Game of Drones (3 page)

The other three sentries opened up immediately, strafing gunfire across the truck’s armor-plated body in a volley of shots that forced Shazad to duck down inside the cab.

Zero
.

At that precise moment Shazad’s unit exited the vehicles, took immediate position, and then fired upon the exposed guards with punishing shots that gored their flesh. Bullets repeatedly found their marks, the impacts causing the guards to shudder in seizure for a moment before falling.

As the last shot echoed off into the distance, Shazad sat up and shouted a single command:
“Move!”

Two of Shazad’s computer operatives went to a keypad situated to the left of the doors, removed its panel, and attached the leads from a handheld meter to the motherboard. Numbers began to scroll down the five windows on the meter’s screen at rapid pace.

And then the warning sirens began to sound off—a high, keening wail that could be heard throughout the JBAB.

Over his lip mike, Shazad intoned: “Mabad, Azlan, take position and may Allah grant you all your wishes in Paradise. It has been an honor to have you both serve under my command.”

“Same, Shazad. We will not disappoint you.”

“I know you won’t. You never have.”

The two smallest cargo trucks—those not long enough to carry the required payloads—pulled out of formation. One headed for the barracks, the other for the Motor Pool.

Shazad turned back to his team by the doors, knowing that the numbers on the meter were now beginning to reveal a set combination. The first number was 4, the second was 3, and the third was 8. There were two numbers left to go for the entry code as the numerals in the last two columns moved with blinding speed, then slowed, the final two values beginning to position themselves.

The numeral 6 appeared and held in the fourth digit position.

The sirens continued to wail.

One number left to go.

Shazad looked at his watch:
thirteen minutes
. They were falling behind.

The final number in the window was 0.

The doors began to part.

#

Everyone inside the barracks of Charlie Unit galvanized themselves the moment the sirens went off. They grabbed their weapons and headed for the doors, each man taking a unified position as their commander keyed the radio. “Charlie to Base Unit! I say again, Charlie to Base Unit!”

Nothing but white static. Base Unit, or the main gate, had been compromised.

As the defense outfit readied themselves to push forward, they found themselves caught within high-powered cones of light emanating from a cargo truck that barreled in their direction. At first they thought it was support. But as the truck sped up and veered directly toward the barracks with no obvious inclination to slow down, they raised their weapons and fired, the bullets shattering the headlights and the windshield.

But still the truck kept on coming.

#

Mabad had been born in Michigan, and like Shazad, had grown up under the lifestyle of two cultures--one of his people and the other as a natural-born citizen of the United States. And like Shazad, he had found America to be a land of temptations, a place where God had no foothold whatsoever. People were wanton in their ways, always wanting but never giving. They valued goods and precious stones, flaunting luxuries because it was in their nature to do so. They lived in twenty-four carat neighborhoods, while his people suffered in muddy hovels. And they did this with their God being little more than an afterthought, when they should have been showering Him with praises.

Unlike Shazad, who had grown up in Detroit, he had been raised in Dearborn, home to the largest Arab population in the country. Mabad, like Shazad, had come to enjoy the temptations that America provided. But when nine-eleven happened, he and his people had been vilified overnight, always coming under the sudden scrutiny of government eyes that began to profile members of his community, especially the high-principals who governed the mosques. Though he was a natural-born citizen, he felt less like one as the days, months and years pressed on, the government affording them the illusion that they were protected by the constitution as scribed by the forefathers, that everyone was equal. But over time it became apparent to him that the same conditions, rules and systems did not apply to him or his kind. It was as though they lived under a microscope, while the fair-skinned, blue-eyed kids he grew up with were always above suspicion. At least this is what he believed.

Even though an official war had not been declared on the home-front, a war still existed, nonetheless.

