Drone Strike: A Joe Matthews Thriller

by David Austin

  Fearing this was the opening salvo in their worst-case scenario, DDO Katherine Clark asked, “Are those markings on the larger piece serial numbers?”

  “Yes, ma’am. They are. We don’t have the entire number, but the eight-digit string in this photo matches the lot of Hellfires that were stockpiled at the UAV base in Jordan.”

  A stunned silence fell over the room as everyone contemplated the ramifications of the analyst’s statement. “My God…they’ve done it,” Clark said, breaking the silence.

  “It appears they have,” Sloan agreed, fascinated as to how the Russians managed to bypass the encryption and get the Reaper in the air.

  Lee was struggling with a question of his own, so he threw it out to the room. “What I don’t understand is, if you have this newfound capability, a Reaper and its complement of missiles, why waste two of the weapons on some local mosque in the middle of Iraq? I mean, wouldn’t you want to use them on a more significant target?”

  “Maybe it was a test run,” Brewer offered. “You’d want to get a few flights under your belt before going after your primary objective. But I agree with Harold. Why would you hit a mosque full of innocent people in the middle of nowhere?”

  “That’s a very good question, though it’s only one of many we need to answer,” Sloan said, addressing the group. “David, please get your analysts working on a list of potential targets based on the Reaper’s operational range. And I would appreciate some ideas on the most likely scenarios they think the Russians may implement to try to reduce our standing in the region.” Turning to the operational leads in the room, he continued, “We need to figure out a way to track the drone the next time it’s in the air. If we can follow it back to its base, perhaps the Air Force can do us a favor and solve our problem with an airstrike of our own.”

  Everyone had their marching orders, so Director Sloan thanked Dana Criswell for the briefing and adjourned the meeting. On the short walk back to his office he stuck his head in the command post to let the protective detail know they would be heading to the White House in the next thirty minutes or so. President Andrews would not be happy with the news, but Sloan had never let that stop him from delivering it, and he wouldn’t start today. The leader of the Free World needed information to make strategic decisions. And good, bad, or indifferent, it was Sloan’s job to provide it.

  After briefing the president, Sloan and Hank Coleman hung back as the other members of the national security team filed out of the Situation Room. Sloan waited until they were alone before running his idea of tracking the Reaper back to its base so the Air Force could carpet bomb the area by the SECDEF. Needing a subject matter expert’s opinion, Coleman picked up a handset and asked the operator to get General Maria Rodriguez on the line. Two minutes later, her voice came over the speaker, and they filled her in on the dilemma.

  “It would really help if we had a starting point to begin the search for the drone,” Rodriguez began. “We have several AWACS forward deployed to the region, but I would need to know where to place them to have the best chance of picking up the Reaper.” AWACS, or Airborne Warning and Control System were converted airliners with large, rotating radar dishes attached to the roof of the fuselage. Capable of scanning and tracking targets within a two-hundred-and-fifty-mile radius of the aircraft, the AWACS would serve as the early-warning eye in the sky. But first, they needed to know where to look.

  I’ll see what I can do to help narrow down the search field,” Sloan offered. “In the meantime, I’ll have our UAV teams pass along their flight schedules. We’ll consider any Reaper appearing on the radar that doesn’t match that schedule as hostile.”

  “Works for me, sir. I’ll alert the crews but won’t alter their current flight patterns until we hear back from you.”

  “Thanks, Maria. I’ll fill you in on the rest when I get back over to the Pentagon,” Coleman said before hanging up the call.

  Both men exited the West Wing and were greeted by members of their respective protective details. Secured inside their armored motorcades, they buckled in for the short drive back to Virginia.

  CHAPTER 29

  Tariq Kabbani believed the elderly groundskeeper’s story about what he had seen at the heavily guarded hangar, but like any good intelligence officer, he lived by the mantra, “Trust, but verify.” And he needed to verify the old man’s story before passing the intelligence along to his CIA handler, Scott Garrett. Tariq had seen the news story about the attack on the mosque in Ramadi and figured it had to have been conducted by the stolen drone. He knew the value Americans put on human life and the precautions they took to avoid collateral damage. As far as he was concerned, there was no way the U.S. would ever deliberately attack a location full of innocent civilians. But if for some reason they did, it would not have been in a manner that would point the finger directly at Washington.

