a partial brick of Semtex could care less. He set the locking mechanism, attached the small detonator, and with a remote the size of a cigarette pack, he flipped the switch.

  The door exploded inward as pieces of wood and metal skated across the floor of the residence. Black smoke billowed from the entrance, providing sufficient cover for the PEP teams to press forward with their weapons held at eye level. Within seconds they fanned out, looking for targets.

  Insurgent forces on the lower floor took up positions of engagement, but the members of the PEP were too fast, too efficient, their weapons going off with precision shots that killed the insurgents before their bodies hit the ground. Other guerilla forces were dropped immediately as bullets stitched across their chests and abdomens, ejecting gouts of blood in bold arcs and splashes that decorated the walls with gaudy Pollock designs.

  When the first level was clear, Team Leader took inventory of his units as they reassembled. Nobody from the PEP had been downed.

  He then pointed to the base of each stairwell—there were three altogether—with his fore and middle fingers, directing his team to break up into three separate units and wait for his command.

  Once positioned, Alpha Leader spoke through his lip mike. “Flash bangs on five.”

  “Flash bangs on five. All units copy.”

  “On four . . . On three . . . On two . . . Engage!”

  A series of non-lethal explosions detonated in quick succession as blinding light lit up the entire second level, turning night into day as concussion waves crippled all sense of cognition in those standing at the top. With time-of-opportunity limited to split seconds, the teams rushed up the stairwells with the points of their weapons raised.

  #

  Al-Zawahiri saw the flash of blinding light filter in from around the seams and cracks of his bedroom door. He held his weapon tight, the mouth of the barrel directed to the door, and waited.

  He had heard the volley of gunfire below, the commotion muted behind the closed door. But he knew that the enemy had pushed through his forces and were making their way towards their prized asset.

  As everything moved with the slowness of a bad dream, he remembered the moments when he issued a call for suicide bombers, those who were willing to martyr themselves and become legacies. But he did not share that inclination—he did not feel like sacrificing his life for his own cause. So unlike those he called upon to pay the price of admission to Paradise by wearing bomb-laden vests, in the end he wanted to live.

  Closing his eyes and praying to Allah for forgiveness with respect to his own cowardice, he listened to the PEP edge closer.

  #

  The light was blinding. The concussive waves were a powerful blow to the senses of the al-Qaeda forces who lost all capability to coordinate their thoughts. They moved blindly about with their minds and judgment too fractured to make any sense of what was happening.

  When the members of the PEP topped the stairs, targets were immediately acquired and brought down, the threat of imminent danger quickly erased. Bullets continued to find their marks, all kill shots, either to the head, heart, or to the center of body mass.

  In less than twenty seconds, nearly every room had been cleared. Bodies of al-Qaeda lay everywhere.

  The high-valued asset, however, was not among them.

  At the end of the hallway stood a single door.

  The PEP moved forward with the points of their weapons raised and centered.

  Silence, and specifically the element of mystery that came with it, was just as disturbing as the sound of battle. No sound issued from beyond the door. The team leader stood his ground. He set his weapon to grenade mode, aimed, and set off a mortar round. The shell exited the barrel and corkscrewed through the air until it impacted with the door, the resulting explosion decimating it into innumerable shards and splintered pieces.

  As a wall of smoke moved about in lazy swirls and eddies, another flash bang was tossed into the room. In the explosion's aftermath, the PEP forces found al-Zawahiri huddled against the corner with his mind in disarray from the grenade, his AK-47 abandoned and lying on the floor in front of him.

  This man, once a kingpin of terrorism who sat upon one of the most fearsome thrones in the Middle East, was now in the custody of the Punjab Elite Police Force.

  The high-value asset had been attained.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Oval Office, Washington D.C

  2012 hours

  Two Hours after the Raid in Islamabad

  The Oval Office, located in the West Wing of the White House, is the official office of the President of the United States and serves as the nerve center of discussions that do not require input from the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  Two hours after the extraction of al-Zawahiri, President John Carmichael, Vice President Connor Madison, Secretary of State Jenifer Rimaldi, Chief Presidential Advisor Simon Davis and Attorney General Steven Cayne, were gathered for a closed-door session to discuss matters regarding Ayman al-Zawahiri in depth.

  Secretary of State Rimaldi was an attractive middle-aged woman with raven hair and striking blue eyes that sparkled like precious gems. On her lap sat an accordion binder containing numerous photos, paperwork and dossiers.

  “Approximately two hours ago, Mr. President,” she began as she rifled through the folder, “the Punjab Elite Police Force successfully procured the high-value asset of Ayman al-Zawahiri in Pakistan.” She handed the president a series of photos. “Right now he’s in an undisclosed location about fifty miles outside of Islamabad.”

  President Carmichael examined the 8x10 black-and-whites. They were pictures of al-Zawahiri in captivity, times/date stamps at the bottom of each photo. He looked worn and weary—certainly not like the man that martyrs bowed before.

  “Very good,” Carmichael said. He laid the photos down. “It’s about time that Pakistan made the decision to stop playing both sides of the fence. Either they stand in league with the worldwide community, or they can become a pariah of it.”

  “I don’t think they had a choice,” said Vice President Madison. He was referring to the political arm-bending of Pakistani officials who knew that al-Zawahiri was hiding directly under their roof. Surveilla
nce photos from the CIA taken over the past six months showed political principals and captains of industry entering and leaving the estate. One photo in particular was enough to clearly identify Zawahiri through facial recognition software. It depicted him speaking with Ali Nawaz, a high-ranking official within the Pakistan Muslim League (PML), which was ironic since the PML supported a strong and friendly relationship with the U.S.

  When the photos were proffered to PML dignitaries, their political arm had been twisted nearly to the breaking point by U.S. Intelligence. Either Pakistan complied with bringing al-Zawahiri in, or the United States would provide evidence to the international courts and plead their case to recognize Pakistan as a country harboring terrorist factions, in turn setting forth crippling sanctions. As an addendum, the United States would send aid to India to shore up and defend the borders along Kashmir as a show of support.

  “Didn’t you think that offering to send aid to the Kashmir border was too strong of a commitment?” Carmichael asked Rimaldi.

  She nodded. “It was a gamble, Mr. President. But with all due respect, we do have al-Zawahiri in custody.”

  “That we do,” said President Carmichael as he fell back into his seat. “What are the plans for extradition?”

  “Right now, Pakistani officials are being very careful in regards to possible retaliation by al-Qaeda insurgents. So they’re proceeding with extreme caution in the matter. In the meantime, we’re sending delegates to question al-Zawahiri as we speak.”

  “You mean Company men.”

  She nodded. Then: “We’re looking at possibly five, maybe six days until Zawahiri is in the States.”

  “Do we anticipate incursions within Pakistan?” asked Vice President Madison.

  “There’ll be some backlash,” she answered.

  “If that’s the case,” said the Chief Advisor, “then we do the right thing and support Pakistan with military support, if need be.”

  “I agree,” said the President. “The war on terrorism may have just escalated a few notches, people. Both here and abroad." He turned to his advisor and continued. “Once the media gets hold of the fact that al-Zawahiri is to be extradited to the U.S., how do you rate the likelihood of a heightened threat on American soil?”