Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland)

by Dale Brown

  “It’s gonna be easier than I thought,” said Grease when he returned. “Two trucks, parked near the fence. We get up over it and take one, disable the other.”

  “We’re going to stop and disable it? How?”

  “You’re going to get under the hood and pull the wires off. I’ll get the other truck going. Pull off anything you can,” said Grease. “Ready?”

  “Which way and which one?”

  Grease made a little diagram with his finger as if they were running a football play. There was a fence; he’d have to climb it as quickly as he could.

  “What about the other jeep we saw?”

  “We shoot them if we have to. I don’t think we’ll need to. They went up near the big building. They’re probably the night guard or something along those lines. Come on.”

  Turk managed to keep up all the way to the fence, threw himself against it and began to climb. He couldn’t get his boots into the links well. He pulled himself up but his fingers slipped.

  He told himself it was the obstacle course where he’d first started training with the Delta boys. He pushed harder, remembering the snarls of his trainers. After what seemed an eternity he managed to get to the top and slid his foot over.

  By the time he got back to the ground, Grease had the hood open on one of the vehicles.

  “Get the other one,” he hissed. “Open the hood. Pull the wires. Every wire you see.”

  Turk went to the second truck. It was a Kaviran; up close it looked to him like a cartoon version of a Land Rover, its metal squared and thin. He hunted for the release to the hood.

  The other truck revved. Turk pulled the hood on his up, then reached in and began pulling wires. When he had pulled everything he could find, he let go of the hood, expecting it to slam, but it was held up by hydraulic arms at the back. He reached up and slammed it down, louder than he should have, then grabbed his pack and gun and walked to the other truck.

  “Fucker’s a standard,” said Grease.

  “Can you drive?”

  “I got it.”

  Grease got it moving but had to hunt for second gear, revving the engine too soon as the gears ground and then nearly stalling it. They drove out around the back of the barracks and headed left, turning and driving toward the perimeter fence. Turk stayed quiet, his heart pounding in his chest. They passed a small guard building, its exterior dark, and headed toward the front gate.

  “Slide down a little bit in the seat,” Grease told Turk. “You look too white.”

  Turk did as he was told. His fingers curled around the body of the gun as they turned toward the front gate. He tried to slow his breathing, knowing he was gulping air.

  “Here we go,” said Grease, the truck gathering speed.

  As they breezed out the open gate, the Delta sergeant raised his arm in a half salute to obscure his face.

  “They left only a skeleton crew,” he said as he turned onto the main road. “If that. I bet they’re out looking for us. Those assholes we saw up near the cave came right out of this barracks. Funny, huh?”

  “Oh yeah. I’m just about dying of laughter.”

  “We should have gone inside and stolen new uniforms,” said Grease. He glanced at Turk. “You got crap all over your face.”

  “I thought you said I look too white.”

  “Where there isn’t any dirt, sure.”

  Turk rolled down the window. The breeze felt nice, cooling the sweat at the side of his face and the back of his neck. His shirt was soaked with perspiration.

  “All downhill from here, Turk.” Grease seemed happier than Turk remembered ever seeing him. “They think we’re outside. We’re inside. The one place they won’t look. All downhill from here.”

  17

  Iran

  THE NEWS THAT ONE OF THE PASDARAN TEAMS HAD found a pickup truck in a cave filled Colonel Khorasani with pride touching on smugness; his hunches had led to the breakthrough. But that quickly dissipated as the next report indicated only one man had been found, and he was dead, shot in the head, undoubtedly by a compatriot.

  The man’s body was still warm. He looked Iranian, and had papers identifying him as such. That, of course, meant nothing—a smuggler or an Israeli spy could easily have obtained forgeries or hired a local with the promise of enough gold. But Colonel Khorasani felt confident; he was going to solve this mystery. He ordered the units in the region to deploy around the cave, racing men up from the south, where they had been concentrated. And he called the air force to ask for search planes.

  As usual, they were uncooperative. The heathens should be shot with the infidels. The local squadron commander refused to take his call; Khorasani finally called General Shirazi himself, invoking the ayatollah’s name in a gambit to get what he wanted.

  “I need patrols in the area north of Qom,” he told the head of the air force. “We believe we may have found saboteurs.”

  “You are still chasing ghosts? I heard you had a farm vehicle shot up and killed members of the Guard.”

  “The occupants were spies,” insisted Khorasani. The wreckage had been so decimated by the attack that it was impossible to say who the men were, but admitting this wouldn’t help him in the least. “I am tracking their accomplices. We have found a truck. I need air surveillance.”

  “We don’t have the capacity for night searches.”

  “Your planes can’t see vehicles?” Khorasani paused. “What good are they?”

  “We do our best with what the government allots us,” snarled the general.

  “I hear aircraft above. What about them?”

  “We are patrolling in case the Americans attack. They won’t come by ground.”

  “Can I tell that to the ayatollah?”

  The general didn’t answer. Khorasani decided to take a different tack—the general had political ambitions beyond the air force; perhaps those would work in his favor.