  Tariq fidgeted in the driver’s seat of his rental car trying to get comfortable. He had parked on a seldom used dirt road on the far side of the airport with a clear view of the mysterious hangar. For the last three nights he had been in place shortly after sunset, hoping to get a glimpse of the drone, but all he had gotten for his efforts was a loss of sleep. He would give it another night or two, but at that point it would be time to reevaluate his plan and come up with a better idea.

  On this fourth night, the lack of sleep was finally catching up with him, and Tariq began to doze off. Tired lids drooped like heavy blackout curtains over eyes that felt as if they were filled with sand. His muscles relaxed as he fell into the much-needed slumber and his head fell forward. Jolted awake by the sudden jerk, he snorted, then looked around in confusion, trying to get his bearings. He could feel sleep tugging at his eyelids once again when he noticed the hangar doors separating, spilling a sliver of light onto the ramp. Instantly awake, he was laser-focused on the task at hand, thoughts of sleep all but forgotten.

  The massive doors continued to part, the light from inside the hangar illuminating the tarmac. From his vantage point he could see three men maneuvering what he knew from his research to be a General Atomics MQ-9 Reaper into position. It’s here! The old man was right after all. Tariq looked on as the men moved around the pilotless aircraft performing their final inspections. With their checks complete, they backed away, and he could see the propeller mounted at the rear of the fuselage begin to turn.

  Checking his watch, Tariq saw it was two thirty in the morning. Was it too late, or too early, depending on your point of view, to call Garrett? He knew he would want to know about the discovery of the drone sooner rather than later if the roles were reversed, so he retrieved a burner phone from the backpack sitting on the passenger seat and thumbed in the number he’d committed to memory.

  Putting the phone to his ear, he listened as it rang, never taking his eyes off the UAV as it taxied onto the runway, then rolled down the smooth concrete until it gained enough speed and lifted into the air. The line on the other end rang four more times before a groggy voice answered, “Hello?” Tariq was so in the moment, so excited to find the drone, that he didn’t notice the patrol approaching his car.

  Two soldiers dismounted the vehicle and spread out, covering the car and its occupant with their weapons. With his men in position, the third soldier, a lieutenant in a starched khaki uniform, stepped out and approached Tariq’s vehicle from the rear, being sure to stay in the driver’s blind spot. The officer had a large metal flashlight in his left hand and held a pistol in his right. He lifted the flashlight to shoulder level and aimed it at the driver’s face. Simultaneously, he pressed the light’s button and rapped twice on the driver’s side window with the barrel of his weapon.

  The sudden bright light and noise on an otherwise dark and quiet night nearly sent Tariq through the roof. He dropped the phone and the call disconnected as the cheap handset bounced off the center console and disappeared into the floor well. Cursing himself for letting his guard down, Tariq looked to his left and put a hand up to shield his eyes from t
he flashlight’s glare.

  Using the barrel of his pistol, the soldier rapped on the window twice more and yelled in Arabic, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  Tariq took a moment to size up the situation. In addition to the soldier yelling at him, he spotted a second, offset at an angle to the front of his car, weapon shouldered and aimed at his windshield. Glancing up at his rearview mirror, he saw the reflection of a third soldier positioned at a similar angle to the rear quarter panel. These guys knew what they were doing, covering him from the front and the rear while managing to stay out of each other’s line of fire. There may have been more men deployed around his car, but it was impossible to tell through the blinding glare.

  Keeping his right hand in plain sight on top of the steering wheel, Tariq moved his left in a slow, deliberate manner toward the armrest and pressed the button to lower the window. The officer seemed a little amped up, and Tariq wasn’t sure if it was because he was nervous or just posturing for his men. Either way, he did not want to do anything that might escalate the situation, so he began the conversation with a tone of deference in his voice. “Good evening, Lieutenant. What seems to be the problem?”

