Drone Strike: A Joe Matthews Thriller

by David Austin

  She knew he was right on both counts. There had to be that level of trust between an asset and their case officer, that if things went bad, the CIA would be there to take care of them. Finally, she said, “Hell, Scott. Even if I do give you approval to go into Syria, there’s no guarantee the director will go for it.”

  Before getting on the call, Scott had thought over the possibility of going regardless of whether he had permission, but in the end decided against that course of action. He was completely comfortable working in the gray areas necessary to be effective at his job. He would gladly push any boundary, was willing to walk right up to the line, and maybe dip a toe over on occasion. But he couldn’t bring himself to go rogue, to go off reservation on an unsanctioned op. Instead, he offered a compromise. “How about if I take a team to keep me out of trouble? Maybe Joe and his guys?”

  The last mission she had approved into Syria could not have gone much worse. Visions of Greg Jacobs’ funeral and the ceremony in the lobby of the Original Headquarters Building to add his star to the memorial wall flooded her mind. And with the injuries sustained by the members of Joe’s team, she thanked her lucky stars there had been only one engraving added to the wall that day.

  But this was not the time to be timid or risk averse. A second drone strike had taken place, this time on a historical mosque in Ankara, Turkey, and once again the evidence pointed to the United States as the culprit. Mass protests and demonstrations were beginning to occur in front of America’s embassies and consulates in the region. Angry crowds burned flags and chanted “Death to America!” with a furor that had not been witnessed in years.

  President Andrews was fielding calls daily from his counterparts in the Middle East, and the attacks were the only topic any reporter wanted to discuss at the press secretary’s daily briefing. He was contemplating sending Secretary of State Claire Nichols on a tour of the region to reassure the leaders of the Arab world that America was not attacking their religious sites. She would emphasize that his government was doing everything humanly possible to identify the perpetrators and bring them to justice. Nichols had been burning up the phone lines at Foggy Bottom and thought the trip would be a good idea as well. The only problem was her safety. With the unrest on the streets of the major cities she would need to visit, not to mention the threat of a rogue drone patrolling the skies above the Middle East, the Diplomatic Security Service was concerned that they wouldn’t be able to protect her under such extreme circumstances.

  No, Clark thought, if there was ever a time for bold action, this was it. Finally, she said, “Let me run your idea by Lawrence first thing in the morning. I’ll call you when I have his answer.”

  *

  The DDO must have made a compelling argument for the mission, or maybe it was a case of desperate times calling for desperate measures, but Director Sloan sanctioned the mission, with the caveat that Joe’s team would lead from start to finish. They were to have any and all resources at their disposal.

  Joe left the DCIA’s seventh-floor office with a spring in his step after receiving his marching orders in person from Director Sloan. Anxious to excise the demons of his last mission into Syria, he waved to the DPS agent and the executive assistant as he crossed the outer lobby of the director’s suite and inserted his access key into the panel next to the private elevator. The doors parted and he stepped inside for the ride down to the garage level. Alone with his thoughts inside the descending car, the images and sounds of the firefight in Syria flashed through his mind, the memories as fresh as if they had occurred yesterday. He would not be able to live with himself if things went to shit again and it cost the lives of one or more of his guys. The experience left Joe more determined than ever to make sure things turned out differently this time, and that if there were casualties on this mission, the other side would suffer them.

  A chime sounded inside the elevator, the doors slid open, and he stepped into the carpeted foyer that led to the underground parking garage. He paused for a moment, giving the combat reel running through his head a chance to clear. The area was a hive of activity as agents swarmed around two black Chevrolet Suburbans stowing long guns and checking comms and medical equipment in preparation for a movement with Director Sloan. Joe watched in silence as the men and women of the elite protective detail went about their duties with a quiet professionalism, prepared at a moment’s notice to put themselves in harm’s way to protect their principal.

  He noticed a change in the agents’ demeanor and knew that it meant they had received the call letting them know the director was in his way down in the elevator. An agent got behind the wheel of each SUV and started the engines. Two agents with long guns took their positions in the back seat of the follow car, while the shift leader, Jeanne Emerson, held the limo’s back door open. She was already a highly respected member of the detail, and her reputation was further solidified when she took two rounds to the trauma plate of her body armor while shielding a wounded Katherine Clark during the Iranian Quds Force attack on Director Sloan and his senior staff. And as if that weren’t enough, she then had the wherewithal to draw her weapon and take down the shooter. Jeanne Emerson was an operator Joe would be happy to work with anytime, anywhere.

  The elevator chimed again, and Joe moved to the side of the hallway to make room for Director Sloan and his contingent as they headed for the Suburban’s open doors. Doug Kelly, the chief of Sloan’s detail, slapped Joe on the shoulder as he passed by. “Make your own luck. We’ll go for beers when you get back.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Joe replied, as he watched Doug button up the director, then take his place in the right-front of the limo.

  Jeanne gave him a quick smile then took her seat in the front of the follow car. He watched her raise the radio’s microphone to her mouth, and even though he couldn’t hear what she was saying, he knew from his own experience working the position that she was giving the limo driver the order to move out.

