Game of Drones

by Rick Jones

  “And these mini-drones, they’re called what, again?”

  “Micro Unmanned Aerial Vehicles, or remoras. Each Reaper is equipped to carry up to four remoras at a time. Now, a Reaper can go as far as 500 miles. But these mini-drones, which carry a maximum payload of five pounds, can only travel a distance of six miles. During the Reaper's flight, these programmed remoras can detach themselves from the mother’s back and head for a specified target, while the Reaper continues on to another mark.”

  “How devastating can a mini-drone be?”

  Casey gave an uncomfortable chortle. “Weighted down with five pounds of Semtex? Very. Or they can carry a specialized canister capable of spraying aerosolized biological and chemical agents over a wide area.”

  Tanner was floored. “Hold on. Are these people are in possession of biological and chemical agents?”

  “We checked, and nothing has been reported as missing. But it's a concern because if they did manage to get their hands on some, those remoras are the perfect dispersal method..”

  “No need to get complacent, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the senator’s plane?”

  “As you know, Senator Houseman was spearheading the cause to strengthen the armed forces, not downsize them, which is what President Carmichael wants to do. Houseman was openly determined to shore up our borders against terrorist incursion and was quite vocal about racial profiling. So the scary thing is that Shazad and his team knew what plane he’d be on, its course, and timed it perfectly so that the Reaper could acquire and intercept . . . The Senator died 180 miles west of D.C.”

  “Along with more than 160 other people.”

  “Between the JBAB and the senator’s plane, the death toll is over 200. And we have little doubt that Shazad is just getting started.”

  “So what is it that you need from me?”

  “Carmichael realizes that this nation is about to be cast backward in time to nine-eleven all over again. The airspace has already been closed with fighter jet coverage policing the sky. We expect a sharply declining stock market. And worse, the collective mindset of the nation will once again become so paranoid that America may take years to come out of its shell. Carmichael has ordered the Press Secretary to cushion the blow with a 'don't worry, everything's gonna be all right' news conference. Then, once we have more of a direction to proceed in regarding Shazad, he’ll take to the podium himself."

  “He’s still in Washington?”

  “No. He’s at Raven Rock, like me.”

  Tanner absorbed all this. Regardless of what the Press Secretary was going to say, the meaning would still be the same: American soil was about to soak up trauma. How do you soften a blow like that?

  “Tanner, I need your new team. I need you to find Shazad and his unit, and to terminate them without prejudice.”

  “Whoa! We’re not assassins, John. We only terminate if certain conditions exist and the action is completely warranted.”

  “I’m not saying that you’re natural born killers, Tanner. But do you think that a guy like Aasif Shazad, a presumed member of al-Qaeda who has the skills and insights of his enemy, is just going to allow you to walk right up to him and shake his hand? He’s not going to play nice. He’s going to kill you, Tanner. He’s going to kill you, your squad members, and if he can get away with it-- he's going to kill as many American citizens as he can."

  “Look, Casey. We’ll find Shazad, we'll engage him, and we’ll shut down his operation. But we will not kill anyone other than for reasons of self-defense or to protect others who can’t defend themselves.”

  “Well, good luck to you, Tanner, if you think Shazad isn’t going to throw punches right back at you. If you can take him alive, then more power to you. I'm sure Carmichael would love to parade his ass around Gitmo on TV. But getting back to reality, I need you to find those drones. Will you do that?"

  “You know I have the best under my command. All I can promise you is that I will give you 125 percent when everyone else out there is claiming to give 110 percent.”

  “I know that. That's why I called.”

  “I’m assuming that we’ll be working under the authority of the POTUS?”

  “Indirectly." Tanner heard some kind of vocal exchange in the background on Casey's end. It sounded like arguing. Casey's line got clearer as though he moved to another room, and he continued.

  “The president has already given me the authority to use whatever resources are at my disposal. And that means you, Tanner, and OUTCAST. I'll be your handler and provide you with all the necessary data to see this through. I will be your direct contact. No one else. All issuance of documentation and intel will be directed from my Base of Command right here at Raven Rock, to your base at the OUTCAST facility. I’m assuming that Danielle will be your communications facilitator in this operation?”

  “She will be, yes.”

  “I’ll need contact codes for your comm lines so that the facilitators from Raven Rock can connect with Danielle. What we get here at Raven Rock, you’ll get there at the Facility.”