  “We are all Iranians,” said Khorasani, softening his tone. “And cooperation will help us all, no matter the outcome. Evidence that you worked violently against commandos—this would surely be positive in the ayatollah’s eyes, and in everyone’s.”

  It took only a moment for General Shirazi to respond. “You will have more patrols. They will be up in two hours.”

  “I want good men.”

  “I don’t have any who aren’t,” snapped Shirazi.

  “The pilots who shot up the truck. They were skilled.” More importantly, they had proven they could follow his orders. But Khorasani didn’t mention that. “Get them.”

  “If they are available, they will fly,” agreed the general. “But I expect full cooperation in all things. Now and in the future.”

  “Certainly,” said Khorasani, deciding an alliance with an ambitious general might not be a bad thing.

  18

  Iran

  “ANOTHER TRUCK,” SAID GREASE AS THE HEADLIGHTS swept along the highway, moving up the pavement toward them.

  Turk slid down in the passenger seat and tried not to stare at the lights as they came close. He saw the vehicle from the corner of his eye as it passed; it was another Kaviran, filled with soldiers.

  “Check the GPS,” said Grease. “We should be real close to that turn.”

  “Another mile,” said Turk. “It’ll be on the left.”

  Grease found the dried up streambed without any problem. The truck’s springs groaned as they left road and navigated past a tumble of rocks, but they found solid, easy ground to drive on before they’d gone more than thirty yards. The ground had been worn down to bare rock; it was slippery in spots, but they were able to move quickly.

  “Look for a good place to stash the truck,” said Grease.

  Turk scanned the silvery landscape. It seemed something like a scene in a movie, lit for impending horror. Grease turned off the headlamps, but the refle
cted light from the moon filled the air with phosphorescence.

  “What’s behind those rocks?” he asked, pointing ahead.

  Turk stuck himself halfway out the window to see. “Just dirt.”

  “Too much of a slope,” said Grease as they got close.

  “It’s hilly everyplace.”

  “Yeah.”

  The ground became pebbly and loose; the wheels started to slip. Grease put the truck in its lowest gear.

  “Those bushes,” he said, angling toward a low clump of gnarled shrubs about thirty yards away. “If we can make it.”

  He stopped just below them, cranked the wheel, then attempted to back up the Kaviran so its nose would point down the hill. Even with the lowest gear and all wheels engaged, they couldn’t quite pull the truck entirely behind the brush, but it didn’t make much difference—the bushes barely came to the top of wheel well and would not completely hide the truck.

  Grease stopped the engine by stalling it, his foot hard on the brake while the clutch was still engaged. He pulled the emergency brake so hard Turk thought he would snap the handle.

  “Maybe we get to use it again, maybe not,” he said.

  Limbs suddenly stiff, Turk got out of the truck and shouldered the ruck. He checked the AK and kept it in his hands as he started to climb behind Grease. It was 2250.

  19

  CIA campus, Virginia

  BREANNA PERCHED HERSELF AT THE EDGE OF THE seat, one hand on the seat belt buckle as the helicopter swept down toward the lawn behind the building Whiplash used as its command center. She rarely used a helicopter to get around Washington, but time was of the essence.

  The private briefing for the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had gone as well as could be expected. Maximillian Fresco was not a big supporter of the Whiplash concept—he was uncomfortable not with the technology, but with the relationship with the CIA—and it seemed clear to Breanna that he had already concluded the operation would fail. That was ironic, given that she had been against using bombers in the first place. But she decided that knowing the President insisted the atomic program be stopped, Fresco had decided war with Iran was inevitable and should be relentlessly pursued.

  War might come even if their operation succeeded. It would be pointless and stupid—Iran would certainly be punished severely. But there would surely be a price to pay for all.

  Breanna leapt out as the Jet Ranger steadied itself on the ground. As she ran across the lot, two members of the Agency security detail trotted behind her; the escort was more ritual than necessity, as it would have been extremely difficult for a terrorist or other criminal to get onto the CIA campus, let alone near the small facility Whiplash used. Pausing at the entrance to the building, she turned and waved at the men, dismissing them. Then she put her hand on the identity panel, where all five of her fingerprints were scanned, and the door automatically opened. Inside, she gave her password as she entered the elevator; the hidden systems analyzed her biometrics and she was whisked downstairs.

  Jonathon Reid was waiting at the door of the secure conference center. The room was empty. The only light came from the glow of the near wall, which was filled with the blank static of the secure video connection to the White House.

  “Two minutes to spare,” he said. “How did the meeting go?”

  “Better that you weren’t there,” she said.

  Reid, a scarred veteran of the political infighting between the DoD and the CIA, gave her a wry smile. Breanna followed him inside. The pitcher of water on the table was draped with perspiration, as if even the inanimate objects understood the gravity of the situation.

  “Are you ready for the President?” intoned the deep voice of a White House staff member.

  “We are ready,” said Reid.

  “Ready.”

  Breanna sat down, wishing she had been able to grab a cup of coffee. She glanced at Reid, who shook his head—Turk had not checked in.

