Drone Threat (17 page)

28

“Time for what? You just said that we can't stop these things.”

“I was just out on a demo yesterday. Gave me an idea. There was an old plan that my colleague Dr. Ashley put together a few years ago. It was called Gorgon Sky. It was based on the Pentagon's Gorgon Stare program.”

“Gorgon Sky was WAPS, right? Wide-area persistent surveillance?” Eaton asked.

“Exactly. We can put the entire nation under continuous real-time physical surveillance from fifteen thousand feet. See anything that's out of doors, including small commercial drones that might be flying in for an attack.”

“How's that even possible? And how long would it take?” Lane asked.

“We can loft our inventory of Predators, Reapers, and other persistent platforms. Some of them are already equipped with ARGUS-IS camera pods. We can retrofit the others. We'd have to roll them all out as units come on line, and it wouldn't be completely comprehensive, but it would be better than nothing.”

“You're talking about Total Information Awareness,” Peguero said. “I'm not comfortable with that.”

Pearce's gut boiled. More PC bullshit from another liberal attorney. Pearce and Myers had deployed variations of ARGUS-IS when they took on the Castillo cartel and the Iranian Quds Force that came over the border, but since then the civil libertarians had shut the programs back down. Even the Domain Awareness Systems that connected
citywide surveillance cameras for crime deterrence had been under legal attack all over the country.

“What exactly is your concern?” Pearce asked.

Peguero frowned. “Putting every American under surveillance means we're going to observe many instances of questionable behavior, including criminal behavior.”

“And why is that a problem?” Lane asked.

“The Constitution forbids warrantless search and seizure. What Mr. Pearce proposes would be a clear violation of that idea.”

Pearce took a deep breath, trying to tamp down his rising anger. “Just so I'm clear, if we happen to catch a rape in progress, you don't want to notify the local PD and stop it because we don't have a warrant?”

“Don't be ridiculous. I was thinking more along the lines of drug transactions and other nonviolent crimes.”

“So you wouldn't want to prosecute drug dealers even if you had the visual evidence?”

“Not without first obtaining a warrant.”

“Unbelievable,” Pearce said. He was thinking something far worse. His face showed it.

Lane leaned forward. “I brought in the attorney general just for this kind of insight, Troy. Whatever actions we take to stop this terror attack, we want to be sure we don't tear up the Constitution while we're doing it.”

“So you agree with her?” Pearce asked.

“I'm willing to at least listen.”

“The Constitution isn't a mutual suicide pact,” Garza said. “This ‘security versus privacy' debate is great for dorm room bull sessions, but right now we've got a real problem on our hands and Troy's handing us the tool to fix it.”

Thank God for Jim Garza
, Pearce thought. The former Green Beret had served the president well in the last crisis. Didn't pull any punches. Myers was right about people like Peguero. Lane had been forced to
surround himself with all kinds of political appointees who wouldn't necessarily reflect the president's best interests. But Lane wouldn't be served by his trying to win a civil liberties debate with the AG. He needed to find solutions.

“Look, I don't care what anybody does with the nonrelevant data that comes in. That's for you all to decide. Maybe we can find a way to put the attorney general in the information loop.”

Lane turned to the attorney general. “That work for you, Julissa?”

Peguero shrugged. “I'm looking for safeguards. That's all I'm asking.”

“I'll have Dr. Ashley contact your office,” Pearce said. “You two can figure out some kind of system.” He turned to the president. “But I wouldn't let that slow down the Gorgon Sky deployment if you want to get a visual on these drones before they hit, and maybe even their operators. It's not perfect but this is about the best we can come up with right now.”

“Agreed,” Lane said. “But have this Dr. Ashley loop in Julissa at the earliest possible moment.”

“But there's still one problem,” Pearce said.

“What's that?” Lane asked. Pearce heard the tension in his voice.

“It's crazy to think that drones are their only option.”

“You mean a conventional attack?”

“Yes. And possibly worse. The letter used the phrase ‘unquenchable fire.' That might be figurative but I doubt it. No telling what they'll hit us with next, or where. But it sounds like it's leading up to something we don't want to see.”

“Best guesses?” Lane asked the room.

“ISIS was talking about using drones as a delivery system for nuclear materials a while back,” Garza said.

“That's right,” Chandler said. “I remember that now.”

Lane leaned forward. “What's the likelihood of that, Jim?”

“All we heard were rumors. I wouldn't put too much stock in it.”

“They could just keep hitting the airports,” Eaton said. “That would be devastating enough.”

Pearce shook his head. “But now we know they've done that, so they'll assume we're prepping defenses against it. They'll try something else. Surprise is their best weapon.”

“They hit airports today. We all agree that's an economic attack as much as a political one,” Eaton said. “I wouldn't be surprised if other economic targets are next.”

