Drone Threat (13 page)

20

GREATER LANDOVER, MARYLAND

The eight-bladed octocopter sped toward FedExField, an ominous cargo box fixed beneath its fuselage. It flew at an altitude of 125 feet, high enough to clear the upper tier of seats in the open-air complex. At full capacity, the Washington Redskins FedExField could accommodate nearly eighty thousand cheering fans whose attention would be focused on the game, not on terror in the sky.

The drone roared forward at more than sixty miles per hour. It was only seconds away from breaching the airspace directly above the stadium when it suddenly slowed and wobbled before making a violent 180-degree turn, its speed plummeting as it dived toward the asphalt. It settled on its skids just two yards away from Pearce, standing in the parking lot.

“Impressive,” Pearce said as the eight motors cut off. His back was to the olive drab Iveco Light Multirole Vehicle (LMV), the Italian version of a Humvee. An array of radar, sensors, and cameras—optical, infrared, and thermal imaging—were fixed on a rotating turret along with a dish and what appeared to be a firing tube. He heard the rear doors open and the heavy thud of boots hitting the ground.

Wes Klein flashed his used-car-salesman smile. The forty-two-year-old former submariner and Annapolis grad built his own security company based on a license for the Selex ES Falcon Shield combat system. His techs improved on the Falcon Shield with a few proprietary tweaks to the software and hardware. “My rig works as advertised. But you don't have to take my word for it. Run it through whatever tests you've got.”

Pearce shrugged. “The specs on paper look good. It's the real-world stuff that usually bites you in the ass.” Klein's system was similar to the Israeli Drone Dome. He was hoping it was even better.

“You can swap out a number of components and customize the Falcon Shield according to the threat profile.”

“But essentially the strength of your system is you get a visual lock on the target, and then you can take it out?”

“Visual, electro-optical, and signal lock. We have radar, too, but it's hard to pick up the really small ones with it.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it.” Pearce hoped Dr. Ponder would come up with a fix on that particular bug in his laser system. “How does the electronic defeat system work?”

Klein shook his close-cropped head. “
Segretissimo
, old buddy. Top secret. My Italian investors would bris my sizable foreskin with a pair of rusty pliers if I told you.”

Pearce grinned. He liked Klein. Reminded him of his old friend Mike Early, who had a mind as filthy as a coal miner's butt crack. “But you actually managed to seize control of the unit and were able to fly it?” That was an important feature. Merely disrupting the GPS or controller signals might actually result in a drone flying out of control. With the wrong payload, that could prove just as problematic in a crowded venue as a controlled hostile flight.

“It's worked on every hobby and commercial drone system we've tested so far. We've been able to disrupt the signal and seize control of vehicles and land them where we wanted. Of course, we haven't tested every available system out there—there are way too many of them. But we're confident this is the way to go for the vast majority of small, civilian UAV threats.”

Pearce thought about the VTOL that had landed at the White House that morning, or even his own test against Ponder's laser system the day before. “So what do you do about autopiloted vehicles?”

“We've been able to seize a few of them, depending on the hardware. But if we can't seize control, we can deploy a focused high-power microwave to fry the circuitry.”

“Another add-on?”

Klein rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers. “Cha-
ching
, baby. But it works.”

“Every time?”

“Unless it's shielded.”

“You mean like a Faraday cage?”

“Or something similar. Again, we're talking high percentages on kill rates. There aren't any absolutes in this business.”

Pearce headed for the rear of the LMV. “Any other defeat solutions?”

“You always have the kinetic option.”

“Bullets and missiles in an urban environment?” Pearce asked, poking his head in the back of the truck. The compartment was packed with electronic gear and video monitors.

“Security Ethics 101, friendo. Depends on what the payload is on the drone you're trying to knock down. A few killed and wounded by your kinetics, or thousands killed and wounded by your adversary.”

“I'm looking for a third option.”

“Have you thought about lasers? That's something we're looking into.”

“It's crossed my mind.” Pearce's phone rang. It was President Lane. “Excuse me, Wes.”

“Of course. I've got to check the gear anyway.” Klein crawled back into the LMV to give Pearce his privacy.

Pearce answered. “Mr. President.”

“Troy, I wanted to give you a heads-up. The FBI came up short on the forensics. No fingerprints, no DNA, no purchase orders to trace, no addresses to raid. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.”

“Must've been a pro.”

“Yeah, but a ‘pro' what? Terrorist? Prankster? Social justice warrior?”

“Doesn't really matter at this point. We just have to wait for the other shoe to drop.”

“Come up with any bright ideas for stopping these hobby drones?”

“Not yet, but I'm working on a few things.”

“Vicki wants you back in her office tomorrow at eleven a.m. You
need to start working the phones, pay a few visits. Time to hustle up some votes.”

