Drone Strike: A Joe Matthews Thriller

by David Austin

  Before either of the fighter pilots could respond, a strong gust of horizontal wind shear hit the MiG on the Boeing’s starboard side. Caught off-guard by the blast, the pilot was unable to maintain his direction of flight and his fighter was pushed into the path of American plane.

  “Look out!” Sanchez screamed, but his voice was drowned out by the screech of metal on metal as the two fuselages came together and the MiG bounced off the nose of the larger plane.

  The collision swung the back end of the fighter around and sent its twin vertical stabilizers crashing into the forward section of the AWACS. The impact shattered the MiG’s tail section and gashed a hole in the Boeing’s outer skin. Before the fighter disintegrated into the darkness, it struck a fatal blow to the converted airliner as broken bits of metal and composite material from the rear section of the fighter were sucked into the two turbofan engines mounted under the wing.

  Warning lights lit up the cockpit as Sanchez reduced power to the two damaged engines and activated their fire-suppression systems. Sirens sounded throughout the plane at the loss of cabin pressure, and calmly, due to hours of training and preparation, everyone aboard the AWACS donned their oxygen masks and attempted to resume their duties.

  Clement wrestled with the controls to maintain level flight but felt she was fighting a losing battle. “What’s our closest airfield, Jerry?”

  Consulting the charts on a tablet, the flight engineer displayed a remarkable cool and replied, “I’m assuming anywhere in Syria is a nonstarter?”

  The quip brought a smile to her face. “Unless getting your head cut off by extremists or spending the rest of your life in a Syrian prison are two items you want to check off your bucket list, why don’t you see if you can’t find us someplace else to put this thing down?”

  After a few seconds of map study, Wilkins said, “In that case, it looks like Larnaca, Cyprus, will be our best bet.” He called out the heading.

  “Rick, put out the Mayday and let Larnaca know we’re declaring an emergency,” Clement ordered.

  Working the throttles in combination with the controls, she banked the big jet toward Cyprus, but would never make it to the safety of the island’s runway. The collision with the fighter had weakened the airframe where the wing attached to the fuselage and everyone onboard felt the odd vibration as the lights of Cyprus beckoned through the cockpit’s windshield.

  Unable to support the damaged wing and its useless engines any longer, the last of the bolts popped from their moorings, and the sound of tearing metal filled the cabin. As the wing was ripped free, it took a section of the plane’s outer wall with it. The mission specialist who had been on the video call wasn’t buckled into his seat and was sucked out of the opening. He was the first American casualty in this midair mishap but would not be the last.

  Without its starboard wing, the plane rolled to the right, despite the thrust Clement applied to the struggling port side engines. Not built to sustain such a violent maneuver, the thirty-foot rotating radar dish broke away from its support structure on the plane’s roof and spun through the air like a giant frisbee. Hidden in the darkness, the enormous disk hit the remaining MiG behind the wing and sheared the plane in half before the pilot could take evasive action. Jet fuel gushed from broken storage tanks, and the remnants of the plane ignited in a fireball before the pilot had a chance to eject.

  Mags Clement ignored the bright flash of the explosion just outside her cockpit window. She had her hands full with her own problems and didn’t have time to worry about what was going on outside the confines of the Boeing’s flight deck. Fighting valiantly to control the big aircraft as the nose pointed toward the dark waters of the Mediterranean, the realization that the situation was unrecoverable hit her like a ton of bricks.

  Resigned to her fate, she broadcast, “Mayday. Mayday. This is Lieutenant Colonel Margaret Clement, pilot-in-charge of Sentinel Five One….”

  The transmission cut out before she could finish the sentence as the plane broke apart and fell into the sea.

  CHAPTER 42

  In the Situation Room, Secretary of Defense Hank Coleman walked the president and the other members of the Principal’s Committee through the last few minutes of Sentinel Five One’s mission.

