Drone

by Mike Maden

  “But wasn’t that white paper referring specifically to the targeted killings of American citizens abroad who were members of al-Qaeda?” Donovan asked.

  “Yes, but the principle would apply even more so to foreign nationals, in my opinion, at least according to the Constitution.”

  “So the bottom line is, if I determine that the Castillo organization is a terrorist organization and poses an imminent threat to the health and safety of this country, I have the constitutional authority to act against them?” Myers asked.

  Lancet nodded. “In terms of constitutionality, I would say yes. Congress, on the other hand, would almost definitely disagree.”

  “The vice president as well, I’m sure,” Jeffers added.

  “You’re referring to the War Powers Resolution,” Myers said.

  “Yes, and by extension, the Authorization to Use Military Force that was passed in 2001 in response to 9/11. Congress authorized the president to deploy U.S. military forces to kill or capture members of al-Qaeda and related organizations responsible for the attack. The drone attacks and targeted killings of terrorists since then have all fallen under the AUMF. Congress hasn’t given you such authorization yet for operations against the drug cartels.”

  “Because I haven’t asked for it. Should I?”

  “You could,” Jeffers said. “But then they wouldn’t give it to you, at least not without steep concessions. The hawks would want all of their spending increases restored, and the progressives would want their piece of the fiscal pie, too, so say good-bye to your budget freeze and the balanced budget amendment.”

  “So I have to fight Congress before I can fight Castillo? No, thank you,” Myers said. “Besides, many legal scholars question the constitutionality of the WPR. No president from Nixon through Obama has ever agreed that the WPR has binding authority over the office. Isn’t that correct, Dr. Strasburg?”

  “That is correct, Madame President,” Strasburg said with a smile. “Yourself included, apparently.”

  Jeffers nodded. “No president has ever agreed that the WPR is legally binding, but for the most part, they’ve all adhered to the WPR out of political expediency because Congress is the place where the defense checks get written.”

  “Which actually leads to another broad area of law to consider,” Lancet said. “It’s a question of scale. The constitutional debates surrounding the War Powers Resolution notwithstanding, the president has the unchallenged right to deploy limited force in specific situations. The point of War Powers was to keep us out of large-scale foreign wars without congressional approval, not to keep us out of all military engagements.”

  “So, just to be clear, if I issue an executive order declaring Castillo and his organization an imminent terrorist threat, I have at least some legal ground to stand on?” Myers asked.

  “In my opinion, yes, so long as the attack complies with the four fundamental law-of-war principles.”

  “Which are?”

  “Necessity, distinction, proportionality, and humanity—avoiding unnecessary civilian deaths. Feasibility of capture and undue risk to U.S. personnel should also be taken into consideration. That’s why targeted drone strikes have been so popular. They tend to meet all of those law-of-war principles.”

  Myers and Early exchanged another glance. Still not the time to talk about Pearce.

  “Would the ACLU agree with your analysis?” Jeffers asked.

  Lancet barked out a laugh. “Hell, no! There are as many opponents to drone strikes as there are supporters, and they are on both sides of the aisle. But opinions change, don’t they? Harold Koh was one of the Bush administration’s harshest critics, particularly in regard to waterboarding, which he viewed as an act of torture and a violation of human rights. But when he became the legal advisor for President Obama’s State Department, he suddenly became an ardent proponent of targeted killings and drone strikes.”

  “So splashing a little water on my face is bad, but blowing me up with a Hellfire missile is okay?” Early asked.

  “Where you stand depends on where you sit, right?” Lancet said. “You know, there’s actually one interesting argument about drones. Because they are unmanned weapons systems, no actual U.S. personnel are sent into combat. Some folks think that means drones aren’t technically ‘armed forces’ and therefore War Powers doesn’t apply anyway.”

  Donovan leaned forward on his elbows. “Aren’t we missing something here? We’re talking about an attack on Mexican citizens on Mexican soil. Isn’t that an act of war?”