After weathering the storm in the aftermath of nine-eleven, his beliefs became increasingly radical, his anger slow brewing in an invisible vat constructed from the beliefs of his native culture. And like Shazad, he, too, had made connections. When he turned eighteen, with Allah strong in his heart, he joined the U.S. military and trained amongst them, learning their ways until he became a seasoned soldier gifted with all of the tools necessary to kill.

He was now attacking his enemy from the inside.

As he neared the barracks he could see the heavily armed troops lining up. He floored the pedal, gunning the engine, the truck accelerating as it made a direct route towards the troops that were being shored up with additional fighters.

As he closed in, he could read by their expressions that they were ill-prepared for battle. Their looks alone satisfied him to the point that he already felt victorious, knowing that Paradise was only a few heartbeats away.

Allah will be pleased.

In his right hand was a detonator. Neatly packed in the rear of the truck sat twenty-five pounds of Semtex plastic explosives.

He began to apply pressure to the detonator with his thumb.

Then the lights of his vehicle were blown out with bullet strikes. After that his windshield spiderwebbed, the fissures expanding, then cracking under the constant hail of gunfire. Bullets began to penetrate the weakened windshield as rounds zipped past his ears with waspy hums.

One bullet, however, found its mark.

Mabad took one to the chest, his pain that of white-hot agony. And then another lodged deep in his left shoulder, the punch of the bullet causing him to turn the wheel of the vehicle to the left, veering off course. He then course corrected by righting his line of direction.

The truck was now bearing down and looming larger within their sights.

As Mabad relished in delight that he was the one to make the first shot across the proverbial bow, he held the detonator trigger high, and shouted,
“
Allahu Akbar!”
God is the Greatest!

He depressed the button.

#

The truck went up as a huge mushroom cloud of fire before rolling into gargantuan plumes of black smoke. The barracks were reduced to their ragged foundation, with those defending them obliterated into pieces so small that closed casket funerals were all but guaranteed.

From his position, Shazad could see the rolling fireball and feel the shockwaves from the massive explosion. Mabad had done well, he reflected. He had taken out the primary line of defense and created a well-timed diversion.

Shazad eyed his watch: they had eleven minutes. He shook his head disapprovingly. They were well behind.

“Quickly!” he shouted. “Time is short!”

His team headed for an area situated behind a second set of closed doors. Unlike the entrance doors, these did not have a keypad.

The doors parted on their rollers with ease, giving passage to a large room that was, at least in Shazad’s eyes, a chamber filled with gold.

Reaper drones were lined up in two rows of five, ten altogether, with their side wings folded upward. Their bodies were lean and sleek, with each carrying a 950-shaft-horsepower turboprop engine powerful enough to carry fifteen times their original payload ordnance, and cruise at three times the speed of its predecessor, the MQ-1. This particular set of Reapers, the MQ-10’s, had been modified with stealth capabilities, making them virtually invisible at altitudes as low as ten feet to as high as 60,000. They were also equipped with an eagle-eye lens capable of surveying the land mass with high definition, even from the upper atmosphere.

In Shazad's eyes there were no equivalents to this particular stock of MQ-10s. Reconfigured to fly higher and faster with a larger payload, they were the true hunter-killers of the sky.

Shazad waved his hand maniacally. “Hurry! Load as many as you can aboard the trucks! Quickly now!”

Ramps leading to the cargo bays of the remaining three trucks were lowered. In haste the teams moved the drones in a push-pull effort with chains and pulleys, loading a single drone into each truck, leaving ample space reserved for MUAVs, or Mini-Unmanned Aerial Vehicles, termed
remoras
. These could be attached to the mother drone to provide additional weaponry beyond the ordinary payload of Hellfire missiles.

Shazad checked his watch again. They were falling dangerously behind, if not critically so. “Hurry!” he reiterated. “Find the remoras!”

In an adjoining room lit by the soft glow of mercury vapor lamps sat mini-drones that were no larger than birds of prey such as falcons or hawks. They proved to be light-weight and easy to move; loading commenced without delay.

