Drone Strike: A Joe Matthews Thriller

by David Austin

  Lost in his thoughts, the president noticed the room had gone quiet. Admiral Mishkin had asked a question and the men were awaiting an answer. “I’m sorry,” Polovkin said. “I was just thinking about something.”

  Mishkin repeated the question. “With the operation moving forward so well, I was wondering if additional attacks were necessary? If we might not bring the UAV and its equipment back to Moscow for study?”

  Looking to his defense minister, Polovkin asked, “What do you think Anton?”

  “While studying the drone will advance our own UAV program exponentially, I believe one more attack might be the straw to break the proverbial camel’s back. There are still a few regimes continuing to support the United States, and a spectacular finale could provide the spark that unites the entire Middle East against the Americans.”

  Polovkin weighed both arguments. Did the events they had set in motion with the drone strikes have enough momentum to carry his plan through to completion? If that was the case, then it would be reckless to risk losing the drone on a mission that provided only a marginal increase in the success of the outcome. However, if this last strike would in fact be the determining factor in driving the Americans out of the Middle East, then it was an acceptable risk. “And if we did fly one more mission, what might you have in mind for a target?”

  Shubovich continued. “Evgeny and I were discussing this very subject on the flight here. It appears the Arab League will be convening an emergency summit in Kuwait to discuss the missile attacks and the ongoing American presence in the region.”

  “You’re not suggesting we attack the summit?” Polovkin interrupted. “We need their leaders alive and well to be able to vote on the expulsion measure.”

  “We’re not suggesting an attack on the summit itself, but on one or two of the member delegations. There are still a couple of countries, namely the Saudis and Jordanians, who are holding out against regional pressure. As you know, other than Israel, they are two of the Americans’ staunchest allies in the Middle East.”

  Following their line of thinking, the president finished the thought. “If their delegations were attacked by an American drone, especially if members of the royal families were counted among the casualties, they would have no choice but to vote with the other states.”

  President Polovkin took a moment to weigh the risk but decided the reward was too great to pass up. With his decision made, he stood, signaling an end to the meeting. “Enough work for now,” he said, and headed to the door. “Come, let us eat. My chef has prepared the fish I caught this afternoon.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Tim Shannon scoped the airfield from a window on the second floor of an uninhabited farmhouse nearly a kilometer from Bassel Al-Assad International Airport. The Nightforce NX8 scope mounted on his McMillan TAC-338 tactical rifle, easily provided a clear view of the airport from this distance.

  Ron Foster had offered the use of the Ground Branch safehouse in the hills as their base of operations, but Joe needed the team to be closer to the airport. There was no way they could conduct the surveillance necessary to determine if the UAV and Tariq were onsite from such a distance. And the constant comings and goings of rotating shifts was bound to draw unwanted attention that would risk compromising the team.

  As part of the reconnaissance of the area for their own mission, Ron had suggested the farmhouse as a viable option. It was uninhabited, as were many of the houses around it, abandoned when young men able to work the fields were conscripted into the military or fled to join one of the myriad rebel groups fighting the regime. Unable to tend to the fields, families moved away to live with relatives, hoping to be able to return at some point after one side or the other claimed victory in the civil war. So, under the cover of darkness, Joe and the guys had taken up residence, using camouflage netting and the stables behind the main house to hide their vehicles.

  With a table set back from the window acting as a bench rest, and the fore-end of the sniper rifle stabilized on top of its soft-sided carrying case, Shannon was in his element. It was a position in which he had spent a good portion of his professional life. He was just thankful that the chair he brought up from the dining room had one of those seat cushions that tied onto the slats of the back rest. Tim had learned long ago to take advantage of any creature comforts on deployments. There were plenty of times when he had to be miserable, forced to embrace the suck, so he didn’t think there was any harm in being comfortable when the opportunity presented itself.

  Ten feet to his right was a similar setup where Kevin Chang used a spotter’s scope to eye the airport through an adjacent window. The elevated position provided the operators with an unobstructed line of sight to the runways and the hangar complex on the east side of the grounds.

  Unlike many larger airports with extensive maintenance facilities operated by each of the airlines, this one had only two small hangars on the northeast side of the property. Based on their map study of the overhead imagery prior to departing Amman, Joe and Scott agreed that if the Reaper was here, it would be kept out of sight in one of the hangars. And based on the significant armed presence around one and not the other, they felt confident about their assumption. They just hoped Tariq was being held there as well – assuming he was still alive.

  The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, and as spectacular as the sunset had been, Shannon was happy he didn’t have to stare into the fiery orb any longer. He and Kevin took turns attaching night vision devices to their scopes, ensuring one of them always had eyes on the airport. As darkness fell across the landscape Kevin glanced at his watch, noting the end of their shift was only ten minutes away. He was looking forward to the break, and the thought of handing his scope off to one of the other guys was sounding pretty good. His eyes were tired and bloodshot, and he was still seeing spots from staring in the direction of the sun for the last few hours. He stole a quick look over at Tim and shook his head. The guy looked perfectly comfortable, as if he could remain in that position all night.

