Drone Strike: A Joe Matthews Thriller

by David Austin

  Rumors were still swirling about the mysterious cargo plane and flight of helicopters that had landed on the far side of the base seven days ago. The plane, an Antonov An-12, had taxied to a spacious tarmac near the helicopter pads, where three large flat-bed trucks waited. Several boxy containers, followed by one that was long and slender, were loaded onto the trucks and transported a short distance to a heavily guarded hangar. The magnitude of the security around the building was so unusual that it only made the speculation grow. From his discussion with Garrett back in Larnaca, he thought he had a good handle on what was inside the containers and why the hangar was protected as if it were the presidential palace in Damascus.

  Tariq crossed the tarmac and entered the main terminal building. Since the base was also a functioning commercial airport, passengers milled around waiting on their flights as soldiers from the Syrian and Russian militaries went about the daily process of prosecuting a war. Navigating his way through the passengers and soldiers, he shook his head at the absurdity of the scene and headed up a flight of stairs to the offices on the second floor. He reached the landing, which opened onto a long hallway that ran the entire length of the building.

  Turning right, he walked up to a small desk manned by two Russian privates, who looked so young he thought they should be at home watching YouTube videos or gaming on their XBOX. Tariq removed his government credentials from the inside pocket of his sports coat and handed them to one of the soldiers. “I’m here to see Colonel Teplov.”

  Colonel Vadim Teplov was the commanding officer of all GRU units operating in the Syrian theater of operations. Answering only to the Minister of Defense, the GRU deployed more assets to international locations than Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR. Aside from its size and scope of operations, the GRU was unique in that it had command and control authority over Spetsnaz special forces units. Meaning, it was not only an intelligence gathering organization but had a direct-action capability as well.

  The soldier eyed Tariq’s credentials, then checked them against an access list. Seeing his name, he handed the ID back and said, “Thank you, sir.”

  Tariq returned the credentials to his pocket and started down the hallway, but the other soldier blocked his path. The young man’s body language exuded authority and confidence but he was betrayed by the tentative tone in his voice. “Excuse me, sir. Are you armed?” Protocol dictated that all non-Russian visitors check their weapons at the desk.

  As an officer charged with suppressing dissent for his country’s intelligence service Colonel Tariq Kabbani had made his fair share of enemies over the years. Granted, most of them were no longer living, but there were still plenty who were. So he always had at least one weapon, sometimes more, readily accessible. “Look around you, young man,” he began. “You do realize that we are in the middle of a war? There are people out there who would be only too happy to cut your head off with a dull butter knife or set you on fire for no other reason than to listen to your screams.” He paused a moment to give the image time to crystalize in the soldier’s mind. “Of course, I’m armed.” Flaunting his clout as he would with low-ranking soldiers of his own military, he brushed past the young man without another word.

  Entering Teplov’s office, Tariq saw the GRU colonel was finishing up with a very fit-looking man wearing the desert camouflaged battle dress uniform favored by Russia’s special forces units. The man seemed annoyed at the intrusion, but if Teplov shared his feelings, he was better at hiding it. Teplov ended the meeting and dismissed the soldier. “Thank you, Captain Kalugin. That will be all.” The captain shot the GRU colonel an annoyed look for using his name and rank in front of the Syrian, before saluting and excusing himself.

  Tariq was stunned at having just come face to face with the man who had killed Greg Jacobs on the hilltop in Salkhad. Being in the same room with Greg’s killer, he felt a rage begin to churn in his gut, and it took every ounce of his training and experience to maintain a neutral expression. At this moment, Tariq wanted nothing more than to draw his weapon and unload every round in its magazine into the soldier. But like so many of the insider attacks that had taken place against American troops in Iraq and Afghanistan, he knew there was no way he would survive the encounter. He was not suicidal. Besides, there was still so much work to do to end the civil war and hopefully change the regime in Damascus. And then there was his family. He couldn’t leave Rima and Nabil with the burden of surviving these trying times on their own. He had too much to live for. Instead, Tariq made a mental note to have a conversation with Scott Garrett about how to make the Russian pay for his transgression.

