Drone Strike: A Joe Matthews Thriller

by David Austin

  As he ran, Joe couldn’t help but steal a quick glance toward the soldiers, sure a bullet with his name on it was on the way. Truth be told, he was a little surprised he hadn’t been hit yet. Catching movement to his right he saw one of the Russians step out from behind a vehicle with an AK-74 tucked into his shoulder. The son of a bitch was tracking him through his optical sight.

  Joe snapped his head to the ruins, doing a quick calculation of the distance he still had to cover, and his heart sank. It was too far. He was doomed. There was no way he was going to make it to cover before the bastard fired. Joe inwardly cringed, wondering if he would feel the impact or if everything would just go black as if a switch had been flipped. One second, you’re there. The next, you’re not.

  With an almost morbid fascination, like being unable to look away from a car wreck as you drove by, Joe turned his head and looked the Russian in the eyes. If this was going to be the end, he wanted to face it head on, to see it coming. Even so, the word quit wasn’t in his vocabulary and he continued dragging his thrashing protectee across the open ground.

  In his quest to get Jacobs to safety, Joe thought he noticed a slight shift in the angle of the Russian’s muzzle. What the…? Then it dawned on him. “NO!”

  The soldier centered the optic’s red dot on the side of Jacobs’ head and pressed the trigger. The rifle cracked once and the world around Joe seemed as if it were moving in slow motion. He saw the flash spit from the barrel and the weapon rise as it bucked in the man’s shoulder.

  Jacobs’ painful thrashing ceased, and his lifeless body went limp as the high-velocity round struck him above the left ear and blew out the right side of his skull. Joe heard the unmistakable sound of lead hitting flesh and bone and felt Jacobs go still and quiet, but he continued the quest to get him to safety. He glared at the Russian as he made it to the cover of the ruins. The man was aimed in, had him dead to rights, but didn’t fire. Instead he lowered his weapon and gave Joe a respectful nod for his effort. Clearly pleased with his marksmanship, a big smile spread across his face.

  CHAPTER 7

  Joe bolted upright in bed, breathing heavily and covered in a cold sweat. The sheets clung to his body as he looked around the room trying to get his bearings. Rays of sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains penetrated the darkness, and after a moment, his sleep-filled eyes recognized the familiar surroundings of the hotel room.

  The recurring nightmare, along with the room’s air-conditioning and the thin layer of moisture on his skin had chilled him to the bone. Tossing the sweat-soaked sheets aside, he slid his legs over the side of the bed and glanced at his watch on the nightstand. Eight thirty-four. Damn, I must be getting old. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept past six thirty or seven, at the latest. But he was on vacation and decided he wouldn’t beat himself up too bad for sleeping in.

  Joe grabbed the bottle of water sitting next to his watch and downed it in one long swig. He screwed the cap back on, then threw the empty into a nearby trashcan. Raising his arms above his head, he leaned to the left, feeling the stretch in his right oblique muscles. He held the position for ten seconds, but before switching sides and repeating the motion to the right, he took a deep breath in anticipation of the pain he knew was coming.

  Joe winced as he eased into the stretch and reached down with the fingers of his right hand to trace the outline of a scar that ran from the top of his hip to the bottom of his ribcage. The pink tissue, standing out in stark contrast against the rest of Joe’s tanned body, resembled a cross or an elongated plus sign. It was a constant reminder of the ambush he and Chris had walked into during a Quds Force attack on Director Sloan in downtown D.C. last year. They were pursuing the leader of the hit team through the backyards of a nearby neighborhood when the Iranian shot a propane tank attached to a grill. Chris was knocked unconscious in the resulting explosion and Joe had ended up with a jagged piece of shrapnel embedded in his side.

  At one point, when neither he nor the Iranian assassin had a functioning weapon, the fight had devolved into hand-to-hand combat. The Quds man had taken advantage of the injury and grasped the shrapnel, working it back and forth as if he were trying to saw Joe in half. But the fight ended abruptly when Joe pulled the metal shard out of his side and jammed it through the man’s right eye socket and into his brain.

