by Mike Maden
He quit the war, but the fury remained, a smoldering ember deep inside. The slightest breath, and it became a roaring fire.
Tanaka lit the flame when he killed Pearce’s old friend Yamada. In his mind’s eye he saw Yamada’s butchered corpse again, and just like that, the rage welled up like a flash fever.
3:18 a.m.
Pearce tamped the fury back down. Willed his friend’s corpse away. He took a deep breath. Told himself again that he shouldn’t have killed Tanaka the way he did.
Shouldn’t have buried Tanaka alive.
It was the worst death he could imagine, but Tanaka deserved it for the crime he had committed. But then again, who was he to end a life? And who was he that he could end Tanaka’s life in such a terrible way?
Pearce sighed. Myers stirred. He froze. Waited for her breathing to slow again. Lying here wouldn’t do any good. The dream had dumped adrenaline into his bloodstream like the crack of a large-caliber bullet zipping over his head.
He carefully worked his way out from beneath the sheets and gently lifted himself out of bed. Might as well get prepped for a damned long day. He glanced over at Myers’s nightstand. Her bionic pancreas was on the wireless charging pad. The levels looked good.
Pearce went into the walk-in closet to grab his robe. Technically, they still weren’t living together, but she’d bought him a few more things since he was there a lot of the time anyway.
Yeah, she was old-fashioned, for sure.
—
PEARCE STOOD BAREFOOT in the kitchen as he watched the last of the boiling water disappear in the pour-over filter. It took longer to make coffee this way but it tasted better. He was getting tired of everything he put into his mouth first having to run through plastic tubes. Steel and glass were better. The aroma of the rich, dark roast reminded him of cramming for his comps at Stanford, and of nights hovering over a smoking fire in the stone-cold mountains of Afghanistan. He’d been drinking green tea for years for health reasons, but lately his mouth was watering for coffee again, black and strong. He was wide awake but he knew he’d need the caffeine kick before going back over the mountain of pdfs Grafton had loaded into his secured e-mail folder. No point in showing up to the Spanish Inquisition unprepared. If they were going to burn him at the stake, let it be for telling the truth, not for being stupid.
At least the end of the day would be pleasurable. A drive in the Maryland countryside would be a nice diversion. It would be an important meeting with an old friend developing a new anti-drone system that could prove to be very interesting. But he didn’t dare get his hopes up. Building drones turned out to be a whole lot easier than knocking them down.
Tanaka’s screaming face flashed in his mind again. Not the dream face. The real one, raging with terror in the fish-eye camera Pearce had installed in the cylinder. In his mind’s eye he saw the light snap off again and heard Tanaka’s feral screams in the dark.
Pearce tossed the filter and grounds into the trash can and pulled down the biggest coffee cup he could find in the cupboard. He filled it up halfway and took a sip. A smooth, dark roast on the edge of burnt. Perfect.
He set the cup down gently and listened for Margaret. She was a light sleeper but she was exhausted when they came to bed and she had taken a Tylenol PM for a splitting headache.
Certain she was still asleep upstairs, Pearce knelt down in front of the sink and opened the cabinet. He reached far behind the rows of cleaners and detergents until his fingers wrapped around a slim half-pint bottle. He carefully removed the whiskey. He stood and cracked the cap on the brand-new bottle. He sniffed the open mouth. Not the best label he’d ever had, but it was the right size and good enough for a brace against the day ahead. He listened once again for Margaret stirring upstairs. Nothing. He poured until the coffee reached the brim of the cup, then sipped hot coffee down halfway. He set the cup down and poured in some more booze, then sealed the bottle carefully and returned it, closing the cabinet door as quietly as possible. He promised himself he wouldn’t buy any more after this one ran out. He wouldn’t need it after today anyway, one way or another.
16
CAPITAL YACHT CLUB
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The thirty-four-foot Carver cruiser was docked at the end of the pier. Boating in the Potomac was usually done in the evenings or weekends. The only people who could afford the big boats generally worked during business hours. Nobody was around at this time of the day. That’s why nobody noticed the sudden whir of six electric engines exploding into gear and the triangular foam FireFLY6 aerobot lifting gently off the rear deck like a helicopter. The small drone was painted red, white, and blue and looked like a hobby store toy.
The VTOL airplane inched forward until it cleared the Carver’s bridge, retracted its landing gear, and rose thirty feet in the air. Its six engines—four on two-engine mounts on the leading edge of the wings, two on a single mount in the rear—were in the vertical position. The FireFLY6 increased its speed marginally as it made its way across the Washington Channel, where it hovered for a just a moment above the East Potomac Tennis Center, its first waypoint. As soon as the autopilot program coordinated with its inertial and optical navigation systems, three servos rotated the six engines into the horizontal position, converting the helicopter into an airplane. It sped effortlessly northwest toward the Tidal Basin, where it reached its next waypoint, the Thomas Jefferson Memorial, then turned north toward the World War II Memorial, the third coordinate in its program. From the World War II Memorial to the target was less than half a mile to the northeast.
