Raven Strike d-13

by Dale Brown

  Chapter 16

  Washington, D.C.

  The Nationals put on a hitting display in the bottom of the sixth, batting around for seven runs and sending the L.A. fans scurrying for the exits. Even the outs were loud — the last drove the Dodger right fielder against the fence, where he managed to hold on despite taking a wicked shot to the back.

  “That had to hurt, huh?” said Zen.

  “Not much,” said Stoner.

  “Not for you, maybe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just — you have a high pain threshold.” Zen wasn’t sure that Stoner fully appreciated how much stronger he had been made by the operations and drugs.

  “Oh.”

  The Nats brought in a rookie to mop up in the eighth inning. Zen noticed that Stoner tracked each ball as carefully as if he were a scientist trying to prove some new theory of motion.

  “The ball drops six to eight inches as it reaches the plate,” said Stoner after the second strikeout.

  “He’s got a hell of a curve, huh?”

  “It spins differently than the others.”

  “Can you pick that out?” asked the psychiatrist.

  “Thirty-two revolutions per second,” said Stoner.

  “Thirty-two?” asked Zen.

  “On average.”

  “You counted?”

  “Yes.”

  Zen leaned down to look past Stoner at Dr. Esrang. The psychiatrist nodded.

  “That’s pretty good eyesight, Mark.”

  The rookie struck out the side. Zen took out his phone and did a Google search — it turned out the average curveball rotated in the area of twenty-five to thirty times per second.

  The kid would be someone to watch.

  When the game ended, Stoner was silent all the way out.

  “This was good,” he told Zen as they got into the van. “Can we do it again?”

  “Sure,” said Zen. “Any time you like.”

  “Tomorrow. I would like tomorrow.”

  “Well — maybe. I have to check my calendar.” He glanced back toward the doctor, who was nodding vigorously. “I may be able to.”

  “Good,” answered Stoner. “Very good.”

  Chapter 17

  Southeast Washington, D.C.

  After he’d managed to steal the police UAV from the company that manufactured it, Ken’s initial plan was to develop an automated control unit that would fly the aircraft into a hard target — the White House, preferably.

  His al Qaeda contacts had obtained the explosives and then promised additional assistance. Amara apparently was that help.

  While it was clear to Ken that Amara could offer no real assistance, the program he had brought with him seemed to be exactly what he was trying to write on his own — except it was considerably more sophisticated.

  And yet, in some ways, simpler. It was certainly a control system, though it didn’t work like any conventional control system he was familiar with.

  The program was divided into a number of modules. The largest and most complicated seemed to involve learning routines. This section had a series of overrides, and was related to an interface that allowed for the control of an aircraft, though it was much more rudimentary than what Ken had seen in either the Israeli or the German UAV systems he was familiar with.

  More interesting was the section whose internal comments made it clear that it was meant for targeting. The section had inputs for GPS data, which Ken expected. But it also wanted physical data on the target itself. There were several pictures of an Asian man that filled the variables.

  Those seemed easy to replace; there was a screen that controlled this, which Ken had been able to access upstairs.

  Connected to the UAV’s own control section, Amara’s program seemed to have a life of its own. It had certainly taken over all of the laptop’s resources — the machine’s hard drive whirled and buzzed, presumably as different parts of the program ran their operations.

  But what were they, exactly? The laptop had a set of diagnostic tools that were clearly top notch, but they couldn’t keep up with the program.

  Did it matter? Could he just give it a target and launch it?

  He’d been working on this for months now, and part of him didn’t want to stop. That was the scientist, not the warrior in him, as his teachers would have said.

  The warrior knew he must strike soon. His al Qaeda contact had warned that the police were searching for the UAV and might close in. And perhaps they’d done so already — he had not heard from his contact in over a week.

  Ken left the laptop as its program ran and went upstairs for a break. Amara had gone up to bed a few hours before; he could hear him snoring from the kitchen.

  Searching the African’s things took no time at all. Of course he didn’t have a weapon. He had little money. He didn’t even have a phone.

  Worthless. But at least he wasn’t an assassin.

  Back in the kitchen, Ken made a fresh pot of coffee. The percolator had been a revelation: he loved the slightly burnt, metal-tinged taste the old-fashioned pot gave the liquid.

  Just as the liquid began to darken in the top globe, he realized it was nearly midnight — time to check the bulletin board where his contact left messages. He signed on through an anonymous server and went to the assigned chat board. It changed every twenty-four hours; tonight it was a site that gave help to homeowners looking for information about air conditioners.

  He started scrolling through the messages. They were inane, asking about BTUs and cooling capacity, and how well sealed a duct should be.

  Then suddenly he noticed one had been left by CTW119.

  Or as it should be read: 9/11 WTC.

  He called the message up:

  YOU HAVE EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO BUY YOUR SYSTEM. DO SO QUICKLY! TODAY IF POSSIBLE.

  To a casual browser it was nothing more than a hackneyed advertising slogan left by a salesman.

  To Ken, it was a command that he must strike as soon as possible.