  Now that they were alone, Tariq pushed aside the thoughts of killing the soldier called Kalugin and got down to business. As he had expected, Teplov was tight-lipped when asked about the unusual activity at the hangar across the airfield, brushing off the question with a dismissive wave of his hand before changing the subject. The rest of the discussion had been fairly routine, with Tariq passing along some intelligence on rebels operating in the area and the Russian colonel offering support when and where he could.

  Thirty minutes later Tariq was back downstairs on the tarmac taking in the fresh air and feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone, opened the web browser, and typed in a search for MQ-9 Reaper storage containers. The first link he chose took him to an article on the U.S. Air Force’s webpage for Wright Patterson Air Force Base. The article described, in remarkable detail the containers used to store and transport the UAV. The Reaper could be broken down into four parts and each section, the fuselage, propeller, engine, and wings, had its own specifically designed container. Amazed at what the Americans would put on the Internet, he downloaded photos of each of the crates before navigating to another page describing a similar process for the ground control station and satellite communication system.

  Armed with the album of digital ammunition, Tariq walked the airport’s grounds in search of anyone who might recognize the items in the photos. He had been at it for about an hour without any luck, and frustration was beginning to set in. Either the Russians had done a great job of cloaking the unloading of the containers, or, as Teplov had said, the activity over at the hangar really was nothing of significance. Tariq decided he would give it another thirty minutes, then call it quits for the day.

  When the half hour was up, a disappointed but not dejected Tariq Kabbani headed back toward the terminal. This was the nature of intelligence work, he told himself. There were days, like today, when it could be a grind. But he knew that he would keep grinding until he found the truth. Maybe it was time for a break, grab a bite to eat and figure out a new game plan. As he approached the VIP parking area where the local GID office had left a car for him, he noticed an old man pulling a hose around the corner of the building. Tariq stopped and watched as the man began watering the shrubs and flowers that welcomed passengers arriving in Latakia. Why not? he thought. What have I got to lose?

  Putting his meal off for a few more minutes, Tariq walked over and greeted the man. “As-Salaam-Alaikum.” Peace be upon you.

  Startled that anyone would acknowledge his presence, the man looked up with a face that had been creased and weathered by a lifetime of toiling in the harsh Syrian elements. “Wa-Alaikum-Salaam.” And unto you, peace.

  Tariq asked, “How long have you worked at the airport, my friend?”

  Tapping his fingers as he counted, the man said, “Twenty-seven years. I’ve done nearly every job around here at one time or another. I was a baggage handler when I was younger and stronger. But as the years continued to pass, I had to find other, less strenuous, jobs.”

  “Well,” Tariq said, finding himself enjoying the conversation with the old man, “I’m sure you’ve seen quite a bit around here over the years.”

  “Oh, yes,” the man replied. “We used to have flights coming in from all over the world, places like Europe, South America, and even the United States.” The man
looked a little melancholy as he recalled the old days. “But not so much lately. Since the war, it seems like the only people flying in and out of the airport are Russians.”

  Seeing his opportunity to manipulate the conversation toward the hangar, he motioned in its direction. “Speaking of the Russians, what do you think is going on over there?”

  Glancing around to make sure they were alone, the man lowered his voice almost to a whisper and said, “They’re guarding something very special.”

  “Really? What makes you say that?” Tariq inquired, suddenly interested in what the old man had to say.

  “Because I saw it,” he continued, excited to finally share his secret with someone.

  “Tell me, sir. What exactly did you see?”

  The man took one more look around, not wanting anyone to overhear their conversation. “About a week ago, one of their cargo planes landed and taxied over near the hangar. The odd thing was that after the engines shut down and the auxiliary power unit was connected, the crew remained onboard. No one came out and no other ground crew approached the plane. The whole procedure was very odd. That’s why I noticed it.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Nothing,” the man said, pausing for dramatic affect. “Until the helicopters arrived.”

