Drone Strike: A Joe Matthews Thriller

by David Austin

  As the men piled into the vehicles, Kevin reminisced, “Huh. Syria seems a lot nicer than I remember it.”

  Mike lifted his prosthetic leg as he got into the back seat and closed the door. “That’s because no one’s shooting at you yet.”

  CHAPTER 32

  With each successive flight, the Russian drone pilot was becoming more and more comfortable at the controls of the Reaper. While the United States was still the enemy, he couldn’t help but appreciate the technological development that had gone into creating such a fine machine. He was a patriot in every sense but spending so much time in the ground control station’s cockpit, he was skeptical that his country could ever create anything comparable.

  The sound of Vasily Zubkin’s voice startled the pilot. The aerospace engineer had an annoying habit of creeping up behind him and standing there silently while he analyzed the information displayed on the station’s monitors. “I trust tonight’s flight is going well?”

  For this third mission, the flight plan had taken the Reaper over the dark blue waters of the Mediterranean, avoiding major cities along the route to reduce the chances of it being detected. A weather front moving across the sea had delayed the mission for two days, but the storms finally pushed through and a half-moon illuminated a partly cloudy night. “We should be on-station in just under an hour.”

  The Reaper made landfall between Port Said and Damietta, two cities on the northern coast of Egypt. Lush farmland passed below the drone’s sixty-six-foot wingspan as the Honeywell engine powered the UAV to the south. Fifty-three minutes later the pilot guided the hunter-killer down the Nile, as he flew the last five miles into the heart of Cairo.

  As the pilot put the Reaper in a holding pattern twenty-thousand feet above the city, his sensor operator toggled the zoom on the powerful cameras and took in the night-time sights. Traffic was always bad in Cairo, and the streets were packed on this Friday night as people celebrated the end of the work week. Headlights from cars stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic intermingled with streetlights and neon signs.

  Even though Cairo was a metropolitan city, there were still plenty of devout Muslims heeding the evening’s call to prayer. Many of those worshipers were heading to the Masjid Omar Makram mosque in the Garden City section of the capital. The mosque occupied a prime piece of real estate between two of the highest profile locations in Cairo, Tahrir Square, the site of the demonstrations during the Arab Spring, and the American Embassy. The pilot and sensor operator watched a stream of people dutifully enter the mosque, eager to fulfill their religious responsibilities before getting on with the weekend – a weekend that was about to be cut short.

  The Muezzin finished the call to prayer from the tall, clocktower minaret, and the congregants completed their ablutions. When the men and women filled their respective sections, the Imam began the service. Prostrating themselves before Allah, the worshipers knelt, touching their foreheads, noses and palms to the ground, blissfully unaware of the destructive force circling above them.

  Rising to the kneeling position, they recited the verses and were about to bend forward once more when the Imam paused, momentarily distracted by a loud, high-pitched screech. The sound was unfamiliar to the residents of Cairo but one that enemies of the United States in Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, and North Africa knew all too well. It was the sound of approaching death.

  The first Hellfire missile partially penetrated the flat parapet-like roof of the mosque before it detonated, the explosive force sending a shockwave filled with shrapnel and chunks of concrete and rebar into the main hall. Terrified screams echoed throughout the building as those who weren’t killed or seriously injured in the initial blast struggled to their feet. Dirt and debris floating in the air caked around the survivors’ eyes, and they coughed and wheezed from inhaling smoke and dust wafting through the main hall. With the power knocked out and everything shrouded in darkness, many stumbled around like zombies with their arms outstretched, feeling their way through the destruction for a way out.

  With the roof literally blown off the building, the Reaper’s cameras gave the Russians a bird’s eye view inside the mosque. From the devastation evident on the ground control station’s high-definition monitors, it was obvious there was no need to fire the second missile. The pilot looked up to Zubkin hoping for a show of restraint. But Colonel Teplov had entered the room unnoticed, and restraint was not a word in the GRU officer’s vocabulary. “Again,” he ordered.

