“Is her speech a private event for the school, or can anyone come?”
“Private. But get this,” added Megan, “USD is a ghost town during the summer. So as of three years ago they decided to host an all-girls camp and religious retreat for one week each July. They open up their dorms and facilities for six thousand third-, fourth-, and fifth-grade girls attending Catholic grade schools around the country—which means ages eight through eleven. Apparently, the college is a paradise, palm trees and majestic architecture, so they have no trouble getting a full house.”
“Shit!” broadcast Hall. “This is it! She’s speaking to all these grade-schoolers, isn’t she?”
“She is.”
“That’s what they’re after. An attack during her talk is irresistible to these assholes.”
Hall shuddered. Just when he thought he had been exposed to the ultimate depths of evil and human depravity, Sayed Nazry and ISIS had managed to find a new low.
Of course the terrorist leader would see this as the perfect target. Six thousand innocent little girls, happily receiving a Western education, addressed by an iconic young woman who had fearlessly risked her life for the right to get an education in the face of barbarism. Add in a video of helpless little girls being massacred in the most horrible way possible, and it was a heinous, unimaginable atrocity that would surely send the West reeling.
Hall searched through Rehmani’s mind to learn more about his uncle, and what he read just confirmed what he already knew: USD would be the target. Nazry loathed Malala with a passion that was truly extraordinary. He had been the leader of the Taliban tribal council in Afghanistan all those years ago who had ordered her assassinated to make a sick, twisted point.
And she had made a fool of him.
Not only had she survived, but she had become a superstar, a beacon of strength and resolve around the world, while his efforts to stop education for women had blown up in his face. Nazry was also a big proponent of killing children, especially little girls, as it was never too early to wipe infidels from the earth and nothing left as deep a scar in Western psyches as this. He also despised Catholicism.
This attack would be his trifecta. He would kill the hated Malala, renew his stand against education for women, and wipe out thousands of helpless Catholic grade school girls, all in a single strike.
“Where is she giving her speech?” asked Hall. “And when?”
“Inside USD’s football stadium,” came the reply. “And she began about five minutes ago.”
22
Malala Yousafzai soaked in the applause of six thousand young girls and almost a thousand USD dignitaries, guests, and camp counselors. She looked around the packed football stadium and spotted her image on a soaring white-and-navy scoreboard built for the school’s beloved Toreros.
It was a glorious late afternoon, the sunlight just beginning to wane and the temperature a perfect seventy-two. She had been given a tour of the campus by USD notables, and it, too, was glorious, having routinely been ranked as one of the most beautiful campuses in America.
In addition to offering ocean views and palm-tree-lined courtyards, each of the school’s many majestic buildings had been built in the Spanish Renaissance tradition, with row upon row of arches, elaborate facades, carved wood, and elegant ironwork. The Immaculata Chapel was breathtaking, capped by a gorgeous, piercing blue dome visible from much of the city.
In this spectacular setting, Malala thought it even more important than usual to impress upon these young girls just how critical it was not to take their rights, their education, for granted. When she had been their age, she would have fought to the death for the chance to be educated in the ugliest of sheds, the smelliest of hovels. She needed to impress upon these girls that they should be thankful each and every day for having the opportunity to learn, freely and unmolested—anywhere—let alone within schools as inviting as the ones they were lucky enough to attend.
“Like San Diego,” said Malala, continuing her address, her voice booming over the loudspeaker and echoing throughout the stadium, “my hometown of Swat was a place of tourism and beauty.”
She was now moving into a section of the address she had borrowed from her own Nobel Prize acceptance speech, made many years earlier. “But it was suddenly changed into a place of terrorism. When I was your age, more than four hundred schools were destroyed. Women were flogged. People were killed. And our beautiful dreams turned into nightmares.
“Education went from being a right to being a crime. Girls were stopped from going to school.
“When my world suddenly changed, my priorities changed too. I had two options. One was to remain silent and wait to be killed. And the second was to speak up and be killed even sooner.
“I chose the second one. I decided to speak up. We could not just stand by and accept the injustices of the terrorists, who denied our rights, ruthlessly killed our people, and misused the name of Islam. We could not—”
She stopped in mid-sentence. The president of the university, Dr. John Riddle, was walking toward her across the large podium that had been built on the field and was making motions for her to stop. This was odd. She checked the time. It was six forty-five, and her address was just beginning to take off.
Riddle took the microphone as camp counselors around the stadium whispered to rows of their wards to remain quiet and respectful, keeping boundless little-girl energy contained during a surprising change of events.
“Apologies to our honored guest for breaking in here,” he said, “but I just got a call from Timothy Cochran. And yes, I mean that Timothy Cochran. President of the United States Timothy Cochran.”
A loud, excited murmur of little voices filled the stadium. No adult could keep a child from reacting to a statement such as this. For that matter, a small roar of chatter had broken out in the adult sections of the stadium as well.
“Turns out that President Cochran is a huge fan of Malala, but just learned minutes ago she was speaking here this evening. When he learned that she was addressing such a wonderful gathering of girls, sure to be among the leaders of tomorrow, he felt he had to reach out. I’m told our technical people are working to get him on the PA system, which should happen at any time.”