  The skin and scar tissue were still tight even though the injury had occurred nearly nine months ago, leaving Joe to wonder if the wound would ever heal to the point where it felt normal again. Or would he be one of those old men who could tell changes in the weather were on the way from the aches and pains in various parts of their bodies?

  With his morning stretching routine complete, Joe pulled on a t-shirt and shorts, then stood and crossed the room. On the way to the balcony, he grabbed a fresh bottle of water from the counter, twisted off the cap, and arced it like a three-pointer into the trashcan. Parting the curtains, he slid the glass door open and was greeted by the warm tropical breeze coming off the dark blue waters of the Caribbean. The warmth of the sun felt good against his skin.

  The hotel Joe had chosen for his vacation was on the seaward side of Cancun Island at the mid-point of the Zona Hotelera, or Tourist Zone, a fourteen-mile spit of sand lined with beachfront hotels and condominiums. Bracketed by the Ritz Carlton to the left and the JW Marriott on the right, it didn’t offer the premium highlife of those two properties, but he wasn’t slumming it by any stretch of the imagination.

  Standing on the balcony, Joe took a pull on the water bottle and looked down at the early risers claiming their spots by the pool or one of the many lounges shaded by umbrellas along the beach. His gaze shifted to the gentle roll of the waves as thoughts about what to do next ran through his mind, thoughts not only about the day’s activities, although that was certainly important, but regarding his career as well.

  After returning home from the disastrous mission in Syria, Joe had isolated himself in the office, spending hours on end scouring intelligence reports and reviewing footage taken by the Reaper that had been overhead for the entirety of the operation. None of the countries with personnel involved in the firefight had acknowledged publicly that it had occurred, so media reporting on the incident was nonexistent. Instead, he focused his attention on the video, watching the recording of the firefight with the intensity of a football coach preparing for the Super Bowl.

  Joe had lost count of how many times he had viewed the recording, probably somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred or so, and sometimes it seemed as if it was running on a loop in his head. But no matter how many times he saw it, he still flinched involuntarily each time he watched one of his men get wounded, each time the RPG barely missed his truck and destroyed Tariq’s Mercedes, each time Greg Jacobs’ head snapped to the side from the impact of the Russian’s bullet.

  A black star would be engraved on the Agency’s memorial wall in the lobby of the Original Headquarters Building to honor Jacobs’ sacrifice. Though Joe couldn’t help but feel responsible for that star after failing to protect Jacobs on the hilltop in southern Syria that night, he was thankful there would be only one added to the memorial. There could very easily have been four or five more stars engraved in the white marble if it had not been for the actions of the drone pilot.

  *

  Travis Mullin had been watching the firefight through the Reaper’s electro-optical, infra-red cameras while his boss, the chief of air operations, was on a secure line lobbying Langley for permission to engage the hostile force. While the decision-makers back at headquarters were dragging their feet, Mullin was busy calculating the distance between the team and the main body of the attacking force. If he were to get permission to fire, he needed to make sure Joe and his men wouldn’t be caught in the explosion’s blast radius.

  Langley finally came through, greenlighting the fire mission. As Mullin maneuvered the drone to line up the shot, he noticed four figures sprinting away from the group of soldiers. He watched with fascination
as the men’s images disappeared over the edge of the escarpment. The Russians are bailing, he thought, wondering if they had correctly assumed air support was inbound to save the American team, or if they had been alerted by a Beriev A-50U, Russia’s version of America’s AWACS or Airborne Warning and Control System. With its upgraded radar and communications systems, the plane’s crew may have warned the Russians on the ground that the Reaper was preparing to fire.

  Mullin’s sensor operator confirmed the missile systems were in the green, and after receiving one last affirmation from the chief of air operations, Mullin keyed his mic, “Stand by, Spartan. Firing in…three…two…one. Missiles away.”

  Powered by their solid-fuel rockets, two AGM114-M Hellfire missiles left the Reaper’s underwing pods and streaked through the night sky. The missiles’ active tracking capability virtually eliminated any chance they might miss their targets. The Syrians on the ground were already dead, they just didn’t know it.

