Drone Threat (18 page)

30

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“Thank you all for getting back here on such short notice,” Lane said. Everyone present was seated around the table in the Situation Room.

Garza had come straight from the airport but Peguero was still stuck in California, thanks to the FAA's “software glitch” grounding of her commercial flight. Pearce had commandeered an extra office in the EEOB and spent the previous four hours pulling together the updated Gorgon Sky plan with Dr. Ashley's help. Like Peguero, she was stuck in Texas at the university where she worked, but Pearce was in the room.

Chandler sat between Eaton on his right and, for the first time in the crisis, with Grafton on his left.

Grafton's presence bothered Pearce no end. Why was she in the loop? But it was al-Saud's presence that really chafed his hide.

“His Excellency, the ambassador, has kindly agreed to offer his opinion on the matters before us,” Lane said. “DHS has briefed him on the events so far. The ambassador has assured me that everything we discuss in this room will remain in this room.”

“He's willing to withhold vital information from his own government?” Pearce asked, his voice thick with skepticism.

“Yes, Mr. Pearce. More than willing. This is a time of crisis, not politics. However, as soon as you are prepared for me to speak with Riyadh, I will do my best to accurately portray the opinions expressed here today. But let me assure you all now that my government stands ready to do whatever is in its power to assist you at this time.”

“That's all we can ask for,” Chandler said.

“Have you read the letter, Mr. Ambassador?” Grafton asked. Her green eyes locked with his.

Al-Saud nodded, smiling. “In both Arabic and English. It appears to be authentic.”

“The good news is that there haven't been any more reports of drone attacks on any aircraft at any airport since Los Angeles. That doesn't mean there won't be any more, but our assumption is that they're waiting to see if we'll raise that flag by noon tomorrow.”

“Mr. Ambassador, we have several options on the table right now,” Lane said. “But the most extreme option that has been put forth is to launch an all-out ground assault on ISIS and the Caliphate. What is your opinion?”

“I completely agree. You must retaliate. Any sign of weakness will only encourage
Daesh
to escalate their attacks.”

“What about negotiations?” Peguero asked from the video monitor.

“Negotiations? Perhaps you can ask for death by beheading instead of crucifixion, but little else.
Daesh
intends to conquer the whole world and usher in the new age under the rule of the Mahdi. Some
Daesh
believe al-Mahdi is the Messiah. How does one compromise on one's holy faith?”

“How should we retaliate, short of American boots on the ground?” Lane asked.

“If I may speak freely, Mr. President.”

“Yes, of course.”

“You must put boots on the ground, as well as tanks and guns and whatever else you have in your arsenal. You must exterminate
Daesh
totally and completely, as soon as possible.”

“Exterminate?” Peguero asked. “I don't like the sound of that.”

Al-Saud stabbed the table with his finger. “Every day they survive, they grow, because their very existence proves to the Muslim mind that they have withstood your power. But they have an Achilles' heel. Unlike al-Qaeda and the other borderless gangs,
Daesh
has claimed territory and a capital city. To keep their legitimacy, they must defend the land. With the others, you are chasing the wind. But
Daesh
is a tree fixed in the ground. You must lay the ax to the tree and cut it down, roots and all.”

Lane shook his head. “The American people are tired of war.”

“As is the rest of the world, especially my part of the world that has borne the brunt of casualties and destruction. Nobody wants war less than we do, but war is here one way or another. Europe was tired of war, too, after the War to End All Wars, but that war gave rise to Hitler and the other fascists. The Western powers hesitated to act because they were tired of war. They could have strangled the fascist infant in its crib if they had acted resolutely. Their reluctance gave time for Hitler and the other fascists to grow in strength. In the end, the Allies came to understand that the only way to stop fascism in Europe and Asia was to wage a total war against it. Defeat it in the field. Occupation, trials, hangings.”

“Terrorize the terrorists,” Chandler said.

He's right,
Pearce thought.
But what does that make us?

“Exactly,” al-Saud said, nodding toward Chandler. “I know the murderous radicals who kill in the name of Allah. Death in combat against the infidels is salvific for them. They won't negotiate and they won't compromise because there is nothing you can offer them that is better than an eternity in Paradise.”

“We can get them on the express train to Paradise tomorrow by launching a squadron of B-52s tonight,” Garza said.

Chandler nodded in agreement but kept his counsel.
No point in piling on
, he thought.
Let Lane reach his own conclusion in his own time.

“Right now, I'm taking American troops on the ground off the table. What other suggestions do you have?”

The Saudi spread his long fingers on the table in front of him, weighing his thoughts. “As I'm sure you know, we recently formed ISMAT, an antiterror coalition of over thirty Muslim nations. But it still is not as effective as a single fighting force. NATO would be more powerful but even less committed. The Europeans share your concerns about war fatigue among their populations.”

“What about the Russians?” Lane asked.

Bingo
, Chandler thought.