  “The problem,” the Lieutenant began, “is that you are in a restricted area. Didn’t you see the signs? This section of the airport is off limits.”

  Tariq feigned ignorance. “What signs? It’s completely dark out here. I can’t see any signs. Can you?”

  Without thinking, the lieutenant actually took a second to look around for the signage he claimed was in place. If it weren’t for the other soldiers providing cover, Tariq could have shot the man in the side of the head and gone about his business. But they were supposed to be on the same side, and he really didn’t want to shoot one of his countrymen just for doing his job.

  When the lieutenant couldn’t pick out any of the signs in the darkness, he moved on to his next point. “It’s past curfew. Why are you out here so late? Maybe a few nights in a military jail will teach you a new respect for the rule of law.” He took two steps back and ordered Tariq out of the car.

  Tariq’s head drooped in frustration. He didn’t have time for this and was done playing Mr. Nice Guy with the soldier. He opened the door and got out of the car. In a slow, deliberate motion, he opened the right side of his jacket with one hand and used the other to remove a worn leather folding case from an inner pocket. He held the case up and opened it with one hand, saying, “I’m here on an intelligence matter, Lieutenant. What I’m doing here is none of your concern.”

  The officer approached Tariq and snatched the folder from his hand, aiming the flashlight’s powerful beam at the folder to read its contents. Seeing the words, General Intelligence Directorate – Internal Security Division, his eyes went wide. The bravado he had exuded minutes earlier evaporated into the cool night air, replaced with fear at coming across such a high-ranking member of the GID. “Lower your weapons!” he ordered, unable to get the words out of his mouth fast enough, afraid one of his men might have a negligent discharge and shoot the colonel by accident.

  Extending his hand, Tariq gestured for the return of his credentials. “Well, Lieutenant, it looks like you’ve managed to compromise my position, so I believe my work here is done for the night. I guess I can thank you and your men for granting me a few extra hours of sleep.”

  “Sir,” the lieutenant pleaded, “please accept my apologies. I had no idea…”

  Tariq realized he had accomplished a significant part of his mission tonight, and it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he took a few minutes to manage the situation with the soldiers. Softening his tone, he said, “Not to worry, Lieutenant. I can’t fault you or your squad for doing your job. I commend your attentiveness and professionalism in carrying out your duties.”

  The young officer was visibly taken aback. Praise from superior officers in the Syrian Army was a rarity, especially under circumstances like these. Unsure of what else he could say or do, stammering “Th…thank you, sir,” was about the best the lieutenant could muster.

  “Now, you’d better continue with your patrol. I’ll finish up here and be out of the area in a few minutes.”

  After throwing crisp salutes, the soldiers retreated to their vehicle and sped off, wanting to create some distance between themselves and the GID colonel before he changed his mind and decided to make their lives miserable.

  With the taillights fading in the distance, Tariq returned to his car and rummaged through the floor well, searching for the burner. Forty-five seconds of groping later, he found it tucked behind the gas pedal, then hit the redial button.

  Having been awakened from a deep sleep by the first call, Garrett sounded more alert when he answered this one on the second ring. “Hello?”

  Using his designated codename to identify himself, Tariq said, “It’s Bastion. I’ve found the drone.”

  Scott couldn’t believe his ears. “Where?”

  Tariq paused as movement to his left caught his attention. His eyes were still adjusting from the brightness of the soldier’s flashlight, but he could make out six or seven shadows emerging from the darkness between the runway and his position. The silhouettes were large, too big to be Syrians, and were kitted out with night vision goggles attached to their helmets. The one in the center stopped a few feet from his car and raised the NVGs, locking them in the up position. With his face exposed, Tariq instantly recognized him as the man he had seen in Teplov’s office. It was the Spetsnaz officer.

