As they drove down the flight line, a large Global Reach drone was taxiing into launch position. Erik stopped the car to watch it take off into the night for its thirty-six-hour mission. “Where is that big boy going?” he asked.
“That guy is flying to Mali tonight to take out a big camp AQIM has set up just north or Timbuktu,” she replied as they watched the 737-sized drone lumber down the runway loaded up with both bombs and missiles. “I got the mission approved in DC. Quote: The several hundred casualties expected will do irreparable damage to al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb. Unquote.”
Erik resumed driving the Camaro toward the base gate. “Well, yeah. Death is kind of irreparable.”
14
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 20
SIND CLUB
KARACHI, PAKISTAN
“Over here,” Fares called out as Bryce Duggan entered the bar at the Sind Club. Fares Sorhari was the reporter’s traveling producer, the guy who made things happen no matter where in the Middle East and South Asia. “We’re drinking to the new little Princess, born this morning in London.”
The Sind Club had been the elegant retreat of the Colonial era. It was now where elite Pakistanis and expat Brits wined and dined. It was the place Fares had said they had to go, perhaps because he had reciprocal rights from his club in Dubai. The club was a relief from the crowds, the noise, the traffic, the knife’s edge of madness that was Karachi.
“This is Duncan Cameron from The Guardian. Duncan, Bryce Duggan from WWN,” Fares made the introductions. Cameron did not look the type who could make the transition from the print world to television, Bryce thought. The guy would have to stop sleeping in his suit. Bryce guessed that the Brit was thirty years older, but the older man could well be the type that had really gotten to know the place. Bryce had learned in Cairo, in Aleppo, in Benghazi, from the old hands.
“Welcome to the most violent city in the world,” Cameron said, raising his glass of Balvenie. “Fares, here, tells me you are in search of drones. Well, go north, my friend, go north. Plenty of droning going on up in Waziristan. You could get lots of pretty pictures of bombed-out houses, if they let you in, or rather, if they let you leave.”
“That’s our hope,” Bryce began. “But I want to get behind the pretty pictures, tell some of the stuff that you’ve done in The Guardian. How the Pak military is playing both sides, letting the U.S. fly the drones, but complaining publicly when they do, having them strike the Pakistani Taliban but helping the al Qaeda remnants and the Afghan Taliban.”
“You’ve read my stories on that?” Cameron smiled. “Well, you and two dons in Oxford. I didn’t know that my readership had grown to three.”
“I’d also like to talk to some villagers. Get their reaction, maybe contrast it to a more modern, secular type, maybe in Islamabad, who may think it’s a good thing that the Americans are keeping the radicals from the gates,” Bryce said. “Do you think that works?”
“Let’s sit at a table,” Cameron suggested. “Afik, give us that bottle of the Balvenie, will you now.”
They sat in a corner, well apart from the few others in the room. “Never know who else tips Afik,” Cameron began. “Listen, my friend, if you are going to do stories on what the Pak mil are doing, especially their intel people, the ISI, you have to be very careful. Reporters die out here.”
“We know,” Fares replied. “But, unlike you, we don’t live here. They won’t see our story until we leave country.”
“Well, if that’s the plan, let me suggest that you do the voiceover after you leave. They will hear what you say on camera when you are shooting here, and what people say to you.” Cameron refilled the three glasses. “Got myself lectured to up in Rawalpindi by the ISI when I suggested that they were playing both sides. Truth is that they are, of course. They want the Taliban to succeed somewhat in Afghanistan, but the local variant, the Pak Taliban, they see them as a threat. Okay to have the crazies running the asylum next door, but not here.”
Bryce was not used to straight Scotch, but he knew better than to ask for a mixer, or even a chaser. “Isn’t it true that some of what we think is ISI activity is actually some retired intel guys who are more Islamist than the people now running the service?” Bryce asked.
“That’s what they put out. They’d like you to think that,” Cameron replied. “It’s only partially true.”