  Strasburg cleared his throat. “The Mexican government might take umbrage at the assault, but I doubt they’d consider it an act of war. If they did, they would have to respond in kind.” The old diplomat allowed himself a smile. “There isn’t much chance of that, is there? Consider the Pakistanis. SEAL Team Six sent troops into Pakistan without either their knowledge or permission and killed Bin Laden, primarily because we couldn’t trust the Pakistanis to not betray the operation or warn Bin Laden in advance. The Pakistani government was deeply offended by the Bin Laden raid and our relationship with them is still badly strained. But in the final analysis, what are they going to do about it?”

  “I would think the Mexican government would be grateful to us for the elimination of the most powerful drug cartel inside their nation,” Myers said.

  “You’d think,” Madrigal said.

  “Faye, would you be kind enough to draft the executive order I’ve suggested?”

  Lancet nodded. “Of course. I’ll coordinate with Sandy. What about your Office of Legal Counsel?” She was referring to the department within the DOJ that represents the president’s legal interests. That person was always an assistant attorney general.

  “I need as few cooks in the kitchen as possible, at least for now. I’d consider it a favor if you could draft the documents in question personally.”

  “I’ll also prepare a brief on the legal issues we’ve discussed, as well as a thorough review of all the other pertinent issues. No telling when it might come in handy.”

  “Like during an impeachment hearing?” Jeffers chuckled.

  Myers added, “Please be sure to write it up as a national security measure. That way it can remain secret and exempt from any FOIA requests, should they arise.”

  “You know they will, eventually,” Jeffers said.

  “Good, then. I think that concludes our business for today.”

  That was Myers’s signal that the meeting was adjourned. The other cabinet members began filing out.

  “Mike, do you mind staying behind for a few minutes?”

  “Not at all.”

  When they were finally alone, Myers said, “I need you to call Pearce.”

  “I don’t think that’s an option. He told us one job, one mission only,” Early reminded her. “Besides, you don’t need him. You already have the security apparatus in place and the Predators to do it with.”

  “You mean the Committee?” Myers was referring to the national security team responsible for helping draw up the kill list that President Obama used to personally pick the human targets for Predator strikes. She shuddered. Over a hundred people teleconferencing on a weekly basis, debating the merits of each case, like lawyers cross-examining silent defendants and then answering for them. If the answers came out wrong, the defendants were executed, courtesy of a Hellfire missile.

  Myers had inherited the system from the previous administration, but after one tortuous session debating the biographies of suspected terrorists, she ceded her role on the Committee to the secretary of defense. She didn’t have any qualms about selecting targets and taking them out. She just hated micromanaging, so, unlike her predecessor, she left the final selection of al-Qaeda targets to the al-Qaeda experts.

  “No, Mike. Too many people involved. Too many turf battles. Too many uncoordinated bureaucratic systems trying to mesh together—army, navy, air force, CIA—each with their own SOPs. I still need this thing to be kept under wraps and I can only
do that if it’s done quickly, with surgical precision.”

  “You really do need Pearce, then.”

  “I do. So go get him for me.”

  20

  Snake River, Wyoming

  Pearce was up to his waist in the slow-moving river, dead drifting with a dry Yellow Sally for spotted brown salmon, when Early moseyed up behind him on shore.

  “You’re like a bad penny,” Pearce said. He didn’t bother to turn around. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “You didn’t pick up your damn phone. Twenty times you didn’t pick up.” Early watched Pearce make another cast. “You got an extra rig I can borrow?”

  “Reception’s bad around here. And, no, I don’t. Not for amateurs like you, anyway.”

  Early glanced around. There were a few other anglers around, all within earshot. He stepped closer to the riverbank. He lowered his voice. “We need to talk.”

  “Can’t hear you,” Pearce said.

  Early glanced around again. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He waded a few feet into the water. He was wearing hiking boots, not waders.

  “I’m serious, Troy. It’s important.”

  Pearce sighed and reeled in his line. “Fine.”