“I'd rather get tased.”

Lane laughed. “I feel for you, brother. Call me if you need anything.”

How about a rum and Coke?
Pearce wanted to ask. Instead, he thanked the president and rang off.

“We good?” Klein asked.

Another dead end, another ticking clock
, Pearce thought. He forced a smile. “I'll be in touch.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was two hours before Grafton appeared at the vice president's door. He ushered her in and ordered a late lunch for the two of them. They had a lot to discuss, and even more to accomplish.

Chandler leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. “So how did our boy do today?”

“Frankly, he shit all over the subcommittee. I've just spent the last two hours wearing out my knee pads trying to mend fences with Floyd.” Chandler looked concerned. She quickly added, “Figuratively, of course.”

“Good for Pearce. Nothing like a good evacuation of the bowels to clear the mind.”

“His mind might be cleared, but his chances for getting the nomination are zeroed out. He sinkholed himself, but the administration might be falling in after him.”

“How so?”

“Floyd thinks Lane is going to go all Comanche on his gravy train.”

“Floyd's half-right. Lane is a reformer at heart. His attention is occupied with the Asia summit at the moment, and now with this crazy drone threat we got today. For now, he's delegating the heavy lifting to others, including Pearce. Even if the Senate passes on him, they've got to know there'll be others just like him next in line.”

Grafton frowned, confused. “So you support Pearce? I was under the impression you two weren't on the best of terms.”

“Support him? Heavens no. He's a first-rate prick.” Chandler's phone alarm rang. He checked it. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I nearly forgot. I've got a meeting with the Saudi ambassador in thirty minutes. You want to come with?” He stood.

“I need to pass. Pearce is coming in. We've got a Rolodex of calls to make. Maybe even knock on a few doors.”

“Good luck with that.” Chandler pulled on his suit coat. “At least stay and eat your lunch. You look peckish.”

“If you don't mind my asking, what exactly is your beef with Pearce?”

“We knew each other, briefly. A long time ago. Our time together wasn't exactly . . . friendly. If you think he's a hardcase now, you should've known him then.”

21

TIKRIT, SALAH AL-DIN PROVINCE, IRAQ

2005

The sun burned high overhead and the air shimmered with stifling heat. The twenty-four newly minted Shia recruits from nearby Samarra stood ramrod straight in the courtyard, roasting alive beneath their brand-new Iraqi army uniforms. Their young, stern faces beamed with pride and glistened with sweat as Representative Clay Chandler droned on with the help of an overly enthusiastic translator.

Pearce muttered a curse through his bearded lips as another drop of sweat trickled down his collar. The barrel of his carbine was blistering hot even though it hadn't been fired in days. Bad enough to be out in the middle of this heat. But it was security he was worried about. He and Early stood a nervous watch over the ceremony taking place at the palace—one of maybe a hundred Saddam had built for himself after the first Gulf War. It now served as the headquarters for the regional commander of the Iraqi army, General Ali Majid, a Sunni from a nearby province.

“How much longer with this guy?” Early said. The hulking Ranger whispered in his comms set.

“He's begging for a mortar round,” Pearce said. He was linked to Early on a secure channel.

“From us or the bad guys?”

Pearce laughed. “Roger that.”

“You should be ashamed.” A thickly accented Kurdish voice whispered in their comms. “He is one of your countrymen.” Tariq Barzani
was the third man on the team. Two more team members, Luckett and Rowley, were back in Baghdad for the day.

“Your problem, Mother, is that you Kurds haven't yet mastered the subtleties of democracy,” Early said. “It's our constitutional right to hate our elected idiots.”

“And if you ever run short of idiots, we've got extras we can send you,” Pearce said. “Plenty more.”

Tariq laughed. “Trust me, we have more than enough of our own.” His hearty laugh filled their headsets. The Kurdish translator had grown close to Pearce and Early since their arrival. The battle-hardened peshmerga was a decade older than they were. He was out beneath the blistering sun with them, working the perimeter. Tariq watched the Americans like a hawk, constantly worrying for their safety. He knew Early and Pearce had fought with Kurdish forces in the liberation of Kirkuk in 2003. This made him feel even more protective of the men he called his “sons.” They returned the favor by calling him Mother, but they were big fans of his, too.

“We're walking point in the hottest, sweatiest sphincter of the known world—no offense, Mother. Hard to believe that Babylonian civilization was born here,” Early said.

“Babylon was founded by Nimrod, the grandson of Ham, who was cursed,” Tariq said.

“That figures,” Early said.