“Like all things,” Fares said. “Excuse me one second, I’m going to get us some waters from our man Afik. I have a feeling we may get fairly deep, and deep into the bottle.”
“Duncan, if I am reading between the lines in your stories, you don’t just have ISI sources, you’re talking straight to the Lashkar guys, Pak Taliban, the Qazzanis, AQ. How the hell do you do it?” Bryce asked.
“Remember what I said, you can get killed out here for talking to the wrong people or being in the wrong places. You really want to go there?” the Scot replied.
“Tell me how.”
“I can put you in touch with some people, but not with all of them. Maybe one or two. Qazzanis are businessmen. AQ are media savvy. Stay away from the others. They won’t even hostage you, just leave you in a drainage ditch.” Cameron rested his chin in his hand, partially covering his mouth with fingers that looked like they had been battered in rugby years ago. “But these boys need to be lubricated and not with the Balvenie. They like U.S. dollars, cash. Give me twenty-five K to pass to them and you’ll get some pretty pictures no one else has seen and some guy in the shadows to talk on camera, but he will be the real deal, or damn close to it.”
“I can do ten,” Bryce quickly replied.
“Then it will just be the Qazzanis. They actually want some coverage right now for some reason. Give me a few days,” Cameron said.
15
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 21
TERMINAL E
LOGAN AIRPORT
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
He had been standing in the line for over an hour. The lines for Americans were short, but they were making the wogs wait, he thought. Already he could see the way they treated the brown people. The Air India 747 had disgorged a lot of them into Logan’s Terminal E, International Arrivals.
He watched as people at the head of the line moved up to the booths where the policemen sat. The policemen asked them questions. Some went through quickly, but most were asked many questions. The policemen typed into computers, searching for any indication that the person standing before them should be barred from entry into the country. He noticed that the policemen were wearing pistols on their belts. Once, he noticed that a man was taken away from a booth and escorted by two policemen to a door on the sidewall. He wondered if that would happen to him. He worried, but he did not want to sweat. That, they had told him, would be a sign for the police to look more carefully. He should not look nervous.
He told himself there was no reason to worry. He was now Birbal Malhotra, Indian citizen, born in Delhi. Three months ago he had obtained the new Indian identity card, one of over three hundred million that they had issued so far. Only a billion left to issue, he thought. It had his picture and a computer chip with his fingerprints and iris scan. It had cost a lot to get from the Indian civil servant who worked in the Identity office, but it was real. He was now in the Indian government database. He was Hindi.
And as a Hindi with one of the new ID cards, he had had little difficulty getting the visa from the American embassy in Delhi. His mother needed special long-term cancer treatment in America. He needed to go in advance to get them an apartment. More money had created a Mrs. Malhotra, a letter from a real doctor in Delhi, and a real Indian-American doctor in Boston. The American doctor had family in Mumbai, now they were a more wealthy family. It was a solid legend. It would withstand scrutiny. He hoped.
Was it really necessary for him to be here? It would have been safer to send others, but he wanted to be sure. He needed to meet the men who would carry the bombs, look them in the eye, take their measure. Would they panic? Would they fuck up?
He could have met them in Europe, but he did not want a record of them traveling abroad. It was a risk coming here, but he saw no other way.
“Next.”
The policeman yelling at him woke him from his daydream. He moved up to booth 8 and presented his passport and the I-94 form he had filled out on the airplane. He was surprised to see the police officer was a black man.
“What is the purpose of your visit?”
“I am here to prepare for my mother coming to get cancer treatment.” He knew that would be the first question.
“Where?”
He felt the sweat running down his back. “Dana-Farber,” he replied. “It is part of Harvard.”
“I know what it is,” the black man replied. “Where will you be staying?”
“Hotel Essex, long-term stay, in Back Bay.”
“How long will you be in the country?”