  Without looking at Early, Pearce marched onto the shore toward his pickup truck parked a quarter mile back.

  Early raced after him, his boots squishing with water. “If these boots get ruined, I’m sending you the bill.”

  “You do that,” Pearce called over his shoulder, hiding his grin.

  * * *

  The two men stood over a stump. Early had a beer in his hand. Pearce cradled an ax in his two hands and was stripped to the waist. An ice chest squatted in the shade near his grandfather’s cabin.

  “So, are you ready to talk?” Early asked.

  “Sure, if you’re ready to hear a one-word answer.” Pearce swung the ax, easily splitting the log on the stump. He tossed the two pieces aside and grabbed another log.

  “We had some bad news.”

  “Yeah, I know. ‘Free meth.’”

  Whap! Another log split in half.

  “How’d you know?” Early asked.

  Pearce threw him a cutting glance.

  “Of course. You still have access to the DEA mainframes.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “As a common courtesy, you shouldn’t be doing that.”

  “I figure I’m doing the DEA a favor. Might help motivate them to do a better job with their network security.”

  “Myers has another job for you,” Early said. He decided he might as well get the first blow in.

  “I told her and I told you, one job, one mission, that’s it.”

  Pearce lifted the ax high over his head. His deltoids bunched. Whap! Pearce cleared the pieces away. “It was pretty damn obvious that this thing wouldn’t stay contained. I don’t want any part of it.”

  “You don’t even know what the job is.”

  “Decapitation. Has to be.”

  Early flinched. He should have known Pearce had already figured things out.

  “At least she’s bright enough not to continue with the tit-for-tat bullshit. We both know where that winds up,” Early countered. He was referring to the Vietnam War, an endless escalation up a staircase of increasing casualties. Americans never won that kind of conflict. “She made a strong case for it. And I think she’s right. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. You know that.”

  “Yeah. I hear she gives good speech.” Pearce pulled a beer out of the ice chest and cracked it open. His torso glistened with sweat.

  Early bristled. “A little respect for the boss, okay?”

  “That’s your problem right there, Mikey. She’s not my boss. She’s supposed to be a public servant, not God Almighty. I’m the taxpayer. She works for me, not the other way around.”

  “I checked your tax records, Troy. You haven’t paid any taxes in five years. You just better damn well hope the IRS doesn’t go all Occupy on your one percent ass.”

  Pearce shrugged. “What can I say? I’ve got a good accountant.” He pointed at the ax with his beer bottle. “Why don’t you make yourself useful?” He took a swig.

  “Funny, I was going to say the same thing to you,” Early said. He tossed his empty bottle into a bag and stripped off his shirt. There were a few pounds of behind-the-desk flab around his gut, but he was still in fighting shape. He snatched up the ax.

  “I’m surprised you know which end to hold,” Pearce chuckled.

  Early placed a log on the stump, spit in his hands, and grabbed the ax handle. “I don’t see what the problem is. You’re still in the business of hurting people and breaking things, aren’t you? I mean with your toys?” Early raised the ax high over his head and smashed it down, but he misjudged the distance and hit the log with the ax handle. A stinger jolted through both of his arms.

  “Son of a—” Early dropped the ax and shook out the tingling sensation from his arms.

  “Don’t break my ax,” Pearce said. “And, yes, I use ‘toys’ because I want my people to stay safe. Haven’t lost a man yet.” He hesitated, then added darkly, “Or a woman.”

  Early turned to him. “Is that what this is all about?”

  “What?”

  “Annie.”

  Pearced daggered Early with his eyes. “Don’t even think about going there.”

  Baneh, Iran

  August 24, 2005

  A fertilizer warehouse squatted in the western district of the city, a converted American army Quonset hut from the ’50s. Electric light glowed beneath the wooden side doors and from behind the shuttered windows. There were no other lights on in the area. There was a quarter moon that night, but no street lamps. At least none that worked. The small regional capital of seventy thousand people was just across the border from Iraq.

