Unmanned (9780385351263)

by Fesperman, Dan

  Hagan slapped onto the desk a glossy photo of a clean-shaven man in his mid-thirties with the hint of a smirk hiding just beneath a casual smile.

  “Darwin Cole. You may have crossed paths when he did his Infowar training.”

  “I don’t recall the name, sir.”

  Hagan launched into a brief bio and slid forward a file folder. The moment Riggleman heard that Cole used to fly F-16s, his interest was piqued further. Cole was the very sort of fellow who had once lorded it over him on the flight line, back when Riggleman was a mere washout grunt. In those days, jocks ruled the clouds and everyone else got rained on. Especially the unfortunates who wore eyeglasses and carried clipboards. Yes, this was the sort of target Cole liked best. Or so he thought until he heard the rest.

  “His final posting was right down the road at Creech.”

  “Creech, sir?” Riggleman was stunned. “He made a combat kill in a Viper, and they assigned him to a Predator wing?”

  “Yes, soldier, he was flying Predators. If that Xbox bullshit can really be called flying.”

  Now the man had his pity.

  When Riggleman had first heard about the drone program, he’d loved everything about it. Part of the appeal was plain old schadenfreude. It was deeply satisfying to see jocks stripped of their dreams just as abruptly as he had been stripped of his. He also appreciated the way drone technology represented the triumph of brains over reflexes, cunning over muscle. The very people who the frontline showboats had always derided as REMFs—rear echelon motherfuckers—were now the very people who were winning the war.

  But the longer it went on, and the bigger it grew, the less he liked it. The pilot talent pool was being drained into banks of windowless trailers. The very thing that had once attracted him to the United States Air Force—the dash, the glamour, the whole edgy idea that every time you went up you might not come back—was being bled from the skies, pilot by pilot, and it felt like each of them was a lesser man for it.

  “Creech was where Cole crashed and burned,” Hagan continued. “Figuratively speaking, of course. Little more than a year ago.” The general skimmed the particulars of Cole’s court-martial. “The full transcript is available, but it’s under lock and key, so you’ll have to file an official request. All you need to know for the moment is that, following his discharge, Cole moved to a trailer in a uninhabited sector about halfway between here and Creech. Goddamn road isn’t even marked on a map.”

  He slid a glossy photo across the desktop, a shot of Cole’s trailer taken from ground level with a long lens. It looked like something from an old black-and-white film about a down-and-outer who’d turned to crime.

  “No car, as you can see. No electricity, no cell phone. Not much of anything out there but empty bottles of Jeremiah Weed. Maybe that explains why they took their eyes off him. In any case, sometime before last weekend, the former Captain Cole seems to have up and disappeared. At first there was speculation he might have just wandered off into the desert to die, but a thorough search of the area has dispelled those hopes.”

  Hopes? They wanted that to happen?

  “Then this image turned up from last Thursday.”

  He tossed another photo Riggleman’s way. It was also a shot of the trailer, but taken from high above. A dark compact sedan was parked nearby.

  “The tags aren’t legible, but we suspect it’s a rental, so I suppose that’s a sort of lead already.”

  “Is this from satellite surveillance, sir?”

  “No. We used our own hardware.”

  “A Predator? But wouldn’t that site be outside of—?”

  “Draw your own conclusions, soldier.”

  Riggleman already had. Someone was flying a drone beyond the proscribed limits, and they’d compounded the crime by taking photos. He knew better than to ask what sort of secrets Cole was harboring. Besides, he had his own ways of checking on such things. He would put in a few calls—discreetly, of course—then cover his tracks. That’s one thing people like General Hagan always failed to realize about people like Riggleman. Tell them to find out one thing and they were almost certainly going to find out other things as well, including stuff you didn’t want them to know. Given Cole’s key role in classified ops abroad, the possibilities seemed limitless, all the way up to espionage. A little spot on Riggleman’s spine began to tingle. He picked up the surveillance photo.

  “May I keep this, sir?”

  “You can keep the whole damn dossier once we’re done here, soldier.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “During his posting to Creech, Cole lived in Summerlin with his wife and two children.” Hagan tossed out yet another photo. Nice house in the ’burbs, nothing spectacular. The wife must have been a gardener, judging by all the flowers. “His wife is estranged. Two months before his release she took both their children to her parents’ house in Saginaw, Michigan.” Three more photos hit the desktop in succession, like cards in a hand of draw poker.

  Cute children. Attractive woman. Riggleman’s hopes went into a nosedive. Maybe this was nothing but a domestic incident that had gotten out of hand, and Hagan was only worried about bad PR. There had been some recent stories in the media about burnout among Predator pilots. Low-key coverage, but it had stirred enough grumbling upstairs that Air Force shrinks and chaplains had been ordered to put a lid on the topic. Maybe that was their worry with Cole. If so, then Riggleman’s job would be easy but boring.

  “However,” Hagan said, “we currently do not believe that Cole intends to go anywhere near Saginaw. His interests appear to be elsewhere, and we suspect they are directly related to his previous work as a Predator pilot.”

  Riggleman pulled neatly out of his tailspin. Hagan’s next comments soon had him soaring.

