Raven Strike d-13

by Dale Brown

  Raven Strike

  ( Dreamland - 13 )

  Dale Brown

  Jim Defelice

  The mission is classified… and illegal

  In the blistering heat of the Sudan, the CIA has gone rogue. On the trail of a notorious terrorist, Agency operatives have overstepped their sanctioned boundaries. And now the ultimate weapon has fallen into the wrong hands.

  As Danny Freah and his spec-ops team scramble to recover a top secret aircraft that has crashed in Africa, Whiplash Director Jonathon Reid finds himself mysteriously shut off from information about the robot drone and its mission. Maneuvering through the twisted back corridors of the CIA and Washington's power elite, Reid discovers secrets both illegal and highly dangerous ― a virtually unstoppable assassin and an out-of-control clique within the Agency.

  Torn between loyalty and conscience, Reid must find a way to alert the President and avert a national disaster. But with the Whiplash team caught in the chaos of a brutal African civil war and CIA officials desperate to keep Reid from telling what he knows, a monster re-emerges to target its creators…

  Dale Brown, Jim DeFelice

  Raven Strike

  Whiplash: Duty Roster

  Lieutenant General (Ret.) Harold Magnus

  Magnus once supervised Dreamland from afar. With Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian as its on-the-scene commander, the organization succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Now as deputy secretary of defense, Magnus hopes to repeat those successes with Whiplash. His handpicked commander: Bastian’s daughter, Breanna Stockard.

  Breanna Stockard

  After retiring from the U.S. Air Force to raise her daughter and help her husband’s political career, Breanna found herself bored with home life. She was lured back to a job supervising the development of high-tech wizardry under a combined CIA and Pentagon program. But will she be happy behind a desk when her agents are in trouble?

  Jeff “Zen” Stockard

  Now a U.S. Senator, Zen still keeps a close eye on national security matters — and his wife.

  Jonathon Reid

  Reid’s official title is Special Assistant to the Deputy Director Operations, CIA. Unofficially, he’s the go-to-guy for all black projects, the dirtier the better. He knows how to get around agency politics. More important, he knows where all the agency’s bodies are buried — he buried half of them himself.

  Colonel Danny Freah

  Fifteen years ago Danny Freah won the Medal of Honor for service far beyond the call of duty. Thrust back into action as the head of a reconstituted and reshaped Whiplash team, he wonders if he still has what it takes to lead men and women into battle.

  Nuri Abaajmed Lupo

  Top CIA operative Nuri Lupo is used to working on his own. Now the young CIA officer has to adjust to working with a quasi-military team — at least half of whom he can’t stand.

  Chief Master Sergeant Ben “Boston” Rockland

  Boston finds himself shepherding a group of young CIA officers and special operations warriors across three continents. To do it successfully, he has to be part crusty old dog and part father figure.

  Captain Turk Mako

  An Air Force pilot on special assignment to the Pentagon, Turk Mako thinks of himself as the last of a breed. Real live fighter jocks are being rapidly replaced by “back home boys”—pilots who control unmanned aircraft from hangars in the States. Mako is out to prove neither he nor his profession is obsolete.

  Al “Greasy Hands” Parsons

  Once responsible for the teams that kept Dreamland’s top aircraft in shape, the former chief master sergeant is now Breanna Stockard’s right-hand graybeard and fixer.

  Raven

  Chapter 1

  Southeastern Sudan, Africa

  It felt as if God himself were hunting him, circling beyond the clouds, watching every movement. An angry, vengeful god, a god obsessed with obliterating him. It felt as if God had singled him out above all to be the focus of his persecution, the modern-day Job. Except that this Job must die, and die harshly, in bloody fire and unimaginable pain. To survive, this Job must do nothing less than outwit God.

  Such thoughts would have been blasphemous to a believer, but Li Han did not believe in the Christian god, let alone the vengeful, twisted Allah his paymasters had created from their own misinterpretations of scripture. To Li Han, all conceptions of god were superstition, tales told to children to get them to bed at night. Li Han had no religion except survival, and no ambition beyond that.

  Once, he had dreams. Once, he’d even had desires beyond staying alive.

  He was going to be rich. He desired this so badly that he would do anything for it. And he had. Like a fool.

  Too late, he learned that wealth and comfort were illusions. The simplest facts had taken so long to understand.

  The pilotless aircraft droned above. Li Han could hear it above as he rested at the side of the mine shaft. He had constructed a passive radar device to tell him where the aircraft was, but it wasn’t necessary now. All he needed were his ears.

  Li Han waited as the engines grew louder. He saw it in his mind’s eye as it came overhead. It was the shape of a dagger, sleeker than the UAVs he’d seen farther south, different than the one in Pakistan that had fired at his car but missed.

  It was a special UAV. He flattered himself that the Americans had built it just for him.

  The noise grew to its loudest — God’s angry voice, calling him out.

  He laughed.

  The drone banked. The sound began to dim.

  “You will go when I tell you,” he said to the man standing near him.