“Ports, the power grid. Jiminy Christmas,” Chandler said.

“Another reason to put Gorgon Sky up fast,” Garza said.

“We have a list of key infrastructure facilities. We'll quietly bump up the threat level. Get more locals out on the beat and deploy ours, too,” Eaton said.

“Good.” Lane turned to Pearce. “Troy, I'm putting you in charge of reviving Gorgon Sky.”

“Me? The Senate hasn't even voted on me yet.”

“I don't care. This is a national emergency. I'll have an executive order drafted authorizing you to act on my behalf. Pull any piece of equipment you need from any department and put it up in the air as fast as you can. Anybody gives you grief, call me directly.”

“Yes, sir. But the word will get out now. Has to if I'm going to be pulling assets.”

“Do what you have to, but keep it strictly need-to-know, and tell them to keep quiet for now.”

Chandler shook his head. “Even when we get Gorgon Sky up, we're still just playing defense. We need to go on offense.”

“Give me an option other than American boots on the ground,” Lane said.

Chandler fought back his desire to gloat. This was exactly the moment he'd been driving toward. “Ambassador Tarkovsky said the Russians are prepared to put their boots on the ground.”

“Are you kidding?” Garza said. “Why would we invite the fox into the henhouse?”

Chandler turned toward Garza's image in the monitor. “We can't beat these criminals with just airstrikes. We've been pounding them
from the air for years. We need troops on the ground and we aren't sending ours. Do you have a better suggestion?”

“Yeah. Let's go straight to the source. Tell al-Mahdi or whoever the hell is in charge over there that sand turns to glass at seventeen hundred degrees Celsius, and we have the firecracker to make that happen if he doesn't back off this right now.”

“And if he denies he's any part of this?” Chandler asked.

“He signed the letter, didn't he?” Garza said.

“Technically, he didn't. It was printed on a laser jet,” Peguero said. “We're not even sure if he's alive. Getting some kind of confirmation about the source makes sense, legally.”

“He can always blame a lone wolf working on his own. That way he can take credit but not the blame,” Pearce said.

“If there's a lone wolf behind this, then we need to shake up every radical mosque in the country. Detain every radical imam as an enemy combatant,” Chandler said.

Peguero's dark eyes widened. “I'm surprised at you, Mr. Vice President. You're a trained lawyer. Surely you know that would be a clear violation of the civil rights and religious liberties of Muslims.”

Chandler threw up his hands. “Lincoln was a lawyer, too. Didn't prevent him from suspending habeas corpus. Extreme times require extreme measures.”

Peguero turned to Lane. “I can't condone that kind of action at all, Mr. President. And neither will the party leadership.” As the daughter of illegal Dominican immigrants amnestied under Reagan, the attorney general was particularly sensitive about the rights of the foreign born.

Pearce couldn't believe his ears. He fumed
. We're in a war, not a pillow fight. These people still don't get it all these years after 9/11. These social justice warriors will get us all killed.

“Let's bring in Ambassador al-Saud for some perspective. I think he'll agree with me,” Chandler said.

“Bring a Saudi government official into a national security meeting?” Pearce asked.

“Why not?” Chandler protested. “He's a great friend to our country and a staunch ally in the War on Terror. He'll tell you that the radical mosques are the rat nests behind a lot of these shenanigans.”

“For one thing, Saudi Arabia has a horrific human rights record, and as far as I know, the Saudi ambassador is not an American constitutional scholar,” Peguero said. “I don't see what value he brings to the table.”

Lane held up a hand, frustrated. “All right, everybody, let's put a lid on this. Give me a minute to process.” Lane stood and crossed the room, lost in thought.

Pearce pulled out his smartphone and started scrolling through his list of contacts. Pulled up Dr. Ashley's. He couldn't pull off the Gorgon Sky project without her. He sent her a priority text, encrypted.

Lane crossed back over to the table but remained standing. “Jim, I like your idea. Call the director of national intelligence. See if he can get someone in al-Mahdi's face in the next few hours.”

“The CIA won't have a direct contact. We'll have to go third party.”

“Can we get a direct message to him at least?”

“Probably. But it will have to be all hand-carry. ISIS is scared to death of the NSA, even with encrypted cell phones. That means more people in the loop on our end. I can't guarantee the message will remain secure.”

“We'll have to take the chance. Let's do it.”

“I'll get right on it,” Garza said, signing off.

“Melinda, contact the FAA. Let's get these planes grounded for twenty-four hours. We'll use the software glitch as the excuse. And whatever happens, we've got to keep the media away from this story for as long as we can.”

Eaton nodded. “Understood, Mr. President.”

Lane turned to Pearce. “Get Gorgon Sky launched as fast as you can. And for heaven's sake, keep pushing on an anti-drone solution.”

