Drone Threat (16 page)

26

DALLAS/FORT WORTH INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

The Airbus A380 taxied to a stop on runway 36R, facing due north (000 true), waiting for permission from the tower to take off. The red-and-white kangaroo logo on its eighty-foot-high tail glimmered in the late, high morning sun. Qantas purchased the world's largest commercial airliner in order to create what had been, until recently, the world's longest nonstop commercial flight of 8,578 nautical miles from Dallas/Fort Worth to Sydney, Australia. With a cruising speed of 560 miles per hour, the flight time was just under seventeen hours. Today's particularly efficient ground crew put them on the flight line two minutes ahead of schedule.

Qantas Flight 8 was oversold again and every seat occupied. Five hundred twenty-five passengers were located in three different classes on two flight decks arranged like a London double-decker bus.

To make the long trans-Pacific flight, the A380's four turbofan engines required more than eighty-five thousand gallons of highly flammable aviation fuel stored in tanks located in the wings. The nine-foot-long turbofan blades spun at supersonic speeds, feeding air into the three-thousand-degree inferno of the engine's combustion chamber.

If the spinning blades ever broke off, they'd turn to white-hot titanium shrapnel. The plane, in effect, was a flying gasoline bomb, and the supersonic blades were giant spinning matches. An exploding engine could also damage or disable wing surfaces, landing flaps, and a dozen other critical airframe components, along with the plane's hydraulic, electrical, and braking systems.

Sitting on the tarmac, fuel tanks full and cabin crowded to the gills with anxious passengers, the A380 finally received the tower's signal for departure.

The captain pushed the throttles forward and released the brakes. The turbines whined as the engines accelerated. In order to achieve takeoff, the A380 had to reach a speed of at least 170 miles per hour. When the engines were fully engaged, the plane would reach that speed after covering nearly ten thousand feet of 36R's thirteen-thousand-foot runway. Through the miracle of brilliant human engineering, the fully loaded A380 could cover that distance in just seventy-eight seconds.

Forty seconds down the runway, the copilot pointed at a familiar shape speeding just a few feet off the tarmac directly toward them. He shouted in his headset.

“DRONE!”

No way to avoid it.

The five-pound drone slammed directly into the number-three engine. The captain didn't panic. The spinning forward fan blades were like a giant Cuisinart married to the world's biggest vacuum cleaner. They were safety-engineered to suck in and push out all kinds of objects while in flight, including torrents of ice and water and even frozen birds. With any luck the drone would be shredded, burned, and spat out the other end like a hapless duck.

Unfortunately, the drone was carrying a small payload of brick-orange Semtex, a plastic explosive.

The Semtex erupted.

The blades on the forward fan disc in number-three engine ripped away like loose teeth. In less than a second, the titanium fragments exploded through the compressor and combustor assemblies like a shotgun blast, shredding gearboxes, casings, vanes, discs, and bearings.

The plane shuddered.

People screamed.

27

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Lane, Pearce, Chandler, and DHS Secretary Eaton sat around the long table in the Situation Room. The attorney general, Julissa Peguero, was on a secured videoconference display as was Lane's national security advisor, Jim Garza, on board a flight from California. Eaton had briefed Peguero and Garza earlier by phone at Lane's request as soon as the first attack occurred.

“Dallas, Chicago, Atlanta, Los Angeles,” Eaton said. “The four busiest airports in the United States.”

“Four damaged aircraft at four different locations at nearly the same time can't be a coincidence,” Garza said.

“And no fatalities?” Lane asked.

“The closest was Dallas,” Eaton said. “Captain's a hero. She was past V-one. Not enough room to hit the brakes so she took it up and around and brought it back down. No serious injuries but a lot of angry customers. I asked Qantas to file it as a mechanical problem for now. They were good enough to comply.”

“The Airbus is an amazing airplane,” Chandler said. “They're engineered to stay aloft on three engines.”

“Even one, in an emergency. But that was good flying for sure.” As a former air force pilot, Lane appreciated more than the rest what that kind of emergency situation felt like. He made a mental note to call the captain later and congratulate her personally.

“What about the other aircraft?” Peguero asked.

“Same attack profile but the engines were disabled while the planes
were still on the ground. No serious injuries. All of the attacks occurred between twelve oh five and twelve seventeen Eastern Standard Time.”

“And still no news reports?” Chandler asked, staring at the video monitors. None of them displayed any of the disabled jet aircraft.

“The networks were compliant, and they promise to sit on the affiliates,” Eaton said. “But I'm not sure how long they'll keep quiet on this, even if it is a national security issue.”

There was already a media plan in place for just this kind of contingency that the broadcast and cable news network executives had agreed to. It wasn't out of a sense of patriotism. If the media put out the word that the nation's airports were under attack, not only would the public panic but so would stock markets around the world, including media stocks. Air travel and aviation transportation were key components of the global economy.

“Likelihood that another drone attack will occur today?” Lane asked.

“Hard to say,” Eaton said. “But at least we've got some breathing room for now.”

“Then let's use that to our advantage,” Lane said. He turned to Pearce. “Why weren't there any fatalities? They could've killed hundreds, even thousands.”

“Either it was a technical failure on their part—which I doubt—or they're exercising restraint.”

“Why do you doubt it?” Chandler asked.