Al-Saud raised a sculpted eyebrow. “Russian boots on the ground in
the Middle East? I thought American foreign policy since Potsdam was designed to prevent that very outcome.”

“It has been,” Grafton said. “I know the Senate wouldn't support that idea at all.” She felt Chandler's eyes burning holes in the side of her head. She didn't care. She knew her boss was pushing hard for a partnership with the Russians—after all, it had been her idea in the first place—but she sensed in that moment that Lane wouldn't go for it. Her goal was to get the United States into a war, not the Russians.

“What about an American-Russian alliance? Their boots, our air support. A limited action. I'm sure we can draw up some sort of boundaries to keep the Russians contained,” Chandler said. “A shared burden with limited objectives.”

Lane shook his head. “I'm with Troy. If we do this, it's got to be a maximum effort. Total war, total victory. Annihilate every last one of the bastards. I'm just not convinced yet it's time to go to those extremes. I made a campaign promise. If and when I'm ready to go to those extremes, I won't wage an undeclared war. I'll go to Congress first and get a formal declaration. If we're going to wage a total war, I want the full support of Congress and the American people.”

“If we brought some of the congressional leadership into the loop, I think you'd see that they would be in complete support of a war declaration,” Grafton said. “A total war to eliminate ISIS is something they could sell to their constituents, especially if we released the threat letter and told them about today's attack.”

“If we release this information to the public, there will be a war whether you want one or not, Mr. President,” Peguero said. “I strongly advise against inflaming public opinion.”

Pearce ignored the AG. “If we're serious about going to war, then we need to talk about bringing back the draft.”

“Amen to that,” Garza said. “Everybody needs to pay the price for this, including the sons and daughters of Congress and Wall Street.”

“What would convince you it's time to go to war, Mr. President?” al-Saud asked.

“Right now we're only dealing with a bloodless event. The kind of
war I'm talking about will be anything but bloodless, and a lot of innocents will get caught in the meat grinder. I still can't shake the fact that over a million Iraqis might have died in the fighting since Saddam's fall. I'll make that call for war, but only if the threat has truly escalated.”

“For what it's worth, the Open Source Indicators show chatter's up,” Eaton said. “The word's starting to get out on this mess and they're expecting more. Apocalypse and all of that.”

“I'd say al-Mahdi got our message,” Chandler said.

Pearce shook his head. Something wasn't adding up. DARPA's OSI program was designed as predictive software, vacuuming up every spec of Big Data it could find on the Internet and in social media to try to predict future events. A few years back, one Georgetown scientist proved the concept by using Open Source Indicators to retroactively predict the location of Bin Laden's hideout in Pakistan. If the OSI was now predicting future trouble, it was probably right, but it didn't take a crystal ball to figure that out, either. The ISIS assholes were always talking about the end-times. The whole point was to provoke a war that would bring the ultimate apocalypse. Why drop a private message on the White House lawn instead of broadcasting the threat on global social media?

Garza's cell phone rang. “Mr. President, I should take this.”

“Of course.”

Garza picked up. All eyes were on him. He listened, nodding. Finally, “I appreciate the heads-up.” He hung up the phone.

Garza turned to the rest of the room. “That was the DNI. The guy who delivered our letter to al-Mahdi just arrived at the home of the CIA chief of station in Sarajevo twenty minutes ago. Sort of.”

“Meaning?” Lane asked.

“Technically, only his head arrived. In a box.
Allahu Akbar
was branded into his forehead and an ISIS gold dinar coin was shoved in his toothless mouth.”

“Well, there's our answer,” Chandler said. “Poor fellow.”

“He was senior management in the Turkish mafia. Nobody will miss him, not even his own mother,” Garza said.

“Why were we dealing with the Turkish mafia?” Grafton asked.

“Dirty war, dirty friends,” Eaton said.

Pearce checked his watch. Margaret should be landing in Frankfurt any minute now—if her plane didn't get blown out of the sky by a drone on approach.

“If the worst is over for today, I'm assuming we have until noon tomorrow before the next shoe drops,” Lane said. “Let's make the best use of that time possible.” He turned toward the Saudi ambassador. “Thank you for taking the time to come over and answer our questions.”

“Of course. I'm happy to remain here as long as you need me.”

“Mr. President, a word, if you don't mind,” Pearce said. He stepped over to the far side of the room. Lane followed him.

“Is there a problem, Troy?”

“I don't think it's wise to keep the ambassador in the loop.”

“Clay assures me he's reliable and discreet.”

“The vice president forgets the ambassador is a Saudi national and a royal. He's honor bound to promote the interests of his government over ours. And frankly, I'm not sure why Grafton is here, either.”

Lane studied Pearce's eyes. “Is there something you know that I don't? Or is this personal?”

“Let's just say I have some trust issues.” Pearce glanced over Lane's shoulder. Saw Chandler glowering at him. “But it's your call, of course.”

