by Rick Jones
Its interior featured two presidential Captain’s chairs, three couches, matching drapes and plush carpet. It also served as a small communications center with fax, phone and satellite Internet. Sitting inside the chopper’s bay was President Carmichael, Chief Advisor Simon Davis and Attorney General Steven Cayne. As they waited for the rotors to achieve liftoff acceleration and for the FAA to provide prohibited airspace clearance--they needed to fly through a specified corridor two hundred feet above ground--they pored over recently obtained documents and transcripts regarding the senator’s downed aircraft. Latest information put the wreckage at approximately 180 miles due west of Dulles.
The attorney general led off. “Radio transmissions from the pilot of Flight 2194 to Dulles air tower, Mr. President, confirm that the pilot did see what he believed to be a Reaper drone circling the aircraft moments before it fell back and initiated target acquisition."
The president read over the transcribed documents. The interaction between the pilot and the tower clearly indicated that a ‘Reaper drone’ was circling the plane in a ‘suspicious manner.’ The second set of correspondence indicated in detail that the drone had maneuvered to the Boeing's aircraft-left, about 100 feet away, and kept pace for approximately twelve seconds before it peeled back and trailed the airliner.
“How did he know it was a Reaper?”
“He was in the Air Force,” Cayne returned evenly. “He recognized the model and the design. He knew exactly what it was when he contacted Dulles.”
“And the tower didn’t pick it up?”
“No, sir. They had one blip and one blip only, which was the Boeing. The drone never appeared on the screen at any time, before or after the strike.”
“Which means that it was utilizing stealth capabilities.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carmichael continued to look through the documents. He couldn't help but think that they had refined the perfect killing machine to the point where it could neither be seen nor heard until the moment it struck--a true ghost of the sky--only to have it used against their very homeland.
He shook his head as if to rid his mind of the unsavory reality. “And where is this drone now?”
“Nobody knows, Mr. President. By the time we assembled a squadron of Phantoms, it was already gone.”
The president closed his eyes and eased his head against the high-back cushion of the Captain’s chair, thinking. Shazad was moving quickly. Within a period of a few hours he had stolen the Reapers and claimed the lives of 200 victims.
He opened his eyes and looked skyward, to the cabin’s ceiling, wondering if there was a Reaper circling overhead right now with Marine One caught within its sights and possibly drawing a bead.
But Cayne guessed his worry and shook aside his thoughts. “There’s nothing up there, Mr. President. We have fighter jets patrolling the airspace all around us. You’re quite safe.”
But President Carmichael wasn’t so sure. The word ‘safe’ was a relative term that could lead to a false sense of security. How could anyone feel safe when a silent and invisible killing machine controlled by a well-connected, jihadist madman lurked somewhere in their midst? Jet fighters notwithstanding, there was a whole lot of space above and around them. The MQ-10 was too perfect a machine to simply dismiss for the fact that they had a few fighter plane escorts to see them all the way to Raven Rock. Underestimating your enemy, he knew, was deadly, so he verbalized his feelings.
“Steve,” he began, laying the documents on his lap. “We built these Reapers to do exactly what they’re doing--to be undetectable and to strike. That drone can be anywhere above us and not be seen, unless it wants to be seen.”
“Trust me, Mr. President, if it’s up there, our teams will find it.”
President Carmichael held a hopeful gaze a moment before going back to the paperwork. He wanted to believe him. But should he? Could he?
He read the line-by-line transcripts between the pilot and the tower command at Dulles. It appeared that the drone had come from the northeast of the plane’s position, circled it as if sizing it up for clarification, and then maneuvered close to the plane a moment before falling back.
The next two pages were disturbing, the pilot reporting that the drone had locked onto their position and then fired off a missile. The pilot attempted evasive maneuvers even though his aircraft was not designed for any such thing, with the first missile missing so narrowly that it almost grazed the plane’s underbelly.
The subsequent page was even more alarming, with the dialogue between pilot and tower coming to a close halfway down the page, the pilot in mid-sentence before the plane was struck by a second missile that hit the aircraft’s tail section, causing the airplane to commence its death spiral.
The page after that was most troubling of all. Not only were 164 lives lost, but one of those lives was that of Senator Houseman, the Senate Majority Leader. The president suppressed a chill. Could Shazad have known Houseman would be on that plane? He held up the paper.
“The Senator?”
Cayne nodded. “He was on his way to Washington from Texas.”
“And you think this was coincidence? That the one plane in the sky out of all the thousands of airbuses up there--that Senator Housemen just happened to be onboard?” Carmichael sounded edgy.
His chief advisor, Simon Davis, shook his head. “Of course not, Mr. President. It means that Shazad knew exactly what he was doing. He knew the senator’s flight and the plane’s precise course."
“They're that well-informed?”
“It would seem so, Mr. President. They were obviously aware of not only the senator’s schedule--some of which is publicly available, but his actual movements--which are not.”
"Could those be inferred?"
"We're looking into that, Sir, but the initial indications are that he somehow had access to the Senator's flight number in advance."