  “His last known whereabouts were in the vicinity of Moultonborough, New Hampshire, two days ago, at a waterfront home at Lake Winnipesaukee, where he attempted to establish an unauthorized contact with a recently retired employee of the Central Intelligence Agency. We’ll of course supply you with the operative’s name, address, and phone number. As of yet, we’re not certain what means of transportation Captain Cole is using. Of the two personal vehicles registered in his name, one is now in Saginaw and the other was sold more than a year ago. It is suspected but not confirmed that he traveled to Moultonborough by rental car, although it’s not known how he reached the Northeast. A cursory check of security footage from Las Vegas International produced no matches. Ditto for the cameras at the likeliest airports near Moultonborough, which would have been Boston Logan and the Portland Jetport, in Maine.”

  Damn. They’d already done a lot of legwork. This was urgent. And how juicy was it that the CIA might be involved? Hagan dropped more papers onto the pile.

  “Here are summaries of the most recent activity on his wife’s home and cell phones, and for all of her credit cards. As you’ll see, nothing suggests any contact with Cole. As you’ll also see here”—yet another sheet—“Cole hasn’t used any of his own credit cards for more than a year. Apparently he’s been living by cash only.”

  “If I can take the liberty, sir …”

  “Please do.”

  “He would appear to be using classic espionage tradecraft.”

  “Let’s not overstate things just yet, Captain Riggleman.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  But Riggleman could tell by the look in Hagan’s eyes that the general hadn’t dismissed the idea, and there was an edge to the general’s voice, an undertone of aggrievement and anger that usually didn’t accompany these sessions. He wondered whether, just maybe, this matter might have a personal dimension.

  “Permission to ask a nosy question, sir.”

  “Seeing as how that’s your specialty, permission granted.”

  “Has Captain Cole ever been under your command?”

  Hagan hesitated, and looked him over carefully before answering.

  “The answer is in his dossier, but your suspicions are correct. What mad
e you ask?”

  “Just a hunch, sir. Something about your intensity, I guess.”

  A look of grudging admiration gave way to one of mild concern. Hagan shook his head and smiled tightly.

  “Captain Cole served under me in Afghanistan. A good man. In those days, anyway. Solid pilot, spectacular at times. Followed orders to the letter.” Hagan paused, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to word his next comments. “But he did show an occasional tendency toward … unwarranted independence. And I suppose that under the wrong influence, that might turn into a point of vulnerability.”

  “Well, he was a Viper pilot, sir. Doesn’t that go with the territory?”

  Riggleman realized by the look on Hagan’s face that his remark had crossed the line. The general, too, had once been a fighter jock. The same was true of most Air Force brass. It was part of the built-in bias of the Air Force pecking order—an automatic advantage for those who got to have all the fun.

  “No disrespect intended, sir.”

  “None taken, Captain. I flew Eagles, not Vipers. And your point is valid, although I do think at times you might be a little quick to find fault with skills you might also envy.”

  “Yes, sir.” And there was no “might” about it. But that didn’t mean he was wrong.

  “You’ll have every resource at your disposal, of course,” Hagan said. “And I say that with full awareness that those of us in the public sector don’t always have the best possible access to certain cutting-edge technology. Sometimes for budgetary reasons, sometimes due to, well, legal technicalities. So I’m authorizing you to be as, ah, flexible as you deem necessary. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  In other words, he was free to use better software than the official stuff, for things like data mining, facial recognition, or even outright hacking, if it came to that.

  “One other item, which I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention outside these walls.”

  Hagan produced a small key and proceeded to unlock a desk drawer. He reached inside and pulled out a black business card and slid it across the desk, carefully, as if a chip of plutonium might be encased within. Riggleman picked it up and saw that it contained only a name in white lettering—Harry Walsh—along with a cell phone number with an area code Riggleman didn’t recognize. Nothing else.

  “Take a good, long look, Captain. Commit the name and number to memory. When you’ve finished, hand it back. And don’t write anything down, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Riggleman studied it. The name was easy enough to remember. So was the number. But he wanted to put on a convincing show, so he waited an extra beat or two before placing the card on the desk and sliding it back, just as carefully as the general had done.

  Hagan locked the card back in his desk and cleared his throat.

  “Should your labors in this case ever reach a dead end, Captain, or should you ever find yourself in need of any, ah, tactic or consideration or methodology that is beyond your reach, then I suggest you contact this individual. With all due discretion, of course.”

  “What’s his affiliation, sir?”

  “I’m not in a position to answer that. But, as I said, if a need arises …”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Now he was almost as curious about Walsh as he was about Cole. He also felt a stirring of self-interest. Walsh was probably some sort of security privateer, and not for the first time Riggleman wondered whether his own talents might be more gainfully employed out in the world at large as a specialist in “information pursuit,” as he liked to call it. This gun for hire. A sort of ground-bound air ace with unerring aim. At the very least, this Walsh fellow might have a few insights on the going rate for his brand of skills.