John Riddle looked over at a man seated in one of the many chairs on the podium and received a thumbs-up. “I’ve just been informed that the president has been patched in,” he said excitedly, “so I’ll turn it over to him.”
“Thank you, President Riddle,” said the unmistakable voice of Timothy Cochran, reverberating around a stadium that had suddenly become silent, almost in shock. “And many apologies for the interruption. But I wanted to thank Malala before she finishes her speech for exemplifying all that is best in humanity. Thank you so much for being such an inspiration to girls around the world. Had I learned of this event earlier, I would have been delighted to help introduce Malala, rather than interrupt her, and I would have sent an aerial team of air force jets to fly in formation overhead, to honor her, and to honor this group of promising young students.”
The president paused for effect. “But what I have been able to do on short notice is to co-opt a nearby military helicopter, which will be with you soon. It will fly high above the stadium for a few minutes and tip its wings, or its propellers in this case, to Malala and this august group of promising young girls.”
He paused. “And who knows,” he added mischievously, “I’m told they might just try to spice things up, show off a bit, by lassoing a demonstration drone in mid-air.”
Every last person in USD’s Torero stadium continued to be stunned by one startling turn of events after another. This just kept on getting wilder.
“So if I could ask you all to just sit tight,” continued the president, “the helicopter will be overhead any minute. When it’s gone, I’ll be back with some final words, and then we’ll let Malala finish her address, which you are all very lucky to hear.”
Malala continued to stand at the podium, ap
parently now needing to wait until the president’s show was over to continue.
This was a great honor, but also very strange. Why had President Cochran decided to interrupt her in mid-sentence? The fact he had addressed the crowd and had said such kind words to her was very gratifying. But the helicopter flyover was strange—and a drone capture demonstration totally bizarre, its timing more than a little disruptive to the flow of her address.
Oh well, thought Malala. It was all good. A broad smile consumed her face, despite the awkwardness she now felt just standing there. Her grandfather had always called her the happiest girl in the world, and this was for good reason. A helicopter tribute with a random demonstration was strange, indeed, but how could she be anything but grateful for it?
And things seemed to happen for a reason. She had always been optimistic, by nature, but even if not, surviving a gunshot to the head from near point-blank range would make even an avowed atheist begin to believe that a higher power just might be looking out for them.
23
Sergeant Joey Plaskett checked the time. Ten minutes before seven, and they were a minute away from USD’s Torero stadium. A pilot and two navy SEALs were with him on the helo, and in his ear he carried four additional passengers, each glued to the aircraft’s video feed.
Two of these, Justin Girdler and Mike Campbell, were tied in from THT’s headquarters near Salt Lake City. Another, Megan Emerson—who was in telepathic communication with Nick Hall—was currently hovering at fifteen thousand feet in an Apache helicopter, due east of Plaskett, keeping seven stealth drones occupied as they stared up at the aircraft hungrily, like rabid dogs that had treed a possum. And the fourth was President Timothy Cochran himself, tied in from the White House, keeping his involvement secret from even his closest security advisors, who were unaware of THT’s existence.
Plaskett didn’t let the president’s presence in his ear add to his stress—because this wasn’t possible. Knowing the leader of the free world was watching over his shoulder would have normally been extremely intimidating, but when the lives of six thousand little girls were on the line—along with Malala Yousafzai, an iconic young woman beloved by millions—the pressure he was feeling couldn’t possibly be any greater.
“Sergeant Plaskett,” said the president, “I just finished addressing the crowd as General Girdler advised. No one will panic when you fly above them. And they’re also expecting a showy demonstration of a drone capture.”
“Thank you, sir,” he replied.
“Sergeant,” said General Girdler, “you’re a go to commence the op at any time. Don’t forget to tip your rotor down at the crowd a few times before you fire the EMP.”
“Roger that,” said Plaskett. “Expecting to engage the target in approximately one minute.”
“Godspeed to you and your team, Sergeant,” added Girdler solemnly.
“Amen to that,” said the president.
Joey Plaskett took a deep breath and reviewed the plan for the last time. He had two highly trained SEALs on board with him, and a highly decorated pilot. One of the SEALs had been on the test missions with the prototype EMP Cannon, and had been responsible for targeting the device, even though it was fairly user friendly and required only a few simple commands.
The second SEAL had worked with the X81 Falcon previously and already had the drone programmed, powered up, and ready to burst forth from a ten-foot-wide opening on one side of the helo created by the retraction of the doors. This commando had personally tested and packed a net into the X81 that would quickly expand to the size of a parachute after being fired and then close around its target.
Plaskett, a SEAL himself, had the easiest job of all. He was there simply to supervise the op, ensure it was coordinated, and give commands. No skill required.
Everything should work out fine, he told himself yet again. Nick Hall was convinced the drone would be approximately dead center over the stadium, hovering at exactly fifteen hundred feet. If this were true, they could almost snatch it out of the sky with their bare hands.