  Getting the feeling he was on to something, Tariq encouraged him to continue.

  “There were four of them. One of the big attack helicopters, two transports, and one that was smaller than the rest. They landed about thirty minutes after the cargo plane.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Heavily armed men poured out of the transports and formed a circle around the plane. One of them began giving orders, then three flatbed trucks that had been idling nearby backed up to the rear of the plane and the crew began unloading their cargo.”

  Feeling his own excitement begin to rise, Tariq asked, “And what did this cargo look like?”

  “It was a bunch of large gray crates. But one was different than the others.”

  “How so?”

  “It was long and narrow.”

  Tariq fished his phone out of his pocket, opened the photos app, and moved next to the man so he could see the screen. “Did they look anything like this?”

  The man scrolled through the photos with a gnarled finger, its skin resembling the texture of deeply tanned shoe leather. He looked up at the Syrian intelligence officer and said, “They looked exactly like that.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Inside the heavily guarded hangar across the runways from the main terminal building, Vasily Zubkin walked around the reassembled MQ-9 Reaper. Trailing his right hand across its smooth, flat-gray surface, he marveled at the simple yet elegant design of the airframe that surrounded the state-of-the-art technology encased inside its fuselage. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life and being in the presence of such a magnificent technological achievement made Zubkin realize just how far his country lagged behind the Americans in this arena.

  Yes, Russia had been flying its own fleet of drones for years, but they were primarily variants purchased from countries like Israel, then modified to meet its own specific needs. They were small designs used primarily by on-the-ground commanders to conduct battlefield reconnaissance. While the Americans already had several newer generations of drones patrolling the skies, Russia had nothing even remotely close to this machine in its arsenal.

  After graduating at the top of his class from the prestigious Moscow Aviation Institute, Zubkin had been offered his choice of assignments. Without hesitation, he chose his government’s unmanned aerial vehicle program, believing UAVs were the wave of the aviation industry’s future. Technology was advancing at a rate faster than the human body could adapt, and the g-forces pilots endured in the newest generations of fighter aircraft were making it more and more difficult to have an actual person in the cockpit.

  Vitally aware of the gap between the two countries’ programs, Russia’s president had commissioned a top-secret initiative that would vault his military’s UAV capabilities lightyears ahead of where it stood at the present. As one of Russia’s brightest young minds, Zubkin was selected to be part of the team to design and build the drone his president had envisioned. Inspired by the bat-wing design of the American B-2 stealth bomber, the top-secret UAV would be jet-powered and have an internal weapons bay capable of holding a deadly payload. But it was probably still six months to a year away from leaving the ground on its maiden flight. And even though it was the most technologically advanced UAV Russia had ever designed, Zubkin had a nagging thought in the back of his head that their shiny new drone was not up to the standards set by this brilliant piece of machinery sitting on the hangar floor before him.

  “Ah, there you are, Vasily,” Colonel Teplov’s voice echoed through the hangar. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Snapped out of his trance-like reverie, Zubkin said, “Good afternoon, Colonel. What can I do for you?”

  “I just stopped by to see how things were progressing. Moscow has selected our first target and would like to know when they can expect the attack to occur.”

  The aerospace engineer paused a moment, thinking of the best way to phrase his answer to emphasize the positives and minimize the negatives. “The Reaper has been reassembled and is airworthy. My technicians and the members of Alpha Group took the greatest of care loading the drone, and their attention to detail was well worth any additional time spent on the ground.”

  Teplov agreed. He had been impressed with the overall efficiency of the operation. “And what of the ground control station and satcom system?”

  “The same,” Zubkin continued. “All components are fully operational.”

  “Excellent!” Teplov exclaimed, slapping the engineer on the back. “So, when can I let Moscow know it will be ready to fly?”

