by Dale Brown
“Exactly,” said Danny.
“Uh, she says she’s been hurt.”
“Bad?”
“Dunno. She’s crabbier than usual, so probably fairly bad.”
Jordan led Danny inside to the table where he’d set up an older satellite radio, a bulky unit with a corded handset. The console, about the size of a small briefcase, was at least ten years old. While it was powerful and had encryption gear, it was hardly state of the art. Nuri had pointed out that the operation surely had access to much better equipment; this was some sort of wrongheaded attempt to keep an extremely low profile.
“Here you go,” said Jordan, giving Danny the handset.
“Ms. Ilse, this is Colonel Freah. Where are you?”
“Who are you?”
“Danny Freah. I’m the person who’s going to get you and your UAV back here. Now where the hell are you?”
She grunted, as if in pain.
“Are you OK?” Danny asked.
“I dislocated my shoulder. I’m all right. Some of the natives grabbed the UAV. They’re taking it in the direction of Duka. I have to get it. If you’re going to help—”
“My team is going to be here in about twenty minutes,” Danny told her. “You’re roughly seventy miles away — we can get there inside an hour.”
“All right,” she said weakly.
“Are you OK?” he asked again.
“I’m fine.” She snapped off the radio.
Danny handed back the handset.
“She goes her own way,” said Jordan. He smiled, as if that was a good thing.
Chapter 17
Over the Sudan
The problem with flying the Tigershark, especially at very high speeds over long distances, was that it was boring.
Exceedingly, even excruciatingly, boring.
The plane flew itself, even during the refueling hookups. In fact, the Tigershark II had been designed to operate completely without a pilot, and very possibly could have handled this mission entirely on its own.
Not that Turk would have admitted it. He wouldn’t even say it out loud, especially not in the plane: he’d come to think of the Tigershark almost as a person. The flight computer was almost sentient, in the words of its developer, Dr. Ray Rubeo.
Almost sentient. An important word, “almost.”
Turk checked his instruments — everything in the green, perfect as always — then his location and that of the area where the UAV had gone down. The robot aircraft had a set of transponders that were sending signals to a satellite.
“Tigershark, this is Whiplash Ground. You hearing us?”
“Colonel Freah.” Turk reached his right hand up to his helmet, enabling the video feed on the Whiplash communications system. Danny Freah’s face appeared in a small box on the virtual screen projected by the Whiplash combat helmet. “Got good coms up here, Colonel.”
“One of the operators has been tracking our item in country. She’s hurt. We’re going to be en route in a few minutes to her location. We’re wondering if you can take a pass and check on her.”
“Uh, roger that if you give me a location,” said Turk. “I’m just about ten minutes from the target area,” he added, pointing at part of the virtual instrument panel where the course way markers were displayed. “Eight and a half, to be exact.”
“I have GPS coordinates,” said Danny. “Stand by.”
Turk waited while Danny uploaded the GPS tracking channel used by the CIA officer in western Sudan. He then increased the detail on the sitrep panel.
“Colonel, do you know that one of the transponders is moving?” said Turk. “It looks like it’s approaching her location.”
“Are you sure about that, Tiger?”
Turk double-tapped on the GPS locator and told the Tigershark to fly to that spot. Then he went back to the radio.
“Yeah, roger that. Affirmative,” he added. “Be advised I’m unarmed at this time.”
“We copy.”
“Operative got a name?”
“Melissa Ilse.”
“It’s a girl?”
“I already told you it’s a she, Tigershark. And that would be a woman, not a girl. Copy?”
“Roger that. I’ll do what I can.”
Chapter 18
Southeastern Sudan
Melissa heard the truck rattling toward her. She glanced around for cover, but nothing was handy. She decided her only option was to move up the nearby embankment, to get out of easy view.
If they found her, she’d have to make her stand.
Her right arm and shoulder screamed with every step and jostle. She tried to keep it from moving too much by gripping the bottom of her jacket with her hand. The pain was so intense that she couldn’t fold her fingers into a good grip, and had to simply hook her thumb around the cloth.
It was almost ironic. As part of her training for the mission, she’d been put into a rush course as a nurse so she could learn enough to use that as a cover. She had then treated two colleagues for dislocated shoulders during a particularly difficult survival refresher course she’d taken right afterward. Putting their arms back in place didn’t seem like such a big deal.
Being on the other side of the pain gave her an entirely different perspective.
The sound of the truck grew louder. She dropped to one knee, then eased down to spread herself flat against the side of the hill. She was no more than twenty yards from the roadway, if that.
Her headset buzzed with an incoming call on her sat line, but she didn’t answer it — the truck’s headlights swept across the road ahead.
Maybe she could shoot them now. But she’d have to fire with her left hand.
She wasn’t even that good with her right.
God, what a mistake she’d made getting close to the truck. What the hell was she thinking?
The truck jerked to a stop near the bike.
Melissa tried to will away the pain, extending her breathing, pushing the air all the way into her lungs before slowly exhaling.
The men got out of the truck.