  Tanner agreed. “In the meantime, John, I need you to send me everything about Shazad and his team. Including documentation regarding the attack on the JBAB and the senator’s plane.”

  “Understood.”

  Codes and passwords were exchanged, along with private ISP addresses and two-party lines that can only be connected by satellite phones.

  “You going to wish me luck, you old goat?” asked Tanner.

  “Why the hell do you keep calling me an old goat?”

  “For the same reason that a dog can lick his balls,” Tanner laughed. “Because I can.” The OUTCAST Director cut the call by yelling "Hang up!" to the receiver, then began dialing the numbers of his new colleagues.

  A nation needed its outcasts.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The James S. Brady Press Briefing Room

  The West Wing of the White House

  After the president and his team carefully dissected scripted documents from their stable of talented speechwriters, the Press Secretary, whose primary responsibility was to act as spokesperson for the United States government, took to the podium at the White House in front of a sea of major news organizations.

  In a matter of less than twenty minutes, he offered condensed versions of the incidents at the JBAB and the senator’s plane, presenting them as possible attacks that were being ‘looked into'.

  In the meantime, the president had ordered a bank ‘holiday’ to prevent a rush on the nation's cash supply should Americans panic en masse. Gas stations were already beginning to report longer than usual lines, and survival items such as batteries, flashlights, bottled water, knives, guns and ammunition were flying off the shelves.

  When the Press Secretary finished his prepared statements, he called on carefully selected journalists who asked questions with increasingly heightened concern. Guardedly, the Press Secretary hit his talking points as he answered the queries in turn.

  Who’s responsible for the attacks?

  —That’s information we cannot disclose at this time, as the investigation is continuing. However, be assured that the appropriate agencies are working diligently with all national and international resources to hold those responsible accountable—

  —So you don’t know who’s responsible?—

  —Again, we have to adhere to certain criteria when conducting involved investigations. We cannot and will not divulge any developments until all facts are confirmed—

  —So do you know who’s conducting these acts of terrorism or not?—

  —Next question—

  —How did they get the missiles?—

  —What happened to our defense capabilities?—

  —Why are they doing this?—

  --Which areas are most at risk to attack?--

  —Is this nine-eleven all over again?—

  After fielding several of these, the Press Secretary left the podium with journalists c
alling out for him to answer ‘just one more question,’ which he refused.

  In the wake of the broadcast, the major stock market indices plummeted so fast that special automatic market closure triggers were activated, but not until after Americans had watched their 401k's and other investments lose twenty-two percent of their value in the space of a few minutes.

  Bank shutdowns. Sudden loss of access to money. General uncertainty. Grounded flights leaving thousands of people stranded nationwide. It all proved too much to deal with on such short notice, and looting began in larger cities.

  In spite of its power, America’s knees were beginning to buckle.

  Soon, she would fall.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Bunker

  Aasif Shazad was mild-mannered by nature. To speak to him, one would think that he was incapable of killing. Without seeing behind the mask of his smile, another might think that he was unable to even lift a finger against his fellow man. But to know him, everyone saw him as a man who was driven by a persistence to do whatever was necessary to glorify his God. After orchestrating the deaths of nearly two hundred people in a few hours, Aasif Shazad held no remorse at all. In fact, he was completely convinced that he had met with Allah’s approval and now bathed within the glory of His light.

  But that light held no warmth as the air grew unseasonably cool. The atmosphere inside the bunker was stale and unmoving, almost sepulchral. Yet the mood was quite upbeat with the savory taste of victory still very much alive within their hearts.

  Taking a seat alongside Lut and Naji at the foldout table, Shazad was ready to conduct his next campaign.

  “Gentlemen,” he greeted them with a half-smile. “As you know, we have just awakened a sleeping giant. President Carmichael is watching everything very closely, I’m sure. I’m also sure that he isn’t at the White House or at Camp David, either.”

  “You know this for fact?” asked Lut.

  Shazad shook his head. “No. But the White House and Camp David are too exposed to afford protection from an aerial assault. My best bet is that he’s at the Raven Rock facility in Pennsylvania. It’s not too far and it’s well sheltered, almost impenetrable to raids and air strikes." The terror mastermind waved a hand dismissively before continuing.

  "But it doesn’t matter since President Carmichael was never our target to begin with. Nevertheless, our task has become much more difficult now that the airspace is continuously policed by fighter jets. But since we have already made our statement, gentlemen, it is now time to work on the diplomacy front.”

