Drone Threat (14 page)

22

TIKRIT, SALAH AL-DIN PROVINCE, IRAQ

2005

Chandler led the way across what seemed like acres of polished red marble floors, past towering green marble columns. It reminded Pearce of a temple in the old Hollywood sword-and-sandal movies, only gaudier. The walls were of patterned stone and the ceilings featured brightly colored mosaics illuminated by expansive crystal chandeliers. The cost of building a pleasure palace like this must have been as enormous as the place was gauche. Clearly the architect was attempting to evoke the grandeur and majesty of ancient Babylon. The aesthetic felt more like Tony Montana than Nebuchadnezzar. Considering whom it was built for, the architect made the right choice. Pearce wondered how many starving Iraqi children could have been fed by the cost of this one palace alone.

They passed through two more sets of guarded, bas-relief bronze doors and into the interior section of the palace where Majid's personal residence was located. The first room they entered took the gaudy, overwrought architecture of the earlier rooms and exploded it by a factor of ten. A welter of brightly colored marbles, geometric inlays, gold leaf, gemstones, and crystal bombarded Pearce's eyes, but it was the massive swimming pool and the bikini-clad women who frolicked in it that commanded the room.

Chandler led the way toward a lush banquet table piled high with roasted meats, fresh fruits, and other delights neither Pearce nor Early had seen before. Huge buckets of ice were larded with Cokes and beers. “Gentlemen, help yourselves. There's plenty to choose from.”

The Sunni elders were piling plates high with food and pulling out drinks from the bucket. Pearce didn't recognize any of the sullen Shia waiting their turn. The Salah al-Din district was the heart of the infamous Sunni Triangle, and Tikrit, its capital, was strictly Sunni. Samarra, on the other hand, contained some of Iraq's holiest Shia shrines, even though it was also in the district. The fault lines of the Iraqi Sunni-Shia conflict intersected in this part of the country. Pearce had become friendly with several Samarran Shia leaders in the past few weeks that he'd been stationed in the district. He wondered why they weren't here, too.

General Majid huddled in the corner with the Russian mercs, the three of them seated in gilded red velvet chairs, devouring their food.

Early stopped at the edge of the pool, his eye fixed on one particular beauty. He nudged Pearce. “Think she's up for a game of Marco Polo?”

“You can play hide the explorer after we grab some chow.”

“Roger that.”

—

EARLY AND PEARCE
sat on a marble bench, finishing their steaks, grease dribbling into their beards. Four empty beer bottles littered the tabletop.

Pearce watched as two of the Sunni elders disrobed and leaped into the pool, their pale white flesh covered in thick carpets of curly black hair. They chased around a couple of the squealing girls, who managed to stay just out of paw's reach.

Chandler pulled up a red velvet chair and sat down next to Pearce and Early.

“How are the steaks, fellas?”

“Great,” Early said, gnawing away at the last remnants of his T-bone in his thick fingers.

“Wonderful. I flew them in with me, along with everything else. Just my way of saying thanks to all of you out here doing the Lord's work.”

“Amen, brother,” Early said.

Pearce finished the last of his third beer. “Yeah. Thanks.” He burped.

Chandler forced a smile. “What did you think about our little ceremony today?”

“Good to finally see some Shia in army uniforms,” Pearce said. “If we can't get these guys all on the same team, this country will collapse into a civil war.”

“I couldn't agree more. We need them all on the same team, fighting al-Qaeda together. Too many foreign fighters have come across the Syrian border, not to mention Iranians. A unified Iraq is our only chance of stopping the spread of radical Islam throughout the region.”

Then you should've left Hussein in power, you flipping idiot
, Pearce thought. Sure, he was a murderous dictator, but he kept even more murderous bastards at bay. Now that Hussein was gone, the demons were unleashed.

Chandler seemed to read Pearce's mind. His smile faded. “My understanding is that the two of you were primarily responsible for training the Shia recruits.”

“Just the small-unit tactics and weapons training,” Early said.

“They're still pretty green, but they're all good kids. They want to fight for their country, especially now that the Shia have a chance for a voice in the government,” Pearce said. “I like them a lot.”

“General Majid said you made quite an impression on them. Said that you two were pretty close to them. That's good. We want to give them our best efforts.”

“Roger that,” Early said.

“But I'm concerned about your attitudes regarding General Majid. He's under the impression you don't approve of his methods, or his governance of the district.”

Early and Pearce looked at each other.

“We've been out to the villages. People are scared shitless of him and his men. There are stories—” Early said.