  Troy, Mike, and Annie had worked their way to the warehouse by foot after traveling overland from Iraq in a battered 1979 Toyota Land Cruiser, a common vehicle in these parts. They dressed like civilian day laborers but wore soft Kevlar vests beneath their cotton shirts. Annie wore a keffiyeh to hide her face and hair.

  Annie peeked through a gap in the warehouse window shutter while Troy and Mike stood guard. She counted seven stolen 155mm artillery shells, huge and lethal, lined up along the far wall. One of the American-made shells was lying on a table like a surgical patient surrounded by three Quds Force technicians. They were connecting wires to detonators and a remote control.

  The only locals on the street were a couple of wild dogs feeding on a bag of garbage lying in the gutter, too famished to pay attention to strangers.

  Annie flashed hand signals. Mike gently tried the handle on a side door. He signaled with a nod that it was unlocked. Troy pulled out two flash bangs, and Annie slid her short-stock MP5 9mm submachine gun into firing position. She knew it was better to not fire her weapon if at all possible. Just one of those 155mm shells was powerful enough to flatten the entire block.

  Troy nodded to Mike, who cracked the door open just enough for Troy to toss in the two flash bangs. Mike shut the door. The charges cracked sharply on the concrete floor in the large open room—perfect for flash bangs. Nowhere to hide when they went off.

  Troy dashed in first in a low crouch, a suppressed 9mm Glock in his hand. Mike followed in right behind him, pistol drawn, while Annie stayed put, scanning the perimeter behind them. She watched the dogs skitter away, frightened by the flash bangs. When she was certain it was all clear, she made her way inside the building.

  Annie turned the corner into the doorway just in time to see Mike and Troy popping caps into the heads of two unconscious men slumped on the floor. The three bomb makers were the actual targets; they were far more lethal than the ordnance in the room.

  “Clock’s ticking,” Annie said. Her voice distorted by a slight electronic buzz in the microphone.

  “I’m killing as fast as I can,” Troy said as he put a slug into the temple of the last technician. They all agre
ed it would have been better to bring at least one back for interrogation, but there was no way they could pull off an extraction with such limited resources.

  “Wish there’d been ten more of ’em,” Mike said.

  Annie pointed at the detonators, r/c units, timers, and motherboards on the table. “Grab those. Evidence.”

  “Roger that,” Mike replied. He opened up his rucksack and started loading them in.

  Troy scooted over to the far wall where the artillery shells were lined up. He slapped a wad of C4 onto three of them, then ran wires to a digital timer and set it. By blowing the ordnance, it would appear as if the Iranian technicians had accidentally killed themselves.

  “Three minutes,” he said.

  Annie stepped back over to the door and sighted her weapon in the direction they’d come in from. Early scooped up the last detonators and remote-control units.

  “Damn it!” Annie shouted.

  Troy whipped around just in time to see a hand grenade bounce onto the concrete floor. It was halfway between her and Mike. Troy was still on the other side of the room.

  Like in every bad war movie Troy had ever seen, time slowed to a near crawl. It was the adrenaline kicking in, heightening his senses.

  Annie glanced up at him. Her bright eyes locked with his for an eternity.

  For a second.

  She smiled.

  And then she whispered, “It was a ring.”

  The ring that was still in Troy’s pocket.

  Before Troy could react, Annie took three slow bounding steps toward the grenade.

  Troy shouted for her to stop. Bullets shattered the door and spanged on the sheet-metal wall curving above his head.

  Annie leaped onto the hand grenade. A muffled thump. Her body bounced a few inches into the air.

  Troy’s senses recovered. The shit was hitting the fan in real time now.

  He raced over to Annie. A Quds soldier stepped into the doorway, an AK-47 sloped in Mike’s direction. Troy raised his pistol and shot the man in the throat, just below his scraggly beard. The AK-47 clattered to the floor. The fighter crumpled to his knees, grasping at his neck, choking on his own blood.