“From what little video we've seen from Dallas and Atlanta, those eight-bladed octocopters could've easily carried enough explosive material to take out the entire engine assembly—but they didn't. Me? If I wanted to take the plane down, I would've delivered the package straight to the wing where the fuel tanks are located.”

“I agree,” Garza said. “So why didn't they?”

“I don't know, unless they're sending a message.”

“What message?” Chandler asked.

“They're saying, ‘You see what we could've done. Unless you want us to escalate, you better do as we say immediately.'”

“Sort of like holding a knife blade against our throats,” Garza said. “Ready to chop our heads off if we don't comply.”

“Makes sense,” Peguero said.

“Except ISIS doesn't stop with the threat. They always cut the head off,” Chandler said. “We need to quit fooling around and start making plans for an escalated bombing campaign. Take out every strategic site in the Caliphate we can find while minimizing civilian casualties.”

Pearce shook his head. “The only way to completely exterminate the Caliphate is to wage a total ground war with American boots on the ground. That means killing a lot of people. Some will call it genocide. Are we prepared to do that?”

“If we do, we just prove to the rest of the Muslim world we're the butchers and war criminals they say we are,” Peguero said.

“I don't give a shit what the rest of the Muslim world thinks,” Garza said. “This is war.”

“Then you better give a shit about all of the Americans who already hold that opinion of our government,” Peguero said. “There's no political support within our party for an American ground war, let alone a mass extermination event.”

“For the record, I'm against American boots on the ground as well,” Chandler said, careful to support Lane's campaign position publicly.

Lane frowned. “We don't need to discuss the ground war option yet. I need to know exactly what we're dealing with and what other options are available to us right now.”

Chandler hid his surprise. Lane had just said “yet.” Apparently a ground war was, indeed, a viable option for him. That was the crack in the armor he'd been waiting for.

Lane turned to Pearce. “Troy, you're the drone expert here. If ISIS wants to escalate these attacks, what can we do to stop them?”

Pearce shook his head. “That's the problem. It's all low-tech, low-cost, off-the-shelf stuff. They're so small that radar isn't much good. They aren't much more advanced than the VTOL drone that delivered the threat in the first place. Depending on battery pack and payload weight, these octocopters could have forty-five minutes or more of
flight time. Assuming the same people operating them are the same ones behind the VTOL, it means these new drones have preprogrammed flights, shielded avionics, and proprietary firmware. Our conventional anti-drone systems won't work against them, as we saw yesterday. Short of getting eyes on them early on, it won't be possible to stop them with any degree of certainty.”

Eaton's phone rang. She picked it up. Her face darkened. She covered the receiver. “Denver just got hit.”

“Damage?” Lane asked.

“A Delta 737, outbound for San Francisco. On the ground, no injuries.”

“That's a twin-engine jet,” Pearce said. “Not good.” He was thankful Myers's flight had long since departed for Frankfurt. She was somewhere over the Atlantic now. “What's the chatter like out there?”

Eaton shrugged. “Social media is blank. And the terrorist channels we follow are just as quiet.”

“You'd think they'd be shouting from the rooftops about this,” Pearce said.

“Unless it's a very small circle of operatives. A single cell, based here,” Garza said. “No one's talking about it out there because no one else knows about it. It's all about opsec for them right now.”

“But they always talk about it. They're the best propagandists in the world,” Chandler said.

“After the fact,” Eaton said. “We're still in the middle of an attack.”

“If we can't shoot them down, what are our options?” Lane asked.

“Shut down the airports, ground all flights,” Eaton said.

“That might be exactly what they want. The whole point of attacking New York was to panic Wall Street,” Pearce said. “The economic collapse of Western governments is one of ISIS's stated goals.”

“But we can't just ignore this and hope it will go away,” Chandler insisted. “Maybe the next strike really will take down one of these planes. Then we'll have blood on our hands.” Chandler was angling for a way to introduce his Russian security ploy.

“Maybe waiting is a chance worth taking,” Peguero said. “Why assume they'll start killing now?”

“Because that's who these animals are.” Chandler saw the disapproving look in Peguero's eyes. “Terrorists are the animals, of course. Not Muslims.”

Pearce couldn't believe his ears. Chandler must be atoning for his guilty conscience. He didn't remember the visiting congressman having such politically correct sensitivities back in Iraq.

Lane's eyes narrowed. “Don't doubt for a moment my intention to do whatever it takes to defend my country. But I won't be shoved headlong into a war that nobody wants.”

“Nobody ever wants war, Mr. President,” Garza said. “But war comes knocking anyway. I respectfully suggest it's time for us to answer the door.”

Lane drummed his fingers on the table, weighing options.

Pearce could see the stress in his face. Couldn't blame him. He'd hate to be in his position right now. Pearce felt useless as crap. He racked his brain for an alternative. Something rattled loose. “What if we have the FAA issue a warning? Something to the effect that the National Airspace System is experiencing a temporary software glitch. Keep all current landing schedules intact for aircraft still in the air but stop all outbound flights. That puts all of the planes back on the ground in good order and maybe it won't cause a panic.”

“That's a good idea,” Eaton said. “But it's still going be disruptive as all get-out for the airlines.”

“Not as disruptive as their jets crashing all over the country,” Garza said.

“For how long?” Chandler asked.

“Twenty-four hours,” Pearce said. “We can always extend it.”

“Then what?” Chandler asked. “What does that get us?”

“Time,” Pearce said.