  Infuriated, President Andrews said, “So we lost an aircraft and a crew of nineteen servicemen and women all because a couple of MiG pilots wanted to play chicken during a thunderstorm?”

  “That about sums it up, sir,” Coleman agreed. “We believe the Russians were repositioning the stolen Reaper after the mortar attack on the airfield and that the MiGs were sent up to harass and distract the AWACS. The sad part is that it wouldn’t have mattered. Once the mission specialists had a lock on the Antonov, there was nothing the fighters could have done, short of shooting the plane down, to get them to lose contact. Turns out they did the next best thing.”

  President Andrews shook his head in disbelief. What a waste, he thought. Such a senseless loss of life. Thinking back to his days of writing letters to the families of the men he had lost in combat, he said, “Hank, could you have someone send over the contact information for the crews’ next of kin? I want to call the families to let them know their sons and daughters didn’t die in vain.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.”

  Refocusing his attention on the bigger picture, Andrews asked, “What about the Antonov? Do we have any idea where it went?”

  “No, sir. When the AWACS went down all efforts were diverted to a search and rescue mission. After losing contact, all we have is the heading of its last known direction of travel.”

  Lawrence Sloan entered the conversation for the first time. “Sir, we have assets throughout the region scouring every known airfield for the Antonov or signs that the Reaper package is being reconstituted.”

  “They’d better hurry. Kuwait is only four days away,” the president reminded the group, referring to the Arab League summit taking place in the tiny emirate. “Do we still believe the gathering is the most likely target?”

  “We do, sir,” Sloan agreed. “And with the window rapidly closing, I think it’s about time we alert the summit’s organizers to the threat.”

  “But will they believe us?” Andrews asked. “After all the havoc that’s been inflicted across the region by our drone, I know I’d be hesitant if the roles were reversed.”

  Secretary of State Claire Nichols offered, “I don’t think we have a choice, Mr. President. If we don’t notify them because our evidence is circumstantial and the attack occurs, we’ll only appear more guilty.”

  Sloan concurred. “Claire’s right, sir. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? We share our concerns and the attack doesn’t take place?”

  Silence fell over the group as President Andrews considered the counsel of two of his most trusted advisors. Finally, he said, “Make the notifications. We’re already getting crucified for the drone strikes. As public enemy number one over there, I don’t want to make the situation any worse by having people think we had intelligence on an impending attack and didn’t share it.”

  With his national security team in agreement, the president continued, “Claire, I’d like you to make a quick trip to brief the Saudis and Jordanians on what we know.”

  Saudi Arabia was the home of Wahhabism, the ultra-orthodox sect of Sunni Islam that teaches strict adherence to the Koran. Its followers included such radicals as Osama bin Laden and fifteen of the nineteen hijackers who attacked the United States on September 11, 2001, yet it was still one of America’s most important allies in the Middle East.

  Jordan, on the other hand, was an oasis of stability in the region, coexisting with its indigenous Christian population and providing sanctuary for Iraqi Christians who were at risk as ISIS rose to power. The Hashemite Kingdom had long been a voice of moderation throughout the Middle East and a friend of the United States since the early nineteen-fifties.

  Claire Nichols thought the president’s request over for a minute,
calculating flight times in her head. Finally, she said, “I don’t think there’s enough time for me to get to both countries, sir. Do you have a preference if I can visit only one?”

  “Sir, if I may,” Sloan interjected, “we could divide the responsibility. Might I suggest that Claire head to Riyadh to brief the Saudis while I travel to Amman and do the same for the Jordanians? That way we can brief both kingdoms before their representatives depart for the summit.”

  The president looked to Nichols, who agreed and said, “Sounds like a plan.” He went around the room one last time to see if anyone had anything else to add. When they didn’t, he said, “Thanks everyone.”

  As the national security team filed out of the Situation Room, Sloan spotted the head of his protective detail waiting patiently with the other agents in the small West Wing lobby. Doug Kelly alerted the detail, letting them know the meeting was over and fell in step with the director as they exited onto West Executive Drive.

