Drone Strike: A Joe Matthews Thriller

by David Austin

  The F-16’s EWS registered the launch and the indicators in the cockpit lit up once more, alerting its pilot of the additional danger. “Command, I’ve got a second missile in the air. I repeat, two missiles on my tail.”

  “Good copy, Falcon One Three. We’re scrambling additional air support.” The controller didn’t mention it over the radio, but he had put CSAR, or Combat Search and Rescue, on alert.

  The Jordanian aviator’s head darted back and forth, first to his left, then to the right, looking over his shoulder to get a visual on the missiles. Sweat dripped under his visor as he cursed into his oxygen mask, something about the rocketeer’s mother and a camel as he realized his idea to outclimb the missiles wasn’t going to work. They were closing too damn fast. Deciding it was time to change tactics, he threw the stick to the left and right, carving up the sky, before pointing the plane’s nose toward the ground. He popped a second round of countermeasures, leaving a virtual wall of chaff and flares in his wake as he put the F-16 into a steep dive. Confused by the amount of debris and heat in the air, the first missile lost its lock on the fighter.

  The pilot breathed a quick sigh of relief as he watched it continue flying in a straight line until it ran out of fuel and crashed harmlessly in the desert. That was the good news. The bad news was that the seeker in the nose of the second missile was not fooled so easily and maintained its lock on the fighter. Blasting through the remnants of chaff and smoldering remains of the flares, it homed in on the heat signature of the F-16’s engine. As the pilot pulled out of the dive and banked to the right to regain some of the lost altitude, the Verba’s three-pound warhead detonated, completely shearing off the fighter’s tail section.

  Without a rudder to help it fly in a straight line, the plane was knocked into a spin and skipped across the sky like a flat rock across a still pond. As the plane disintegrated around him, and the g-forces of the spin drained the blood from his brain, the pilot struggled to run through the steps necessary to eject. In a slurred voice, he said, “May…day. I’ve…been….” He blacked out before he could finish the sentence or abandon his doomed fighter.

  Kalugin and his men watched from the tarmac as the F-16 plummeted to earth and exploded on the side of a mountain west of the airfield. He was about to give the order to evacuate when his second-in-command approached and asked, “Sir, what do you want to do with the Americans?”

  His reply was cold, detached. “We only need one. Bring me the communications officer. And make sure he has his computer. Execute the rest, then have the men board the helicopters. We need to leave before reinforcements arrive.”

  Without blinking an eye at the thought of killing the inhabitants of the base in cold blood, the officer acknowledged the command and relayed the orders over his radio. A series of single gunshots rang out across the airfield as Kalugin strode toward the Ka-226 command helicopter. He was about to enter the cabin when another of his men approached, manhandling a terrified and confused communications officer clutching a computer bag.

  Eyeing the bag, Kalugin switched to English and asked, “You have the encryption codes?”

  “N…no,” the man stammered, knowing that was not the answer the big soldier wanted to hear.

  “And why is that? You’re the communications officer, are you not?” The calmness in Kalugin’s voice making him seem even more menacing.

  Wincing, as if he was expecting to be struck as punishment for his answer, the communications officer said, “Once the base came under attack and we were in danger of being overrun, protocol dictates I destroy the crypto keys. I had just finished when your men stormed the building.”

  “That’s most unfortunate,” Kalugin said as he imagined his superiors’ displeasure when he broke the news to them. Furious with the man for beating his commandos to the punch, Kalugin drew his pistol from the drop-holster strapped to his thigh. “If you don’t have the crypto keys, then I have no use for you.” The pistol barked once, and the bullet struck the communications officer in the forehead. He collapsed on the ground, still clutching the computer bag in his arms. Kalugin knelt next to the man, withdrew the laptop from the bag, and climbed aboard the helicopter.

  CHAPTER 17

  Everyone stood as a Secret Service agent opened the door and President Brad Andrews entered the White House Situation Room. The emergency Principals Committee meeting had been called only a few hours after word of the attack on the CIA’s drone base in Jordan had reached Langley’s operations center.

  The president addressed his national security team while moving to his customary place at the head of the mahogany conference table. “Good morning, everyone. Please, take your seats.”

  Julia Maxwell, the national security advisor, sat to the president’s right. Next to her was Andrews’ chief of staff, Paul Owens, then Keith Hultsman, the director of national intelligence and Lawrence Sloan, the director of the CIA. The remaining seats at the table were filled by the secretaries of state and defense, Claire Nichols and Hank Coleman.

  Given the nature of the meeting, two of the principals had been permitted to bring a deputy or other subject-matter expert. The chief of staff of the Air Force, General Maria Rodriguez, and the CIA’s deputy director of operations, Katherine Clark, were the additional attendees.

  President Andrews took a sip from a steaming mug of coffee. “Alright,” he began, “I know it’s early, but what do we know so far?”