“I'll take it under advisement. Anything else?”

“No, sir. Just had to get that off my chest.” He checked his watch. “The first Gorgon Sky launch was ten minutes ago, over D.C. New York will have one in about an hour. I should get back on the horn and see how the other systems are coming along.”

“Thanks, Troy. For everything. We'll get through this.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pearce left the room.
No doubt we'll get through it
, he thought as he passed through the hallway. He just wasn't sure what they'd all look like on the other side of the wood chipper.

31

FRANKFURT, GERMANY

After passing through customs, Myers proceeded through the packed terminal, her mind still on the news flash that pulled up on her smartphone when she powered it on after landing. A “software glitch” in the U.S. National Airspace System sounded awfully suspicious to her but it was a plausible reason to ground air traffic around the country if that really was the problem. Pearce had left a terse voice mail telling her he missed her and to call him as soon as she landed but she decided to wait because she was running late. The American air traffic shutdown had international flight ramifications, especially for Germany, one of America's largest trading partners. With so many passenger and cargo flights scheduled for the United States now canceled, airport terminals around the world were jammed. Her Lufthansa flight circled above Frankfurt airport for an extra forty minutes before it could land. German customs was mercifully short.

The terminal Myers was passing through on the way to baggage claim was packed shoulder to shoulder. She loved airports. They always gave her the feeling of an adventure about to take place. It was particularly thrilling to hear so many languages being spoken here in Frankfurt, the third-busiest airport in Europe. In addition to German, she heard Hindi, Swahili, Polish, and Italian spoken around her as she made her way down to Level 1 and the baggage claim area.

Arabic, too.

And yet while she was appreciating the beautiful mosaic of global humanity all around her, she had been with Troy Pearce long enough
to pick up some of his security habits. She was never a worrier either before or after becoming president, which was one of the reasons she refused Secret Service protection after she left office. Her first line of defense was keeping a low profile. A big security entourage, press coverage, and official welcomes only drew attention to her value as a target. As for her personal defense, she worked out and was very fit despite her adult-onset diabetes, and had trained in aikido for years, as much for fun as anything else. Back in the States, she had a concealed carry permit and was proficient in the use of a Ruger LCR 9mm snub-nosed revolver.

But Pearce was by nature a worrier, always on the lookout for potential trouble. He'd taught her how to spot suspicious behavior even in large, anonymous crowds. And the bearded man in the dark leather jacket and sunglasses on the far side of the luggage conveyor definitely fit the description of suspicious.

She queued up with the other passengers on her flight, waiting for the luggage to trundle onto the conveyor belt. She was careful not to put eyes on him, but kept his Nike Swoosh ball cap in her peripheral vision. She checked her phone again. A new message from Herr Grauweiler confirmed her new appointment time at seven p.m. local. She was grateful for the respite. That would give her enough time to check into her hotel and freshen up before the meeting. Maybe even catch a quick shower.

She easily caught a glimpse of her first piece of turquoise-colored luggage tumbling onto the far end of the belt, not far from the man in the leather jacket. Her eyes remained fixed on her eBag, but when she saw the man's earpiece, he suddenly commanded her full attention.

She never caught sight of the tall man in the graying beard several feet behind her, pushing his way politely through the impatient crowd, heading straight toward her position.

Myers's bag finally came within reach and she snagged it up. Her other turquoise bag was just a few feet farther back. By the time she looked back up, the man in the leather jacket had melted back into the crowd and she lost sight of him. She shrugged. Maybe he wasn't a
problem, after all. As her second bag approached, she began to lean over to grab it, but felt a strong hand on her lower back—

“Let me get that for you, Margaret.” The lanky German reached down and lifted her heavy bag effortlessly off the carousel and set it down next to the other to form a matching set.

“August! What are you doing here?”

“A little bird told me you would be arriving today.”

“Troy.” She tried to sound annoyed, but secretly she was happy he thought so highly of her security.

A broad grin emerged beneath his graying beard. “Well, yes. Of course.”

“Come here.” Myers threw her arms around the tall German's neck and they hugged. She hadn't seen August Mann since the time when she landed in a plane in the middle of a gunfight in the Sahara, snatching Mann and a wounded Pearce out of harm's way at the last possible second. Pearce had told her all about him later. Mann was head of Pearce Systems' nuclear demolition division and the first employee he ever hired into his organization. Mann was in Japan briefly while she was there earlier in the year but she didn't get the chance to see him then.

“I have a car waiting for you,” Mann said. “We should go.”

“There was a man earlier”—she caught a glimpse of the Nike Swoosh ball cap out of the corner of her eye; she turned—“there. That's him.”

Mann shook his head. “One of mine. He's new to civilian work. I'll have to give him a reprimand for being so clumsy. Did you see the others?”

“There are others?”

Mann smiled. “You can reach out and touch two of them right now—if you're quick.”