  The sound of footsteps climbing the stairs indicated it was, in fact, time for shift change. Mike entered the room and relieved Kevin behind the spotter’s scope, ready to take his turn on the glass. Tim was just about to come off his rifle and let John take over when he noticed a slice of light split the center of the hangar doors. “Stand by. There’s activity at the hangar.”

  The gap in the doors widened as they slid apart on their rollers. With them fully open, Tim had a clear line of sight into the interior of the hangar. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Quick. Get the camera up and running!”

  A tripod with a DSLR camera and an 800-millimeter lens made even longer by the attached night optics was set up behind Tim’s position. John turned on the camera, then looked through the viewfinder and brought the hangar’s interior into focus. Switching the camera to video mode, he began recording. Confident the camera was getting the footage, he shouted down the stairwell, “Joe, you need to get up here.”

  They watched as a truck backed into the hangar and hooked up to a trailer. The driver hopped down to check the connection, then climbed back up into the cab, put the truck in gear, and eased out onto the tarmac. Then the massive doors slid back together, and darkness once again enveloped the ramp. The entire process took no more than ten minutes.

  Joe and Scott retreated downstairs and inserted the camera’s memory card into a laptop. Displayed on the screen before them, positioned prominently in the center of the hangar, sat the stolen MQ-9 Reaper. They watched with fascination as technicians moved casually around the UAV. The lack of urgency in the men’s actions gave Joe the impression they were conducting routine maintenance rather than pre-mission preparations.

  Scott motioned to a stack of containers to the right of the screen. “Those must be the Hellfires. Looks like they have four left.”

  Joe agreed while he continued scanning the video for signs of the ground control station. He saw two doors along the rear wall, one to the left
and another to the right. The tinted glass cut into the upper portions of the doors made it impossible to see what lurked on the other side. “I don’t see the GCS. Think it could be in one of those rooms in the back of the hangar?”

  “Could be,” Scott said. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Before they could speculate any further, two men entered from the left of the screen and stopped next to the Reaper. “Well, well,” Joe said. “Who are these fine gents?”

  Leaning in to get a better look, Scott said, “I’ll be damned. I don’t know about the guy in the lab coat, but the one in uniform looks a lot like Colonel Vadim Teplov. He’s responsible for all GRU activity in the region.”

  The breath caught in Joe’s throat as he watched the door to the room on the left open and a tall man in Russian ACUs, Army Combat Uniform, stepped out into the hangar.

  “What is it?” Scott asked.

  Joe hit the laptop’s space bar to pause the video. He was silent for ten seconds as the memory of the firefight in Salkhad raced through his mind, propelling him back to the action. He felt the weight of Greg Jacobs as he dragged him to cover, remembered the eye contact with the Russian soldier tracking him with his rifle but who at the last second adjusted his aim and shot Jacobs instead. Joe paused the mental footage at the point where the Russian lowered his rifle, and with a big smile, gave Joe a respectful nod for his effort.

  Scott nudged Joe with his knee. “You okay?”

  “The guy in uniform,” Joe said, as he mentally returned from the heat of the battle. “He was leading the Syrian forces we engaged on our mission in Salkhad.” Joe paused a moment, feeling the anger build. “That’s the Russian son of a bitch who killed Greg Jacobs.”

  “Holy shit!” Scott exclaimed.

  “Yeah,” Joe agreed. “I’ve got a serious score to settle with that guy.”

  “No, not that,” Scott said, pointing to the screen. “That!”

  Joe hit a couple of keys to zoom in on the spot where Scott was pointing. The soldier, having grown too comfortable in the secure environment, had made the mistake of leaving the door open. That slip gave the CIA men a clear view into the room. A man shackled to a table was clearly visible on the screen. He was hunched over and seemed to be resting his head on folded arms. At first, they couldn’t tell if the man was unconscious or making the most of a break in what had all the appearances of being an interrogation. Joe hit the spacebar again to let the video roll and they watched in amazement as the man strained to lift his battered head. It was impossible to tell whether he was curious about what was going on in the hangar, or if he noticed the doors were open and hoped his American benefactors would be out there in the darkness looking for him. Regardless of the reason, the man used his last reserves of strength to hold his head up in full view of the camera, having no idea it was positioned nearly a kilometer away on the second floor of the farmhouse. His face was swollen and bruised from a severe beating, but even so, they recognized him immediately. It was Tariq Kabbani.

  CHAPTER 35

  Even though Tariq knew the chances were slim that anyone was out there looking for him, he held his head up as long as he could, hoping beyond hope that someone had seen him. The door had been open for only a brief time, but he had made the most of the Russian’s mistake and felt he had done his part. The rest was now up to the Americans.

