Drone

by Mike Maden

  Myers flew to Houston on Air Force One, which was crammed with the Washington press corps. They all then loaded into a fleet of Bell Ranger helicopters and choppered out to one of Chevron’s biggest oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico.

  Myers began her early morning press conference on the blustery deck of the big rig, flanked by the CEOs of Chevron, Shell, ConocoPhillips, ExxonMobil, Baker Hughes, and Halliburton, along with the rig’s oil-begrimed crew of roughnecks, roustabouts, and derrickhands, some of whom were sitting high in the superstructure. Against Jeffers’s recommendation, Myers excluded all members of Congress, wanting to keep the event as apolitical as possible.

  Myers wore blue jeans and steel-toed workboots along with a denim shirt and a white hard hat that sported an American flag on the front. The sounds of a working rig—turbines, drills, hammers, chains, and ocean wind—filled the air. A crisp morning sun rose just above her shoulder. It was an image of hardworking Americans beginning a brand-new day.

  “My fellow Americans. First of all, let me express my deepest condolences to the families of the three firefighters who lost their lives last night battling the oil fires down in the Houston area. Because of their brave sacrifice, along with the heroic efforts of all of our first responders, National Guardsmen, and military units, the fires have been finally contained. Our nation is grateful to all of you for your courage and skill, and I want to thank each of you personally for what you have accomplished. I have been told that the fires will be completely extinguished by noon tomorrow, local time.

  “Second, let me assure you, my fellow citizens, that we’re monitoring events very closely at home and around the world. The catastrophe in Houston has caused crude oil prices to spike, which in turn threatens to throw our economy—along with the rest of the world’s—back into a recession, or worse. This morning I am signing an executive order that puts a temporary freeze on all environmental regulations related to oil exploration, drilling, production, and refining, as well as removing all restrictions on drilling on federally protected lands. I am clearing the path for the construction of new oil and gas refineries as well. It’s time for ‘Drill, baby, drill!’”

  The rig crew roared with approval. Grinning CEOs clapped and hollered.

  “This same executive order applies to the American natural gas and coal industries as well. I am also opening the strategic petroleum reserve and clearing the way for the Keystone Pipeline construction to begin immediately. In short, I am declaring America’s energy independence today. Before the end of my first term, America will no longer be an energy importer, which means we will stop funding global terrorism at our gas pumps. By 2020, I intend for the United States to be the world’s largest and most profitable energy exporter, creating tens of thousands of new high-skill, high-paying, high-tech energy jobs this year and every year that will refuel and replenish the next American century.”

  Another round of raucous applause and cheers rang out.

  “Third, I want to assure the American people that national security is of the utmost importance to my administration. The horrific violence inflicted upon the Mexican people as a result of the drug wars has now crossed our borders and as many of you know, that violence has touched my own family in the recent past. Thousands of federal, state, and local law enforcement officials are on the hunt for these narcoterrorists at this very moment, and I promise you, they will be brought to justice. Thank you, and God bless each of you here today, and all over this great nation, who make the energy industry possible, and God bless the United States of America!”

  The steel platform thundered with cheers and shouts of “USA! USA! USA!” as Myers smiled and waved at the adoring rig crew.

  Within eleven minutes of Myers’s press conference, the Dow Jones futures had reversed their steeply downward trend. Trading was resumed.

  By the time Myers landed back in Houston an hour later, the Dow had climbed back into positive territory, and when her plane touched down at Andrews Joint Air Force Base at 1:14 p.m. EST, she was greeted with the unbelievable news that the spot price of oil had simmered back down to just $102 a barrel.

  Because oil prices had responded so favorably to her new energy policy, the Dow actually began screaming upward and reached a new market high for the year. Investors were betting heavily that a new American renaissance had just been launched and that an era of prosperity and job growth appeared to be just around the corner. Foreign markets followed suit.

  Jeffers read the economic headlines out loud, straight off of the Internet feeds as Air Force One was taxiing to a stop. So far, it was all great news, especially on the employment front. Tens of thousands of jobs in the energy sector, along with ancillary occupations like transportation and machine building, were projected to be filled in the months to come.

  But Jeffers stumbled across a couple of critics, too. The “usual suspects” whined about the imminent destruction of the environment and the hastened onset of global warming as a result of Myers’s new energy policy.

  “What’s wrong with these people? You just saved the global economy, and you’re bringing new jobs to America,” Jeffers said.

  “If my critics saw me walking over the Potomac, they would say it was because I couldn’t swim,” Myers joked. “You need to stop reading those ‘nattering nabobs of negativism.’ They’ll only give you indigestion.”

  Jeffers threw a thumb at the passenger compartment where the press corps was seated, his face reddening.

  “But half of those dick wipes are sitting back there sucking down mimosas and cheese blintzes on our dime. Effing ingrates. I ought to kick them out onto the tarmac right now.”

  “I’ll hold the door open for you, if that would help.”

  Jeffers ran his fingers through his thick silver hair. “This job’s going to kill me, I swear.”

  “I can probably find you an easier one roughnecking on an oil rig. I met a few guys today I can introduce you to.”