  Then again, help from people like Walsh tended to come with certain risks attached. Riggleman had always been wary of seeking aid from the shadows, so to speak, and unless he could find out more about Harry Walsh’s bona fides—his employer or sponsor, his usual clientele—then he would contact the man only as a last resort. Fortunately, that also seemed to be the approach Hagan preferred.

  “To be perfectly blunt, Captain, I suppose what I’m really trying to say is that while I expect you to keep this clean, don’t be overly concerned with playing by the rules. As long as your work remains neat and compartmentalized, do whatever needs to be done. Just find him.”

  “And when I do?”

  “The exact parameters of any follow-up have yet to be determined. The loop is very tight on this one. But, rest assured, when the time comes you’ll be fully involved in whatever sort of wrap-up is deemed necessary.”

  The general’s wording was a jolt. Riggleman had only heard General Hagan use the term “wrap-up” in the context of war gaming, when it had always been slang for “the kill.” Did the general mean it literally this time?

  Riggleman swallowed. Then he nodded.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TACO ROJO WAS a tidy establishment with chrome tables and a scrubbed tile floor. It was on O’Donnell Square, a half-gentrified block of restaurants, cafés, and taverns along a village green that managed to look pleasant even under the streetlamp glow of a gloomy December evening. They parked around the corner on a cramped street of formstone row houses.

  “It’s after the dinner rush, so it ought to be pretty quiet,” Steve said.

  “How do we want to do this?”

  “Why don’t I go in first? You can come in a few minutes later, maybe ask whoever’s working the counter whatever happened to that guy Mansur.”

  “Isn’t that kind of obvious?”

  “Completely. And I’m open to any better ideas. Got any?”

  He didn’t.

  So Steve went in while Cole made another circuit of the block. The square’s more rough-and-tumble past showed itself here and there, but some of the newer proprietors seemed determined to resist any backsliding. A sign in a pub doorway forbade entry to anyone wearing “urban wear, baggy clothing, large chains, skullies, wife beaters, doo-rags, long shorts, etc.”

  Yeah, Cole thought, I get it.

  By the time he entered Taco Rojo, Steve was seated at a table to the left, already eating a burrito. Barb’s spaghetti sauce was decent enough, but the noodles had been a pasty mess, glued together like the pages of a wet phone book, and both men were still pretty hungry. As the door closed behind him, Cole spotted the requisite security camera just as its red light came on, activated by a motion sensor. The counterman was a hulking fellow with a trimmed mustache. A clock in the back showed 8:09. Steve was the only other customer.

  “Can I help you?”

  Cole scanned the menu on the wall.

  “Beef burrito with black beans and pico de gallo. And a large iced tea.”

  “For here or to go?”

  “I’ll eat here.”

  “Eight forty-eight.”

  He gave the man a ten as he pondered what to say next.

  “Utensils are along the wall. It’ll be a few minutes.”

  “Thanks. How long you guys been here now?”

  The counterman impaled the order on a spike and shrugged, looking bored.

  “Few years.”

  “Whatever happened to that guy who worked here a while back? Mansur, I think it was. We used to talk when I came in.”

  The counterman snapped to attention and narrowed his eyes. He tilted his head and gave Cole a long, quizzical stare.

  “I doubt that. His English sucked, and he worked in the back. Who are you?”

  “Hey, no big deal. It’s just he was a nice guy and I hadn’t seen him in a while.”

  The man’s voice slammed down like a cleaver. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Skip it, okay? Maybe I’ll take that burrito to go.”

  But by then the counterman had snatched the wall phone from its cradle and was punching in a number, like one he’d memorized. Following orders? A prearranged alert? Cole glanced at
Steve, who shrugged, chewing. He backed away from the counter toward the door. The red light on the camera was still shining as he turned the knob.

  “Don’t forget your food, sir!” More demand than plea. “Only a minute more!”

  Cole stepped outside into a gust of sleet, an icy blast that seemed determined to scour the block of all newcomers. He flipped up the collar on his jacket and set off toward the car, not daring to look back even as he heard Steve coming through the door in his wake. He had asked a very simple question, really. A small, tentative step. Yet it had set off some sort of alarm.

  “Shit,” Steve said, trotting up beside him. “That was weird. What do you think it was all about?”

  “No idea. When the Bureau came poking around earlier it must have freaked them out. Maybe now they think Mansur’s some kind of terrorist. Who do you think he called?”

  “The Bureau?”

  “Maybe. Jesus, what’s happened to the weather?”

  Another blast of sleet raked them like birdshot. They crossed the square and walked around the corner to take shelter in Steve’s Honda. Cole was glad they hadn’t parked on the square, where some camera might have picked up their tags. Sleet bounced crazily off the windshield. The sidewalks were empty. People on the block had started turning on their Christmas lights—blue-clad plastic Madonnas face-to-face with faded Santas, flanked by three-foot candy canes on marble stoops.

  “Maybe I should have taken it slower,” Cole said.

  “It wasn’t you. It was him. Like he was expecting it. The minute he heard the name Mansur he was reaching for the phone. And he didn’t look happy about it. Shoulda seen his face when you were leaving. Pissed, but also scared, like he knew he’d fucked up.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Not sure there is a next move. Not with that guy.”