  Against his better judgment, the pilot did as he was instructed. Along with everyone else in the room, he watched the monitor as the second missile dropped from the underwing pod, leaving a trail of exhaust as it sped toward the remnants of the mosque. The Hellfire passed through the gaping hole where the roof had been, breached the wooden floor, and crashed into the basement before exploding. The blast ruptured an underground gas line, setting off an even larger secondary explosion that ripped the mosque apart. Flying debris, some pieces the size of compact cars, shattered windows and damaged buildings within a two-block radius.

  The intense heat generated by the fire caused the automatic shut-off valves to malfunction, and the gas line ignited. A white-hot flame, hissing and sizzling like a giant blowtorch, erupted from the mosque’s basement. Racing up and down the pipes connecting the utility service to the rest of the neighborhood, the superheated accelerant reached reservoirs in the basements of adjacent buildings and set off a series of explosions. A demolitions expert daisy-chaining blocks of C-4 explosives could not have caused more damage. Three apartment buildings, a bank, and an Egyptian government building were engulfed in flames as an overwhelmed fire department fought a losing battle to contain the raging inferno.

  Responsible for the pointless carnage, a sense of shame fell over the pilot and his sensor operator for what they had done. Zubkin stared in disbelief at the monitors, and even Colonel Teplov seemed somewhat taken aback by the extent of the damage. He turned to leave the room, reaching for his mobile phone as he stepped through the door. He needed to brief Moscow on this unexpected turn of events.

  *

  Everyone stood as President Andrews entered the Situation Room. He was in as foul a mood as Lawrence Sloan could remember. And for good reason. The drone strike in Cairo was the lead story on the front page of every paper, website, and news broadcast around the world. Initial reports had the death toll from the strike at close to a thousand, with nearly twice that number injured. The entire Arab world was laying the blame squarely at the feet of the United States, and as a result, the protests were transitioning from chanting and burning flags to outright violence.

  The president took his seat at the head of the table and the rest of the group followed suit. “Claire, what’s the status of our people in Cairo?”

  The secretary of state said, “All accounted for, sir. Since the attack occurred after hours, most of the embassy staff were at home. They’ve been told to shelter in place until further notice. The compound itself is on lockdown but the situation is deteriorating.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The contingent of Marine Security Guards shot three protestors who’d climbed the wall and entered the grounds carrying Molotov cocktails and an assortment of small arms. Two of the intruders were killed and a third was seriously wounded. The Marines are treating him in the consulate’s medical bay, but I’m told he’s probably not going to make it unless we get him to a hospital in the next couple of hours. The streets around the embassy are gridlocked, making it all but impossible for an ambulance to get through, so the ambassador is coordinating with the Egyptian military to bring in a helicopter to medevac the casualty and remove the two bodies.”

  President Andrews closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he processed this new sequence of events. The situation was already bad enough, but he could only imagine the reaction when word hit the streets that three of their countrymen had been shot by the Americans. “Speaking of the Egyptian military, weren’t they supposed to be protectin
g the exterior of the compound to prevent something like this from happening in the first place?”

  Nichols exhaled in frustration with the lack of local support. “They were on duty, sir, but seemed to be turning a blind eye. It appears the soldiers guarding the embassy are more aligned with the protestors than with the foreigners they’re tasked with protecting.”

  That’s fucking great, Andrews thought, as he reached for a tumbler filled with ice water and took a sip, letting the cool liquid calm his thoughts. He swirled the glass, watching the ice cubes circulate in the filtered water before taking another sip. Giving himself a few seconds to get his emotions under control, Andrews set the glass back on the coaster and shifted the focus of the conversation to the heart of the problem. “Are we any closer to finding that goddamned drone?” He shifted his gaze to his left, leveling the question at the CIA director. “Lawrence?”

  In a manner so calm that it seemed as if he were oblivious to the boiling cauldron erupting across the Middle East, Sloan said, “Sir, we’ve inserted a team into Syria. They’re in place and have the site where we believe the Russians are operating the drone under observation.”

  “But no visual confirmation as of yet?”

