by Mike Maden
“Look, I don’t care what anybody does with the nonrelevant data that comes in. That’s for you all to decide. Maybe we can find a way to put the attorney general in the information loop.”
Lane turned to the attorney general. “That work for you, Julissa?”
Peguero shrugged. “I’m looking for safeguards. That’s all I’m asking.”
“I’ll have Dr. Ashley contact your office,” Pearce said. “You two can figure out some kind of system.” He turned to the president. “But I wouldn’t let that slow down the Gorgon Sky deployment if you want to get a visual on these drones before they hit, and maybe even their operators. It’s not perfect but this is about the best we can come up with right now.”
“Agreed,” Lane said. “But have this Dr. Ashley loop in Julissa at the earliest possible moment.”
“But there’s still one problem,” Pearce said.
“What’s that?” Lane asked. Pearce heard the tension in his voice.
“It’s crazy to think that drones are their only option.”
“You mean a conventional attack?”
“Yes. And possibly worse. The letter used the phrase ‘unquenchable fire.’ That might be figurative but I doubt it. No telling what they’ll hit us with next, or where. But it sounds like it’s leading up to something we don’t want to see.”
“Best guesses?” Lane asked the room.
“ISIS was talking about using drones as a delivery system for nuclear materials a while back,” Garza said.
“That’s right,” Chandler said. “I remember that now.”
Lane leaned forward. “What’s the likelihood of that, Jim?”
“All we heard were rumors. I wouldn’t put too much stock in it.”
“They could just keep hitting the airports,” Eaton said. “That would be devastating enough.”
Pearce shook his head. “But now we know they’ve done that, so they’ll assume we’re prepping defenses against it. They’ll try something else. Surprise is their best weapon.”
“They hit airports today. We all agree that’s an economic attack as much as a political one,” Eaton said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if other economic targets are next.”
“Ports, the power grid. Jiminy Christmas,” Chandler said.
“Another reason to put Gorgon Sky up fast,” Garza said.
“We have a list of key infrastructure facilities. We’ll quietly bump up the threat level. Get more locals out on the beat and deploy ours, too,” Eaton said.
“Good.” Lane turned to Pearce. “Troy, I’m putting you in charge of reviving Gorgon Sky.”
“Me? The Senate hasn’t even voted on me yet.”
“I don’t care. This is a national emergency. I’ll have an executive order drafted authorizing you to act on my behalf. Pull any piece of equipment you need from any department and put it up in the air as fast as you can. Anybody gives you grief, call me directly.”
“Yes, sir. But the word will get out now. Has to if I’m going to be pulling assets.”
“Do what you have to, but keep it strictly need-to-know, and tell them to keep quiet for now.”
Chandler shook his head. “Even when we get Gorgon Sky up, we’re still just playing defense. We need to go on offense.”
“Give me an option other than American boots on the ground,” Lane said.
Chandler fought back his desire to gloat. This was exactly the moment he’d been driving toward. “Ambassador Tarkovsky said the Russians are prepared to put their boots on the ground.”
“Are you kidding?” Garza said. “Why would we invite the fox into the henhouse?”
Chandler turned toward Garza’s image in the monitor. “We can’t beat these criminals with just airstrikes. We’ve been pounding them from the air for years. We need troops on the ground and we aren’t sending ours. Do you have a better suggestion?”
“Yeah. Let’s go straight to the source. Tell al-Mahdi or whoever the hell is in charge over there that sand turns to glass at seventeen hundred degrees Celsius, and we have the firecracker to make that happen if he doesn’t back off this right now.”
“And if he denies he’s any part of this?” Chandler asked.
“He signed the letter, didn’t he?” Garza said.
“Technically, he didn’t. It was printed on a laser jet,” Peguero said. “We’re not even sure if he’s alive. Getting some kind of confirmation about the source makes sense, legally.”
“He can always blame a lone wolf working on his own. That way he can take credit but not the blame,” Pearce said.