The president made a spitting noise and massaged the space between his eyes. “This just leads me to believe that the senator’s plane is only the beginning of what Shazad intends to do. I would hate to think what else he knows—although I sure as hell wish I knew what he plans to do next.”
Davis nodded in silent agreement. At length, Carmichael added: “Close all airspace nationwide. Any aircraft in flight are to land at the nearest available airport. That includes all airborne vehicles. Effective immediately.”
“Right away, sir.”
“I want nothing in the sky except our own units. Second, contact the Press Secretary and have him outline a dialogue that the senator’s plane went down, that authorities are currently looking into the cause. I want him to tell the nation that this is simply a precautionary measure until we get to the bottom of what’s going on. But before he speaks, I want to personally look over the verbiage to make sure it hits all the marks with nothing extraneous. I do not want to cause a nationwide panic due to mismanaged or misconstrued content originating from this office. What I do want is to brace them for what’s coming and to cushion the blow, if possible.”
“I understand, Mr. President. But do realize that the national psyche will once again become very fragile should you announce this prematurely. You run the risk of putting things in the wrong light.”
The president threw up his hands. “Prematurely? Wrong light? Seriously? Shazad has our goddamn balls in a vise, Simon! We don’t know where he is or what he plans to do next with these weapons that we can’t even begin to detect by radar. I will not..." Carmichael pounded a fist into his armrest to accent the word..."sit back and allow a nation to fly blind until they find out that we knew all along about Shazad and his actions." He paused to make eye contact with the rest of his colleagues. "Open your eyes, people! We are under attack. And right now it seems we’re impotent to do anything about it.” And it was here that he considered a single thought: How can one man with so little cause a country like the United States to collapse into chaos?
As Marine One lifted and banked with its rotor
s turning in blinding revolutions, the White House quickly receded from view.
“Did you contact the Director at the Bureau?” he asked.
Cayne nodded. “Jenifer's on top of that.” Although President Carmichael thought his secretary of state to be stiff and emotionless, someone who moved about with the cold fortitude of a machine, almost to the point of insensitivity, she was extremely competent in her duties. When Jenifer Rimaldi took command of a situation, there was no need to worry. Unless that situation was a cocktail party, but that was another matter.
“Good,” he said. “When we get to Raven Rock,” he added, “give notice to those within the line-of-succession after the vice president—and I’m talking about the Speaker of the House, the President pro tempore of the Senate, Jenifer, the Secretary of Treasury, all the way down to the Secretary of Labor—that they are to be placed in a secured location. If Shazad has taken down a United States senator, then who knows who else may be on his hit list.”
“You’ll be safe at Raven Rock, Mr. President. He can’t get to you if you’re underground. Even with a Hellfire.”
President Carmichael leaned forward and looked his Chief Advisor directly in the eyes while pointing ceilingward. “If you haven’t noticed, Simon, we've barely left the White House grounds. There’s a lot of space between here and Pennsylvania. I implore you, do not underestimate Shazad. And certainly do not think that just because we have fighters airborne that it’s foolproof protection. It’s not. The MQ-10 is a stealth killer that can elude the sharpest of eyes and the most agile of jets.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Carmichael melted back into his chair. “Once we’re inside Raven Rock, I’ll feel better. Right now . . .” He let his words trail a moment.
“Right now, Simon . . . nobody is safe.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Inside the Bunker
One Hour after the Downing of Flight 2194
Aasif al-Shazad sat back with his eyes closed, his chin to his chest and his arms crossed. It had been more than thirty-six hours since he slept. Yet even in rest mode his mind continued to work.
He had carefully outlined his plan, knowing the ‘who,’ ‘what,’ ‘where’ and the ‘how’ of all matters down to the most minute detail. The attack on the JBAB was coordinated such that all hardware could be appropriated, transported to the bunker, and set up with sufficient time for a synchronized drone strike on the senator’s plane. Up to this point everything had gone perfectly.
But now things were different. Once complacent eyes were now wide open and searching. Objectives from here on in would be much more difficult to achieve with success. Nevertheless, Shazad knew tactics, and he knew them very well.
It was his opinion that the president would be removed from the White House to a safer haven incapable of being struck down by a Hellfire missile, which left out Camp David. His projection was that President Carmichael would be lifted to Raven Rock, an underground facility where he could manage the nation through periods of instability.
He needed Carmichael alive so that he could bring one of the most powerful men in the world to his knees in front of his own people. In front of the world. He would do this with missile strikes that would cripple the nation’s consciousness, making the man who sat upon the highest political seat in the land nothing more than a powerless fool.
Carmichael’s command would falter and people would lose faith in his direction. But in the end, after Shazad had destroyed him and al-Zawahiri was freed, it would be too late. By then he would have shown the world that he had hobbled a giant and by extension the nation he ruled, through the guidance of Allah, peace be with him.
“Shazad.” It was Lut, a man of massive size with broad shoulders and thick arms, someone who frequented the gym often and had the sheer size that denoted a man of great strength.
He opened his eyes. “Yes, Lut.”
“Naji says that the drone is picking up airborne activity--military fighters.”