  “No, sir. But to be fair, they’ve been in place for less than twenty-four hours. The team was infiltrating to their designated observation post when the Cairo attack occurred and missed the opportunity to confirm if the Reaper returned to the location they are staking out.”

  Turning to his secretary of defense, Andrews asked, “And the AWACS, Hank?”

  “Unfortunately, the plane developed a hydraulic issue and was grounded for repairs. By the time they were able to get the replacement bird airborne and on-station, we’d missed the chance to pick up the UAV taking off or landing.”

  No one else at the table had any good news to report, so why should the Pentagon be any different? Unbelievable. “Look,” President Andrews said, his temper rising to the surface once again. “We have more resources to throw at a problem than practically any other nation in the world. And you’re telling me we can’t get a location on a piece of our own hardware that is killing people with impunity and turning a significant percentage of the planet’s population against us? That is unacceptable.”

  Before he could continue, the door opened and a young woman in a naval officer’s uniform entered the Situation Room. “I apologize for the interruption, Mr. President, but I have a message for Secretary Nichols. State’s operations center said she needed it right away and that it was relevant to the subject matter of your meeting.”

  Since electronic devices, even those belonging to the members of the national security team, weren’t allowed in the Situation Room, Andrews gave his approval and she walked around the table and handed a folded slip of paper to the secretary of state.

  Nichols read the message but waited for the officer to leave and reseal the door before sharing its contents. “Ten of the twenty-two members of the Arab League have summoned our ambassadors, not to the foreign ministries, but to the presidential or royal palaces. It looks like they’re going to start expelling our diplomatic personnel in response to the drone strikes. There’s even talk of convening an emergency summit in Kuwait at some point to discuss the matter.”

  “Well, Lawrence,” the president said, massaging his temples with his fingertips. “It appears your assessment of President Polovkin’s motives for stealing the drone were spot on. At this rate we’ll be lucky to have any remaining influence within spitting distance of the Middle East.”

  In that same calm tone, Sloan reassured his boss, “I’m sure their displeasure with us will subside once the truth of the matter comes to light, Mr. President.” He paused for a moment as an idea began to crystalize in his mind. “And we may be able to use the Arab League’s emergency summit to our advantage.”

  “How so?”

  “I have a feeling that the congregation of the Arab world’s leaders all in one place will be too enticing a target for your Russian counterpart to pass up. A strike on the summit in Kuwait would be the final brush stroke to President Polovkin’s masterpiece, but it will also provide us with the general time and location of the next attack. Armed with that knowledge, we just might have an opportunity to interdict the Reaper before it can complete its mission.”

  One of the qualities President Andrews appreciated most about Lawrence Sloan was his ability to reassure him that even during a crisis of this magnitude, the light at the end of the tunnel might not be an oncoming train. With the beginnings of a plan starting to come together, his thoughts turned to how to make the Russians pay for the death and destruction they had wreaked across the region in the name of the United States.

  CHAPTER 33

  An avid outdoorsman, President Polovkin’s favorite getaway from the grind of Moscow was a dacha on the banks of Lake Ladoga. Located northwest of St. Petersburg near the border with Finland, the lake was one of the largest in all of Europe. Since the regulation of the commercial fishing trade in the 1950s, the lake had made a remarkable comeback and was teeming with various species.

  The dacha itself was not extravagant but did have all the comforts required of a head of state. Built on a high foundation with walls constructed from the processed logs of local trees, the elaborate trimmings around the windows, balconies, and roof gave the structure’s exterior the appearance of a log cabin one might find in a fairy tale. But that was where the similarities to other nearby dachas ended. Since this one belonged to the president of Russia, it came with bullet-resistant windows and armored shutters, ballistic material built into the walls and roof, air quality sniffers to detect CBRN or chemical, biological, radiological and nuclear particles, and a fully operational command post for the SBP, the Presidential Security Service. A second building on the grounds served as a barracks for the protective agents, and a concrete helipad capable of accommodating four helicopters occupied a clearing one hundred meters from the main house. The entire perimeter of the property was wired with sensors and tripwires, and a platoon of soldiers patrolled the woods to supplement the protective detail.