“If there’s a lone wolf behind this, then we need to shake up every radical mosque in the country. Detain every radical imam as an enemy combatant,” Chandler said.
Peguero’s dark eyes widened. “I’m surprised at you, Mr. Vice President. You’re a trained lawyer. Surely you know that would be a clear violation of the civil rights and religious liberties of Muslims.”
Chandler threw up his hands. “Lincoln was a lawyer, too. Didn’t prevent him from suspending habeas corpus. Extreme times require extreme measures.”
Peguero turned to Lane. “I can’t condone that kind of action at all, Mr. President. And neither will the party leadership.” As the daughter of illegal Dominican immigrants amnestied under Reagan, the attorney general was particularly sensitive about the rights of the foreign born.
Pearce couldn’t believe his ears. He fumed. We’re in a war, not a pillow fight. These people still don’t get it all these years after 9/11. These social justice warriors will get us all killed.
“Let’s bring in Ambassador al-Saud for some perspective. I think he’ll agree with me,” Chandler said.
“Bring a Saudi government official into a national security meeting?” Pearce asked.
“Why not?” Chandler protested. “He’s a great friend to our country and a staunch ally in the War on Terror. He’ll tell you that the radical mosques are the rat nests behind a lot of these shenanigans.”
“For one thing, Saudi Arabia has a horrific human rights record, and as far as I know, the Saudi ambassador is not an American constitutional scholar,” Peguero said. “I don’t see what value he brings to the table.”
Lane held up a hand, frustrated. “All right, everybody, let’s put a lid on this. Give me a minute to process.” Lane stood and crossed the room, lost in thought.
Pearce pulled out his smartphone and started scrolling through his list of contacts. Pulled up Dr. Ashley’s. He couldn’t pull off the Gorgon Sky project without her. He sent her a priority text, encrypted.
Lane crossed back over to the table but remained standing. “Jim, I like your idea. Call the director of national intelligence. See if he can get someone in al-Mahdi’s face in the next few hours.”
“The CIA won’t have a direct contact. We’ll have to go third party.”
“Can we get a direct message to him at least?”
“Probably. But it will have to be all hand-carry. ISIS is scared to death of the NSA, even with encrypted cell phones. That means more people in the loop on our end. I can’t guarantee the message will remain secure.”
“We’ll have to take the chance. Let’s do it.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Garza said, signing off.
“Melinda, contact the FAA. Let’s get these planes grounded for twenty-four hours. We’ll use the software glitch as the excuse. And whatever happens, we’ve got to keep the media away from this story for as long as we can.”
Eaton nodded. “Understood, Mr. President.”
Lane turned to Pearce. “Get Gorgon Sky launched as fast as you can. And for heaven’s sake, keep pushing on an anti-drone solution.”
Pearce nodded. Didn’t have the heart to tell the president there just weren’t any good ones at the moment. He asked himself if Ian might have any ideas. Pearce sighed. No. Ian
didn’t.
“Everybody, stay close and expect a call from my office. I’ve got a bad feeling the day’s a long way from over,” Lane said. “I’ll want all hands on deck if something breaks.”
“The only easy day . . .” Pearce muttered to himself, his voice trailing off.
Lane forced a grim smile. “Is yesterday.”
29
SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
The Cool Breeze bar was packed with tourists and locals perched on high seats around club tables enjoying Manhattans and daiquiris and good Czech beer. The music from the small stage echoed on the ancient stone floors and arched brick ceiling. The place looked more like a medieval church basement than a jazz joint. The band was Indian. They played bass, sax, drums, and a sitar. Most of the patrons were talking among themselves, ignoring the skilled improvisations.
Mehmet Zorlu had never heard that kind of jazz before. He liked it. He sat at the end of the long mahogany bar with the locals. He was bald and clean-shaven, with a thick braid of gold chain looped beneath his double chins. In his sport coat, slacks, and loafers, he looked more like Alfred Hitchcock than a member of the Turkish mafia. One of his underlings nicknamed him “Tony Soprano” a few years back. He liked the American TV show, so he took no vengeance on the fool, a second cousin. He stabbed out his cigarette butt in a crowded ashtray and lit another one with a Zippo.