  “Ha-ha, Madame President. Speaking of critics, Diele wants a meeting with you. Today, if at all possible.” Jeffers checked her calendar. “You’re free at two this afternoon, if you can stomach the idea.”

  “What do you think he wants?”

  Jeffers grinned. “Your job.”

  “Speaking of which, where’s the vice president?”

  “Probably sitting in your chair with his feet up on the Lincoln desk. You want to talk to him?”

  “Not if I can avoid it.”

  34

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  Diele arrived at the Oval Office ten minutes late, his petty reminder to the president of his seniority in elected office. Myers had invited Dr. Strasburg and Mike Early to join them, along with the vice president.

  The Senate Armed Services Committee chairman was clearly agitated that he wasn’t getting a private meeting with the president as he’d requested. Everybody took their seats on the sofas and chairs in front of Myers’s desk.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure, Senator Diele?”

  “First of all, congratulations on that oil rig speech. Great optics. I just wish you would’ve invited a few of your friends on the Hill to accompany you.”

  By “friends,” Diele meant himself, of course. Screw everyone else. There were several big energy companies based out of his state and they stood to profit handsomely from Myers’s “Drill, baby, drill!” policy. So did Diele.

  “Then let’s put together some comprehensive energy legislation and pass it, and I’ll give you all the optics you want, Gary, along with all of the credit, if that’s what it takes.”

  “You misjudge me, Madame President. All I want is what’s best for the American people, which leads to the reason why I’ve asked for this meeting.”

  Diele took a sip of coffee. Myers had taken the liberty to order it with heavy cream and three sugars, the way she knew Diele liked it. So did the White House steward. He’d been schlepping coffees for the rancid old legislator for years.

  “And what hav
e I done—or failed to do—that leads you to think the American national interest isn’t being served?”

  “I believe I made my position clear the other day. We need a strong, forceful military response to the Houston attack, not a ‘law enforcement’ exercise. Have you seen the papers? Every op-ed page around the country is calling for some sort of military strike.”

  “Gary’s right, Margaret. The nation is scared. A swift, surgical strike into Mexico and you’ll get a ‘rally-round-the-flag’ bump in the polls.” Greyhill had seen plenty of presidents use military action to bolster public approval when the opinion polls flagged.

  “I’ve thought about it a lot, Gary. The Houston attack underscores the reality that the drug lords represent a strategic threat to the United States. My responsibility as president is to defend our borders against such attacks.”

  Diele smiled. “We’re in agreement on that point, I assure you.”

  “I’ve initiated a plan to seal the U.S.-Mexico border. The Department of Homeland Security is coordinating with the relevant federal law enforcement agencies, state governments, and the Pentagon to ensure that no undocumented person may enter the country, and no illegal drugs or weapons, either.”

  “You’re aiming at the wrong target,” Greyhill insisted. “It isn’t the dishwashers and the pool cleaners who are threatening our way of life—”

  “And I’m calling for the full enforcement of the immigration laws we currently have on the books, including fines, penalties, and jail time for those employers who are employing illegal aliens.”

  She leaned forward in her chair.

  “This isn’t just a terrorism issue, it’s a public-safety issue. Tens of thousands of illegal aliens fill our jails and prisons. Many of them are members of criminal gangs like the Bravos. One GAO report stated that illegal aliens committed over seven hundred thousand crimes in just one year, over eighty thousand of which were for violent offenses like murder, robbery, assault, and sex crimes. It’s estimated that between 1,800 and 2,500 Americans are killed by illegals every year, and too many of those who die are law enforcement officers. Many illegal immigrant criminals are repeat offenders and, worse, have been deported on multiple occasions. This will not continue during my administration.”

  “But you can’t close the border. A billion dollars a day crosses over on twelve thousand trucks and railcars.” Diele’s voice rose a couple of octaves when he got excited. Many of his big donors relied on cheap illegal labor to run their enterprises at a profit. This new policy wouldn’t sit well with them at all.

  “A lot of the problems we’re facing—human smuggling, drugs, guns—are coming in through those NAFTA trucks,” Early said.

  Greyhill shook his head. “You’re biting the hand that feeds you. American industry needs the raw materials and manufactured goods that those trucks carry. The National Association of Manufacturers is going to jump down your throat on this one.”

  Myers took a sip of coffee.

  “I’m more worried about the American worker than the NAM. We’ve got to turn off the spigot of cheap, undocumented workers that flood our labor market decade after decade. It depresses wages while draining away expensive, taxpayer-funded public services for lawful citizens. If Congress wants to change the immigration laws, fine, but until they do, it’s my constitutional responsibility to vigorously enforce the laws that Congress has already put on the books.”

  “You know you’re going to be painted as a racist xenophobe, don’t you?” Diele asked. “Punishing poor Hispanic migrant workers who are just trying to feed their families so that you can protect the oil companies—”

  “I don’t care what other people think. I know my own motives. Do you doubt me on this?”

  “Not at all. I’m just trying to protect you. After all, we’re in the same party.” Diele turned to Strasburg. “What is your opinion on these matters, Doctor?”

