by Mike Maden
“We can get them on the express train to Paradise tomorrow by launching a squadron of B-52s tonight,” Garza said.
Chandler nodded in agreement but kept his counsel. No point in piling on, he thought. Let Lane reach his own conclusion in his own time.
“Right now, I’m taking American troops on the ground off the table. What other suggestions do you have?”
The Saudi spread his long fingers on the table in front of him, weighing his thoughts. “As I’m sure you know, we recently formed ISMAT, an antiterror coalition of over thirty Muslim nations. But it still is not as effective as a single fighting force. NATO would be more powerful but even less committed. The Europeans share your concerns about war fatigue among their populations.”
“What about the Russians?” Lane asked.
Bingo, Chandler thought.
Al-Saud raised a sculpted eyebrow. “Russian boots on the ground in the Middle East? I thought American foreign policy since Potsdam was designed to prevent that very outcome.”
“It has been,” Grafton said. “I know the Senate wouldn’t support that idea at all.” She felt Chandler’s eyes burning holes in the side of her head. She didn’t care. She knew her boss was pushing hard for a partnership with the Russians—after all, it had been her idea in the first place—but she sensed in that moment that Lane wouldn’t go for it. Her goal was to get the United States into a war, not the Russians.
“What about an American-Russian alliance? Their boots, our air support. A limited action. I’m sure we can draw up some sort of boundaries to keep the Russians contained,” Chandler said. “A shared burden with limited objectives.”
Lane shook his head. “I’m with Troy. If we do this, it’s got to be a maximum effort. Total war, total victory. Annihilate every last one of the bastards. I’m just not convinced yet it’s time to go to those extremes. I made a campaign promise. If and when I’m ready to go to those extremes, I won’t wage an undeclared war. I’ll go to Congress first and get a formal declaration. If we’re going to wage a total war, I want the full support of Congress and the American people.”
“If we brought some of the congressional leadership into the loop, I think you’d see that they would be in complete support of a war declaration,” Grafton said. “A total war to eliminate ISIS is something they could sell to their constituents, especially if we released the threat letter and told them about today’s attack.”
“If we release this information to the public, there will be a war whether you want one or not, Mr. President,” Peguero said. “I strongly advise against inflaming public opinion.”
Pearce ignored the AG. “If we’re serious about going to war, then we need to talk about bringing back the draft.”
“Amen to that,” Garza said. “Everybody needs to pay the price for this, including the sons and daughters of Congress and Wall Street.”
“What would convince you it’s time to go to war, Mr. President?” al-Saud asked.
“Right now we’re only dealing with a bloodless event. The kind of war I’m talking about will be anything but bloodless, and a lot of innocents will get caught in the meat grinder. I still can’t shake the fact that over a million Iraqis might have died in the fighting since Saddam’s fall. I’ll make that call for war, but only if the threat has truly escalated.”
“For what it’s worth, the Open Source Indicators show chatter’s up,” Eaton said. “The word’s starting to get out on this mess and they’re expecting more. Apocalypse and all of that.”
“I’d say al-Mahdi got our message,” Chandler said.
Pearce shook his head. Something wasn’t adding up. DARPA’s OSI program was designed as predictive software, vacuuming up every spec of Big Data it could find on the Internet and in social media to try to predict future events. A few years back, one Georgetown scientist proved the concept by using Open Source Indicators to retroactively predict the location of Bin Laden’s hideout in Pakistan. If the OSI was now predicting future trouble, it was probably right, but it didn’t take a crystal ball to figure that out, either. The ISIS assholes were always talking about the end-times. The whole point was to provoke a war that would bring the ultimate apocalypse. Why drop a private message on the White House lawn instead of broadcasting the threat on global social media?
Garza’s cell phone rang. “Mr. President, I should take this.”
“Of course.”
Garza picked up. All eyes were on him. He listened, nodding. Finally, “I appreciate the heads-up.” He hung up the phone.
Garza turned to the rest of the room. “That was the DNI. The guy who delivered our letter to al-Mahdi just arrived at the home of the CIA chief of station in Sarajevo twenty minutes ago. Sort of.”
“Meaning?” Lane asked.
“Technically, only his head arrived. In a box. Allahu Akbar was branded into his forehead and an ISIS gold dinar coin was shoved in his toothless mouth.”
“Well, there’s our answer,” Chandler said. “Poor fellow.”
“He was senior management in the Turkish mafia. Nobody will miss him, not even his own mother,” Garza said.
“Why were we dealing with the Turkish mafia?” Grafton asked.
“Dirty war, dirty friends,” Eaton said.
Pearce checked his watch. Margaret should be landing in Frankfurt any minute now—if her plane didn’t get blown out of the sky by a drone on approach.
“If the worst is over for today, I’m assuming we have until noon tomorrow before the next shoe drops,” Lane said. “Let’s make the best use of that time possible.” He turned toward the Saudi ambassador. “Thank you for taking the time to come over and answer our questions.”
“Of course. I’m happy to remain here as long as you need me.”
“Mr. President, a word, if you don’t mind,” Pearce said. He stepped over to the far side of the room. Lane followed him.