  As the motorcade headed up the ramp to exit the garage, Joe crossed the hall, punched in the three-digit code on the door’s lock, and entered the ready room. With Sloan’s departure, and the deputy director out of town on a trip to South America, Joe and his guys had the place to themselves.

  John and Kevin were in the lounge, sitting on the oversized couch with their feet up on the coffee table, flipping through the news channels. Chris was in the kitchen, manipulating the plunger on a French press coffee maker with a level of concentration that made Joe think he was disarming a nuclear bomb. But if history was any indication, he knew Chris’s efforts would result in a world-class cup of coffee. The door at the end of the corridor opened, and a freshly showered Mike McCredy stepped out of the locker room.

  Once the coffee was ready, Joe gathered the men in the lounge. “John, do me a favor and get the TV.” John thumbed the power button on the remote and the room fell silent.

  Joe said, “How’s the shoulder, Kev?”

  “Good as new, boss. Rehab’s done and I’ve been killing my workouts. Why?”

  Joe’s gaze moved to Mike. “And your leg, big man?”

  McCredy locked eyes with Joe and replied, “Good to go. So, don’t even think about going on another mission without me.”

  A smile creased Joe’s lips, proud of his guys’ eagerness to get back to work. “I guess it’s settled then. Consider yourselves back on operational status.”

  “Hot damn!” Kevin said, bounding off the couch and giving a high five to each man in the room. “The boy band is back together again! Where are we kicking off this reunion tour?”

  Unsure how everyone would react, Joe said, “Would you believe, Syria?” The light-hearted mood in the room turned instantly serious at the mention of a return to the Arab nation. He filled the guys in on the morning’s briefing on the seventh floor and laid out the parameters for the op.

  After a tense couple of minutes, Chris said, “Well, at least this will give John a chance to redeem himself.”

  Confused, John a
sked, “Redeem myself? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I thought, if we had the time, that we could swing by that hilltop in Salkhad and you could look for Mike’s missing boot”

  The room erupted in laughter as Kevin began rapping his version of an old LL Cool J song, “We’re going back to Syria, Syria, Syria. We’re going back to Syria…hmm, I don’t think so.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Marka serves as Amman’s main airport for charter and VIP flights. It also operates an aviation training center and is home to a sizable fleet of fixed wing and rotary aircraft belonging to the Central Intelligence Agency.

  In a hangar halfway between the main administrative offices of the Royal Jordanian Air Academy and the southwest end of the runway, a ground crew was preflighting an unmarked Mi-17 helicopter. The big, Russian-built utility helicopters were a workhorse of an airframe that had been used by the CIA in harsh environments for the past twenty years. They tended to blend in, not drawing enemy fire like a Blackhawk or other American helo, and after refits of the engines and avionics, had become a favorite among the Agency’s pilots.

  Joe and Scott Garrett stood in front of a bulletin board in a far corner of the hangar studying a large satellite image of Syria’s west coast. While they strategized about the insertion, the other members of the team were busy loading magazines, checking weapons and commo gear, and packing the kit they would need for the mission.

  Taking a moment to observe his men, Joe looked for any sign that they weren’t ready for a return to the country where they almost died. But he liked what he saw. The men were focused but relaxed as they went about their individual pre-deployment routines. Everyone dealt with the stress before this type of mission in his own way. For Joe, it was like the butterflies he used to get before a big game. There was that nervous excitement during the pregame warmups, but it all faded away once the ball was kicked off and he delivered that first big hit. The same was true here. The nerves would burn off once his feet hit the ground and the mission was underway.

  He returned his attention to the bulletin board and the overhead shot of Bassel Al-Assad International Airport. A clear overlay was pinned over the image, marking the location of each cell tower within a three-mile radius of the airport. Due to the limited number of towers in the area, it was the best the tech wizards at Langley had been able to do to identify the location of Tariq’s call to Scott. Although it wasn’t the pinpoint-accurate information they were hoping for, it did give them a place to start looking for the Syrian asset.

  A man hopped out of the open door on the side of the Mi-17 and crossed the expanse of the hangar. Wearing a Detroit Tigers t-shirt, worn jeans, and a pair of beat-up canvas high-tops, Chuck Jamison looked more like an old college student and less like the most accomplished pilot ever to strap into the cockpit for the CIA. Famous within the small fraternity of pilots for conducting some of the most daring aerial missions no one would ever hear about, he was beloved by field officers and Tier One operators alike for his willingness to extract them from hot landing zones.

  “The bird’s prepped so we can take off whenever you’re ready.” Eyeing the satellite image, Jamison asked, “Figure out where you want me to drop you off yet?”

  Pointing to a spot of open terrain ten miles east of the airport, Joe asked, “How about here?”

  Jamison moved in to get a closer look at the imagery and examined the area. “That should work. The farther away from the airport the better, as far as I’m concerned. That way I don’t have to worry about the air defenses protecting the base. But it’s going to mean a longer hump for you guys to get to the target. You’re not planning on walking all that way, are you?”

  “No. There’s a Ground Branch team operating in the area. They’re going to meet us at the LZ with a couple of vehicles.”

