Drone Threat (28 page)

51

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Pearce sat in his office at the EEOB, channel-surfing the television and scanning the news feeds, a dull depression gnawing in the back of his mind. What he saw on the screen didn't surprise him.

The usual flock of neocons, chicken hawks, and posturing politicians all favored Lane's “Kill the Snake” doctrine.

On the other side, the talking heads for the American Islamic Association, pacifist groups, and isolationist and libertarian think tanks all came out swinging against it. Street protests broke out for and against Lane's call to arms in Washington, D.C., and in state capitals around the country. Code Pink, Black Lives Matter, Occupy Wall Street, and pro-Sharia groups made the most noise, but the pro-war protestors fielded the largest numbers. Law enforcement kept them as far apart as possible.

The Russian government filed an official protest with the United Nations, claiming President Lane's unilateral action violated the UN Charter, especially Article 33. They also pressured the rump government of Syria, or what was left of it in and around Damascus, along with Cuba, Venezuela, and North Korea to join them. Anti-American, antiwar, and anarchist protests erupted in the capitals of Western Europe, the largest in London. Only Poland, Hungary, and the Czech Republic formally endorsed Lane's announcement and offered their support.

Al-Mahdi issued a slick new video message on Al Jazeera and on social media sites, urging the apostate Saudis, pagan Russians, degenerate
Americans, and all other “Romans” to “hurry to their doom.” He pointed gleefully at a map of Syria, showing them the location of the city of Dabiq in the northwest. “Here is your final destination, in case you don't know where it is,” he said, laughing. “Here is where you will die, and where the Apocalypse begins.” The video garnered more than seven million views worldwide in less than an hour.

There were also news reports that web traffic on militia group websites was spiking, especially those recruiting new members. Law enforcement officials issued warnings against vigilantism. Local news agencies showed footage of civilian national guardsmen in their uniforms leaving home for active duty, hugging proud spouses and weeping children as they departed. The governor of Massachusetts, a staunch opponent of President Lane during his primary run, announced she would ignore the federalization of her national guard units. Constitutional scholars debated the standoff on C-SPAN.

No doubt the protests on the streets and the shouting matches on the TV shows would only escalate in the days to come—democracy's version of a relief valve. But Pearce knew none of them mattered. Cataclysmic decisions like war didn't take place in front of television cameras or radio microphones. They happened in well-appointed government and corporate offices with period furniture and air-conditioning, by people with manicured fingernails and hair plugs and bleached teeth.

Pearce checked his latest e-mail from Dr. Ashley. Over 60 percent of the country was now under Gorgon Sky surveillance. It would be nearly 100 percent before the week was out, Alaska and Hawaii included. He wasn't sure how she had pulled that miracle off. Lane should give her a presidential citation for her herculean efforts. Pearce wasn't sure how he felt about living in a surveillance state, but he felt even less comfortable living in a war zone without it. The chickens had, indeed, come home to roost.

Pearce shut off the television. The news was only feeding the animal growing inside of him. He turned to his computer. He had a mountain to climb now and few ropes to work with. Lane instructed him to draw up Drone Command plans to conduct long-term operations in the
Middle East. Despite Pearce's strenuous objections, these included supplying the Saudis with all of the MQ-9 Reaper drones they could afford to purchase. In a perfect world he'd coordinate with the DoD and the armed services, but there was no way in hell he could overcome the bureaucratic resistance he'd meet as they each pursued their own drone acquisition and operational plans, especially now that they were on a war footing. That battle would have to wait until after his confirmation. For now, all he could hope to accomplish was to draw up the Drone Command operational plan and lay out his vision for the future of drones without regard to the rest of the federal government.

His fingers tapped haltingly on the keyboard as he tried to formulate the first sentence of the first paragraph of his executive summary, but his monkey mind was in full swing, a thousand ideas crashing around in his brain all at once. He pushed away the keyboard. What was the point? Besides, something was wrong with this whole setup, but what? He couldn't put his finger on it. Too many moving parts, too many players, too many deals getting cut behind closed doors far beyond his reach.

Lane knew the score. He even said it in his speech. Al-Mahdi would never let the civilian population of Raqqa evacuate. Air Force Global Strike Command would unleash holy hell on the city and kill more than two hundred thousand residents in hopes of killing the half hundred lunatics trying to start Armageddon. Of course, al-Mahdi and his closest advisors wouldn't wait around. Hell, they were probably already long gone and hunkered down in the basement of some other third world shithole.

Morality aside, the destruction of Raqqa would be a public relations disaster of the highest order for the United States. Maybe that was the ISIS plan all along. No matter that they were the ones pulling the temple down on their own heads.
They'll still blame us for it
, Pearce knew.
They'll never forget it. They'll use it to recruit more terrorists who will cause more destruction in the West, and the West will retaliate again, and again and again.

How do you fight the fanatical Muslim mind-set? Pearce had been
asking that question for years while trading potshots with them. And the answer was always the same: bullet to bone.

Unfortunately, the murderous cowards liked to take their shots while hiding behind the skirts of women and children.

If they don't care about their own, why should we? He'd asked that question a thousand times, too.

And the answer was always the same: Because we're not them.

And that's why he feared they may win in the end.

Total war was the only answer, he was sure of it. Lane chose half a war, which meant a forever war. Just as many would die in the long run, but there would be no victory for the United States, and the drone attacks at home might continue anyway.

Pearce failed to convince Lane to steer away from starting the war if he wasn't going to finish it. The whole point of getting back into the political arena was to try to change things from the inside. Isn't that what Margaret had said?