  DNI Hultsman was the senior intelligence representative in the room but deflected the question to Lawrence Sloan. Perhaps the gesture was out of respect for the spymaster’s experience and the fact that it was his agency that had been attacked. But Hultsman was more a political appointee than an intelligence officer and probably didn’t want to be the target of any blowback from the president once he heard the bad news.

  Lawrence Sloan began the briefing without referring to notes, having committed the details to memory. “Sir, four hours ago, our UAV base in the Jordanian desert was attacked by an unknown force. It appears, based on a phone call our chief of air operations in Amman had with his counterpart immediately preceding the attack, that an unscheduled flight of helicopters was approaching the airfield.”

  “Is that unusual?” asked Julia Maxwell. “I mean, how would anyone know the base was there in the first place?”

  Undeterred by the interruption, Sloan continued, “While the base is clandestine in nature, it is not invisible. Given its proximity to Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq, its use by the Special Operations Command to launch missions throughout the Levant and scheduled resupply flights, it is one of the busiest UAV bases in our portfolio. Based on that amount of activity, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume that other countries are aware of its existence.”

  As a captain in the Marine Corps and the commander of an infantry company during the first Gulf War, President Andrews had led men in battle. His first concern was for the well-being of the personnel on the base. “Did we take any casualties?”

  “I’m afraid we did, sir.” Sloan paused, and his shoulders dipped ever so slightly, weighed down by the deaths of so many of his people. “The attackers killed everyone on the base. There were no survivors.” The statement hung over the room as everyone observed a moment of silence and said a personal prayer for the men and women who died serving their country.

  Claire Nichols was the first to speak. She was already thinking a couple of steps ahead as to how to handle the diplomatic fallout that was bound to result from an incident of this nature, especially if the attack turned out to be state-sponsored. “I know it’s only been a few hours, Lawrence, but do you have any thoughts as to a motive for the attack?”

  Sloan preferred to deal in facts rather than hypotheticals, so he offered what he knew, not what he suspected. “At this early stage, it would be premature to speculate on the motive behind the attack.”

  “Then how about who was behind it?” the president asked.

  “The use of helicopters to conduct the air assault most likely rul
es out a terrorist organization,” Hank Coleman interjected. Taking a sip from his own mug of coffee, the secretary of defense continued, “It’s possible it could have been a retaliatory strike by a country that felt our UAV operations had been violating their sovereignty.”

  Again, Sloan refused to offer speculation. His job was to provide the president with answers, not guesses. “Based on the evidence left behind at the scene, the weapons used were of Russian manufacture. Whether Russian forces actually conducted the attack, or armed the group that did, is something we are still trying to determine.”

  “What evidence?” the president pressed.

  “Shell casings, sir, 5.45-millimeter, the caliber most commonly associated with the AK-74 assault rifle, and the much larger 23-millimeter variety fired by the GSh-23 twin-barreled-autocannon often found under the nose of a Hind gunship. In addition to the shell casings, fragments from what we believe to be air-to-ground rockets bore Cyrillic markings.”

  Thinking her role in this incident might have just become exponentially more difficult, the secretary of state said, “I know Russian forces have been indirectly involved in a few engagements with our troops in Syria as advisors attached to Assad’s military, but do you seriously think President Polovkin would approve a direct attack on an American facility?”

  President Andrews liked to be on his feet and moving around whenever he was confronted with a complex issue, so he stood and walked over to a small table set with a coffee service. “The attack was on a clandestine base in the middle of nowhere,” he said, almost to himself as he worked through the problem while refilling his mug. “There wouldn’t be any media coverage, and he knew we wouldn’t acknowledge anything publicly, so very few people would even know the attack had taken place.” As he returned to his seat at the head of the table, he wondered aloud, “What are you up to, Yaroslav?”

  Paul Owens, the chief of staff entered the conversation. “There has to be some greater objective behind the attack. Polovkin wouldn’t mount an operation against one of our most important intelligence bases in the region just to stick a thumb in our eye because he’s upset about our involvement with the rebels and Kurds in Syria.”

  “You’re right, Paul,” DNI Hultsman said, taking a quick sip of water before continuing, “This was not a simple attack on one of our bases. It was a robbery.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The president’s head snapped to his left and he stared in disbelief at his intelligence chief. “A robbery? What the hell are you talking about, Keith?”

  Hultsman took a moment to gather his thoughts now that everyone’s attention was focused on him. “Sir, as you know, the base in the Jordanian desert was designed and operated to conduct UAV reconnaissance, surveillance, and strike missions across the Levant. In order to cover such a large area and meet the demands of the operational tempo, we had forward-deployed four MQ-9 Reapers to the base.”

  Feeling a wave of dread descend over the room, the president asked the question even though the felt he already knew the answer. “Keith, what exactly, was stolen?”

  Hultsman cleared his throat before responding. “Sir, they took one of the Reapers.” The DNI leaned back in his chair, almost relieved to have finally uttered the words aloud.