“Is there a problem, Troy?”
“I don’t think it’s wise to keep the ambassador in the loop.”
“Clay assures me he’s reliable and discreet.”
“The vice president forgets the ambassador is a Saudi national and a royal. He’s honor bound to promote the interests of his government over ours. And frankly, I’m not sure why Grafton is here, either.”
Lane studied Pearce’s eyes. “Is there something you know that I don’t? Or is this personal?”
“Let’s just say I have some trust issues.” Pearce glanced over Lane’s shoulder. Saw Chandler glowering at him. “But it’s your call, of course.”
“I’ll take it under advisement. Anything else?”
“No, sir. Just had to get that off my chest.” He checked his watch. “The first Gorgon Sky launch was ten minutes ago, over D.C. New York will have one in about an hour. I should get back on the horn and see how the other systems are coming along.”
“Thanks, Troy. For everything. We’ll get through this.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pearce left the room. No doubt we’ll get through it, he thought as he passed through the hallway. He just wasn’t sure what they’d all look like on the other side of the wood chipper.
31
FRANKFURT, GERMANY
After passing through customs, Myers proceeded through the packed terminal, her mind still on the news flash that pulled up on her smartphone when she powered it on after landing. A “software glitch” in the U.S. National Airspace System sounded awfully suspicious to her but it was a plausible reason to ground air traffic around the country if that really was the problem. Pearce had left a terse voice mail telling her he missed her and to call him as soon as she landed but she decided to wait because she was running late. The American air traffic shutdown had international flight ramifications, especially for Germany, one of America’s largest trading partners. With so many passenger and cargo flights scheduled for the United States now canceled, ai
rport terminals around the world were jammed. Her Lufthansa flight circled above Frankfurt airport for an extra forty minutes before it could land. German customs was mercifully short.
The terminal Myers was passing through on the way to baggage claim was packed shoulder to shoulder. She loved airports. They always gave her the feeling of an adventure about to take place. It was particularly thrilling to hear so many languages being spoken here in Frankfurt, the third-busiest airport in Europe. In addition to German, she heard Hindi, Swahili, Polish, and Italian spoken around her as she made her way down to Level 1 and the baggage claim area.
Arabic, too.
And yet while she was appreciating the beautiful mosaic of global humanity all around her, she had been with Troy Pearce long enough to pick up some of his security habits. She was never a worrier either before or after becoming president, which was one of the reasons she refused Secret Service protection after she left office. Her first line of defense was keeping a low profile. A big security entourage, press coverage, and official welcomes only drew attention to her value as a target. As for her personal defense, she worked out and was very fit despite her adult-onset diabetes, and had trained in aikido for years, as much for fun as anything else. Back in the States, she had a concealed carry permit and was proficient in the use of a Ruger LCR 9mm snub-nosed revolver.
But Pearce was by nature a worrier, always on the lookout for potential trouble. He’d taught her how to spot suspicious behavior even in large, anonymous crowds. And the bearded man in the dark leather jacket and sunglasses on the far side of the luggage conveyor definitely fit the description of suspicious.
She queued up with the other passengers on her flight, waiting for the luggage to trundle onto the conveyor belt. She was careful not to put eyes on him, but kept his Nike Swoosh ball cap in her peripheral vision. She checked her phone again. A new message from Herr Grauweiler confirmed her new appointment time at seven p.m. local. She was grateful for the respite. That would give her enough time to check into her hotel and freshen up before the meeting. Maybe even catch a quick shower.
She easily caught a glimpse of her first piece of turquoise-colored luggage tumbling onto the far end of the belt, not far from the man in the leather jacket. Her eyes remained fixed on her eBag, but when she saw the man’s earpiece, he suddenly commanded her full attention.
She never caught sight of the tall man in the graying beard several feet behind her, pushing his way politely through the impatient crowd, heading straight toward her position.
Myers’s bag finally came within reach and she snagged it up. Her other turquoise bag was just a few feet farther back. By the time she looked back up, the man in the leather jacket had melted back into the crowd and she lost sight of him. She shrugged. Maybe he wasn’t a problem, after all. As her second bag approached, she began to lean over to grab it, but felt a strong hand on her lower back—
“Let me get that for you, Margaret.” The lanky German reached down and lifted her heavy bag effortlessly off the carousel and set it down next to the other to form a matching set.
“August! What are you doing here?”
“A little bird told me you would be arriving today.”
“Troy.” She tried to sound annoyed, but secretly she was happy he thought so highly of her security.
A broad grin emerged beneath his graying beard. “Well, yes. Of course.”
“Come here.” Myers threw her arms around the tall German’s neck and they hugged. She hadn’t seen August Mann since the time when she landed in a plane in the middle of a gunfight in the Sahara, snatching Mann and a wounded Pearce out of harm’s way at the last possible second. Pearce had told her all about him later. Mann was head of Pearce Systems’ nuclear demolition division and the first employee he ever hired into his organization. Mann was in Japan briefly while she was there earlier in the year but she didn’t get the chance to see him then.