Pearce nodded. Didn't have the heart to tell the president there just weren't any good ones at the moment. He asked himself if Ian might have any ideas. Pearce sighed. No. Ian didn't.

“Everybody, stay close and expect a call from my office. I've got a bad feeling the day's a long way from over,” Lane said. “I'll want all hands on deck if something breaks.”

“The only easy day . . .” Pearce muttered to himself, his voice trailing off.

Lane forced a grim smile. “Is yesterday.”

29

SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA

The Cool Breeze bar was packed with tourists and locals perched on high seats around club tables enjoying Manhattans and daiquiris and good Czech beer. The music from the small stage echoed on the ancient stone floors and arched brick ceiling. The place looked more like a medieval church basement than a jazz joint. The band was Indian. They played bass, sax, drums, and a sitar. Most of the patrons were talking among themselves, ignoring the skilled improvisations.

Mehmet Zorlu had never heard that kind of jazz before. He liked it. He sat at the end of the long mahogany bar with the locals. He was bald and clean-shaven, with a thick braid of gold chain looped beneath his double chins. In his sport coat, slacks, and loafers, he looked more like Alfred Hitchcock than a member of the Turkish mafia. One of his underlings nicknamed him “Tony Soprano” a few years back. He liked the American TV show, so he took no vengeance on the fool, a second cousin. He stabbed out his cigarette butt in a crowded ashtray and lit another one with a Zippo.

Zorlu knew the owners, Fipps and Robson, a couple of British expats. They were both behind the bar tonight, mixing drinks and laughing it up with the regulars. His sources inside the MIT, Turkey's National Intelligence Organization, had vetted the two men three years ago. If they were MI6 or CIA, they hid it well. High-dollar escorts were always in tow and dirty money swam in their cash registers. Some of that dirty money he'd placed there himself over the last year. He liked them, and their whores.

He checked his watch again. The courier was late. He wiped away a bead of sweat from his massive forehead. It was cold outside but hot enough inside to bake
pide
on the butt-strewn floor. He finished off the martini—his third—with a last gulp, then plopped the olive into his mouth. He caught the eye of Fipps, a blond with a brush cut and bulging biceps. Zorlu pointed at his empty martini glass. Fipps nodded and grabbed a clean glass and got to work.

Zorlu checked his watch again. The call he received came from the very top of his organization. A pickup, then a delivery. Very simple. Only not so simple. “Fail to receive the envelope and you die. Fail to deliver it, and you'll be skinned alive. You and your wife, your mistress, and your sons.”

Where the hell was that drink?

He knew what lay ahead. He'd made the trip once before. A two-hour ride in the back of car if he was lucky, in the trunk if he wasn't. Bag over his head, hands cuffed behind his back, straining his heavy shoulders. And then another trip by boat. There he would meet the man who would take him the rest of the way to Raqqa. A man he'd only met once face-to-face. A disturbing face. Cruel and certain, like all such fanatics. His contact in the ISIS oil-smuggling ring he ran between Syria and Turkey. They had a sort of trust, thin as a piece of old thread, but still intact. When Zorlu called him, he heard the suspicion in his voice. Suspicion that made him even more dangerous. Still, what choice did he have? He had his orders and his ISIS contact was his only hope.

The fat Turk stole a glance at the German woman seated next to him. Wide hips, big breasts. Very nice. He remembered his years in Düsseldorf fondly. Money, drugs, or force had spread many pairs of such legs in his youth.

Fipps approached with the new martini and set it down in front of him. He leaned in close. Nodded toward the staircase.

Zorlu turned around with difficulty. The courier, he guessed. A Turkish kid in his twenties. Leather jacket, long hair, dark. A British passport in his pocket, no doubt. One of the infamous Tottenham Turks, a violent gang his own organization used to distribute drugs in
the U.K. in exchange for guns. His nervous young eyes scanned the room. No doubt he received the same grim threats.

Skinned alive wasn't a metaphor.

For a moment he weighed the option of running. He carried a forged Panamanian passport and had enough cash stashed away in banks in Cyprus and Portugal to live modestly for a long while. He could start over. Even make a life for himself in the States. But he thought of his sons and their flayed corpses. He had seen such things. His stomach soured at the thought and he pushed it away.

Zorlu picked up the martini and drained it in one long gulp. He took one last puff on his cigarette, then crushed it in the overflowing ashtray. This message he was supposed to hand-deliver to the Caliph must be damned important.

Zorlu twisted around in his seat. The kid's eyes finally landed on him. Zorlu acknowledged the courier with a nod, and with a sideways lean of the head, pointed the Tottenham boy toward a door leading to the back room.

Zorlu lifted his heavy girth off of the chair.
Maybe it will all work out
, he hoped as he made his way through the crowded, smoke-filled room. He better take a piss before the car ride, though. Otherwise it could be a long night in the trunk lying in his own cold stink.