Crash saw me and came over.
“You’re up late.”
“Expecting a phone call,” I said.
I knew the 3rd would be calling soon to put the plan in motion. There was no other course of action. When I got to my office, I checked my secure phone. I already had a missed call. It was from Air Forces Central Command (AFCENT), which oversaw all the Air Force’s aircraft in the Middle East. I sighed and dialed their number. I hoped it was the daily call to coordinate something. They always called just after I left shift.
“Hey, Prozac,” I said.
Prozac was a fellow Predator pilot assigned to the staff.
“You know what this call is about?”
“Yeah, hit me.”
“CENTCOM is cutting the EXORD right now,” he said.
An EXORD was an execution order, or an order to perform a mission. A PLANORD, or plan order, told you to plan a mission; a WARNORD, or warning order, alerted you that you were about to go; and the EXORD told you to go.
“You are to fly four CAPs until further notice to support the American sailboat.”
“Got it,” I said.
I outlined the limitations.
“Understood,” Prozac said. “You’re still getting the order.”
“Copy.”
Crash waited next to my desk. He had just arrived for his shift and caught the tail end of my conversation.
“AFCENT?” he asked as I hung up the phone.
“You’re gonna love this.”
The next day, we had all four CAPs up. When I wasn’t in my ops tent, I was over with Frog watching the feed. The sailboat drifted with the current. We’d occasionally see a pirate on deck.
We kept up our constant stare for three days, but Jon came to see me on the third day. Our ability to sustain the four CAPs was deteriorating, he told me. I was worried that we’d lose the constant stare on the Quest in the next day or so.
At dinner, I tried to figure out a work-around, when I saw the news flash. I left my tray and headed straight to the JOC and Frog’s station.
The pirates were in negotiations with the FBI when a pirate fired a rocket-propelled grenade at one of the destroyers patrolling nearby. The rocket missed. In the monitor, I watched as a Navy destroyer turned toward the small sailboat. Then I saw the “shots fired” notice in chat. SEALs in inflatable boats were headed toward the Quest. I watched as they scrambled from the RIBs onto the boat. Two pirates were killed and the other thirteen surrendered.
All four Americans—Phyllis Macay, Robert Riggle, and owners Jean and Scott Adam—were found below. They were severely wounded. Corpsmen tried to save them, but they were unsuccessful. Everything had gone pear-shaped.
I felt the failure in our bones. My whole body felt numb. It was the total lack of sensation that comes with the worst news ever. I knew on a visceral level that there was nothing we could have done to help or to prevent this action. But it went back to our core mission. We’d failed to protect Americans. I left the JOC and walked back to my compound. The weight of failure was much harder to bear than the stress of the mission. I longed to worry about supplies and keeping the Predators airborne again.
The next day, we returned to our primary mission of tracking al-Awlaki. We backed off to two CAPs to give maintenance time to catch up. The Task Force, unusually quiet, didn’t press us for more.
CHAPTER 19
Tightening the Noose
I headed over to the Task Force to check in with the liaison officer.
“We’ve got a lead,” Frog admitted.
That caught me off guard.
“We’re getting close,” Frog continued. “Problem is, the guys we want are hiding in the ungoverned region.”
The ungoverned region was code for areas that al Qaeda dominated in Yemen. The Yemeni military was actively fighting Houthi rebels in the north along the Saudi Arabian border and al Qaeda to the east of Sana’a, the country’s capital. Town by town, al Qaeda slowly pushed out government control and instituted Sharia, or Islamic law. Viewed by Muslims as the unfailing law of God, it governed everything from crime to moral choices like sex, diet, and etiquette. More often than not, the populace was ruled through threat and intimidation as these ancient laws were imposed on them.
It didn’t help that Yemen didn’t allow US troops into the country. We wanted to roll up key leaders from time to time. Capture was still the best option in the war on terror. A live prisoner provided real-time intelligence. Without the raid option, we were limited to air strikes only.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“Naser al-Shadadi.”
Al-Shadadi was a high-level facilitator key to al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula operations. He organized the attacks on government outposts throughout the region. He also protected al-Awlaki.
“We can’t get a team in country to roll him up,” Frog said. “So far, our only chance to neutralize him is to hit him at a meeting. Problem is, he operates in the city. The collateral is too high for an air strike.”
My aircraft had already taken a couple of shots at al-Shadadi, one attack occurring just before Admiral Mullen’s visit. Each time, al-Shadadi was in the open, either meeting informants or in transit. After each miss, he taunted the crews on the radio.
“You missed,” he’d broadcast, knowing we were listening to his communications. “I’m still alive.”
We all wanted him.
“When is he in the open?” I asked.
“Only when he drives between towns,” he said. “And he goes fast.”
“I have an idea,” I said.
“What?”
“Moving target shot.”
Frog considered it for a moment.
“They’re not trained for that.”