  He turned to the big man, to Lut. “Are we ready to dispatch our ultimatum to a representative at the White House?”

  “You just said he wasn’t there,” said Naji.

  “I’m sure he’s not. But we’ll be patched through to Raven Rock through their secure channels just fine.”

  “I’m ready when you are,” said Lut.

  Shazad patted the big man on the shoulder. “Then let’s humiliate the president of the United States shall we?”

  #

  Raven Rock

  “Have you contacted the Pakistani government?” asked the president.

  Secretary of State Jenifer Rimaldi just joined the party, having been flown in by chopper. When she walked she did so with hardly a swivel to her hips, always moving with a firm gait. Her shoulders were pulled back and her spine remained rigid. Everything about her seemed to mirror her manner—that of a person of inflexible stiffness, both inwardly and outwardly.

  “I have, Mr. President. The principals claim to be working on the matter. Everything is still moving, albeit not at the kind of pace we would like. So they’re now on the clock. They have twenty-hours to wade through their so-called red tape and turn him over to us for extradition.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Then we call for sanctions through the United Nations forum. They have no choice, Mr. President. They either stand by our side or they suffer. We’ll know for sure in the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Very good.” Then, to everyone else, “Any additional data from any of our sources?”

  The collective answer from the leading members of the President’s intelligence agencies was ‘no.’ With 360 degrees of direction no one knew where to turn, which left them with two possibilities. One: they wait for Shazad to contact them through White House liaisons and begin negotiations with a terrorist. Or two: Shazad doesn't even want to negotiate yet and makes another powerful statement with the use of a deadly weapon.

  President Carmichael leaned away from his flat-screen monitor, tented his hands, and bounced his fingertips against his chin in thought. Right now it was a waiting game, with Shazad in control. Even with all his power and might as a world leader, President Carmichael’s once sharp teeth had been dulled.

  Meanwhile, Shazad's teeth--already razor sharp at the outset of this hideous game of drones--now morphed into fangs, ready to deliver a deadly venom.

  A venom for which President Carmichael had no known antidote.

  #

  The Pakistani Council

  Islamabad, Pakistan

  The Chief Ministers of the Four Provinces and the prime minister were joined by several key administrative and military appointees of the Pakistani Armed Forces. They were situated around a highly polished rectangular table. A crystal chandelier dangled over their heads. The walls were paneled with a wood that was deep brown, like the rich color of chocolate.

  “I like my head right where it is,” Council Administer Saj Usmani led off. He was small and whippet thin with a hatchet-shaped face, dark skin, and a barely perceptible line of mustache. When he spoke he did so with a deep and profound measure that belied his diminutive physical stature.

  “Al-Qaeda forces are already making their presence known.” He looked angry and tense, jaw clenched. His fist rested on the table as if he was readying himself to use it as a gavel. “They are promising to move against the government if al-Zawahiri is not released.”

  The Prime Minister's demeanor was in stark contrast to that of Usmani. “Did you expect anything other?" Given the circumstances, Alvi Khokhar appeared so calm that he seemed almost without care. He shrugged. “We knew this would happen.”

  “Why wasn’t I made aware of this to begin with?” Usmani demanded, finally allowing that fist to pound the table.

  “This was a matter between myself and the heads of military who care little when it comes to the wishes of al-Qaeda.”

  Usmani was taken aback. “Are you saying that you don’t trust me?”

  Khokhar threw his hands up. “I’m saying that Pakistan is deeply rooted in religion—that there is no room for the rules of religion to outweigh the rules of Parliament. I will not have my administration bullied by an organization that harbors no tolerance for others.”

  “They will kill hundreds, maybe thousands of innocent people!”

  “If they do, then they martyr those they kill. And when they do that, then the fight of the people becomes a crusade.” There was a slight pause as the man’s face softened. Then: “Look, Saj. We have been afraid for far too long. We must finally choose a side, so I communicated with those in the military and the PEP--those having zero allegiance with al-Qaeda.”

  “You are not looking beyond the scope of your actions,” Usmani complained loudly. “There will be bombings, killings and retaliations—”

  “Which is why I made this decision,” he interjected forcefully. “We have an army of over 600,000 men. We have the means to take back what rightfully belongs to the people of Pakistan. Freedom without the fear of retaliation!”

  Saj Usmani slumped back into his seat and looked around. No one else spoke against the words or wishes of the prime minister. Whether they were too frightened or too opposed to his thinking, Usmani couldn’t determine.

  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.