Zorlu knew the owners, Fipps and Robson, a couple of British expats. They were both behind the bar tonight, mixing drinks and laughing it up with the regulars. His sources inside the MIT, Turkey’s National Intelligence Organization, had vetted the two men three years ago. If they were MI6 or CIA, they hid it well. High-dollar escorts were always in tow and dirty money swam in their cash registers. Some of that dirty money he’d placed there himself over the last year. He liked them, and their whores.
He checked his watch again. The courier was late. He wiped away a bead of sweat from his massive forehead. It was cold outside but hot enough inside to bake pide on the butt-strewn floor. He finished off the martini—his third—with a last gulp, then plopped the olive into his mouth. He caught the eye of Fipps, a blond with a brush cut and bulging biceps. Zorlu pointed at his empty martini glass. Fipps nodded and grabbed a clean glass and got to work.
Zorlu checked his watch again. The call he received came from the very top of his organization. A pickup, then a delivery. Very simple. Only not so simple. “Fail to receive the envelope and you die. Fail to deliver it, and you’ll be skinned alive. You and your wife, your mistress, and your sons.”
Where the hell was that drink?
He knew what lay ahead. He’d made the trip once before. A two-hour ride in the back of car if he was lucky, in the trunk if he wasn’t. Bag over his head, hands cuffed behind his back, straining his heavy shoulders. And then another trip by boat. There he would meet the man who would take him the rest of the way to Raqqa. A man he’d only met once face-to-face. A disturbing face. Cruel and certain, like all such fanatics. His contact in the ISIS oil-smuggling ring he ran between Syria and Turkey. They had a sort of trust, thin as a piece of old thread, but still intact. When Zorlu called him, he heard the suspicion in his voice. Suspicion that made him even more dangerous. Still, what choice did he have? He had his orders and his ISIS contact was his only hope.
The fat Turk stole a glance at the German woman seated next to him. Wide hips, big breasts. Very nice. He remembered his years in Düsseldorf fondly. Money, drugs, or force had spread many pairs of such legs in his youth.
Fipps approached with the new martini and set it down in front of him. He leaned in close. Nodded toward the staircase.
Zorlu turned around with difficulty. The courier, he guessed. A Turkish kid in his twenties. Leather jacket, long hair, dark. A British passport in his pocket, no doubt. One of the infamous Tottenham Turks, a violent gang his own organization used to distribute drugs in the U.K. in exchange for guns. His nervous young eyes scanned the room. No doubt he received the same grim threats.
Skinned alive wasn’t a metaphor.
For a moment he weighed the option of running. He carried a forged Panamanian passport and had enough cash stashed away in banks in Cyprus and Portugal to live modestly for a long while. He could start over. Even make a life for himself in the States. But he thought of his sons and their flayed corpses. He had seen such things. His stomach soured at the thought and he pushed it away.
Zorlu picked up the martini and drained it in one long gulp. He took one last puff on his cigarette, then crushed it in the overflowing ashtray. This message he was supposed to hand-deliver to the Caliph must be damned important.
Zorlu twisted around in his seat. The kid’s eyes finally landed on him. Zorlu acknowledged the courier with a nod, and with a sideways lean of the head, pointed the Tottenham boy toward a door leading to the back room.
Zorlu lifted his heavy girth off of the chair. Maybe it will all work out, he hoped as he made his way through the crowded, smoke-filled room. He better take a piss before the car ride, though. Otherwise it could be a long night in the trunk lying in his own cold stink.
30
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Thank you all for getting back here on such short notice,” Lane said. Everyone present was seated around the table in the Situation Room.