Her headset buzzed again. She still didn’t dare answer it.
* * *
Twenty thousand feet above, Turk switched to the Tigershark’s enhanced view, trying to get a good read on what was below. The UAV and its CIA operator were roughly twenty yards from each other.
The Tigershark had been designed to carry a rail gun, which could fire metal slugs accurately to twenty miles. It still had some kinks, but would have come in very handy now.
“Whiplash Ground — Colonel Freah, I’m looking at a truck with people getting out of it. Our contact should be nearby. Are these hostiles?”
“We believe so, Tigershark. But stand by. We’re trying to contact her now.”
There was no time to stand by — the men in the truck were spreading out, moving in the direction of the CIA officer. They were carrying weapons. That made them hostile in Turk’s book.
The only weapon he had was the Tigershark itself. He pushed down the nose, determined to use it.
* * *
Melissa watched as the men moved up the road. They moved quickly — too quickly. They’re scared, she thought.
A good sign, in a way: their fire would be less accurate.
She’d take the man closest to her, the one going to the bike. Then sweep across left, then back to the truck.
She’d have to reload before she took out the truck.
Her finger started to twitch.
I can do it.
I have to do it.
Melissa took as slow a breath as she could manage, then pulled the gun up. It was awkward in her left hand. She forced her right arm toward the front of the weapon, hoping to steady it. The pain was excruciating. She twisted her trunk, putting her hand, still gripping her shirt, closer to the weapon.
Steadying herself as best she could, Melissa raised the barrel with her left arm, ready to fire.
Suddenly there was a rush of air from above, the sky cracking with
what seemed a hurricane. Dirt flew everywhere, and the night flashed red and white. A howl filled her ears. Melissa threw herself down, cowering against the force of whatever bomb was exploding.
* * *
Li Han had just started to get out of the truck when there was a vortex of wind and a hard, loud snap directly above him. It didn’t sound quite like an explosion, but the wash threw him back against the vehicle. Dirt and dust flew all around; he was pelted by small rocks.
“Dso Ba!” he yelled in Chinese, even before he got back to his feet. “Go! Leave! They’re firing missiles! Go! Go!”
He pulled at the door. There had been no explosion: whatever the Americans had fired at them had missed or malfunctioned.
“Wo-men! Dso Ba!”
The driver looked at him, paralyzed. Li Han realized he was speaking Chinese.
“Go!” he shouted in English. “Leave! Leave! Get the truck out of here.”
One of the men in the back pounded on the roof of the cab. It was Amara, yelling something in Arabic.
“Go!” he added, switching to English, though it was hard to tell in his accent and excitement. “Mr. Li — tell him go!”
“Go!” repeated Li Han. “Let’s go!”
The driver began moving in slow motion. The truck lurched forward.
“Faster!” yelled Li Han. “Before they fire again.”
* * *
By the time Melissa raised her head, the truck had started moving away. The men on the road picked themselves up and began scrambling after it.
What the hell had just happened?
Had someone fired a missile? Or several of them?
But there didn’t seem to have been an explosion, just a massive rush of air.
When the men were gone, she rose slowly. She’d forgotten the pain, but it came back now with a vengeance, nearly knocking her unconscious. She fell back on her rump, head folded down against her chest. The submachine gun fell from her hand.
In a mental fog, Melissa began to gently rock back and forth, trying to soothe her injured arm as if it were a baby. Gradually her senses returned, though the pain remained, throbbing against her neck and torso.
She swung her knees around and rose, trying to jostle her arm as little as possible. Finally upright, she walked down to the road. There was no bomb crater, no debris.
Melissa retrieved her gun. Her ruck was a few yards farther up the hill. She had no memory of taking it off.
The sat phone was on the ground as well, near where she’d been crouched. She picked it up and called Jordan back at the base camp. Instead of Jordan, however, a man with a deeper, somewhat older voice answered.
“This is Danny Freah. Melissa, are you OK?”
“Who are you?”
“It’s Colonel Freah again. Are you all right?”
“Yeah.”
“Stay where you are. We’ll be at your location in twenty minutes. My Osprey is just taking off now.”
“What Osprey?”
“Listen, Ms. Ilse, you don’t know how lucky you are to be alive. Just stay where you are.”
“I’m not moving,” she said. She tried to make her words sharp, but the pain in her shoulder made it difficult to talk; she could hear the wince in her voice.
“We’ll be there as soon as we can,” said Danny, his voice softer. “Just stay on the hill, behind those rocks. You’ll be OK. The truck has moved on. I have to go — the aircraft is here. We’ll contact you when we’re zero-five from your location.”
The connection died. Melissa lowered herself to the ground, sitting as gently as she could.
Chapter 19
Over the Midwest
Breanna Stockard was never comfortable as a passenger on an airplane.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like to fly; on the contrary, she loved flying. Or rather, she loved piloting. She loved it so much that being a passenger made her feel extremely out of sorts. Even sitting in the back of a C-20 Gulfstream, she felt as if she ought to be doing something other than studying the thick folders of reports on her iPad, or tracking through the myriad classified e-mails related to her duties at the Office of Special Technology.