“Shazad!”
Azlan's voice came over his ear bud.

“Yeah. Go.”

“We have Tangos going mobile.”

Shazad had planned for every contingency—for every eventuality should his team fail to perform under the projected time limit. He was now two minutes behind, which gave the enemy time to assemble from other points and converge on their position.

Then: “Azlan.”

“Yes, Shazad.”

“We’re behind on matters. You know what you need to do.” He paused, feeling an emotional swell. Then in a tone that was soft and more subdued, he added, “May Allah see you to Paradise.”

“You too, my friend. Allahu Akbar!”

“Allahu Akbar.” He slowly raised his lip mike, knowing that he would never see or speak to Azlan again.

After a pause, Shazad cried out with a sense of urgency. “Let’s go, people! Company’s on its way!”

But Azlan would greet them at the front door and give Shazad what he needed most.

He would give him time.

#

Near the south-side acreage of the facility lay the Motor Pool, a structure that housed several machine-gun mounted Jeeps with .50 caliber weapons.

From an adjacent barrack, four two-man teams seized four vehicles, a driver and a gunner for each. They sped their way toward the point of contention.

In the distance the landscape was lit up with eruptions of fire, the barracks razed to a mangled foundation of twisted steel and burnt flesh. To the southeast of that location a truck bore down on them with headlong speed.

The four Jeeps quickly separated into a straight-line formation approximately twenty feet apart. The gunners were on their heels, racking the machine guns as they closed on the truck.

The truck began to weave recklessly from left to right, right to left, making it difficult for the gunners to line up their target within the crosshairs.

When Azlan saw the high-powered weaponry directed his way he grabbed the detonator, situated a thumb over the button, and called upon Allah to give him the courage to see him through.

In coordinated bursts, the .50 calibers went off in quick succession, the rounds punching holes in the pavement as the truck weaved erratically in an attempt to dodge the strikes. The evasive maneuvers failed. Bullets from the unshakable Jeeps blasted the grill, the hood, and the windshield. Glass exploded into tempered shrapnel that sliced flesh until the little shards shone like bloody diamonds.

Azlan ducked the volley as glass sprayed all through the cab’s interior.

Allah, give me strength.

More bullets tore into the truck’s engine block, crippling the vehicle further. But its momentum carried it forward, the Jeep brigade closing in until they were almost on top of each other.

Azlan raised his hand. “
Allahu Ak
—”

A bullet ripped into his shoulder. Another hit the side of his neck, shearing out a grooved path that tore through the carotid. A third clipped the top part of his right ear, the pain beyond intense. As his world began to fade away with the purple edges of his sight beginning to close in, Azlan had the presence of mind to do what he was tasked with.

He pressed the button on the detonator.

The truck broke apart into pieces that spread across the property in a deadly radius of heavy debris. Jeeps were lifted through the air as though they were playthings. Machine guns broke from their mounts and bodies took flight. When the corpses landed against the pavement and bounced along its surface, so many bones broke that their owners were hardly recognizable as anything human.

An immense fireball lifted skyward, reaching and rolling until it turned black with smoke.

The second of Shazad’s lines had held.

#

Even from his position Shazad could feel the concussive waves of the blast hit, causing the structure around him and the earth beneath him to shudder. He watched the fireball rise and dissipate into smoke.

More would be coming, he thought. But Azlan had created the second diversion that would see his team through, since the main points of the JBAB’s manpower had been eliminated. The subsequent crews arriving on scene would see the flames and gravitate towards them, rather than to his team.

Shazad waved his unit on. “Let’s go, people! We’re locked and secured!”

He quickly maneuvered behind the wheel of the lead truck, shifted into gear, and sped out of the hanger with the other trucks in tow, a predatory convoy in retreat.

They moved rapidly, the camo-painted trucks looking as if they belonged here, but at the same time, Shazad was painfully aware that no vehicle on base would be above suspicion at this point. Speed and efficiency were their friends.