  Now came the hard part. “We still have two hurdles to overcome before we can conduct the first mission, colonel”

  “Really, Vasily? And what would they be?”

  “First, we would need to conduct several test flights in order to give the pilot an opportunity to become accustomed to the UAV’s flight characteristics.”

  “I’m afraid that will be impossible,” Teplov countered. “We can’t risk having anyone see the drone.”

  “Sir, without the test flights, there’s a much greater risk of a crash. And that would put an end to this operation before it even gets off the ground.” The play on words was not lost on either man.

  “And what of the pilot? Do you have so little faith in his ability to fly the Reaper?”

  “It’s not that I don’t have confidence in our pilot, he’s quite experienced from what I’m told. But please remember, we don’t have a UAV in our entire inventory that is even remotely comparable to the Reaper. Asking him to conduct a successful mission his first time at the controls is an unreasonable expectation for even the most experienced pilot. Would we require a fighter pilot to fly a mission of such importance without ever being in the cockpit of our most advanced MiG? With only time in a training simulator? I think, not.”

  Teplov considered Zubkin’s argument, weighing the risk of discovery against the very real need for the pilot to test-fly the Reaper. Knowing he would find himself in a Siberian work camp or with a bullet in the back of the head if the Reaper crashed on its maiden flight, he relented. “Alright, Vasily. I’ll make the case to Moscow for at least one test flight.”

  Zubkin breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir.”

  “And the second hurdle you spoke about?”

  Gesturing for Teplov to follow him, Zubkin led the way across the hangar and spoke as they walked. “The system’s encryption.”

  They entered a room that had been fabricated to house the ground control station and serve as the operation’s command center. The room was dark, the only illumination coming from the control panels of the GCS and the twin monitors on a desk next to the unit. A CAT-6 ethernet cable ran from the GC
S to a desktop tower that would be the envy of any computer gamer. An odd-looking figure banged away at the ergonomic keyboard, sending what appeared to be random strings of letters, numbers, and symbols across the monitor to her right. Whenever she hit the enter key, she would shift her attention and watch the left screen for a corresponding response to the command she had just sent.

  Taking advantage of the momentary break in the action, Zubkin said, “Good morning, Anna.” Motioning to his left, he continued, “You remember Colonel Teplov.”

  Seeing the men approach, Anna Kovaleski removed a pair of white earbuds and leaned back in her chair. Sporting a pink and purple mohawk with tattoos of AK-47s inked on the shaved sides of her head, she wore a leather biker’s jacket, torn jeans, and thick-soled Doc Martens. Anna, or AK as she preferred to be called, looked like the poster child for the punk rock counterculture of the nineteen-eighties. She interlaced her fingers and raised her arms, palms to the ceiling. Stretching tired muscles, she yawned, “It’s morning already?”

  As a hacker of the first order, Anna Kovaleski was one of her government’s most dangerous weapons in the clandestine cyberwar being conducted across the ether of the World Wide Web. Her talents were discovered almost by accident when she was arrested during a sting operation in St. Petersburg. Pressured by the international community to crackdown on the tidal wave of scams, malware, and ransomware attacks emanating from inside Russia’s borders, the FSB had conducted raids across the country as a token effort to quiet some of the criticism.

  Given the choice of a long, torturous jail sentence or living in relative freedom while doing the government’s bidding online, Anna had chosen the latter. Spending time in a Russian prison would have been bad enough, but the thought of going years without access to the Internet was a fate she was not willing to endure. After agreeing to put her talents to work for the GRU, she was assigned to a cyberwarfare unit called APT28. It was just one of many such units belonging to Russia’s military intelligence arm, but APT28 was the most well-known to the West for its targeting of the governments, infrastructure, and militaries of the Ukraine, the Republic of Georgia, and other states across Eastern Europe. Having been the team lead on many of those hacks had earned Anna the opportunity to crack the American drone’s encryption.