  Still waiting for the President to appear on-screen, Breanna tapped a small rectangle on the table. As soon as it glowed green, she spread her hand. A computer screen appeared. After placing her hand flat so the computer could read her prints, she tapped the corner and a menu appeared. She selected the status map; a map of Iran appeared. She zoomed until she found Turk’s marker. He was moving in the direction of the rendezvous point, but even without asking the computer to calculate, she knew it was excruciatingly slow.

  She switched the underlying image from map to satellite. An image appeared. It was several hours old, taken during the day as a satellite passed, but it was an accurate depiction of the terrain. They were climbing up a rock slide.

  President Todd’s image flashed on the screen. She was in the White House situation room, sitting at the head of the conference table. Two aides were behind her, leaning against the wall; Breanna knew the room would be filled with NSC staffers and other advisors.

  “The Joint Chiefs of Staff will be with us in a second,” said the President. “Before they come on, I wanted to speak to you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Breanna, her voice a bare whisper. She reached for Reid’s water and took a sip.

  “We’ve taken a lot of casualties,” said the President. Her voice was dispassionate, empty of emotion. Reading her expression, Breanna thought she was struggling to remain neutral. “Can we complete the mission?”

  “Absolutely,” said Breanna.

  “And you’ve taken care of all contingencies following the attack?”

  “The SEAL unit had to withdraw. We have another backup plan in place.”

  The President turned her head, listening to someone else in the room. She frowned and turned back. “Jonathon? Will we succeed?”

  “I’m confident we have a good chance of success,” said Reid. “But I can’t make any guarantees.”

  “Understood.” Todd nodded.

  Breanna glanced at the screen on the table. Turk was still some distance from the control point.

  “I understand you have to give the final authorization for the attack within ten minutes,” said Todd, turning her head back in Breanna’s direction.

  “It’s slightly more complicated than that,” said Breanna. “But yes, ma’am, that’s the gist.”

  “Your ground team is not yet in place?”

  “They’re en route.”

  “Will they be there by the time you launch?”

  “Probably not,” admitted Breanna. “They will be there in time for the assault.”

  “Can the mission be completed without them?” Todd asked.

  “It would be difficult,” admitted Reid. “Without a good bit of luck.”

  “Ms. Stockard?”

  “Madam President, they will be in place,” said Breanna. “This mission will succeed.”

  Breanna expected a nod, or some other sign of acknowledgment. Instead, Todd’s expression turned even more grim, her lips pursing together.

  “Bring the chiefs on-line, please,” the President told her communications aide.

  SEVERAL ROOMS AWAY IN THE WHIPLASH BUNKER, Ray Rubeo stared at a screenful of numbers. Technically, they described a parabola, a line following the plane section of a cone. In this case, they described one movement in the flight path the last nano-UAV would have to take to breach the final research chamber at Site One. The flight path was trivial for the computer. The problem was fitting the instruction into the limited memory of the small aircraft. Rubeo’s team had been working for hours on what at first seemed a trivial problem. But math was an unyielding master, and in the end the numbers simply would not yield. There was not enough space in the onboard memory to fit the instructions.

  The only possible solution was to have the pilot take over and fly the last leg.

  To the people down the hall, Breanna and Reid included, it would seem a trivial matter: the pilot was there precisely to gui
de the aircraft. But to Rubeo the difference was immense—he would fly the last few planes, not tell the computer how to fly them.

  Human error would greatly distort the probability equation.

  But there was no choice. The scientist sighed, then clicked the screen to review the instructions he would give.

  BREANNA GLANCED AT HER WATCH. SHE HAD TO AUTHORIZE the launch in exactly three minutes.

  If the President decided to abort the mission, what would she do?

  Tell Turk to get the hell out of there; a war was about to erupt.

  He was as good as dead already. They’d never make it to the border without being detected, and Sergeant Ransom was under orders to kill him if they were in danger of being captured.

  If the mission hadn’t changed, if they had only gone for the one site and left, maybe he’d be in the Caspian by now.

  “All right, gentlemen and ladies.” President Todd looked around her room, then back at the video camera projecting her image to the Pentagon and Whiplash. “We will proceed with the Whiplash plan as outlined. The bombers will be on standby. If the mission fails, they will proceed on my order. On my order only,” she repeated.

  There were murmurs of assent. The chief of staff’s face, which was centered in the feed from the Pentagon, reddened as he nodded.

  “Let’s get to work,” said Todd, and the feed died.

  Breanna rose, glancing at her watch. She had exactly sixty seconds to authorize the launch. She strode from the room, moving toward the command center down the hall. The entire team was there, waiting.

  So was Ray Rubeo.

  “Problem solved?” she asked.

  “We have a solution,” said Rubeo tersely.

  There wasn’t time to ask him to elaborate. “I am authorizing launch,” she announced. “We may have to go with Plan B on the download, but we’re moving ahead with the attack.”

  20

  Iran

  THE ROCKS GOT SMALLER AND EASIER TO GET OVER, but the slope steepened. Turk wondered if they couldn’t simply stop. He didn’t have to be in line of sight to get the download or guide the aircraft. But with Grease pushing ahead, he couldn’t give up. He kept climbing, finally resorting to all fours, moving up slowly under the growing weight of the ruck.