  The thump of rotors beating the air let Polovkin know his quiet spell of fishing had come to an end. He reeled in the line and slipped the hook through a small loop built into the rod’s handle. With an SBP agent in tow, he turned and walked up the small dock to the main house, rod in one hand and the catch of the day in the other.

  Entering the dacha, Polovkin handed off the fish to a member of the kitchen staff and went to wash up while the helicopter delivered his guests. He was waiting in the den, standing in front of a television watching a news broadcast on the aftermath of the Cairo attack, when there was a knock on the door. After receiving permission to enter, an agent opened it and led two men inside. The agent retreated and closed the door behind him, resuming his post in the foyer.

  The taller of the two men, Vice Admiral Mishkin, the head of the GRU said, “Good afternoon, Mr. President.”

  Polovkin turned away from the screen to greet his visitors. “Please, Evgeny. We’re in the countryside. Let us dispense with the formalities.”

  The minister of defense, Anton Shubovich, noticed the lead story on every news channel and smiled as he collapsed onto one end of a large, overstuffed sofa. Mishkin sat at the other end of the couch and straightened the crease in his trousers as he crossed his legs. Choosing a chair across the coffee table from the two men, Polovkin leaned forward and pulled a silver tray with a bottle of vodka and three glasses toward him. He filled the small glasses, offered a toast, then downed the clear liquid in one shot. Mishkin and Shubovich followed suit.

  Replacing his glass on the tray, Polovkin asked, “So, what happened in Egypt?”

  Mishkin replied, “Cairo is an old city. And even in the upscale areas like the one where the mosque was located, newer buildings were built on top of older, sub-standard utility lines. The missile’s explosions ruptured one of those old natural gas lines and set off the chain reaction that destro
yed much of the surrounding neighborhood. While it was an unforeseen consequence, it seems to have only intensified the anti-American sentiment in the region.”

  “Like throwing petrol on an open flame,” Shubovich added.

  The president leaned forward and refilled the glasses for another round. This would be the last one before dinner. He didn’t want the collective minds in the room to be clouded by the alcohol. There was too much to discuss this evening, and he wanted everyone to be clear-headed. Once again, he offered a casual toast, and the three men downed the vodka in unison.

  Mishkin grinned. “If anything, the images of Cairo burning and the large number of dead and injured have advanced the timeline of your plan.”

  “How so?” the president asked.

  “Several countries have begun expelling American diplomats and their families. I believe it is only a matter of time before others follow suit. It is very possible that we could see a mass exodus of U.S. personnel from the region within the next thirty days.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Shubovich offered, “my office has already begun fielding calls from my counterparts in the Middle East. They have been inquiring about our ability to step in and fill the void militarily if the Americans were no longer providing the support required to keep their regimes in power.”

  Pleasantly surprised, Polovkin said, “That didn’t take long.”

  Shubovich continued. “For them, it is a matter of survival. Without the support and intervention of an external benefactor, many of the leaders of these countries fear they will be overthrown by a popular uprising. The video of Muammar Gaddafi being dragged through the streets of Sirte by an angry mob before being shot in the head is their worst nightmare come true. We should be able to negotiate very favorable terms if it means they can sleep well at night without the specter of a similar fate hanging over them.”

  Yaroslav Polovkin understood those fears more than the two men sitting across from him could ever know. Many countries had experienced revolutions or coups, his among them, and they usually did not end well for the ruling party. In 1991, a group of hardline Communists in the Soviet government and military attempted to overthrow President Mikahil Gorbachev in what came to be known as the August Coup. The uprising was organized by the head of the KGB, the minister of defense, and others who were opposed to Gorbachev’s reforms and decentralization of Moscow’s power over the republics that made up the Soviet Union. The coup ultimately failed, managing to put Gorbachev under house arrest for only three days. It was not lost on Polovkin that the heads of the defense ministry and the nation’s top intelligence agency were involved in the coup, and that two men currently holding those positions were in his presence at this very moment.