Shazad smiled. He expected this. “Then let’s flex our muscles further, shall we?”
Lut cocked his head, not understanding his team leader as Shazad got to his feet and stretched his arms high. “Sir?”
“It’s all right, Lut. Head back to your post. I’ll manage things from here on in. Thank you.”
The large man saluted, then left Shazad, the lieutenant commander heading towards the center console that was still being managed by Naji.
“Have you slept?” he asked him.
Naji shook his head. “I’m too keyed up.”
“Sleep. You’re no good to me, Naji, if you can’t think straight. Don’t deprive yourself.”
“I will, Shazad. I promise. But we have this.” Naji was a supreme navigator at the drone control station. On the screen, once he zoomed in, three Phantom fighters were surveying the area by flying in tiered steps.
“They’re looking for the drone,” said Naji.
Shazad placed a hand on Naji’s shoulder. “Then let’s not disappoint them,” he said.
Naji knew exactly what the man was saying. Moving the joystick forward, Naji commanded the drone to dive.
The wolf was wending its way to the sheep.
#
“This is Coven One to Covens Two and Three: any visuals?”
“Coven Two, that’s a negative. I’m seeing nothing but blue sky.”
“Coven Three is also negative. Suggest we move to coordinates east at vector two-five-six.”
“Copy that. Moving to vector two-five-six.”
As soon as the last word left Coven One’s lips, the wing to Coven Two’s fighter jet went up in an eruption of flame and broken metal, the section having been sheared off by a remora as the plane began to roll.
A Reaper drone suddenly sped by them as if they were standing still.
“Coven One to Two!”
“I’m going down, One.”
“Copy that! Go to protocol!”
“Out!”
As the wounded plane righted itself for a moment, its canopy suddenly popped free and the pilot ejected.
That left two planes with which to engage the drone.
#
The Reaper had zeroed in on the fighter jet that was on the eastern periphery of the trio--the one farthest from the group. As the mechanical predator fell back, the remaining two fighter jets banked away from each other in wide arcs, coming around behind the drone.
But the Reaper curved into an upward path, making an arc of its own, sweeping back to engage the jets.
The last remora on the drone’s back disconnected from its holding clamps and streamed forward on a preprogrammed route. It moved with immeasurable speed, the vehicle bobbing and weaving in open space, flipping and gyrating with uncanny ease as it bore down on the second fighter jet, chasing it as if in play. The jet rolled in clockwise revolutions before banking hard to the left, then to the right, trying its best to shake off the remora that was closing fast.
In a move worthy of an air show, the fighter flipped and executed an immediate vertical rise. But the remora did the same, following in the jet’s path until they collided, the remora and its five pounds of Semtex igniting a fireball explosion four miles above the Earth’s floor.
The pilot never had a chance to eject.
Coven One continued its pursuit of the Reaper that had emptied its entire payload. The drone headed east, then south, its course a winding one as the jet locked on and fired a missile. The projectile disengaged from the plane’s undercarriage and took flight, closing the gap between them in seconds. It struck the drone, ending the service life of a fifteen million dollar piece of artillery.
“Coven One to Base.”
“Go, Coven One.”
“We have one for pickup and one KIA. Do you copy?”
“We copy, Coven One. We have support on its way.”
“Also note: the tango is down. I repeat: the tango is down.”
“We copy, Coven One.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
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Raven Rock, the Underground Pentagon
By the time Marine One landed safely at the Raven Rock helipad, Base Command was up and running.
The nerve center was a cavern-like room with banks of LCD monitors occupying the entirety of the east wall. A massive, rectangular table acting as the space's centerpiece was large enough to sit two dozen people comfortably, with each seat fronting a computer station including an integrated flip screen.
President Carmichael had flown in key people from his administration, including the leading principals of America’s intelligence agencies, including the CIA, NSA, the DNI and the FBI; his national security A-listers. Before them, each had their high-definition tabletop screens raised while images downloaded.
“Remoras,” was all the president said, his voice flat as he stared at his monitor. On the screen was a detailed schematic of the mini-drone, no larger than a Bald Eagle. An NSA staffer gave a brief run-down on the remora's specifications and capabilities, filled with words like elusive, acrobatic, and Semtex...
“The first jet never saw it coming,” said Director of National Intelligence David Wilcox. The DNI was subject to the authority and control of the president and required to serve as the chief advisor to the commander in chief, to Homeland Security, and to the National Security Council about intelligence matters connected to national security. He was also the head of the sixteen-member Intelligence Community who oversaw the National Intelligence Program, in general. The responsibilities were huge. And the man who helmed this agency appeared as strong and powerful as his station, sporting a large frame, a sturdy jaw line, and stress lines that were deep notches grooved into a face that should have appeared much smoother for a man of fifty-three.
“When the first remora struck it,” he continued, “the pilot ejected. And then the Reaper drone took on the remaining two fighters. In that ensuing battle, the second remora was released from its mooring carriage to engage with craft number two. According to Coven One, the surviving pilot, it wasn’t even a close contest. The remora engaged with its target and eliminated it despite the jet pilot’s efforts to evade.”