“I have a car waiting for you,” Mann said. “We should go.”
“There was a man earlier”—she caught a glimpse of the Nike Swoosh ball cap out of the corner of her eye; she turned—“there. That’s him.”
Mann shook his head. “One of mine. He’s new to civilian work. I’ll have to give him a reprimand for being so clumsy. Did you see the others?”
“There are others?”
Mann smiled. “You can reach out and touch two of them right now—if you’re quick.”
32
BAYTOWN, TEXAS
The four-armed quadcopter hovered high above the sprawling 3,400-acre ExxonMobil Baytown complex. The second-largest oil refinery in the United States, the Baytown facility refined 573,000 barrels of oil per day and produced 7.2 billion pounds of petrochemical products annually.
The noise of the drone’s whirring rotors was masked by the industrial din of the bustling, 24/7 operation. The drone’s familiar mechanical shape was hardly noticeable in the jagged skyline of overhead power lines, coker units, distillation towers, and storage tanks.
Except that Willard Dynes did notice it. Leaning against the company pickup with his hands cupped around his eyes, the rail-thin security guard tracked the drone’s cautious movement, threading its way between twin steel towers.
Dynes was an amateur drone pilot and sold units part-time at the local hobby shop. Just last week he made an appointment with the refinery’s assistant plant manager. Dynes had observed drones being used for engineering and safety inspections by plant personnel and wanted to know if he could apply for a job like that. But the assistant manager explained to Dynes that his associate’s degree in criminal justice didn’t qualify him for engineering work in one of the world’s most complex chemical-processing facilities.
SOL, Dynes figured. Shit out of luck.
Dynes was no engineer, for sure, but he had a good eye for technical gear and an even better memory. The ExxonMobil engineers flew only DJI Phantom 3s with ExxonMobil decals. The unmarked drone he saw hovering fifty feet off the ground directly over his head wasn’t a DJI Phantom 3. Not by a long shot.
He didn’t know what the hell it was.
But he knew it wasn’t right. And the day-shift supervisor had put out the morning notice to report any suspicious persons or any unusual drone activity.
Well, a strange, unmarked drone was unusual, he figured. Better check it out.
Dynes dashed over to the steel staircase and began the long climb skyward. He flung himself up, pulling on the metal banisters, his steel-toed boots clanging on every other step. The equipment on his belt jangled and his baton clanged against the rails as he made the turns. By the third flight of stairs he was already winded. Damned Marlboros, he told himself. Time to quit. His thighs burned like acid as he finally reached the steel deck five stories up, gasping for air. He inhaled deeply with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He felt the asthma coming on. He tried not to panic. His hands shook a little and sweat poured over his face, but he kept his eye on the drone. It hadn’t budged.
Now that he was close he could see three small red lights flashing on some kind of electronic component attached as a payload. The drone was hovering near some kind of a security box that had an antenna and three green lights, all lit solid. He watched the red flashing lights on the drone turn to flashing green, and the solid green lights on the box start to flash in the same rhythm as the ones on the drone.
They were synching.
Shit!
Better call it in.
His breathing quickened. He felt light-headed. He pulled out his radio from its holster but his trembling hand dropped the unit. It clanged on the deck by his feet and bounced over the side. He leaned over just in time to see the radio hit the concrete slab and explode into a confetti of solid-state components.
Shit!
Just then, the drone began beeping.
Something told him it was about to fly away.
Dynes grabbed for the pistol grip in his belt. The drone turned ninety degrees to face him. Its one unblinking camera eye mocked him like a giant flying fish-eye cyclops. Dynes pulled the trigger on his Taser. He missed.
Shit!
The two Taser darts passed over the top of the fuselage. The drone’s blades whirred faster and it bolted vertically in a flash, but the fifteen feet of hair-thin Taser wire caught up in the drone’s rotors and instantly tangled around the propeller shafts. When enough of the Taser’s steel wire made contact with the rest of the drone’s aluminum frame, the Taser’s fifty-thousand-volt charge plowed into the onboard circuitry and fried the electronics. The drone’s engines froze in midair and the vehicle plunged toward the ground, dead as a doornail. Despite his shaking hands, Dynes held tight to the pistol grip while the drone hung suspended on the end of his Taser wires like a limp carp on the end of his daddy’s Popeil Pocket Fisherman.
“Gotcha, you sumbitch,” Dynes said to nobody in particular. But then it suddenly occurred to him.
If this was an ExxonMobil drone, after all, he was in serious trouble.
33
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Showered in the gym downstairs,” Pearce said.
“You need to sleep in your own bed, not the office sofa,” Myers said. “Don’t work yourself to death while I’m gone.”
“Look who’s talking. How’d the meeting go?”
“You mean with Herr Grauweiler? Or August? You should’ve told me, you know.”
“You would’ve waved him off if I told you up front. But when you saw him there, I knew you’d fall in line.”
“You know me that well, do you?”
“Yup.” Pearce stifled a yawn. “So how’d it go with the kraut CEO?”
“Herr Grauweiler is an interesting man. Reserved, in the extreme. Asked all the right questions.”