  “I believe, Senator, that your analysis is fundamentally correct but incomplete. By shutting down the border, more pressure is put on the Barraza administration than ours. The Mexican economy is far more fragile and far more export-dependent than our own.”

  “That should put a fire under their tails to get at Bravo and his thugs, pronto,” Early added. “Let them do the dirty work of kicking down doors and midnight raids.”

  “That is what you asked for, isn’t it?” Myers asked. “Put pressure on the Mexican government to act?”

  “I see,” Diele said, setting down his coffee. He smiled thinly at Myers. “It appears that this was less of a meeting of minds than a school lesson for yours truly. Be it far from me to try to dissuade you from your plans. After all, you are the president.”

  Myers fought the urge to laugh. Diele was a frustrated presidential candidate from years past, and Greyhill’s number one supporter last year. Was he merely lamenting the fact she was the person occupying the office? Or just reminding himself that he wasn’t? Probably both, she told herself.

  Diele made a point of checking his watch, then stood. “Looks like I’m late for my next meeting. Thank you for your time, Madame President.” His smile faded. “Mr. Vice President. Gentlemen.” He turned on his well-polished heels and left.

  “That didn’t go well,” Greyhill said.

  “Why would you say that?” Myers asked.

  “He’s a dangerous man. Not one to be trifled with.”

  “What do you want me to do? Invade Mexico so that Diele’s feelings won’t be hurt?”

  “There is some value to listening to the opinions of others. Especially ones with decades of experience in these matters.”

  Myers wasn’t sure if Greyhill was referring to Diele or himself.

  “I do listen, Robert. Carefully. And what I hear is a frustrated old man more worried about his reputation than his country.” Myers hoped Greyhill caught her double meaning.

  He did.

  35

  Near the Snake River, Wyoming

  It was late. Pearce was skyping with Tamar on a secure line. She was propped up in her hospital bed with her arm bound in a sling.

  “I wanted you to know how it happened. Menachem just briefed me,” Tamar said.

  “You should rest,” Pearce insisted.

  “Mossad really had broken into the Quds Force mainframe all right, but Quds had planted a sentinel program at the portal. When we broke in, the Quds program was alerted, and the sentinel program followed our signal all the way back to our mainframe. The Iranians knew which file had been stolen and the contents of those files.”

  “And they used that intel to set up the ambush,” Pearce concluded. “What was the name of the Iranian you and Udi were chasing?”

  “Ali Abdi. Udi said you knew him?”

  “Quds Force commander. A real shit bird. We ran into his outfit in Iraq a few times. Big on IEDs and ambushes. Last I heard he was in Syria.”

  “Now he’s in Mexico. Or was. We have no idea what his current location is.” Tamar laid her head back, exhausted.

  “I’ll find him, and I’ll kill him. You have my word on that.”

  “I know. I just wish I could be there to help you when you do it.”

  The President’s Private Quarters, the White House

  It was after midnight when Myers received a call on her private number. She had passed out, exhausted from the frenetic pace of the last twenty-four hours. But she was a light sleeper and the phone woke her easily. It was Jeffers.

  “It’s Pearce, on Skype. You want me to patch him through?”

  “He wouldn’t call at this hour if it wasn’t important. Give me two minutes.”

  Myers rose with a yawn and stretched and headed for the bathroom. She saw herself in the mirror and suddenly became self-conscious about the way she looked, but she wasn’t sure why. It was just Pearce, after all. She splashed cold water on her face and brushed out her hair just the same. Looked pretty darn good for having just rolled out of bed, even without makeup, which she hardly needed to use anyway.

&n
bsp; After pulling on a pair of form-fitting track pants, a sports bra, and a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert T-shirt, she dashed back to her desk in her bedroom suite and fell into the chair, then woke up her laptop computer. It was already opened to Skype. She logged on.

  Pearce was already online, his grim face weathered and rough like the rustic cabin wall behind him. Early had briefed Myers on the failed rescue attempt and Udi’s tragic death.

  “Hello, Troy. What can I do for you?”

  “I know who took out Udi and his team.” Pearce told her everything he knew about Ali Abdi, but that wasn’t much, and how Ali’s trail had gone cold, despite Ian’s best efforts. The Israelis didn’t have any luck, either. “This is getting to be a bad habit, but I need another favor.”

  “That’s what friends are for. What do you need?”

  “I need you to redeploy some assets for me. CIA and NSA, for starters.”

  “All of our intelligence assets are pointed at the Bravo terrorists right now. As soon as that’s resolved—”

  “Ali was working with Castillo. Now that he’s out of the picture, maybe Ali’s partnered with Bravo. Find Ali and you’ll find the Bravos, I’m sure of it.”

  “I was thinking the other way around. Once we find the Bravos, maybe we’ll find your killer. So help us find them.”

  “The Bravos aren’t my problem. I need to stay focused on hunting Ali.”

  “You once told me that personal vendettas weren’t in your mission statement,” Myers reminded him.

  “The mission statement got changed.”

  “I need you to see the big picture here, Troy. If the Iranians are somehow involved in Mexico, it means we’re in a whole new strategic situation. I need your help.”