Naturally, this isn’t something they would attempt. The drone’s placement might not be so precise, after all, and an EMP produced the ultimate shotgun blast, requiring minimal precision. It would also fry the canister’s electronics and trap the deadly poison—at least until the drone fell below five hundred feet.
More importantly, had they tried to capture what now seemed to be a sitting duck, it would either release its payload or take evasive action. The EMP pulse, on the other hand, traveled at the speed of light, reaching its target in less than a millionth of a second.
“Dodge that, asshole!” said Plaskett under his breath to the invisible drone.
The plan seemed solid, but never had so much been riding on the outcome of an operation. As far as Plaskett knew, Hall had never been wrong before, but there was a first time for everything. Plaskett just prayed that this wasn’t it.
Even assuming Hall was right about the sarin drone’s location, the EMP had to work perfectly, and the X81 Falcon had to be released the instant the drone became visible, striking as swiftly and unerringly as its namesake.
Nothing could go wrong, because they wouldn’t get a second chance.
Plaskett issued orders and the pilot flew the short distance to the stadium, tipping its rotor to the crowd and then stabilizing three hundred feet below and to the south of where they expected the sarin drone to be, which would give the Falcon an angle on its target.
“Is the EMP Cannon targeted and ready?” barked Plaskett.
“Affirmative!” came the crisp response.
“Is the Falcon ready for immediate release upon target visibility?”
“Affirmative!” replied a second man.
“Trigger EMP Cannon on my mark. Five . . . Four . . . Three . . .”
“Hold up!” screamed Megan Emerson into Plaskett’s ear, practically deafening him.
“Stop the countdown!” the sergeant barked to his team. “What is it?” he demanded of Megan.
“Nick just realized something he failed to mention. He’s sick about the oversight, but there are two drones up there, fairly close to each other. The sarin drone and an identical one that is carrying video equipment.”
“Shit!” said General Girdler. “That’s a big problem.”
“Are you kidding me?” thundered Plaskett. Altschuler had discovered that the ISIS drones had a five-foot diameter, so they had programmed the Falcon to net an octocopter in this approximate size range. “That means the Falcon might go after the wrong one!” he added in disbelief. “Fifty-fifty chance.”
Plaskett wanted to unleash a primal scream that would deafen the little girls below. How had this suddenly become a clusterfuck?
He wanted to blame Hall for not realizing the criticality of this intel until the last second, but he knew this wasn’t fair. Hall had been through the wringer, physically and mentally, and should have collapsed long ago. The man’s mind was a car that had been out of gas for a thousand miles but had still somehow managed to soldier on. He couldn’t be faulted for failing to think of everything.
“Can we reprogram the Falcon to differentiate between a drone carrying video equipment and one carrying a gas canister?” asked Campbell.
Plaskett asked the Falcon programmer on board and received a quick answer: not a chance in hell, not in the six minutes they had left. “Can’t be reprogrammed in time,” said the sergeant.
Plaskett’s stomach churned. Had it really come to this? Were the lives of thousands of innocents now at the mercy of a coin flip?
“Wait a minute,” said Plaskett as an idea materialized in his head. “The Falcon can’t tell the difference between the two drones,” he continued excitedly, “but I can.”
“Where are you going with this, Joey?” said Girdler.
“I can act as door gunner,” he replied, reaching for a safety harness. “Once the EMP disables both drones, I can shoot the one with the video equipment, blowing it to pieces. Then only t
he sarin drone will be in the size range the Falcon is programmed to go after.”
“Great thought,” said Girdler. “But the Falcon’s window for intercepting this drone is already tight. A thousand foot fall will happen in a hurry. You’d have to release the Falcon as planned the moment the drones become visible. You’d only have a handful of seconds to take out the video drone. And you’d have to do it without hitting the sarin drone or the Falcon. You think you can do that?”
Plaskett blew out a long breath. “Yes. I’ve been a door gunner on helo missions before,” he replied. “This craft has an M240 on board,” he added, referring to a belt-fed machine gun, “but I believe this weapon has too much destructive power. I use this and I risk taking out both drones, especially if they’re very close together. So my plan would be to use my HK416 assault rifle on semi-automatic. It’s like a part of my body by now.”
To Girdler’s credit, he paused for only a brief instant. “Do it!” he said decisively. “Hurry!”
“Roger that,” said Plaskett. He barked commands at his team and finished strapping the safety harness around his chest, tethering it to the cabin floor. This would allow him to lean out of the door with maximum maneuverability and degrees of freedom.
He once again confirmed that all was ready and began his countdown. The jobs of the two SEALs remained the same, but the pilot’s job just became a lot more complicated. He needed to spot the drones, pivot so that Plaskett had a good line of sight through the open door, and then immediately steady the craft.
Plaskett readied his HK416 for immediate firing. He knew he wouldn’t have time to line up the drone carefully in the gun’s sights. The firing angles from a helo could be treacherously difficult to estimate, especially given a falling target, but he had no choice but to trust his training, his instincts.
MindWar (Nick Hall Book 3) Page 12