  Mullin flew watchful circles over the citadel, providing air cover while Joe and the uninjured members of his team loaded their dead and wounded in the remaining Toyota truck and evacuated the area. Having survived the firefight, Tariq Kabbani made his way down the mountain into the town of Salkhad. Finding a vehicle to hotwire, he contemplated the events of the past hour on the drive back to Damascus.

  *

  Needless to say, Joe’s employer, the Central Intelligence Agency, had not been happy with the outcome of the mission. And losing one’s principal was a black mark no protective agent wanted on his resume. But unlike in the movies, black-clad operatives would not be visiting him in the dead of night to eliminate or neutralize a loose end. Instead, they might assign him to a mundane desk job that would be so mind-numbingly boring, it would force him to resign. Or the more likely scenario was that they would yank his clearances and inform him the United States no longer required his services.

  Thinking a couple of weeks of rest and relaxation would be just the thing to get his head right, Joe’s bosses at Langley had ordered him to take some time off. Also, having him out of pocket for a while would give them the opportunity to evaluate his performance and determine what, if any, actions would be warranted. Joe wondered if they would really fire him, especially after all he and his team had done to track and kill the Iranian hit team that had been gunning for the director and his senior staff last year. Maybe he should beat them to the punch and resign to save everyone the trouble. Either way, if this ended up being the end of his government career, it was time to begin exploring his options for the future.

  So, after being literally kicked off the headquarters compound for a couple of weeks, he’d headed south, to the sandy beaches of Cancun. Joe had never operated in Mexico so it was a place where he could remain anonymous, be just another Norte Americano tourist traveling south of the border to enjoy the sun and sand.

  The laughter of some kids playing on the beach below refocused his attention on the beautiful scene laid out before him and he banished the thoughts of work. There was nothing to be gained by worrying about something that was out of his control. It was a waste of time and energy. Besides, I’m on vacation, he told himself. Start acting like it.

  Looking down at the waves gently crashing onto the beach, Joe decided a long run would be just the thing to clear his head. Retreating into the hotel room, he laced up his running shoes before donning a faded Washington Nationals baseball cap. He grabbed his sunglasses, phone, and earbuds and let the door close behind him as he headed for the bank of elevators.

  CHAPTER 8

  Just a stone’s throw across the Mediterranean Sea from the island nation of Cyprus lies the city of Tartus, Syria. The ancient city on Syria’s west coast has been a center of trade dating back to the Phoenicians, and prior to the civil war, had been a main point of entry for imports on their way to Iraq to aid in the war-torn country’s reconstruction.

  Since the early 1970s, the Russian Navy has maintained a constant presence in Tartus, using the port as a repair and replenishment facility, what they designate as a Material-Technical Support Point, or MTSP. For ships’ captains patrolling the Med, having the option to dock in Tartus meant they didn’t have to sail all the way back to their home bases in the Black Sea. After a quick refit and a little shore-leave for the crew, a ship could put back to sea and resume its patrol schedule with minimal delay.

  With the buildup of forces to support Syria in its civil war, an agreement was signed between the two countries that would allow Russia’s navy to expand the size and scope of the naval base and have sovereign control over its port facilities. The Russian Air Force struck a similar deal with the Syrians for the use of Khmeimim Air Base, located fifty miles up the coast just south of Latakia.

  Once the upgrades to the facilities in Tartus were complete, men and materiel began flooding into the country. Protected by two companies of Russian Marines, the port quickly became the primary entry point for troops, armaments, supplies, and other cargo necessary to support a large contingent of warfighters. The sheer amount of activity on the base, with people and machinery moving in every conceivable direction, made it relatively easy for a group of elite soldiers to blend in and go unnoticed.

  A small compound surrounded by ten-foot walls sat near the port’s northernmost breakwater. It contained two flat-roofed buildings that were arranged in an “L” shape. The two-story building facing the blue waters of the Med housed offices, the armory, and gear lockers. The other building was set up as a barracks, gym, and dining facility.