Garza had come straight from the airport but Peguero was still stuck in California, thanks to the FAA’s “software glitch” grounding of her commercial flight. Pearce had commandeered an extra office in the EEOB and spent the previous four hours pulling together the updated Gorgon Sky plan with Dr. Ashley’s help. Like Peguero, she was stuck in Texas at the university where she worked, but Pearce was in the room.
Chandler sat between Eaton on his right and, for the first time in the crisis, with Grafton on his left.
Grafton’s presence bothered Pearce no end. Why was she in the loop? But it was al-Saud’s presence that really chafed his hide.
“His Excellency, the ambassador, has kindly agreed to offer his opinion on the matters before us,” Lane said. “DHS has briefed him on the events so far. The ambassador has assured me that everything we discuss in this room will remain in this room.”
“He’s willing to withhold vital information from his own government?” Pearce asked, his voice thick with skepticism.
“Yes, Mr. Pearce. More than willing. This is a time of crisis, not politics. However, as soon as you are prepared for me to speak with Riyadh, I will do my best to accurately portray the opinions expressed here today. But let me assure you all now that my government stands ready to do whatever is in its power to assist you at this time.”
“That’s all we can ask for,” Chandler said.
“Have you read the letter, Mr. Ambassador?” Grafton asked. Her green eyes locked with his.
Al-Saud nodded, smiling. “In both Arabic and English. It appears to be authentic.”
“The good news is that there haven’t been any more reports of drone attacks on any aircraft at any airport since Los Angeles. That doesn’t mean there won’t be any more, but our assumption is that they’re waiting to see if we’ll raise that flag by noon tomorrow.”
“Mr. Ambassador, we have several options on the table right now,” Lane said. “But the most extreme option that has been put forth is to launch an all-out ground assault on ISIS and the Caliphate. What is your opinion?”
“I completely agree. You must retaliate. Any sign of weakness will only encourage Daesh to escalate their attacks.”
“What about negotiations?” Peguero asked from the video monitor.
“Negotiations? Perhaps you can ask for death by beheading instead of crucifixion, but little else. Daesh intends to conquer the whole world and usher in the new age under the rule of the Mahdi. Some Daesh believe al-Mahdi is the Messiah. How does one compromise on one’s holy faith?”
“How should we retaliate, short of American b
oots on the ground?” Lane asked.
“If I may speak freely, Mr. President.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You must put boots on the ground, as well as tanks and guns and whatever else you have in your arsenal. You must exterminate Daesh totally and completely, as soon as possible.”
“Exterminate?” Peguero asked. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
Al-Saud stabbed the table with his finger. “Every day they survive, they grow, because their very existence proves to the Muslim mind that they have withstood your power. But they have an Achilles’ heel. Unlike al-Qaeda and the other borderless gangs, Daesh has claimed territory and a capital city. To keep their legitimacy, they must defend the land. With the others, you are chasing the wind. But Daesh is a tree fixed in the ground. You must lay the ax to the tree and cut it down, roots and all.”
Lane shook his head. “The American people are tired of war.”
“As is the rest of the world, especially my part of the world that has borne the brunt of casualties and destruction. Nobody wants war less than we do, but war is here one way or another. Europe was tired of war, too, after the War to End All Wars, but that war gave rise to Hitler and the other fascists. The Western powers hesitated to act because they were tired of war. They could have strangled the fascist infant in its crib if they had acted resolutely. Their reluctance gave time for Hitler and the other fascists to grow in strength. In the end, the Allies came to understand that the only way to stop fascism in Europe and Asia was to wage a total war against it. Defeat it in the field. Occupation, trials, hangings.”
“Terrorize the terrorists,” Chandler said.
He’s right, Pearce thought. But what does that make us?
“Exactly,” al-Saud said, nodding toward Chandler. “I know the murderous radicals who kill in the name of Allah. Death in combat against the infidels is salvific for them. They won’t negotiate and they won’t compromise because there is nothing you can offer them that is better than an eternity in Paradise.”