Well, he was as inside as he could get. Thousands would die soon and all of that blood would be on his hands, too. “Sins of omission.” Where had he heard that before? All because he couldn't stop the drone attacks.

Guilt like snow fell on him, heavy and cold.

He'd failed his country. He'd failed Margaret.

He was useless. More than useless.

Pearce shut his computer down. He needed to get out of this place. Head home.

And get seriously fucking hammered.

52

Pearce called Myers's cell phone from his car, but it was Mann who picked up again. She was sedated and resting under doctor's orders. He promised to have her call Pearce when she awoke. Mann also assured Pearce that the German government was helping with her security—discreetly. The German press hadn't been alerted to the incident or even to the former president's presence on German soil. The last thing Berlin needed was more publicity about immigrants and violence after the incidents of mass rape and beatings that had been taking place since the tidal wave of migration began in 2015.

He thanked Mann again for all his help and rang off. He wished he could have talked to Margaret, though. He wanted to tell her that he was spiraling out of control. But then again, he probably wouldn't have said anything. He couldn't bear the thought of disappointing her.

One more bender was all he needed to clear his system. Then he'd walk the straight and narrow for good.

—

A SOFT KNOCK
on the door of her Georgetown loft sent Grafton scurrying to open it. Tarkovsky stood in the doorway. His two hulking bodyguards remained in the hall, their backs discreetly turned away.

She pulled him inside her loft and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. He returned the favor.

“I've missed you,” Grafton whispered breathily.

The handsome Russian pulled off his sport coat. “Something smells marvelous.”

“I've ordered in.” She led him by the hand to the dining room. Candles, wine. A feast.

“Before I forget.” Tarkovsky reached into his pocket.

She bit her lower lip with anticipation. “Something for me? Something terribly expensive?”

“Not expensive, but something I think you will find extremely valuable.” He pulled out a thumb drive. Handed it to her. She examined it.

“It's not Tiffany but it's interesting. What's in it?”

“Your friend Pearce. My contact in the SVR came through. Turns out there was a secret, unauthorized file on him. Not many details. But I think you're going to be quite surprised at what you'll find in there.” He loosened his tie.

“Surprised in a good way?”

Tarkovsky poured two glasses of wine. “Only if you want to get rid of him.”

Grafton pocketed the thumb drive. “You said a secret file? Sounds like someone had a special interest in him.”

“Pearce killed two SVR operatives in Mozambique just a few years ago. They want their revenge. Of course, the SVR would never attempt an operation on American soil without my government's permission. But if Pearce can be removed from service some other way? There's an old Russian saying, ‘Never let the perfect be the enemy of the good.'” He laid his hands on her shoulders.

She gazed into his hungering eyes. “I didn't realize Voltaire was Russian.”

Tarkovsky began unbuttoning her blouse. “That's what made him such an effective Russian spy.”

Grafton's flesh tingled. “What about dinner?” She reached for his belt buckle. He answered with a lingering kiss.

They ate later.

Much later.

—

PEARCE DECIDED TO SPEND
the night at his corporate hotel suite. He couldn't bring himself to get drunk at Myers's place for the same reason he would never bring another woman into her home and violate the sanctity of their shared bed. What he was about to do felt like an even worse betrayal than that.

He put up a good fight, at least for a while. When he arrived at the lobby he checked in with the concierge for mail and messages, then picked up the house phone and ordered a steak dinner from the room service menu.

On the long ride up the elevator with the wide glass wall and spectacular view of the city, Pearce suddenly realized the anniversary of his dad's death had passed him by again. The weeds around the old man's lonely grave on the side of the hill in Wyoming would be three feet tall by now. He should've been there to trim them back down and clean the stone.

By the time he unlocked the front door and kicked off his shoes in the foyer he gave in to his lesser, fallen angel. He called the rooftop bar and ordered a bottle of his dad's favorite, Jack Daniel's Old No. 7. It arrived on the room service cart with a sizzling porterhouse and fries. He cracked open the bottle first and poured himself a tall one. He drank it standing up. It went down fast with a familiar burn. It knocked him sideways, just like he hoped it would. He filled his glass again and shoved a few salty fries in his mouth before draining it and then poured another and headed for the sofa.

He never got around to that steak.

—

THREE
-
QUARTER
S OF THE WAY
through the bottle, his iWatch alarmed. It was a text. Bleary-eyed and flushed, he picked up his phone and read it. “Package in the lobby. Marked urgent. Thx. Management.”

What could it be? Pearce ran through the possibilities in his fogged mind but couldn't settle on anything definite. Why bother trying?
Just go down and get the damn thing
, he told himself.

He pulled on a pair of Vans and grabbed his pass key and headed uneasily for the door. He tried to be quiet. It was late and the guests in the neighboring suites were probably asleep, and the management was fussy about noise.

It was hard for him to hold a straight line down the long hallway and he brushed against the walls a few times. He finally arrived at the elevator and pushed the button. He stood there, wobbly, waiting for the stainless steel doors to open. It took forever. He leaned against the wall. His eyes were heavy. He closed them. The world spun on a nauseating axis but he was too tired to get off.

The elevator ding startled him.

The doors slid open but all Pearce saw was the massive fist slamming into his face. The force of the blow whipped him around. The pain in his jaw woke him up as he crashed down onto the carpeted floor. Before he could lift himself up to throw a punch, a heavy knee jammed into his spine and a pair of thick hands pinned his shoulders and head to the ground, pressing his face against the carpet. A needle stabbed his neck and a moment later he was gone.