  Captain Gennady Kalugin drew his rifle back and crashed its stock into the side of Tariq’s head before he could utter another word to the person on the other end of the call. The Syrian intelligence officer collapsed in a heap next to his vehicle. Sand from the unpaved road clung to the blood seeping from a gash along his cheekbone. Kalugin knelt and picked up the phone. Holding it to his ear, he listened for a few seconds. Hearing nothing, he said, “Spokoinoi nochi – Good night,” then dropped the cheap handset onto the dirt and crushed it with the heel of his boot.

  CHAPTER 30

  Scott Garrett threw his legs over the side of the bed and sat there, thinking about what he had just heard. He was quickly forming some conclusions, the only problem was that none of them were good, at least as far as Tariq was concerned. He pushed himself off the bed and headed for the shower.

  Thirty minutes later he was walking through Post One of the massive U.S. Embassy on Al-Umawyeen street in the western section of Amman. The Marine Security Guard on duty, a corporal who looked young enough to be his son, greeted him. “Damn, Mr. Garrett. You’re getting an early start this morning.”

  “That I am, Corporal Hall. I have a feeling it’s going to be an extra pot of coffee kind of day,” Garrett said as he crossed the lobby to the bank of elevators. Getting off on the fourth floor, he opened the vault door securing the CIA’s office space and punched his code into the alarm panel. After flipping on the lights, his first order of business was the coffeemaker. He put a pot on, making it extra strong, then went to his office to jot down some notes while he waited on the brew.

  With a steaming mug of coffee and his thoughts lined out, he reached for the secure phone’s handset and hit the speed dial button for the DDO, Katherine Clark. With the time difference, it was a little past eight in the evening in Washington.

  Katherine Clark collapsed on the couch next to her husband, looking forward to a quiet evening streaming a few episodes of their favorite show. He was about to hit play on the remote when they were interrupted by the unmistakable ring of the secure phone in the study. She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Sorry, hon. I’ll try and make it quick.”

  Being married to the nation’s top spook for over thirty years, he was accustomed to interruptions at all hours of the night. “No sweat,” he said, flipping over to the Georgetown basketball game. “You know where to find me when you’re done.”

  Clark closed the door to the study and walked over to her desk. She picked up the phone and
waited for the digital readout on the small screen to read SECURE before answering. An officer in the Operations Center at Langley said, “Sorry to bother you at home, ma’am. I have Scott Garrett in Amman on the line for you.”

  She glanced at her watch and muttered, “It must be around three in the morning over there. This can’t be good. Put him through.”

  Garrett spent the next ten minutes running her through the call with Tariq, the Russian coming on the line, and what he thought had happened. When he was done, he asked, “Can we get some of the DS&T whiz kids to try to track the last known location of Tariq’s phone? That will give me a starting place to begin my search for him.”

  “Sure. Wait. What?” Clark said as that last sentence registered in her brain.

  “I’m going in after him, Katherine. Tariq has been a great asset to the Agency over the years. He has more than held up his end of the bargain, and I can’t just leave him there to be tortured and killed by the Russians. And you know as well as I do what the Syrians will do to his wife and kid when they find out he’s been working with us. I can’t have that on my conscience. Besides, he said he saw the Reaper. This will give us a shot to narrow down the location so we can call in an airstrike and level the place.”

  Realizing the quiet night on the couch with her husband had once again been hijacked by events, she reached for a pen, and a slid a legal pad across the desk. “First things first. What’s Tariq’s number?” She jotted it down, then opened her laptop and fired off an email to her counterpart in the directorate of science and technology, emphasizing the urgency of the request to geo-locate the phone’s position. “Now, about you going to Syria,” she began, “there’s no way I’m authorizing you to go in on your own.”

  “C’mon, Katherine. You know we can’t just leave Tariq swinging in the wind. First, it’s simply the wrong thing to do. And second, who’s gonna want to work with us in the future if word gets out, and you know it will, that we don’t protect the people we recruit? There won’t be a guy in the region we’ll be able to pitch.”