He was right. The 3rd Special Operations Squadron, like the conventional squadrons, had resisted advanced techniques developed by the 17th. It wasn’t that the techniques were difficult; they were just time-consuming to learn. Most units spent the majority of their time on target with little or no time available for training.
“I’m not talking about the advanced techniques.”
The advanced techniques taught by the new Predator Weapons School involved complicated computer programs processing numerous variables to include target speed, angle of intercept, timing, and others. Few crews were trained to this standard. When I was in the 17th, we came up with a simple way to make the shot.
“Here, let me show you.”
I borrowed Frog’s legal pad. I scribbled a crude picture.
“Look, here’s what you need.”
I drew the road and the car. I used the pen to symbolize a Predator.
“The striker comes in from the side and flies behind or beside the target after missile release.”
I drew a set of cross hairs just in front of the car. Essentially, the sensor operator had to lead the car just a bit. Just before the missile hit, he eased pressure off the stick and the laser would track back to the target.
“Put your laser here and the car will run right into the frag.”
Frog considered my diagram.
“Frog, any crew can do this,” I said. “They can practice while en route to the target area. Pick a random car and fly practice runs. That’s what the 17th does and why they don’t miss.”
Frog nodded. As a weapons school graduate, he understood the nature of what I proposed and the simplicity of the tactic. We didn’t need advanced techniques. We just needed the right technique to achieve the objective.
“I’ll talk to the JOC director about this.”
I smiled. The JOC director was an aggressive guy. He’d like the tactic.
“Keep in mind, if a moving target is your only option,” I said, tapping the diagram, “this is the way to go.”
I hoped my aircraft would get a chance to sho
ot. Occasionally, a Predator would come home without its missiles. That raised morale, as a shot provided a tangible effect to show my troops we were making a difference in the war. The squadron thrived on the stress of maintaining a constant stare when they knew it mattered.
We launched.
We landed.
We surged additional CAPs.
But it was clearly Groundhog Day for months on end while enduring oppressive heat, smothering humidity, and the choking poison smoke of the burn pits. Frequent squadron cookouts or humanitarian trips to the local orphanages could no longer compete with the heat or the long hours. The squadron took pride in keeping the Predators in the air and on the hunt. But they needed that tangible feedback too. They needed an affirmation of their efforts. Nothing was better than empty rails under the wing.
A couple of days after my visit with Frog, the Task Force wanted our aircraft to sit alert. I was reticent to do this. They were looking for a daytime launch, and the ambient temperatures on the concrete or metal-based ramps soared upward of 140 degrees. At those temperatures, the avionics would overheat within minutes of being activated. Worse, the glues that bonded the carbon fiber composites in the wings could melt and result in structural failure in flight.
I didn’t want to lose another aircraft.
—
Unfortunately, we lost two more in May. Kate, Tail 249, started autonomously after we received a new software update. She was parked on the ramp when the engine started. The maintainers shut it down, but they were puzzled because the ignition and the fuel lines were shut off. There was no physical way the aircraft could start with no power or fuel. The only explanation was a bug in the software update.
The bug was never found.
We were wary of Kate after that and kept an eye on the aircraft. It was kind of creepy having a Predator with a history of starting itself. The whole incident was a little too close to the Terminator movies. Someone started calling her Christine after the horror film.
Kate later crashed while Teflon was on the controls. A thick deck of clouds made for low visibility. Teflon was using the gauges to fly, but the navigation sensor read several hundred feet higher than he really was. His first indication of a problem was when a tree flashed through the screen. There was nothing he could do, and Kate, our squadron aircraft, buried herself in the ground like a lawn dart.
Even though she was totally destroyed, 249’s engine was still running when emergency responders arrived almost an hour later.
We lost Tail 173 when the flight controls failed. We called General Atomics about the problem but received no new information. Jon and his men replaced the flight controls, but a couple of weeks later they became erratic and failed again. Tail 173 flipped out of control on final approach and flew straight down into the water. It looked like a duck getting shot out of the sky. The Predator smashed into the ocean about a mile from shore. The engine separated and skipped along the water, landing closer to shore. Navy rescue divers from the base recovered the big bits of wreckage. The smaller bits washed ashore over the next few months.
—
I also had to deal with storing the Hellfire missiles while the Predators were on alert. Under Navy direction, the missiles couldn’t sit on the ramp. I dreaded going up to the N-3 office to make the request for a waiver. Worm had finally rotated out, but I didn’t know the new lieutenant commander. I didn’t know whether I should expect more of the same.
“I’m Cruiser,” the new lieutenant said when I introduced myself in the headquarters building.
His office was a smallish space in an old French building. The plaster walls needed repair. The cold ceramic-tile floor was slippery with dust, dirt, and atomized plaster. I noticed he wore a tan flight suit as he stood.
“What did you fly?” I asked.
“F-18s.”
Cruiser was a carrier pilot with experience flying over both Iraq and Afghanistan. He knew what a ship on combat alert really meant. He understood what was at stake. I relaxed.
“I need some help.”
“What’s up?”