  The tension in the room was palpable as everyone attempted to process what the DNI had just said. With a look of disbelief, President Andrews seemed to be having a tough time comprehending what he had just heard. “Let me get this straight, and bear with me because I was just a grunt officer in the Marine Corps. But you’re telling me that an unknown force attacked our base in broad daylight, killed everyone in sight, then made off with an unmanned aerial vehicle? How is that even possible?”

  Lawrence Sloan interjected, attempting to redirect the president’s incredulity away from the DNI. He knew the situation would be bad enough if it was in fact the Russians who stole the Reaper in order to tear it down, study its design and technology, then incorporate what they had learned to reverse-engineer a similar capability of their own. There was no doubt that scenario would occur on some level, but what he had to tell the president led him to believe that wasn’t the attackers’ primary motivation for the operation. “Sir, there’s more.”

  From the tone in Sloan’s voice President Andrews could tell things were about to go from bad to worse.

  “The UAV was not the only item taken from the base. Also missing was the ground control station a pilot uses to fly the Reaper, and the satellite communications system that maintains the link between the GCS and the drone.” Sloan paused before delivering the last item on the attackers shopping list. “And ten Hellfire missiles.”

  President Andrews was trying his best to wrap his head around the seeming absurdity of the situation. What he had heard in the last thirty minutes or so sounded like the plot of a New York Times best-selling espionage thriller. But this wasn’t a work of fiction. It was real. “I’ll reiterate my original question, Lawrence. How is that even possible? You said the assault was carried out by helicopters. There’s no way everything could be transported on a helo.”

  Sloan looked to Coleman and the secretary of defense took the cue. “Mr. President, I believe it would be best to have General Rodriguez take over this part of the briefing. Prior to being appointed to her current position as chief of staff of the Air Force she was the commanding officer of the 432nd Operations Group. The 432nd operates Predators and Reapers out of Creech Air Force base outside Las Vegas. She is the Air Force’s foremost expert in UAV operations.”

  All eyes in the room locked on the woman in the blue uniform. “Thank you for coming, General,” Andrews said in a welcoming tone. “I’m hoping you can shed some light on how an operation of this nature was carried out.”

  Undaunted by her audience, she began. “Well, sir, there were a couple of conditions that, under normal circumstances, would be considered positives about our UAV operations that ended up working against us in this situation.”

  “Explain, please.”

  “As a former combat commander,” she said, referring to the president’s past service and building that instant bond of those who had served in uniform, “I’m sure you can appreciate the need for agile units capable of the rapid deployment of personnel and resources.”

  “I can,” the president replied.

  “Our UAVs, specifically the MQ-1B Predators and MQ-9 Reapers, were designed to be portable plug-and-play systems that could be packed up, transported anywhere in the world, and be operational in the shortest amount of time possible. In order to achieve that capability, the drones, their ground control stations, and satellite communications systems can be broken down into their individual components, packed into specially designed crates, and loaded onto something as small as a C-130 Hercules for transport anywhere in the world. Once in-theater, the components can be unloaded, reassembled, and ready to conduct operations in a matter of hours.”

  President Andrews nodded as she spoke, at once grasping the concept. “What was the other condition, General?”

  Not wanting to sound like she was throwing the Agency under the bus, Rodriquez stole a quick glance at Lawrence Sloan, who indicated she should proceed. “It would be the remote location of the CIA’s base in Jordan. And the same could perhaps be said of many of their other bases around the world. Although the remoteness keeps their operations away from prying eyes, it makes them difficult to defend. A small group of the Agency’s security personnel, no matter how good, are no match for an attack by a determined, professional, military force.”

  “She’s right,” Katherine Clark, agreed. “In the early days of the Global War on Terror, we had military support to protect the airfields. Often, it was company-sized elements of the 82nd or 101st Airborne Divisions. But as the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan continued through the years, those soldiers were needed for warfighting, not force protection missions. As a result, we began relying on in-house security personnel or contractors to protect the bases.”

  “And
I believe the attackers used that knowledge, coupled with the remote location of the base, to pull off the theft of the Agency’s Reaper,” Rodriquez added.

  Accustomed to working and making decisions at the strategic level, President Andrews found himself enjoying getting back into the weeds of a tactical discussion. “How much time would the attackers need to breakdown the UAV and its equipment and load it onto some type of transport aircraft?”

  Rodriquez thought for a moment while she did the calculations in her head. “In an evacuation type scenario, an experienced ground crew would be able to pull it off in just under an hour.”

  “So, the helos bring in the assault force,” Andrews said. “Then, once the base is secured, they fly in a cargo plane, say an Antonov AN-12, or something similar, with a crew of technicians to handle the teardown and loading.”

  “Sounds about right to me, sir. And with the base under control, some of the assault force could be diverted to assist with the heavy lifting to help expedite the process.”

  Now that they had a working theory on how the attack took place, it was time to focus on the why and to find out who was responsible for one of the greatest heists of all time.

  CHAPTER 19