  It was from this location that two teams from Spetsgruppa “A,” or Alpha Group, stand-alone special forces units belonging to the FSB Special Purpose Center, ran operations throughout Syria. The unit was created by the chairman of the KGB, the FSB’s predecessor, in 1974 to act as Russia’s counterterrorism task force. Members of Alpha Group, or Alpha as it was commonly known, were cherry-picked from other Spetsnaz units, and were the best of the best.

  Based largely on its success in resolving hostage rescue and hijacking situations throughout the Soviet Union, Alpha moved into counterintelligence operations, working as spy hunters against hostile foreign intelligence services. Over the years the unit continued to take on additional roles and responsibilities that were not included in its original charter, such as paramilitary and covert operations.

  In the late seventies, Alpha began operating outside the borders of the Soviet Union. During Operation Storm-333 in 1979, Alpha was part of an assault force that conducted a surprise attack on Afghanistan’s Tajbeg Palace, overthrowing the government in Kabul and subsequently installing a regime controlled by Moscow.

  Alpha was deployed to an overseas location again in 1985 when four Soviet diplomats were kidnapped in Beirut, Lebanon. KGB operatives were able to identify each of the kidnappers, and in turn, the Alpha team systematically began taking members of their families hostage. Rumor had it that the KGB team killed one of the family members and sent a few of his mutilated body parts to the kidnappers as a warning – release the Russian hostages or there would be more grisly deliveries. One of the diplomatic staff died during his captivity, but the other three were released unharmed. In the years since, Alpha Group had continued its counterterror mission at home, most notably with the questionable resolutions to the hostage crises at a school in Beslan and a theater in Moscow, while operating in the conflicts in Chechnya, the North Caucasus, Crimea, and Ukraine.

  *

  Captain Gennady Kalugin knocked on the door three times and waited for permission to enter before opening it and stepping inside. Although the weather in Tartus was beautiful this time of year, sunny with temperatures in the mid-eighties, the dark interior of the office reminded him of a gloomy winter day back home.

  Blackout curtains covered each window, creating an impenetrable barrier that prevented even the thinnest sliver of sunlight from entering the room. The only source of illumination was a solitary lamp sitting on the corner of a desk, its lone bulb revealing little about th
e rest of the office. But as one of Alpha’s team leaders, Kalugin had been in the office enough times to have committed its layout to memory.

  The desk was in the far-right corner of the room, away from the windows to prevent a sniper from having a direct line of sight on the person sitting behind it, not that Kalugin could remember a time when he had been in the office and the heavy curtains had been open. But just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean someone isn’t out to get you.

  The innermost corner of the office was occupied by an unused seating area with a small dust-covered coffee table. A massive conference table covered with oversized laminated maps of the region filled the remaining space. All in all, the room was a drab and depressing sight.

  Kalugin closed the door behind him, and with a noticeable limp, hobbled to within a meter of the desk. He stopped, shifting most of his weight onto his good leg, and saluted. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  A blue cloud of smoke hovered above the desk as the man sitting behind it took a long drag on his cigarette. He nearly sucked it down to the filter before blowing the smoke upward, adding to the haze. Stubbing the butt out in an overflowing ashtray, he fished a fresh cancer stick out of the pack and lit it with a cheap butane lighter. Only after he had taken a long, satisfying pull and expelled the smoke did he look up from the files spread out before him.

  Colonel Konstantin Gusarov was the commander of all Alpha Group units in Syria. He was a bear of a man, thick and barrel-chested, with close-cropped hair that was more gray than black these days. Having been awarded the title Hero of the Russian Federation for his actions in Chechnya, he was one of nine Alpha officers to earn the prestigious honor. Over half of the men had received the award posthumously, giving their lives in the line of duty, so he considered himself lucky to a part of the small group still drawing breath. That luck had almost run out on a mission outside Kiev when an improvised explosive device detonated under his vehicle. Gusarov survived the blast but lost both legs above the knees. From a physical standpoint, he had made a full recovery from his injuries and maintained an active lifestyle even though he smoked like a chimney. But the mental scars took longer to heal. While he was still bitter those fucking Ukrainians had robbed him of his ability to operate, he was thankful Moscow wanted to keep his knowledge and leadership in the unit by promoting him to the command position.