  The man nodded. He knew he was a decoy, knew even that he was very likely to die. And yet he stood there willingly, prepared to run, prepared to take the drone away.

  Fool!

  The sound lessened as the UAV banked toward the farthest edge of its track above.

  “Now,” whispered Li Han.

  The man pulled the scarf over his head, pitched forward and left the cave.

  Chapter 2

  Ethiopia, Africa

  Melissa Ilse felt her breath catch as the figure emerged from the shadow of the hillside.

  Mao Man, or an imposter?

  Not for her to decide — Raven would make the call.

  She watched the video feed change as the UAV’s sensors locked onto the figure. His back was turned to the aircraft. The plane changed course slightly, angling so it could get a look at the man’s face.

  Melissa folded her arms to keep herself from interfering. This was the hardest part of the mission — to let Raven do its job on its own.

  “Here we go,” said Major Krock. The Air Force officer headed the team piloting the Predator UAV, which was flying with and helping monitor Raven. “Here he comes.”

  Melissa folded her arms. Even on good days she found Krock barely tolerable.

  Four vehicles were parked along the hillside below. The figure kept his head down as he reached the dirt road where they were parked. Raven took data from its sensors, comparing what they gathered to its known profiles of the criminal the CIA had nicknamed Mao Man. The system began with the most basic measurements — gender, height, weight — then moved on to the more esoteric, measuring the figure’s gait, the arc of his head movements. The computer could identify and sort over twelve hundred features, weighing each one according to a complicated algorithm. Using these data points, it then determined a “target match probability”; it would not strike unless that probability went over 98.875 percent.

  It currently stood at 95.6.

  Melissa watched the man on the ground reaching for the door handle of the vehicle. She could see the computer’s calculations in real time if she wanted, pullin
g it up on her main monitor.

  She didn’t. What she wanted was for the operation to be over, to be successful — for Raven to prove itself. They’d been at this for over a month.

  Nail him, she thought. Let’s go.

  Suddenly, the main video feed changed. Melissa looked over at the computer screen — target match probability had dropped below fifty percent.

  A decoy?

  There was another figure moving from the mine, scrambling down the hill.

  Mao Man?

  Raven wasn’t sure. The computer learned from its mistakes, and having been hoodwinked just a few moments before, it would be doubly cautious now.

  It was 87.4 percent.

  Then 88.6.

  It has to be him, she thought.

  Nail him!

  Come on, come on — kill the son of a bitch already!

  Chapter 3

  Southeastern Sudan

  Li Han heard the aircraft changing direction, its engines straining. He had counted on more time than this.

  The motorcycle was twenty yards away. There was no sense running for it.

  He stopped and turned, looking at the UAV tracking him. Its black skin stood out clearly in the blue sky. Barely a thousand feet away, it looked like a vulture, coming for its prey.

  There was another nearby. This one was more common, a Predator.

  Two aircraft. There was some consolation in that, he thought. He warranted more than the usual effort.

  Chapter 4

  Western Ethiopia

  A warning buzzer sounded as the computer confirmed Mao Man’s identity. A missile had been launched from the interior of the mine he’d been using as cover.

  The Raven immediately broke contact with its target. Flares fired from rear of the aircraft. The UAV shut off its engine and fell on its wing, sailing to the right to avoid the missile. Still without power, the UAV twisted on its back and folded into a three-quarter turn, clearing the area so quickly that the shoulder-launched SAM tracking it had no chance to react.

  Instead, it locked on the heat signature of the flares. In a few moments it was past them, and realizing it was about to miss, detonated its warhead. Shrapnel sprayed harmlessly in the air.

  Raven had already computed a course back to Mao Man. Interestingly enough, the hostile action had no effect on its evaluation of the target. It remained locked at 98.2.

  Melissa turned to the Predator screen to watch the aircraft come around. There was a second SAM warning, this one from the Predator.

  Then a proximity warning blared.

  “Watch out!” Melissa yelled. “You’re too close!”

  But it was too late. A black tail filled the Predator screen. Then the video went blank.

  Melissa looked back to the Raven panel. It was off-line.

  Chapter 5

  Southeastern Sudan

  Li Han threw himself to the ground, knowing he was dead.

  There was a loud explosion high above him — the missile fired from the cave.

  Then a second sound, closer, though this one softer and longer, more a smack and a tear than a bang.

  Another explosion, farther away from the others. A loud crack similar to the first sound.

  Li Han lay on the ground for several seconds. He knew he wasn’t dead, yet he didn’t entirely believe it. The aircraft had been so very close to him this time. Finally he pushed up to his knees and turned around. The sky was empty; the aircraft that had been following him were gone.

  Once more, Li Han had cheated the Americans. Or God. Or both.

  He took a few steps toward the car, then stopped. The aircraft must have been hit by the missiles. If so, their parts would be nearby. There would certainly be something worth scrounging or selling.

  One of the Brothers ran from the cave, yelling at him in Arabic. The Brothers — they were all members of a radical group that called itself the Sudan Brotherhood — used Arabic as their official language of choice. It was a difficult language for Li Han; he would have much preferred English.