  While they waited for the black Chevy Suburbans to pull up, Sloan said, “Get the team ready, Doug. We’re heading to Amman.”

  Holding the heavy, armored door open as his boss slid into the back seat, Doug asked, “When do we leave?”

  “Six hours. We’re wheels-up tonight.”

  Doug closed the door, securing Director Sloan inside the armored cocoon, and cringed. As he climbed into the right front seat, he knew his wife wasn’t going to be happy with the short-notice trip.

  *

  President Yaroslav Polovkin was in a sour mood as he gazed out the bullet-resistant window of his Kremlin office at the tourists milling about Red Square. Some were queued to visit Lenin’s tomb while others took selfies with the onion domes in the background or watched the guard of honor goose-stepping in front of the eternal flame and five-pointed star of Russia’s Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. At times, he wondered what it would be like to be a normal person, with nothing better to do than travel around taking photos of historical landmarks. But regardless of how appealing that life might sound from time to time, he would never trade the power and influence he wielded for anything so frivolous.

  A knock on the door drew him away from the window. He took a moment to compose his thoughts, then barked, “Enter!”

  The door opened and Anton Shubovich and Vice Admiral Evgeny Mishkin entered the office, followed by an aide with a tea service for three. The aide set the tray on the rectangular conference table and closed the door as he left the room. President Polovkin poured three cups of tea but let each man add his own milk and sugar. Taking seats around the table, they stirred their tea, giving it a chance to cool, the only sound in the room the clinking of the silver spoons against the china cups.

  Furious with the latest turn of events, President Polovkin broke the tense silence. “How the fuck did we manage to take down an American AWACS and lose two MiGs in the process?”

  They had come so far, and up to this point, his elaborate plan to manipulate the removal of the Americans from the Middle East had gone about as well as could be expected. Now, when they were within sight of the finish line, having an incident where Russia was clearly at fault could prove to be a major setback.

  “From everything we’ve been able to gather, the crash was purely accidental. Our pilots were following orders, harassing the American plane, when they hit some violent turbulence. As the planes were bounced around, one of our MiGs was pushed into the path of the AWACS. The midair collision initiated the chain reaction that led to the loss of all three planes,” Shubovich explained.

  Polovkin slammed his fist on the table, rattling the cups and saucers. “I don’t give a shit why it happened, Anton,” the president fumed. “We’ve come too far to have this operation derailed at the last minute by your pilots’ incompetence.

  Unaccustomed to being dressed down in front of someone else, especially a peer like Mishkin, the defense minister seemed to deflate and shrink back into his chair. It was as if he was hiding behind the shield formed by the rows of medals pinned to the front of his dress uniform.

  With the cool demeanor of a professional intelligence officer, Evgeny Mishkin came to his friend’s defense. “Actually, sir, downing the American plane was necessary in order for our operation to move forward.” He paused and took a sip of tea to give his statement a chance to sink in and defuse some of the tension in the room.

  Polovkin’s head snapped to his intelligence chief, a look of confusion mixed with anger on his face. “Really, Evgeny? Explain yourself.”

  Even Shubovich was curious to hear Mishkin’s line of thinking.

  Setting his cup gently back on the saucer, Miskin continued. “It cannot be considered coincidental that the AWACS was in position at the exact time our Antonov transporting the Reaper to its new base of operations was preparing to take off. I have no doubt the Americans were tracking our plane with the intention of shooting it down or following it to its destination and calling in an airstrike to destroy the drone.”

  The president and Shubovich sat quietly as they contemplated the GRU man’s rationale.

  “The only way to keep the Americans from tracking our plane was to remove the AWACS from the equation. The midair mishap was fortuitous because it can be explained away as an unfortunate accident. It would have been much more difficult to deflect the blame had we been forced to shoot it down instead.”