  He took his coffee and went back down to work.

  Chapter 18

  Washington, D.C. suburbs

  Zen was mildly surprised that Breanna’s car wasn’t in the garage when he came home. Inside, he found Caroline dozing in front of the television. She woke when he flipped the set off.

  “Your aunt call?” he asked.

  “No, Uncle Jeff. She didn’t.”

  “I thought she’d be back by now.”

  “It’s OK. Teri was a doll. I’m going to tuck into bed.”

  “All right. See you in the A.M.”

  Zen went into the kitchen and got himself a beer. The question of whether to wait up for Breanna was moot — he heard the garage door open between his second and third swigs.

  “Hey there, lonesome traveler,” he said as she came through the door.

  “Jeff, you’re still up?”

  “Just got in from the game,” he told her. “Mark did great.”

  “Oh — oh, yeah. How is he?”

  “He’s doing better. I think a lot better.” Zen watched her put down her pocketbook and rub her eyes. “Long day?”

  “Tomorrow’s going to be worse.”

  “Want to tell me what’s up?”

  The pained expression on her face told him the answer long before her words did.

  “I can’t.”

  “This have anything to do with Raven?” he asked.

  “Jeff, don’t go there,” she said harshly. “That’s out of bounds.”

  “Hey, don’t yell at me,” he said, a little louder than he intended.

  “You’re the one yelling.”

  “Listen, Bree—”

  “Our deal was, we don’t bring work home.” She grabbed her pocketbook and began stalking down the hall. “That was our deal.”

  “Wait a second.” He reached for her, but she was just far enough from him, and just quick enough, to elude his grasp. “Breanna. Breanna Stockard.”

  She slammed the door
to their bedroom.

  Zen put down his beer and rolled his wheelchair down the hall after her. The door was locked.

  “Hey, come on,” he said calmly. “Open the door.”

  There was no answer.

  “Breanna.” He struggled to keep his voice down. Caroline was on the other side of the house, but Teri’s room was right next door. And in any event, the house wasn’t that big. “Listen — I argued against the subpoena.”

  The door flew open.

  “What subpoena?” demanded Breanna.

  “The one the committee chairman is going to issue tomorrow.”

  “That’s bullshit. You can’t subpoena the executive branch. You’re just doing it for publicity.”

  “I’m not doing anything for publicity. I voted against it.”

  Breanna started to close the door, but this time Zen was too quick — he rolled forward just enough to block it. She pushed for a moment, then let go.

  “Hey, why are you mad at me?” he asked.

  “I’m not.”

  “Well you’re doing a pretty damn good imitation. Look at this — you made me spill my beer.”

  Breanna scowled, then went into the bathroom. She closed the door; it wasn’t quite a slam, but it wasn’t gentle either.

  Zen wheeled himself over.

  “You know, we really shouldn’t fight about this,” he said. “Unless there’s a really good reason. A really good reason.”

  He heard the shower go on. Zen took a sip of his beer. He tried not to reach the obvious conclusion from Breanna’s anger: Ernst was right and something seriously illegal was going on.

  The next few days were not going to be pleasant. His responsibility as a senator meant he could not sit by blindly and twiddle his thumbs while the administration did whatever the hell it was they were doing.

  Todd must have really screwed up this time.

  “I’m gonna check the sports scores and finish my beer in the den,” he told the closed door. “When I come back, truce. No work discussion, no nothing. Promise?”

  There was no answer.

  “Good enough for me,” he said, wheeling back toward the living room.

  Chapter 19

  Southeast Washington, D.C.

  Amara woke in the middle of the night, his internal clock stuck somewhere between Africa and America.

  He could smell Ken’s coffee. The burnt liquid permeated the air, its caffeine tickling his nose and throat.

  Something about the man scared him. Physically, he was nothing, a weakling. But there was something in his gaze that made him very scary, as scary as any of the blank-eyed teenagers stoned out on khat and the other drugs the warlords sometimes used to encourage their men. Even spookier was the fact that he was smart, smarter even than the Asian, Li Han.

  Lying in bed, Amara thought of his earlier time in America. The country was not the great enemy that the followers of al Qaeda claimed. It was a strange and bizarre place, a country of heathens and devils, certainly, but also one where a man might be free of his past.

  Lying in bed, he recalled his days as a student. Most of the teachers he had were arrogant jerks, prejudiced against him because he was African and a Muslim. Yet a few had tried to encourage him. He thought about one, a black man who taught history, who invited him into his home around Christmas.

  Christmas. The ultimate Christian holiday. It should have been abhorrent, and in fact Amara had only accepted out of loneliness. But the man and his wife — they had no children — were so low key about it, so matter of fact, and above all so kind, that he had begun asking questions. He was impressed by their answers.

  “A day not to be selfish,” said the professor. “That’s the best way to sum it up for someone who’s not Christian.”

  “And by not being selfish, to save yourself for eternity,” added his wife.

  The idea was foreign to Amara. Not the element of religion — he certainly believed in an afterlife. But it seemed strange that one could guarantee a place there simply by helping others.