He was on guard. I wondered what Worm had told him about us.
“I need to stage missiles on the ramp.”
“Can’t do that,” he said.
I expected the response. I was sure Worm had poisoned the well. But I was betting on Cruiser’s understanding of combat and the need to be ready.
“Look, I’ve got three birds on alert,” I said. “They have to launch as soon as our customer calls. I can’t do that with the missiles in the ASP.”
The ASP was the ammo supply point, an ammo dump located outside the base. My weapons loaders had to sign out of the base, pass through security, ask the ASP personnel to deliver the weapons, and then reverse the process to get back to the flight line. It took at least half an hour on a good day. We needed to go when the Task Force called.
Cruiser eyed me while he considered the request.
“Okay.”
Okay? Really?
“Thanks, Cruiser,” I said. “I owe you a beer.”
“You can’t store them out there, you know.”
“I know,” I said. “I only ask for the duration of the alert.”
He nodded.
I walked back to the compound, pleased. Cruiser had a clue how combat ops were supposed to be run. It was my first bureaucratic victory and a huge weight lifted off the squadron. With the Task Force getting more leads on al-Awlaki, I was confident we’d be ready when the call came.
The call came down later that day. The crews rushed to the aircraft and raced to beat the late morning heat. I tried to get to the JOC to watch the mission but couldn’t get there. Hours later, the Predators returned without missiles. I called over to Frog, but the news wasn’t good.
“Cannon missed the shot,” he said. “They managed to stop the car and kill most of the occupants. The lead crew barely missed the vehicle. The cross hairs ended up in a deep ditch on the side of the road. The blast scared the driver into crashing, but that was it.
I sighed.
Frog said shortly after the strikes that they heard the now familiar “You can’t kill me” over the radio. Al-Shadadi had survived the strike. He was the only one who ever did. A hundred missiles could be fired at a hundred and one terrorists and this guy would be the one who got away each time.
The Task Force was still as unforgiving of mistakes as they had been during the infamous “23 seconds” incident when we missed al-Zarqawi.
A manned aircraft working with the Task Force attempted a strike a few days later. I’m not sure who flew it and I knew the Task Force wasn’t going to tell me. The aircraft shot a Griffin missile, which is smaller than a Hellfire but carries an equivalent punch. This shot missed for the same reason. I felt somewhat vindicated that the miss wasn’t a case of lack of talent in the RPA community. The tactic was a challenge for everyone.
Al-Shadadi went into hiding after the missed Griffin strike.
He would surface a couple of months later. This time, the 3rd didn’t miss. The sensor led the car with the cross hairs until a moment before impact, then relaxed his grip. The laser spot shifted to the hood of the car. A moment later, the missile struck the engine block and disabled the vehicle. The survivors bolted. None got far. This time al-Shadadi didn’t get a chance to taunt us.
—
I visited the operations center the next day.
“The shot worked out,” Frog said.
I nodded. “That’s all we needed to do.”
“It needs to be better for the next target,” Frog said.
I looked at Frog. “Which is?”
“We got a lead on number one,” he said.
Number one was al-Awlaki. The entire purpose of our mission had just surfaced. I didn’t know how he’d been detected. It didn’t matter. All I knew was we had to be ready. But just wh
en I felt like the squadron was getting ahead, we faced a new challenge.
—
The weather was changing again. We still battled the heat, but summer thunderstorm season brought issues we hadn’t expected. Near the equator, convection sucked moisture from the Red Sea and Gulf of Aden to build massive cells over the Ethiopian plains. The storms quickly exploded to the size of Iowa, towering up to sixty thousand feet, almost twice the height of American thunderstorms. In the air, the storms tossed hail more than twenty miles. Ice pellets the size of peas blasted the Predators and shredded their fragile skin.
On the ground, we struggled with the rain. Downpours turned the parched landscape into a flooded quagmire. The hard-packed dirt, so long deprived of moisture, could not absorb the rain, leaving many roads washed out. Any patch of dirt not covered by crushed rock slowly soaked and softened into a mudhole.
Then there were the winds.
—
A massive cell erupted in Ethiopia several hundred miles away. The outflow of energy funneled through the mountains, intensifying into a hellish blast aimed at Djibouti. A wall of forty-knot gusts tore in from the south, slamming into the compound.
Gordon was arriving for its scheduled landing. The fuel tanks were nearly dry as the Task Force eked out every minute of target time. I stepped out of the ops tent into a maelstrom. The maintainers not out at the ramp were struggling to close the hangar doors. The security forces tent strained against its tie-down. One of the security forces troops was hammering at a peg as the other grabbed sandbags to weigh it down. I rushed over to the GCS. I knew they were taking control of Gordon.
The night shift pilot, MaDrawers, was in the seat. He was another young lieutenant who worked his way through the fighter track before getting an assignment to Predator. He was of Pakistani descent, which led to his call sign, a knockoff of Saturday Night Live’s Gulf War–era I-Zheet M’Drurz character.
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