“Stay frosty, Mikey.” Pearce kept his head on a swivel, scanning the rooftops and perimeter through his Oakleys. He shared Early's concern. The general's own troops were stationed at regular intervals outside and inside the palace compound, but he didn't trust them. They were as likely to turn their guns on the Americans as they were to drop them and bolt like scalded cats if any real trouble came loping through the gate. Tikrit was in the heart of Indian country, the nutsack of the Sunni Triangle. Worse, it was Saddam's hometown. Every swinging dick seemed to be an angry cousin with a murderous grudge against somebody, especially Americans. All of them were secretly armed or had access to weapons. An AK-47 rattled off a few rounds in the distance. Not unusual.

Pearce didn't put much stock in the six private contractors the general had hired on as personal bodyguards. They were mercs, straight up, all ex-special forces beholden to no one but the general. An Aussie was in charge. One Brit, one American, one South African, and two Russians rounded out the complement. Pearce trusted the Russian mercenaries the least. It wasn't unusual for them to do double duty for the SVR. Today the mercs stood in loose knots in the shaded areas on the periphery, content to the let Pearce, Early, and Tariq do all the heavy sweating.

Pearce checked his watch. Chandler's speech was running twenty minutes late. An American press photographer snapped endless photos of Chandler and the recruits. Publicity photos for his upcoming Senate campaign, Pearce surmised.

“He must not have counted on the time it would take to translate,” Pearce said in his comms.

“Especially with a translator like Elmer Fudd over there. Nothin' like a cousin with a stutter.”

Despite himself, Pearce burst out laughing.

Six of the dignitaries sitting in the shade were scowling Sunni tribal elders. Seated across from them were their counterparts, a half dozen glowering Shia elders. Seated between them in the place of honor was General Majid in his desert camo BDUs, jaunty black beret, and Saddam Hussein mustache.

“And finally, let me just say,” Chandler said, pointing at each of the recruits, “while the future of Iraq belongs in your strong and capable hands, never forget that America will always be here as your faithful ally and reliable friend. We will never abandon the Iraqi people. We have willingly shed our blood in your sand and we will do so again in the future to ensure democracy and freedom for Sunnis and Shias alike.” Chandler turned to the general and dignitaries. “Congratulations to all of you on this historic day. Sunni and Shia joining hands in the fight together against the forces of tyranny. It's a fine down payment for the price of freedom. You all should be very, very proud.” Chandler began clapping his hands.

General Majid took the cue and stood, clapping. The other dignitaries rose and clapped as well. The photographer dashed over just as Chandler and Majid clasped hands, then followed Chandler as he shook the hands of each tribal elder.

“Is he running for mayor?” Early asked.

“Yeah. The mayor of Bartertown.”

“Who . . . run . . . Bartertown?” Early asked in his Master Blaster voice.

“Master Blaster runs Bartertown!”

They both laughed. Pearce and Early had a running gag about the similarities between the post-apocalyptic Mad Max movies and postwar Iraq. They called Majid's palace the Thunderdome.

“Gentlemen, please,” Tariq said.

General Majid barked an order and the Shia recruits finally relaxed. Chandler waded into the middle of them, shaking more hands, photographer in tow.

“Criminy,” Early said. “How long is this Gomer going to take?”

Pearce shook his head. “Good thing they pay us by the hour.” He scanned the roof again. He couldn't shake the feeling his skull was in somebody's crosshairs, but three tours in the Sand Box did that to a guy. He and Early kept moving, walking an irregular circuit on the periphery, cutting in and out between whatever obstructions they could find.

On the last turn, Chandler was standing back beneath the shadowed portico, wiping his dripping forehead with a kerchief, and chatting earnestly with General Majid. Chandler glanced over at Pearce and Early. The general nodded and left, heading past the guarded bas-relief bronze entrance doors. Chandler waved Pearce and Early over with his hand.

“You're Troy Pearce,” Chandler said, extended a hand. “CIA, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you must be Mike Early. U.S. Army Rangers.”

“Yes, sir. At least, that's what the dog tag says.”

“Well, I appreciate you guys. I saw you out there in the hot sun. I hope I didn't go on too long.”

“Hadn't noticed, sir. Just trying to keep an eye on things,” Early said.

“I'd like the two of you to come inside and join me for a cold beverage.” Chandler glanced over his shoulder at the two wary Russian mercs standing back in the shadows. “And I'd like to have a private word with you.”

Pearce and Early glanced at each other.

“Of course,” Pearce said. “Can we bring our translator?”

“No need. It will be just us Americans talking.”

“Our translator is as thirsty as we are,” Early said. “And the sun is just as freaking hot on him as it is on us.”

Chandler shrugged. “The general has informed me that the Kurd isn't welcome inside. I'm sorry. But you know how it is around here. When in Rome.”

Pearce started to protest but held his tongue. Chandler might have a legit reason to keep the meeting small. “You're the boss.”