“They said the treatment could take two months for her. The visa is good for a year, but I will not be here that long, sir. I will probably leave before Christmas.”
“You know you can’t work while you are here? No employment here. What do you do in India, what is your occupation?”
“I am a solicitor, what you call a lawyer.” Could the policeman detect the Australian accented English? He had tried to sound like he was from Delhi, but he knew it did not work.
“Put your right hand on this screen. We are going to take your fingerprints. Look up, we are taking your picture. Do not smile.”
The policeman returned his passport to him. “Do not lose this I-94 stub. You have to turn it in when you leave the country. Now collect your bags and give this blue form to the officer at the exit. Good luck with your mother’s treatments.”
Good luck? Maybe he had worried too much. He had no luggage to collect. He had shipped it on ahead to the Essex. There was only his carry-on wheelie. Would they look through that? They could. They would find nothing.
They did not look in his bag. He could have had anything in it, but how was he to know they would not inspect it? He handed in the blue form to the last of the policemen and walked through a door, following the sign to Ground Transportation.
He found the right bus stop and took it to the blue train, the T they called it. T for target, he thought. He wanted to see it right away, so what better way to get to the hotel? Take the blue line to the green line, they had told him. Get off at Copley, walk two blocks to the hotel. It was beginning for Ahmed Bahadur. He was starting to think it would work.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 21
2700 LAS VEGAS BOULEVARD
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
Her mobile must have rung when she was in the shower, she thought, as she stood, drying herself off and deciding what to wear. The little voice mail light was blinking. Instinctively, she picked up the device to hear the message even before dressing.
“Hey, Sandy. It’s Ray. I’m in town for Black Hat, the hacker convention over at Caesar’s. But I see there’s a drone exhibition and conference at Mandalay. Wanna go? Call me.”
A drone exhibition? She tapped “drone, Mandalay” into the search engine on the MacBook Air on her coffee table. “No shit,” she muttered aloud as the Web page for the Unmanned Aerial Vehicle Exhibition and Conference popped on the screen. UAVEC. “Well, why not?” She picked the mobile back up and scanned for Ray’s number.
Ninety minutes later they were wandering together on the floor of the Mandalay Hotel and Casino Convention Center, which was packed with exhibits and displays about drones. “This is the fifth Israeli company I have seen so far,” Ray observed as they stood in front of a scale model of a bright, white drone that seemed no bigger than three meters in length and about two in wingspan. The word SHERIFF in blue letters was painted on each side of the short fuselage.
“Interested in our Police Patroller?” a chubby man said as he emerged from around the wall of television screens showing videos of the UAV in action. “Take a precinct where you now use ten police cars and you can reduce that to two. And with Police Patroller you will know before you dispatch a car that it’s worth doing. And for tactical response, we can beam live shots to the police cars, so they know what kind of situation they are driving into before they get there.” He walked over to the scale model and began pointing things out with a handheld laser. “It comes standard with a forty million candlepower spotlight and a loudspeaker.”
“Does it come with a shotgun capability?” Ray asked. Sandra Vittonelli looked at him with incredulity apparent on her face.
“That is an option, not in the standard config,” the salesman replied. “But you have to check to see whether that option is street legal in the U.S. I don’t think it is yet, but we hope it will be soon. Lotta interest in that.”
Sandra began to move on. “Are you the buyer, sir?” the salesman asked Ray. “City police? County?”
Ray pointed at the retreating Vittonelli, “Actually, she’s the sheriff of Jefferson County. I’m just a deputy.…” He smiled at the salesman. “Got to catch up with her. You know that kind of boss.…”
She stood in front of a four-meter-tall circular device that appeared to be a helicopter drone. The sign in front of it said THE PERFECT HOVERING SURVEILLANCE PLATFORM. It was from Canada. “Where the hell is this Jefferson County where I’m sheriff?” she asked Ray as he caught up to her.