“Think Colonel Kurtz, only without the pajamas,” Pearce interrupted. “Batshit crazy.”

“I read the last two reports you filed with your boss. Quite a colorful
edge you put on them,” Chandler said. “Cutting off ears for trophies? Really?”

“I only reported what I saw,” Pearce said. “Did Grainger have a problem with them?”

“No, she didn't. In fact, she passed your reports up the chain of command and they eventually landed on my desk.” Chandler scratched his beardless chin. “The only problem is that General Majid is on our team.”

“You sure about that?” Pearce said.

“What do you mean?”

“Rumor has it he's on the Russians' payroll, too.”

“That's ridiculous,” Chandler said. “He's one of ours. His assignment was to pacify the district and he's done it. We didn't give him a rule book.”

“Maybe you should have,” Early said. “Ain't that the whole point of ‘ensuring democracy and freedom' for these folks?”

Chandler didn't blink, even though Early was throwing his own speech right back into his face. “You can't have democracy and freedom without security. Security comes first, and the general is bringing that.”

“Security I get,” Pearce said. “But what he's doing is called terrorism.”

Early added, “Not to mention the tens of millions of U.S. taxpayer dollars he's stolen, the public works projects he hasn't completed but claimed he did—or if they were, they're half-assed and built with slave labor. Half these people think Hussein was a Santa Claus compared to him.”

Chandler nodded. “I understand your frustration, believe me, I do. But you've got to back off on the general.” Chandler looked around the room, lowered his voice. “In case you haven't noticed, this isn't America. These people do things differently over here. We're not here to judge, we're here to win the war against terror, and for good or for ill, that means partnering with people like General Majid.”

Pearce leaned in. “If you want to win the war on terror, then arrest that terrorist son of a bitch. The Shia around here will call you a hero—and so will half the Sunnis. He's worse than any of the fucksticks we've been chasing down.”

Chandler shook his head. “Not going to happen. He's Teflon as far as Washington's concerned. His brother is one of the most important tribal chieftains in the Sunni Triangle. The Pentagon is pushing a new antiterrorism strategy called the Sunni Awakening. We're going to ally ourselves with all of the Sunnis and use them to help us get rid of AQ and the foreign fighters once and for all.”

“The Sunni chieftains are the ones who've been giving us so much hell,” Early said. “We should be hunting those guys down, not partnering up.”

“This is all bigger than the three of us, believe me. I'm just the messenger.”

“And just so that we're clear, what exactly is the message?” Pearce asked.

“Stop filing your reports. Quit rattling the cage. Just keep doing your jobs.”

Pearce darkened. “That is our job. We're on a special mission. Grainger's tasked us with keeping tabs on Majid. He's the reason why we were sent here to begin with. That asshole has a history, and Grainger wants us to document it so we can press charges and clean this shit up.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Take it up with Grainger,” Pearce said. “I don't do politics.”

Chandler stood. Pearce and Early didn't.

“Grainger won't back you up.”

“Why not?” Pearce asked.

Chandler checked his watch. “Grainger's been reassigned. About an hour ago she boarded an air force transport. She'll arrive in Burkina Faso sometime late tomorrow.”

“What the fuck?” Early said.

“The world is full of security challenges. Apparently her superiors at Langley felt that her talents would be better deployed over there.”

“I don't suppose you had anything to do with it?” Pearce asked.

“Me? Hardly. Like I told you, I'm just the messenger. But don't be surprised if you find yourselves joining her if you don't toe the line.”
Chandler pointed at the buffet table again. “Help yourselves to more, gentlemen. Otherwise, I'm sure you have a lot to do around here.”

“Yeah, we do,” Pearce said, standing up. Early joined him. The two of them towered over Chandler.

The diminutive congressman wasn't intimidated. “There's one more thing.”

“What?” Early said. He saw the press photographer approaching out of the corner of his eye.

Chandler flashed an oily smile and extended his hand. “On behalf of the people of the United States and the citizens of the great state of Georgia,” he said, in his smarmiest southern accent, “I want to thank you for your service.” The whirring high-speed camera flashed like a strobe light, anticipating the moment.

Pearce and Early shook their heads in disgust and stormed away, leaving Chandler's pale, empty hand hanging in the air. An angry glance from Chandler finally stilled the whirring camera.

Pearce and Early hit the refreshment table, snagging a couple of bottles of cold beer, a carton of Marlboros, and a large bag of Skittles for Tariq before pushing their way through the big bronze doors, headed for another beat-down in the relentless Iraqi sun.