  A fire crackled in the hearth as the three men went silent while President Polovkin ran scenarios through his head. Maybe Mishkin was right. If the crash had not occurred, there was a good chance the drone would have been destroyed, ending the operation before its final act.

  With his demeanor softening but plenty of menace remaining in his voice, Polovkin said, “It looks like you’ve dodged a bullet, Anton. Figuratively and literally.”

  Shubovich breathed a sigh of relief, but realized he was on a very short leash. Any more mistakes on his part, or by men under his command, and he would not be able to dodge the next bullet, which would undoubtedly be aimed at the back of his head.

  CHAPTER 43

  Elijah Miller entered the outer lobby on the top floor of the building that resembled a black cube at Fort Meade and offered a tired greeting to the executive assistant. “Hey, Andy. Is she in?”

  “Just got off a call and she has about thirty minutes before her next meeting. Your timing was perfect.”

  Miller walked past the first lieutenant’s desk and knocked on the door twice before entering. He stepped into the office belonging to the director of the National Security Agency and closed the door behind him. While the assistant and security officer had clearances of the highest level, neither had the need to be privy to the conversation that was about to take place.

  General Linda Meyer looked up from her desk, curious to see who had stopped by for a visit. Spread out behind her, a panoramic view of the base was visible through the double-paned, air-gapped windows. Not only were they bullet resistant, but the glass was treated to provide countermeasures to a multitude of eavesdropping and keystroke-logging techniques.

  A warm smile crossed her face when she saw Elijah Miller. He was irreverent, bucked the system, and didn’t fit the mold of the typical NSA employee. Those unusual qualities, when combined with his brilliant mind, endeared him to her. Her smile faded as she looked closer and noticed how utterly exhausted and worn out, he appeared.

  “My God, Eli. When was the last time you slept?”

  Collapsing into a leather upholstered chair across from her desk, he thought a moment. “Oh, I don’t know,” he replied, sarcastically. “Maybe it was the night before those idiots at General Atomics fell for a dumbass phishing scam that rendered my uncrackable encryption useless and allowed the Russians to use one of our most sophisticated UAVs to conduct attacks that everyone on the planet blames on us.”

  Linda Meyer was a career military intelligence officer, and as such, was accustomed to the unpredictable nature of the business. Sometime operations went your way. Sometimes they didn’t. It was a l
esson learned through experience, and although Miller was brilliant, real-world experience was something he had yet to gain.

  “So, what’s up?” she asked, in a casual manner that belied her position at the top of the intelligence agency’s hierarchy.

  “Ever since I got back from Belgium…,” Miller’s voice drifted off as images of the dead Russian’s brain matter and the other man’s broken, bleeding face flashed through his mind in vivid detail.

  Seeing the distracted look on his face, Meyer said, “Go on,” hoping to get him back on track.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry. Like I was saying, ever since I got back from Belgium, I’ve been trying to figure out a way to hack the drone and track the satellite signal back to its origination point at the ground control station.” The more Miller talked, the more energized and animated he became. Practically sitting on the edge of his chair, he continued, “And I…,” he paused for a moment, seeming to run through the code in his head one last time before saying it aloud. “I think I’ve done it.”

  Meyer sat in quiet contemplation for a moment, liking the direction the conversation was heading, but at the same time, not wanting to get her hopes up as she digested what Miller had just said. “Okay, Eli. Why don’t you walk me through it from the beginning?”

  Fifteen minutes later they both leaned back in their chairs. Miller was visibly relieved to have had the conversation, running the idea past his boss to get a sanity check. Meyer, on the other hand, was busy mulling over the next steps.

  With her decision made, she pressed the intercom button on her desk phone. “Andy, do me a favor and clear my schedule for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “Will do, ma’am. Anything else?”

  “Call Lawrence Sloan’s office and ask him to make some time for us.” She paused a moment, then said, “Is Steve still out there?”