  But the gist of what the man was saying was easily deciphered: Praise Allah that you are alive.

  You fool, thought Li Han. It was God who was trying to kill me.

  “Where are the planes?” he said to the man in Arabic.

  The brother shook his head. Li Han couldn’t be sure if he didn’t know or couldn’t understand his Chinese-accented Arabic.

  “The airplane,” he said, using English, and held his hands out as if they were wings. The brother pointed toward the hills.

  “Let us take a look,” said Li Han.

  The brother began to protest.

  “Don’t worry. The Americans never send three planes,” said Li Han, starting away. “We are safe for a while.”

  Chapter 6

  CIA Headquarters Campus (Langley)

  McLean, Virginia

  Jonathon Reid frowned as soon as he entered the director’s dining room. Reginald Harker was sitting at the far end of the table, holding his coffee cup out for the attendant.

  Worse news: there was only one other place set. When Reid had received the “invitation” to breakfast with CIA Director Herman Edmund, he assumed Edmund would actually be there.

  As an old Agency hand, he should have known better. Reid’s official title was Special Assistant to the Deputy Director Operations, CIA; in fact, he ran his own portfolio of projects at Edmund’s behest. Officially “retired” and back on a contract basis, Reid was the grayest of grayhairs in the Agency.

  “Jonathon.” Harker nodded, but didn’t rise.

  Reid pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down. Harker had been with the CIA for a little over twenty years. In the old days, he’d been a Middle East expert, and had done his share of time in the region. Reid wasn’t sure what he’d done in the interim, but at the moment he was a deputy in the action directorate, a covert ops supervisor in charge of restricted projects. Reid didn’t know what they were; in fact, he didn’t even know Harker’s formal title. Titles often meant very little in their line of work.

  “Just coffee,” Reid told the attendant. “Black.”

  “I was glad you could make it,” said Harker after the woman left.

  “I was under the impression Herman would be here,” said Reid.

  “Very busy morning,” said Harker.

  “We have business, then?”

  Harker made a face, then looked to the door as the attendant knocked. The woman had worked for the Agency for nearly forty-five years, and undoubtedly had forgotten more secrets than either man had ever been told. But neither Harker nor Reid spoke until she finished laying out Harker’s meal and left a fresh pot of coffee for Reid.

  “I understand you’re working with the Office of Special Technology,” said Harker finally. “Heading our half of it.”

  “Mmmm,” said Reid noncommittally.

  “We need help on an assignment.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  Harker put his elbows on the table and leaned forward over his untouched egg. This was all just show and posture — exactly the thing Reid hated about the Agency bureaucracy. The man obviously needed a favor. He should just come out and say it.

  “I’ve been working directly under D-CIA,” said Harker, meaning Edmund. “It’s a special project.”

  “So far you’ve told me nothing.”

  Harker frowned, then changed tact. “I thought you were retiring, Jonathon.”

  “I am retired. Back on contract. At my pleasure.”

  Harker picked up his fork and took a mouthful of egg. Reid could now guess what was up: something Harker was in charge of had gone to crap, and he needed help from Whiplash.

  “How is it?” asked Reid.

  “Cold,” said Harker, putting down his fork.

  “So what went wrong?” said Reid finally.

  “Why do you think something went wrong?”

  “Reg, I have a lot of things to do today.”

  “We have a project called Raven,” said
Harker. “Have you heard of it?”

  “No,” said Reid.

  “Well that’s good, at least.” Harker rubbed his face. His fingers pushed so hard that they left white streaks on the skin. “It’s a follow-on to the Predator program. In a sense. We lost one of the planes last night in Africa. We need to recover the wreckage. One of our agents is headed there now. We wondered — the director wondered — if it would be possible for Whiplash to back her up.”

  Chapter 7

  Brown Lake Test Area, Dreamland

  Captain Turk Mako stretched his arms back and rocked his shoulders, loosening his muscles before putting on the flight helmet for the Tigershark II. For all of its advanced electronics and carefully thought-out interface, the helmet had one serious shortcoming:

  It was heavy, at least twice the weight of a regular flight helmet. And the high-speed maneuvers the Tigershark II specialized in didn’t make it feel any lighter.

  Then again, the brain bucket did keep the gray matter where it belonged.

  “Ready, Captain?” asked Martha Albris, flight crew chief for the test mission.

  Though standing next to him, Albris was using the Whiplash com system, and her voice was so loud in the helmet that it hurt Turk’s eardrums. Turk put his hand over the ear area of his helmet and rotated his palm, manually adjusting the volume on the external microphone system. The helmet had several interfaces; besides voice, a number of controls were activated by external touch, including the audio volume. It was part of an intuitive control system aimed to make the Tigershark more an extension of the pilot’s body rather than an aircraft.

  Turk gave her a thumbs-up.

  They walked together to the boarding ladder. The Tigershark II was a squat, sleek aircraft, small by conventional fighter standards. But then she wasn’t a conventional fighter. She was designed to work with a fleet of unmanned aircraft, acting as both team leader and mother hen.