“Oh, you heard that,” Ray replied. “There must be half a dozen Jefferson Counties around the U.S. Do you have any helicopter drones?”
She gave him a look that suggested she did not quite share his sense of humor. “I don’t,” she said. “Homeland Security might. They’re buying all sorts of stuff like that.”
“We have a much larger model coming out next year that can shoot suppressant foam under high pressure right down into the heart of a fire. Are you from a fire department?” the Canadian saleswoman asked.
“I am the sheriff of Jefferson County.” Sandra replied, “Do we look like firemen?”
“Oh, sorry. No, of course not. No you don’t,” the Canadian reassured. “But the Hovering Fire Truck model also comes in a crowd control and dispersal version, too, with tear gas, slippery solution spray nozzle, even an option for a noise generator that operates at a frequency and power that makes people void.”
“Void?” Sandra asked.
“Shit themselves,” Ray offered.
“Yes, that’s right,” the Canadian woman agreed. “We don’t make that piece of equipment ourselves, but we can add it. The Hovering Fire Truck model is designed for the Crowd Control Sound System to be just plug and play.” She smiled broadly.
“I guess that would make rioting difficult,” Sandra observed as she started to walk away. “Lovely. We’ll think about it.”
“We have a whole range of nonlethal options.…” the Canadian called after the short woman and the tall man as they moved on down the aisle of display booths. Sandra spotted a coffee bar and café in the corner of the sprawling exhibit hall and moved to it.
Sitting with her Caramel Macchiato, Sandra looked at the ingredients list on the energy drink bottle that Ray put down on the small round table. “Careful with this stuff,” she said, “there’s enough five-syllable chemicals in it to make you short-circuit.”
“You mean void?” he asked as he sat down.
“That, too. So what are you really doing here? Did you come all the way to Vegas to make the point that the use of drones is getting out of control? Because I still disagree with you.”
“Actually, no. I didn’t even know that there was a drone show until I checked in last night at the hotel,” he said. “I’m here for the hacker convention. My chief hacker, Dugout, has been on my case for a couple of years now to come. He says he always learns new tricks here. And he reconnects with the hacker underworld types he uses sometimes.”
“Dugout?” she asked.
“It’s his hacker handle. His real name is Douglas Carter the third, so in prep school they called him Trip. He hated it. But he’s a big Red Sox fan an
d he’s helped them with a software program, so they let him sit in the dugout once. Hence, Dugout.”
“I won’t even ask how you gave a hacker a security clearance. You guys at PEG clearly have different standards than we do at the Agency,” she said.
“He’s a national asset, helped us a bundle already. But you’re right, we look for the iconoclasts, the force multiplier geniuses. Want to avoid groupthink. That’s how we can have such great analytical capability with fewer than a hundred staff. We beat the pants off the Agency analysts every time, even though we are way outnumbered,” Ray said. “I’ve had Dugout create some software to look for patterns on the thousands of hours of video you guys collect from your birds.”
A small, round drone with four rotors flew up and hovered above the café. Three others quickly followed. Then the formation of four mini-helicopters formed into a line and began slowly to move down the length of the exhibit hall like a flock of ducks in a line abreast. Sandra and Ray watched and then, without commenting on the flying flock, resumed their conversation.
“Here’s what he has found so far. He’s detected four new patterns. First, the HVIs don’t seem to be meeting in buildings anymore. He thinks they know we look for meetings and then we blow up the buildings. So they are meeting in cars. One car goes to a meeting spot and an HVI gets out, the car keeps going. Then another car with the second HVI comes along and the first guy hops in. The meet occurs in a car in a crowded neighborhood with lots of potential collateral damage if we strike. This way the classical signature of a meeting that you look for never happens.”
“We do have a fixation on blowing up buildings,” she admitted. “But we also pick off HVIs in cars if they are alone on a road. Meetings in cars parked in crowded market streets will give us a problem. What else?”
Sting of the Drone Page 10