23

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The Secret Service driver sped through traffic with his emergency lights flashing. Completely illegal, given the circumstances, but when the vice president tells you to do something, you do it.

Arriving a fashionable five minutes late, Chandler was ushered into the ambassador's spacious office and told that His Royal Highness would be down shortly. Coffee was offered. Chandler took it. He was starved. No telling when he'd eat again.

The ambassador arrived with his male secretary and the coffee service. Chandler stood. The two men embraced. “Clay, it's good to see you again.”

“And you, Your Excellency.”

“Clay, please. We're friends. Come, take a coffee and have a seat.” The tall, handsome Saudi steered the vice president toward a luxurious chair. His Royal Highness Ambassador Faisal bin Salman al-Saud dressed and acted like a young Westerner. The forty-year-old prince had attended a Swiss boarding school, graduated from Harvard, and later earned an MBA from Wharton. His Swiss mother's fair complexion along with his short cropped beard softened his Semitic profile. He was the new, youthful face of the royal house of Saud, with the reputation of a reformer.

“Old habits,” Chandler said. “Forgive me. My grandmother raised me to believe that good manners are a sign of godliness.”

“I defer to your grandmother's wisdom out there in the world. But in here, please, it's Faisal.”

“Of course. Thank you again for agreeing to meet with me. I thought our first conversation was extremely enlightening.”

“As did I. I hope we may continue in the same spirit of frankness.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“Excellent. How shall we proceed?”

“First of all, I want to reiterate that I completely understand the existential threat that ISIS presents to your country as well as mine. President Lane understands it as well.”

“And yet, strangely, he still refuses to commit American combat personnel to the war.”

“I understand the need for new boots on the ground, even if the president does not.”

The Saudi cocked an eyebrow. “Should you be telling me this?”

“It's important that you know there are still plenty of us who reject isolationism. ISIS isn't just going to go away on its own. It's a cancer that needs to be cut out.”

“
Daesh
is a great evil that plagues the minds of far too many people. The world isn't ready for what will come should they ever seize control of an entire nation, especially one with resources like ours.” Chandler noted that Saud referred to ISIS only by the more derogatory
Daesh
, an acronym for ISIS that sounded like a few other unfavorable Arabic words. ISIS hated the term
Daesh
so much that they threatened to cut out the tongue of anyone who uttered it.

“It was a damn fool mistake to knock off Hussein. Bad as he was, he was at least a devil we knew, and kept his boot on the throats of the other devils we didn't know. Same for Qaddafi.”

“If I may be so bold, you Americans have been terribly selective in your foreign policy morality. I'm glad that some of you have seen the difficulty of such selectivity. We have never suffered that particular malady. We hate
Daesh
for what it is. Only recently did it kill my own nephew.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that. My condolences.” Chandler took a sip of coffee.

“Thank you. The circumstances were difficult. His mother, my sister,
is still unconsolable in her grief. The young fool was seduced into the witchcraft of
Daesh
. He perished in a drone strike.” Al-Saud paused for effect. “An American drone strike.”

“American? On Saudi soil?”

“Northern Iraq. I assumed it was your government behind it. Who else has the capability?”

“I assure you, unless there was some secret mission, it most assuredly wasn't American. President Lane hasn't authorized any such strike in Iraq in the last six months. He's questioning the entire program. In fact, the whole War on Terror. Believe me, if there had been a drone strike against ISIS, I'd know about it, because I've been pounding the table for it since I was sworn in.”

“All the more reason to allow my government to purchase and operate our own drone systems.”

“I agree wholeheartedly. President Lane isn't yet fully open to that option, but he'll come around to it.”

“And this man, Pearce. The nominee? My understanding is that his position is not supportive, either.”

Chandler's jaw tightened. Pearce was a stubborn ass. He wouldn't let him ruin this relationship. He'd have to find out later who al-Saud's source was in the administration. “His position will be exactly the same as mine before he's confirmed—or he won't be in the position.”

Al-Saud nodded, smiled. “I am truly grateful. Our nations share a profitable history and a long alliance. I look forward to our relationship blossoming even further, especially during a Chandler administration.”

“As do I. Saudi Arabia is our best and most natural ally in the region now. I'm sick and tired of the outsize influence Tel Aviv has had on my government for far too long.”

“Something else we can agree on,” al-Saud said.

They chatted pleasantly for another twenty minutes and agreed to the date and time of their next meeting. The ambassador even escorted him to the front door, where they shook hands, all smiles.

And all of it caught on video by two Israeli Mossad agents.