Game of Drones (10 page)

At length, he posed a question. “How can we fight the faceless? Al-Qaeda looks like everyone else we pass on the street.”

Khokhar was quick to answer. “I didn’t say it was going to be easy, Saj. But it will be a battle that we will win in the end. And we will not be alone, either. America has offered their assistance with intelligence matters to help weed them out. We will find them.”

“Sure we will. Right after the Parliament House Building is burned to the ground. But that’s not the point. With all due respect, Mr. Prime Minister, we are still a political body who rules by majority, not by the selected few.”

“I agree,” said Usman Faroogi, a leading council member of the Fourth Province. “This should have been proposed before the council.”

Usmani said, “The constitution gives me the right as Chief Administrator to address any concerns that are not a declaration of war
without
the approval of certain council members. So there lies the path that I have chosen for the good of Pakistan. We will no longer be the fulcrum that supports a lever of indecision. We have been under the microscopic eye of international opinion for so long that we are too weak to act. So now we
will
act by siding with the world rather than becoming a pariah.”

“The streets of Islamabad will run red with the blood of its people if al-Zawahiri is not released!” Usmani's eyes radiated outrage.

The prime minister responded in kind. “This government will no longer be held hostage by the threats of al-Qaeda! Not anymore. If a battle is to be waged, then so be it. The road to freedom is always paved with casualties. This we know. I have spoken with the military principals who agree with my choice, and they are onboard to guard this nation against any hostile threats.”

The muscles in the back of Saj Usmani’s jaw worked. “A bold decision, to be sure,” he finally said. “But ultimately an unwise one, as well.”

“Support me or not, Saj. It matters little. But Zawahiri will be offered to the Americans within the next twenty-four hours.”

“And on the twenty-fifth hour, Mr. Prime Minister, people will die and cities will burn.”

“I think you overestimate their abilities."

“We shall see.”

In haste, an action which the prime minister attributed to anger, Saj Usmani yanked his briefcase from the table and exited the meeting hall.

#

Saj Usmani was so incensed that he placed a call via satellite phone while descending the steps of the Parliament House Building. The voice on the other end was electronically masked, but the men knew each other without resorting to using names.

“Problems?”

“Timeframe just moved up a bit,” said Usmani. “Al-Zawahiri is to be turned over to the Americans within the next twenty-four hours.”

“Understood.”

“Act quickly. Zawahiri must never get into their hands.”

“Don’t fret,”
said the voice.
“America will have much more to worry about than al-Zawahiri come the next few hours. Trust me.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” Usmani pressed the End Call button. Although he was not al-Qaeda, Saj Usmani was definitely a sympathizer, one of many within the Pakistani Council who had condemned America’s raid against Osama bin Laden. He had demanded that action be taken against the U.S by international congresses, a demand that fell upon deaf ears. America was untouchable.

Slipping the sat-phone into the inner pocket of his suit, Usmani got into a chauffeur-driven vehicle, closed the door, and stewed as the limo pulled away with the Parliament House Building falling behind.

#

Shazad stared at the sat-phone in his hand for a long moment after Usmani severed ties. The voice, like his, was masked, even though the chances of the call being intercepted were nil. But prudence reigned.

Pocketing the phone, Shazad went to bunker’s main room and addressed everyone in a manner that was clipped and authoritative.

“The calendar has moved up. It appears that al-Zawahiri is to be transferred to American authorities within twenty-four hours. Therefore, we must be diligent by pressing
our
needs upon the government.”

He turned to his big man, to Lut, and addressed him directly in a commanding tone. “Gear up a Reaper with two Hellfires and four minis. Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

To Naji: “I want lift-off within twenty minutes. Two targets from the payload of one drone. You know the targets, you know the coordinates.” Then with emphasis: “
Two
targets,
one
flight trajectory. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

Then he murmured to himself, “I think it’s time to make a phone call."

In light of the accelerated timetable, it was time to contact President Carmichael and set his terms--terms that would be underscored by the power he wielded at his fingertips.

Chance Zanetti was labeled a ‘pretty boy’ with raven hair--hair that when he moved a certain way under the light, illuminated natural blue wreaths that danced along the crown of his head. But his most memorable physical feature were his piercing blue eyes. They were highly electric, as if incandescent. When he smiled he did so with ruler-straight teeth. Yet for all his GQ model looks, Chance Zanetti was also a former soldier with sixteen confirmed kills to his name.

Naomi ‘Nay’ Washington was exceedingly beautiful, with an exotic appearance, having a short-styled haircut to frame her pixie-like face. She was African-American with long legs and an hourglass figure. Her skin was the color of deep cocoa. Her eyes shined like newly-minted pennies.

Together, they looked the part of a perfect couple. And they were in fact deeply in love, having fashioned a relationship for more than a year with Chance finally punctuating their courtship with a diamond ring the night before. A wedding date had yet to be set, however.

Although they had been lying awake for a while, they remained in bed with Nay holding her fingers up to appraise the diamond from every angle. This was something she had always wanted, a marquis-style gemstone. She had never been so happy.

“You like?”

Her smile broadened. “I like.”

She leaned over and kissed him. First on the cheek, then on his lips, both working into each other’s embrace, and then into a sexual frenzy until the phone rang.

The answering machine clicked on.

It was Tanner.

“Chance.”
No response.

“Chance! Pick up. I know you’re there.”

Chance clicked his tongue, rolled over and grabbed the phone. “What?”

“Is Nay with you?”

He turned to her. Her smile was still there. Her face so beautiful. “No,” he said.

“Liar. I need the both of you to get your clothes on and get down here.”

He sat up. “Why? What’s up?”

“We’re active,”
he said.
“Highest level.”