It took just two minutes and thirteen seconds for the VTOL aircraft to reach the airspace over the South Lawn of the White House.
—
WASHINGTON, D.C., AIRSPACE is the most restricted and protected in the United States. Maybe even the whole planet.
The first line of defense was a layered array of surveillance and detection devices—dedicated satellite, mobile radar, stationary cameras, and acoustic mics around the district and on the White House campus—designed to locate and track conventional aerial assault long before it reached the president’s official residence and work office.
The second layer of defense was kinetic. Air defense systems, including mobile antiaircraft missile and machine gun platforms, combined with dedicated combat air patrols circling overhead twenty-four hours a day, were tasked with neutralizing aerial threats like a sea-launched missile or a hijacked passenger jet.
The White House grounds were similarly armed with a variety of antiaircraft systems. As a final defense, hundreds of Secret Service agents and Capitol Hill police guarded the White House grounds, and they had access to a wide variety of weapons—rifles, machine guns, shotguns, semi-auto pistols, and even shoulder-launched antiaircraft missiles—that might conceivably be deployed in a last-ditch effort to take down intruding aircraft.
Unfortunately, none of the layered air defense systems worked if the object itself couldn’t be located electronically or visually, typically a problem with smaller, nonconventional airframes like drones. Two solutions to this problem were put in place.
The first solution was the FAA’s recent requirement that manufactured consumer off-the-shelf (COTS) drones feature navigation firmware automatically preventing drone vehicles from entering the airspace of airports, military installations, important national monuments and buildings, and other sensitive locations around the country, including Washington, D.C.
The second defense solution was more active. Following a number of accidental drone landings on or near the White House grounds in recent years, a limited electronic shield was installed. It amounted to a dome of signal-jamming radio waves blanketing the likely approach routes of errant vehicles to the White House compound. Once either a radio-controlled or GPS autopiloted drone entered the invisible dome, the signal from the radio controller or GPS satellite signal would be disrupted. In both cases, COTS
drone systems were designed to land immediately.
That morning, both solutions failed.
Once the FireFLY6 VTOL crossed the outer White House fence, its servos turned and the engines reoriented to their helicopter position and the landing gear extended. Moments later the aircraft landed dead center in the outdoor basketball court due west of the South Lawn Fountain, scaring the hell out of the groundskeeper emptying a trash bin.
Per security protocols, the groundskeeper immediately radioed the Capitol Police, who, in turn, notified the Secret Service. The basketball court was cleared and cordoned off, and a specially equipped panel van arrived. The drone seemed harmless enough. An accidental flyaway, most likely. The special agent in charge (SAIC) wasn’t concerned but she was a stickler for procedure. You just never knew.
Twenty minutes later a remote-controlled ground unit approached the red, white, and blue drone. Infrared and optical cameras, a Geiger counter, and a battery of electronic sniffers found no traces of dangerous explosives, chemicals, or biological or radioactive elements. It appeared to be exactly what it was: a harmless hobby store drone.
It was getting late and the crowd of first responders was growing. Since the drone was most likely harmless, there was no point in drawing attention to it. If the SAIC wasn’t careful, a reporter with a camera would show up, and this thing would be all over the nightly news and her ass would be in a sling. She only had six more years until she could draw retirement, and now was no time for a reprimand for wasting scarce Treasury resources. The White House was gearing up for a round of important visits later that day and the Secret Service detail was already stretched to the limit.
The SAIC told the others at the van to stay back as she snapped on a pair of latex gloves. She walked over to the drone, hoping like hell her instincts were correct. She knelt down and gave it one more visual inspection. No unusual wires or canisters. No suspicious or provocative markings or badges. A digital camera was located in the nose, confirming her theory that the drone was just an expensive toy that got away from some knucklehead with a radio transmitter and too much time on his hands. She lifted the lightweight drone as she stood. She turned it over. On the vehicle’s underbelly was another downward-facing digital camera. But what caught her attention was the four-inch square hatch door and a latch marked with a directional arrow and OPEN embossed in the plastic.
She took a deep breath as she turned the latch. The door popped open.
She should’ve stuck with procedure.
17
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Pearce cleared the security station and made his way to the stairs leading up to the first floor, avoiding the elevator. Another man, tall and well dressed, was heading down in the opposite direction. He stopped.
“Excuse me. You are Troy Pearce?”
“Yeah.” Pearce noted the Russian accent.
“Aleksandr Tarkovsky.”
“The Russian ambassador. Pleasure to meet you.” They shook hands. Pearce noted the firm, calloused grip. Tarkovsky was a lifter.
“I’ve heard a lot about you. You are the nominee for the Drone Command directorship, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations. I hope sometime we can have lunch. I am very interested in drones.” He sensed hesitation in Pearce. His handsome face grinned broadly. “Nothing classified, of course. I am just fascinated by the possibilities of the technology. I am a science fiction geek.”
“Happy to oblige. I’ll call your office next week.” Pearce checked his iWatch even though he knew the time. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, I’m late for a meeting.”
“Of course. Please call my office. And best of luck.” Tarkovsky nodded curtly and sped down the stairs.