  The other person who had been nice was a Jew. He didn’t know this at first. The man was his math professor. He’d found Amara sitting alone in the college café one lunchtime and asked to sit down. This became a habit through the semester. Only after a few weeks did it dawn on Amara that the man was Jewish. The man never talked about religion or asked about Amara’s, but comments he had made about one of the holidays made it clear enough.

  At the end of the semester, grades faltering, Amara was in danger of flunking out. The professor helped him find free tutoring, aiding him with his English, his main barrier. He also loaned him money, and would have helped him find a job if Amara had stayed for the summer.

  What if those men were killed by the weapon Ken was constructing? How would he feel?

  Were they soldiers, too, as the Brothers’ allies claimed?

  What of their relatives, their wives?

  It was OK to kill an enemy tribe in revenge. But where was the revenge here? His people had not been harmed.

  It was not murder when it was jihad. But was it jihad to kill a man who believed his greatest achievement was to help someone?

  The apartment was cold. Amara shifted around under the thin blanket, trying to keep warm. He drifted in and out of sleep. He tried to push his memories away. At one point he saw Li Han in the house, laughing at him. He turned over, realized he’d been dreaming.

  There was a shadow in the room, standing over him.

  Ken.

  He bent down and moved his arm swiftly.

  “You have served your purpose,” said Ken.

  Something flew across Amara’s throat. He started to protest, to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t respond. It was full of liquid, salty liquid — blood.

  He gasped, then began to cough. The shadow disappeared, then the room, then thought.

  All was warm; finally, all was warm.

  Unexpected Consequences

  Chapter 1

  Southeastern Sudan

  At precisely 1303 the cell phone towers that provided southeastern Sudan with its characteristically spotty reception had a power failure. This was not unprecedented; the system had crashed three times in the past two months alone. There were few calls on the network in the area to begin with; not only was the service considered extremely unreliable, but it was also commonly assumed — incorrectly, as it happened — that the government monitored all calls through the cell tower.

  Somewhat less usual, there was a malfunction at the same time involving the satellite telephone network most convenient and popular in the area. Anyone on a call inside a hundred-square-mile circle — there were about two dozen — heard a bit of static, then had their conversation fade in and out before completely dying. A few seconds later full service was restored; it was somewhat unusual, but not entirely inexplicable — sunspots, bizarre electrical fluctuations, even strange weather patterns were randomly but plausibly blamed by the few people who happened to be inconvenienced.

  The fact that both events occurred simultaneously was not, of course, an accident. The power disruption at the cell towers was accomplished by explosive charges, which wiped out the transformers at two key stations. Had it been detected, the evidence would have pointed to a rebel group, of which there were many operating in the Sudan: the explosive was manufactured in an Eastern European country known for its easy exportation policies. The men seen in the vicinity were driving a four-door white pickup common to many groups. The men, all three of whom were black, wore anonymous brown fatigues that had their origins in China — another common quality among the ragtag groups that vied for control in this corner of the country.

  The men were actually two Marines selected personally by the third man, Sergeant Ben “Boston” Rockland, from the two Marine platoons assigned to the Whiplash operation and rushed to Ethiopia only two hours before.

  Blowing up the transformer was a rather crude and old school approach to killing communications. While effective, it stood in
sharp contrast to what happened to the satellite communications, also perpetrated by Whiplash. This was actually accomplished by a high-altitude balloon and a UAV only a bit larger than the average buzzard. Indeed, the UAV looked very much like a buzzard from the distance; one had to get relatively close to see the net antenna that trailed from the wings or the stubby protuberances from the bottom. These antennas allowed the unmanned aircraft to intercept and redirect satellite signals emanating from the ground to the Whiplash satellite system. This redirection brought the ground half of these transmissions to MY-PID, where they could be altered as well as modified; the system could allow normal communications to proceed through an antenna in the small balloon, or route them to human operators located at an NSA facility in Maryland to conduct the calls.

  In effect, no one in this small corner of the world could call home without MY-PID’s permission, and even then it might not be home they talked to at all.

  Thus was the Brothers camp isolated from the rest of the world.

  * * *

  Danny Freah, en route south in the repaired Osprey, worried that the disruption of telephone service would tip off the people inside the camp that they were about to be attacked. He wasn’t as much worried about them increasing their defenses as the possibility that they would begin leaving the camp. While he had the road under surveillance, dealing with a mass exodus would have been nearly impossible.

  MY-PID now estimated there were nearly 400 people inside the camp, though only 250 to 300 were likely to be fighters. At the moment, Danny had only twenty people to stop them, counting Melissa. The roads were mined and the ridges surrounding it could be blown up to stop an exodus, but it would be extremely messy.

  His force would be augmented at nightfall by four Whiplashers arriving with more equipment from the States, the two platoons of Marines he’d been assigned, and the SEAL who had parachuted in with Nuri’s vodka. The SEAL was so eager for action when he saw the Marines arriving that Nuri told Danny he’d probably be shot if Danny didn’t give the OK.