Chance didn’t know what to say. The ‘highest level’ meant Tier One, which indicated that the order was coming down from the highest political seat in the land. “You’re kidding?”

“No way.”
In a condensed version of the facts, Tanner told him what he knew about the JBAB and the senator’s plane, and how they were connected. When everyone was gathered at headquarters, he would deliver a thorough briefing.

“Twenty minutes,” he told him, then hung up.

Chance turned to Naomi, who had a questioning look. “Get ready,” he told her.

“Are we active?”

He nodded. “At the highest level.”

“Who’s our handler?”

“Tanner wouldn’t say,” he told her. “But it’s obviously top tier.”

She had more questions, to all of which he either had no answers, or answers that were skinny in detail because he didn’t know that much himself.

But in time, they would know everything.

#

Dante Alvarez was six sheets to the wind from his binge the night before. He was lying in bed with half his body on the mattress, the other half on the floor. Apparently he failed in his endeavors to unclothe himself with his shirt having been removed from one arm only with most of the fabric wrapped around his neck like a scarf. His pants only made it to his knees.

When the phone rang he pressed his hands to his ears. “Go . . . away!”

But the phone continued to ring.

“Go—”

He heard his voicemail recording play and then a male voice leaving a message.
“Dante, it’s Tanner. We’re active. I need you to report now. We have been ordered from the highest level. I'll say it again. We have—”

Alvarez reached out and picked up the phone. “Tanner. Situation, huh?” He sounded not quite sober, but not quite drunk, either.

“Have you been drinking?”

Alvarez brought a cupped hand to his mouth and breathed into it as if trying to smell his own alcohol-laden breath. “Nah,” he finally said. “You just woke me up, that’s all.”

“Highest level, Dante. I’ll fill you in when you get here. How soon?”

He looked around his apartment. That must have been some bender, he thought. The place looked like it was hit by a cyclone, and it was immaculate before he hit the bars. He looked over at the mattress, hoping to see a female companion of unknown name. But the bed was empty
. Struck out again
.

“Steve! How soon before you get here?”

“Give me an hour.”

“You have thirty minutes.”

Tanner disconnected.

#

Danielle Sunderland sat at her computer, doing what she'd been doing every day in recent years--trawling databases in an attempt to locate her son. The young boy had been taken by his biological father during the course of a very ugly divorce situation years ago. Since then, she had suffered repeated failures to locate them, their tracks always proving cold. Right now she was testing the veracity of a website that, for a fee, could age-progress a scanned photo of a child. In her eyes he was the handsomest boy that she had ever seen. At age fourteen, if the progression was true, he would have his father’s eyes, nose and ears, and her chin and brow, the combination giving him the features of a strong, young man.

She pined for him as a mother would, longing to embrace her child once again. But even more so, and deep down, she prayed that he would never forget her, always afraid that she had become nothing more than a vague memory to him.

She was taken from her dark thoughts when the phone rang. The caller ID read: TANNER WILSON.

She picked it up. “Hi, Tanner.” Her voice was thick with emotion.

“Danielle, is everything all right?”

“I’m fine. What’s up?”

“We’re active. I need you down here ASAP.”

“Give me twenty minutes.”

“You got it.”

The line went dead.

#

After having written a bestselling book about his membership in SEAL Team 6 on the night they killed Osama bin Laden, Liam Reilly was dismissed from the unit on charges of dishonor because no one
ever
described a team’s undertaking in detail. Especially in a mass-market way that could reach millions of readers. But in the end he had chosen exile, resulting in debasing tags such as ‘disloyal’ and ‘dishonorable,’ terms that wounded him deeply—even now, long after having been released from SEAL Team 6.

Liam was at a martial arts studio practicing his moves against three opponents. Moving to his left and setting his feet, he waited for his challengers to attack as they fanned out.

They circled around him, cautiously, and eventually formed a triangle, the men positioning themselves from all angles.

Then they attacked.

Liam kicked a leg out behind him, striking the first man in the solar plexus and sending him to the floor with his hand to his chest. He then went after the man in front of him, striking him repeatedly in the chest with continuous hammer blows that moved with the blinding speed of pistons—left, right, left, right, left, right—until the man went down. With fluid motion he turned to his last opponent and, as the man struck out at him, Liam grabbed the man’s hand, torqued it and raised it high, then kicked his feet out from under him. The fighter landed hard on the mat as Liam continued through with feigned blows to the man’s face.

And just like that it was over. He had taken out three men in less than thirty seconds.

“Liam!” The office manager stuck his head out into the studio, holding up a phone. “You got a call.”

Liam helped the men to their feet, patted them on the back, and went to the office where the phone was lying on top of the desk. “This is Liam.”

“Hey.”

Liam recognized the voice as Tanner’s. “What’s up?”

The OUTCAST leader spoke in terse, all-business bursts. “We’re active. The team’s assembling. I need you here now. No questions on this line. I’ll brief you when you get here. But I will say this: It’s top priority coming from the highest level.”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

“See you then.”

Liam hung up the phone and left the facility still in his martial arts attire.

#

Stephen Shah had almost finished tying a fishing fly to a line with a complex knot he'd been trying to master when he got the call. He was wearing a pocket vest, a boonie cap with fly-fishing lures attached, and hip waders.

Trying to keep his knot from coming unraveled with one hand while he flipped open the phone with the other, he said, “Yeah.”

“Steve?”

“Speaking.” He grimaced as he felt the knot loosening under the control of only one hand. He held the phone away from his ear long enough to switch it to speaker mode and then lay it on the table, freeing both hands to work on the lure.

“It’s Tanner.”

“Hey, man, what’s up?” He patiently threaded his line.

“Listen. I need your presence here right away. We’re active. And so that you know, this is top-level.”

“How top?”

“The highest priority.”

“On my way.”