Pearce watched him for a moment. Strange. He wondered how much Tarkovsky really knew about him. There were elements in the Russian SVR who had put a bounty on Pearce’s head for killing Tarkovsky’s predecessor in Moscow a few years before. The Russians could never prove anything, but the SVR wasn’t organized around the concept of due process. Without divulging the reason for his concern, Pearce recently had made an unofficial inquiry with an old contact in the CIA, who privately assured him he wasn’t an official person of interest to the Russian government. That meant Pearce was probably safe while he was stateside.
The man who would take over Pearce Systems if he actually took the Drone Command job was also monitoring Russian sources. Ian McTavish was a cyberwarrior of unparalleled skill.
Pearce shrugged off his concern and headed for the Oval Office.
—
VICE PRESIDENT CHANDLER, Vicki Grafton, and the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, Melinda Eaton, were seated on the couches. President Lane sat in a chair. Pearce entered the room.
“Just in time for General Eaton’s brief. Seems we had a little incident a few hours ago.”
“Incident?” Pearce asked. He was confused. He’d arrived for a final prep meeting with Grafton before the Senate confirmation hearing. He was halfway to her office at the EEOB when he received a text instructing him to come to the Oval Office instead as soon as possible. No reason was given.
“I’ve got something I want you to look at,” Lane said. He held up a sheet of paper in his hand.
“Of course, sir.” Pearce took the paper and the chair opposite the president.
All eyes were on him as he read.
President Lane,
All praise is due to Allah, the Glorious, the Majestic! We praise Him, seek His aid, and ask for His forgiveness. We seek refuge with Allah from the evils of our souls and the wickedness of our deeds. Whomsoever Allah guides cannot be misguided, and whomsoever Allah leads astray cannot be guided back.
Allah has said, “Fighting has been enjoined upon you while it is hateful to you.”
And the poet has said, “The walls of oppression and humiliation cannot be demolished except in a rain of bullets.”
America has waged a cowardly war against the Ummah. It has waged war with cowardly drones against the Lions of the Caliphate around the world. A cowardly war that kills hundreds of innocent Muslims as your own secret documents testify against you.
But the Lions of the Caliphate do not act cowardly. They fight even amongst themselves for the privilege of killing Americans all over the world. Our Young Lions have begged to fight even in the heartland of America.
Today that day has arrived.
We soldiers of the Islamic State will erupt volcanoes of jihad throughout your nation. Allah will deal with America. He will defeat America with the worst of defeats. He will dismember America completely. In humiliation America will lay down in her own dust. In humiliation and failure and degradation she will weep tears of blood. You Americans will sleep with impotent rage in your hearts and fear pounding your beds. How good you are to prove to the world that we Muslims will not be defeated as long as we hold firm to the Book! How good you are to prove to yourselves that we Muslims will not be defeated as long as we hold firm to the sword!
But we are not without mercy, because Allah is merciful. Today we offer a hand of peace. Submit! Submit to the religion of peace. Submit to the Caliphate. To submit is easy. It will be a simple thing. Do not rage. Do not hesitate. It is but a single drop of rain compared to the great storm that awaits you if you do not submit.
You must submit in this way:
Inside this drone you will find the glorious Black Flag of the Islamic State. You must fly this exact flag only at high mast on the White House by 12:00 tomorrow (EST). You must leave it there for 24 hours so all the world can witness your submission and your testimony that Allah alone is God and Muhammad (peace be upon him) His Prophet.
If you do not fly the Black Flag of the Islamic State by 12:00 tomorrow the first blow will crash down upon your head. And each day thereafter the flag is not flown, a worse blow
will be struck—another upon another until you submit or until the fifth day, when you will be utterly destroyed in a storm of unquenchable fire.
O Allah, there is no God but You! We fight for Your cause. You are exalted. We ask forgiveness and repent to You. All praise is due to Allah the Humiliator and the Subduer and to Muhammad (peace be upon him) His slave and messenger.
Inshallah.
Caliph Abu Waleed al-Mahdi
18
“What’s your opinion, Troy?” Lane asked.
Pearce frowned, still processing. He started out his CIA career as an analyst, not a fighter. Combat required instant decisions. Thoughtful data interpretation took a little more time.
“The language is generally right. Almost reads like a fatwa except there are no suras referenced. No reason to think it’s not a genuine ISIS threat.”
“We’re inclined to agree,” Lane said.
Grafton nodded gravely, fighting back a smile. The timing of the drone threat couldn’t have been better. It’s almost like I’d planned it myself.
“There’s an identical note in Arabic,” Eaton said. “I’ve sent it over to the ISIS desk at the CIA for exegetical analysis. Maybe there are grammar or syntactical clues as to the authenticity.”
“How did the Arabic read to you?” Pearce asked. He knew the retired army general was fluent.
“I’m no linguist but it seemed grammatically correct. Sophisticated syntax. Educated. An adult, I presume. Native speaker would be my guess. But that’s all I could glean from a quick read. The two pages were laser-printed so we won’t have any clues from handwriting analysis.”