  “Cool,” Jamison said. “At least you’ll have some friendlies in the AO. What do you say we try and avoid a repeat of that shit show the last time you were in country?”

  Joe looked back over at his men, keenly aware of the inherent dangers of the operation they were about to undertake. “That’s the plan, Chuck. But the enemy does get a vote. So, I’m counting on you to come get us if things get hairy.”

  “Always, brother,” Jamison replied, offering Joe a fist bump. Then, turning to head back to the helicopter, he said over his shoulder, “Just let me know when you’re ready to go.”

  Joe was about to tell him they were waiting on one more person when a lone figure with a large rucksack on his back and a long, padded case in his left hand entered the hangar. The other members of the team noticed the newcomer as well and followed Joe over to greet the man. Extending a hand, he said, “Thanks for joining us on this one, Tim.”

  Tim Shannon was one of the finest long-distance shooters the SEAL teams had ever produced. After twenty years in the military he pulled a LeBron James and decided to take his talents to the Central Intelligence Agency. Since joining the outfit, he had worked in a number of roles, from training other snipers to investigating assassinations involving precision marksmen. But his preferred assignments, since the CIA didn’t officially employ snipers of its own, were those that got him back in the field providing overwatch on high-risk missions for teams like Joe’s.

  Setting the rifle case gently on the hangar floor, he took the big redhead’s hand. “When I heard about this hair-brained operation, I just knew it had to be one of yours. Don’t you have any boring run-of-the-mill days on the job?”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” After giving the guys a minute to catch up with Tim, Joe asked, “Is there anything you need before we take off?

  “I’m good. Had a chance to study the op-order and look at images of the terrain on the flight over. Unless something has changed, I think I have a pretty good handle on the game plan.”

  “Great,” Joe said, appreciating Tim’s professionalism and the fact that he showed up ready to go to work. “John will get you set up with comms and we’ll take off in about fifteen minutes.”

  *

  Flying a northeasterly heading out of Amman, Jamison gave Damascus a wide berth and plotted a course that took them over the desert terrain of central Syria. He looped around to the east of Homs, a city that had been under siege for three years before being retaken by government forces. The sight of the bombed-out buildings reminded Jamison of the pictures and video of the German cities that fell victim to the allied air forces at the end of World War II. Through the green hue of the night vision goggles affixed to his flight helmet, the abandoned remains of the city took on an additional eerie quality as he watched it go by through the plexiglass cockpit’s windows.

  The rotors thumped the night air as the helicopter continued north, passing between Al-Salamiyah and Hama before Jamison changed course and banked to the west. Here the terrain changed to lush farmland, and the dark shapes of a mountain range loomed in the distance. It was there, in a small clearing on the other side of the mountains, that the Ground Branch team would be waiting at the landing zone.

  Jamison hailed the paramilitary operations officers on the ground, and after going through a series of authentication codes, the Ground Branchers gave the all-clear and indicated they would mark the LZ with infra-red strobes.

  Ten minutes later, the Mi-17’s thick rubber tires touched down on a rocky outcropping. It was on the ground just long enough for the seven men onboard to exit the chopper before Jamison had the big helicopter back in the air, the touch-and-go delivery taking no more than sixty seconds.

  As the sound of their ride’s rotors reverberated through the hills and valleys, Joe and the team linked up with their welcoming party.

  A hulking African American man emerged from the shadows of the wood line surrounding the landing zone. He spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the rocky terrain as two other men silently retrieved the IR strobes. The man approached Joe, then wrapped him in a bear hug with arms the size of most men’s thighs. “God damn, it’s good to see you again.”
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  The sound of Ron Foster’s deep Texas drawl was comforting and reminded Joe of his roots back in Arkansas. “Good God, Ron. I didn’t think it was possible for you to get any bigger. What the hell have they been feeding you? Raw meat?”

  “Just livin’ clean, bro. I’ve actually lost a few pounds since we’ve been in country.”

  Joe shook his head. “Damn sure wouldn’t know it from looking at you.”

  Foster had been a team leader in the Protective Resource Group but decided to make the move and fill a similar billet as a paramilitary operations officer in Ground Branch. Motioning to his men, he made the introductions. “This here’s Ivy,” he said pointing to the shorter of the two. “And that’s Abrams.”

  The two men could not have been more different. Ivy was a stocky, muscular former Green Beret with short dark hair that was graying at the temples. Abrams, on the other hand, stood about six feet five inches tall and the moonlight reflected off his shaved head. He was a former Marine who had spent most of his career in MARSOC, the Marine Corps’ Special Operations Command.

  Handshakes and fist bumps were offered all around, then Chris exaggerated craning his neck to look up at the tall operator. “Hey, Abrams. You hiding out in Syria to escape from the NBA?”

  Abrams bent over and put his hands on his knees, so he was eye to eye with Chris. “Wanna know what the weather’s like up here too, motherfucker?”

  Chris burst out laughing and offered up another fist bump. “I think we’re going to get along just fine, Lurch.”

  “Now that we’ve completed our Welcome Wagon duties, let’s get moving,” Foster said. “We’ve got a safe house about twenty klicks from here. You guys are welcome to crash with us and use it as a base of operations.”