The Gulfstream was assigned to the Pentagon for VIP travel, and carried a full suite of secure communications. So she was surprised when her own secure sat phone rang.
Until she saw the call was from Jonathon Reid.
“This is Breanna.”
“Breanna, can you talk?”
Breanna was the sole passenger on the plane. The cabin crew consisted of a tech sergeant who was sitting in the back, discreetly reading a magazine.
“Yes,” she said.
“I’ve pieced together information,” said Reid. “I don’t have everything. But I think what I have is accurate.”
“OK.”
“The UAV was contracted for about three years ago, an outgrowth of the same program that produced Tigershark, as we already know. The development was entirely covert; obviously I don’t have all the details.”
The CIA had a long history of developing its own aircraft, going all the way back to the U-2. At times it had worked with the Air Force, and in fact it might very well have done so in this case.
“But it’s not the aircraft that’s important,” continued Reid. “I think there’s a lot more to it.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t feel comfortable talking about it, even over this line,” he said. “We’ll have to talk when you come back. I know you’re supposed to go directly to SOCCOM for that conference in Florida, but I’d like to speak to you in person as soon as possible. Tonight, in fact.”
“Can you meet me there?”
“I’d rather spend the time looking into this further, if possible,” said Reid. “How important is the conference?”
The “conference” was actually a two-day meeting with members of the Special Operations Command to listen to requirements they had for new weapons. It was starting the next morning at eight, but Breanna was due to have breakfast with the commanding general and his staff at 0600—6:00 A.M. sharp, as the general’s aide had put it to her secretary, noting that his boss was a notorious early riser with a packed schedule and an almost hyperbolic sense of punctuality.
Breanna didn’t want to cancel — informal sessions like that were almost always more valuable than the actual meetings themselves. But if she detoured up to Washington, she’d get almost no sleep.
So what else was new?
“All right,” Breanna told him. “I’ll meet you at Andrews.”
“Yes. Good.”
“Jonathon — do we have a problem here?”
Reid didn’t answer for a moment. “I don’t know that it’s a problem specifically for us,” he said finally.
“All right. I’ll talk to the pilot, and text you a time.”
* * *
Reid stared at the blank virtual wall for several minutes after Breanna had hung up.
No, the UAV wasn’t the whole story, not by a long shot. The code word “Raven” didn’t even refer to the aircraft.
If he was right, Whiplash had just been inserted into the middle of a perfect storm: an illegal assassination program, an off-the-books CIA tech development operation, and an Agency screwup that had just made an unstoppable weapon available to anyone who happened to spot the UAV wreckage in the middle of the desert.
Moral Dilemmas
Chapter 1
Southeastern Sudan, Africa
Danny Freah jumped from the Osprey just behind Ben “Boston” Rockland, the team sergeant, and John “Flash” Gordon, the second-ranking NCO. Melissa Ilse was huddled near the rocks.
“Flash, grab the bike!” yelled Boston. “Let’s go, people, we need to get moving!”
Danny trotted over to Melissa. She was crouched down, in obvious pain, holding her shoulder. Sugar — CIA covert officer Clare Keeb — was standing over her, her SCAR-H/MK-17 rifle poised, even though a scan of the area had shown no one nearby.
“Probably di
slocated,” said Sugar, keeping her eyes on the terrain.
“It’s definitely dislocated,” said Melissa.
Danny knelt down. Melissa wasn’t what he expected. She was young — twenty-four, maybe, slim and tall, nearly five-ten, he thought, helping her up gently. Even in pain she had a beautiful, flawless face. Her skin was a half shade lighter than his; he hadn’t realized she was African-American.
“I’m all right,” she insisted. “We have to get the aircraft back. Do you know where they went?”
“We’ll take care of that,” said Danny. “Right now we have to get of here. The sun’s coming up. We don’t want anyone to see us.”
“That’s not important.”
“The hell it’s not,” said Boston gruffly.
“Come on, into the aircraft,” Danny told her. “Or do we put you on a stretcher?”
“Ow, my arm!” Melissa shrieked as Boston tried to help her on the other side. “Do you know how to pull it back into place?”
“Sure, but I ain’t doing that here.”
“We’ll treat it,” said Danny. “Get into the aircraft.”
Boston put his hand on her back. “Come on, sister.”
“I’m not your sister, asshole.”
Boston gave Danny a grin behind her back.
Just like Boston to start pushing buttons, thought Danny.
* * *
A half hour later they were back at the base in Ethiopia. The team had taken over one of the smaller buildings to use as a combination common area and command post. Sugar and Danny brought Melissa there and examined her shoulder. It was swollen, and seemed to have some ligament damage as well as a dislocation.
“Best place for you is up in Alexandria,” Danny told her. “They’ll put you out, get the shoulder right, and send you home.”
“What?”
“There’s a good hospital there. And—”
“I’m not going to a hospital,” she insisted. “There’s no need. It’s just dislocated. Just push it back in place.”