  Even though he was shackled to an eyebolt screwed into the metal table, the chain connecting the handcuffs was long enough that, with a little maneuvering, he could cross his arms and use them as a makeshift pillow to rest his battered head. He needed to take advantage of the respite while he had the chance.

  Tariq’s left eye was swollen shut and blood drained from a nose that may or may not be broken. Despite his injuries, he had the distinct feeling that the beating he’d received up to this point had just been the warm-up, an intimidation to make him feel helpless, and let him know he was no longer in control of his immediate future. Tariq knew the score. He had been on the opposite end of this equation more times than he could count, interrogating suspected traitors or captured rebels fighting to overthrow the Syrian regime.

  What happened when the big Russian re-entered the room would give the intelligence officer an idea of how this drama was going to play out. If the incident was all a big misunderstanding, they could apologize for the mix-up and send him on his way with nothing more than the few bumps and bruises for his troubles. If, however, they had reason to believe his presence near the airport was more clandestine in nature, then what he had experienced up to this point had just been the preliminary round of questioning. The pain and suffering would be ratcheted up exponentially.

  If that was to be his fate, Tariq understood he wouldn’t be able to hold out indefinitely. No one could. Everyone had their breaking point. He couldn’t count on a rescue from the Americans. They had no way of knowing where he was. Sure, they could track the GPS location of his phone when he made the call to Garrett, but that wouldn’t help them identify his current location. And since he was routinely out of contact when he was operational, his own government wouldn’t be looking for him yet either.

  No, he wasn’t going to hold out waiting on help from either of the governments he served. But he did have to endure whatever they had in store for him for at least three days. Years ago, when he had revealed his collaboration, as he called it, with the Americans, he and Rima had set up a contingency plan in the event he was ever compromised. If three days passed without any type of communication from him, she was to assume he had been found out by his government and was either on the run, being interrogated, or dead.

  In any event, the plan called for her to take their son Nabil across to Cyprus via the ferry. Once there, she was to make her way to the Bank of Cyprus branch on Makarious Avenue in Larnaca. Inside was a safety deposit box containing new identities with passports, credit cards, cash, and a mobile phone. With the contents of the box in hand, she and Nabil would take a flight to the western European country of her choice and wait. If thirty days passed without hearing from him, she was to assume he was dead. If that eventuality came to pass, she was to call the one contact programmed into the mobile phone. The number had been set up by Greg Jacobs, Tariq’s handler for all those years, in case this plan was ever put into action. The call would be routed through multiple switches around the world, but in the end, would be answered by someone in Langley, Virginia. With the Agency’s help, Tariq’s wife and son would be relocated to the United States where they could begin to rebuild their lives.

  As he sat there resting his head on his arms, he was determined to endure whatever the big Russian had in store for him. He had to, for his family. Tariq wasn’t sure how long he had been in custody, if the three days had passed, but he needed to give Rima and Nabil as much of a head start as possible. He heard the heavy footfalls of boots on the concrete floor and looked up to see the soldier called Kalugin enter the room. Here we go again, he thought.

  *

  Joe and Scott sat hip to hip on the old sofa, their knees rubbing against the edge of the coffee table. A blue ethernet cable ran from the laptop through the back door and connected to the portable satellite communications terminal providing a secure link for the video conference with headquarters. Moments later the screen came to life, and they were staring into the seventh-floor conference room. Director Sloan was flanked by the DDO, Katherine Clark, and Carl Douglas, the chief of the special activities division. Harold Lee, who ran the counterterrorism center was also in attendance.

  Director Sloan kicked things off. “Before we begin, I want to commend you for locating both the Reaper and our asset. I’m heading to the White House to brief the president on your findings once we’re finished here.”

  Scott dismissed the compliment and asked, “What’s our next move, sir?”

  “That’s a good question, Scott. I would imagine a precision airstrike would be an option, but I’m not sure the president will be willing to approve what will be a very pu
blic attack on a known Russian facility.”

  “Sir, Tariq Kabbani is in that hangar. Give me a chance to get him out before we consider leveling the place.”

  Sloan said, “Your dedication to your asset is commendable, Scott. But I can’t risk your safety, or that of Joe’s team, in an assault on such a heavily guarded facility. This may be one of those situations where, as harsh as it sounds, he may have to be sacrificed if it means preventing that Reaper from getting back in the air.”

  The logical part of Scott’s brain was telling him the director was right. Hell, he’d had to make plenty of tough calls himself over the span of his career, so he got it. But Tariq was not just some low-level informant to be discarded because it was convenient. He had done excellent work. Been loyal. Provided high-quality, actionable intelligence. He deserved better. “There has to be something we can do,” Scott argued. “He’s in there right now getting his faced bashed in, and the best we can do is to drop a bomb on his head? Pardon my bluntness, sir, but that’s bullshit.”

  No one was more surprised than Joe at the outburst. It was one thing to have a disagreement behind closed doors, but calling out the director in front of everyone was unheard of. Joe was almost thankful for the distraction when Mike’s voice came through his earpiece.