Drone Strike: A Joe Matthews Thriller

by David Austin

  Resigned to the fact that he couldn’t do this on his own, Tariq replied, “Munich.”

  The mention of the city caused Joe to smile. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Well, it just so happens that I know a very talented individual stationed there who’ll be more than happy to help out with our little problem.”

  *

  As it turned out, Meg Murphy was not at all happy when she received the call pulling her off her current assignment. She’d been tracking a Saudi arms dealer for the past six months and was convinced he was on the verge of a pivotal meeting with a client, a man she believed was in the final stages of planning a large-scale attack in Europe. But now, instead of throwing a hood over the arms dealer’s head and rendering him to an interrogation facility, she was conducting surveillance on a Syrian woman and her child. The fact that her change of assignment came directly from the seventh floor at Langley was flattering, if not a little confusing, but it didn’t soften the blow.

  The tall, blond case officer employed by the CIA was a specialist when it came to running surveillance operations and possessed an uncanny ability to hide in plain sight, a skill that made her particularly effective at her job. Sitting at an outdoor café in Munich’s historic Viktualienmarkt, a pedestrian shopping area with stalls selling everything from fruits and vegetables to meats, cheeses, flowers, and touristy souvenirs, she sipped an espresso and appeared to be flipping through a fashion magazine while keeping an eye on her new targets.

  Meg’s phone vibrated and she put on a show of being annoyed by the distraction that diverted her attention away from an engrossing article. Of course, it was all an act designed to make her look like every other customer stopping in for morning coffee in case anyone happened to be watching her. She touched the screen to accept the call, and after a short delay for the encryption to complete its handshake with the caller’s device, Meg heard Joe Matthews’ familiar voice over her Bluetooth ear buds. “How are things in Munich?”

  Meg shook her head in disbelief. “Why am I not surprised? I should have known you’d have something to do with this.”

  “I’d take it as a compliment if I were you,” Joe replied. “If you weren’t so damn good at your job, I never would’ve held onto your number.”

  Meg had worked with Joe’s team on an operation in Munich last year, and to a man, they had been impressed with her skills. Joe had even pitched the idea of recruiting her to the chiefs of SAD and the Protective Operations Division. Either the admin folks at headquarters hadn’t gotten around to it yet or she had declined their offer, preferring to stick with her current job. Regardless of the reason, he was happy she was still in Munich.

  “Do you have any idea what I was working on before you had me reassigned?” Meg vented.

  “Yep. They filled me in when I made the request. Believe me when I tell you this is more important.”

  “More important than thwarting a major attack in Europe? Who made that boneheaded decision?”

  Wanting to short-circuit the twenty questions routine, Joe said, “POTUS.”

  Not sure if she heard him correctly, Meg asked him to repeat that last part.

  “I said, this op was authorized by POTUS. You know, the president of the United States. The commander in chief. Leader of the Free World. Any of those ring a bell?”

  “Okay, smartass,” she replied, resigned to the fact that her change in assignment had come from the highest possible level. Meg just hoped nothing dramatic happened with the Saudi arms dealer before she could wrap this up and get back on his trail. She took a sip of her espresso and performed another scan of the market as Joe brought her up to speed on the Kabbanis’ escape from Syria.

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  “Have you located the woman and her son?”

  “Yep. I have eyes-on as we speak. They’re having breakfast at an outdoor market in Old Town.”

  “That’s great,” Joe said, shaking his head. He was amazed she already had them under surveillance. Meg really was brilliant at her job. “We just landed. Do me a favor and don’t let them out of your sight until we get there.”

  Meg casually observed the people moving through the pedestrian mall as the woman paid the bill and gathered up a couple of shopping bags at the foot of the table. The mother and her son held hands, looking nothing like a couple of fugitives who had escaped a brutal regime as they headed in the direction of the Airbnb she had rented for the month. At this moment, on this warm, sunny morning, Meg was hard-pressed to think of a more heartwarming sight. But she was immediately brought back to the harsh realities of the world when she saw two men emerge from a stall to her right and fall in behind the pair. She snapped a couple of photos of the men as they passed by and sent them to Joe’s phone.

  “How far out are you?” Meg asked, dropping enough Euros on the table to cover the espresso and a decent tip.

  “About thirty minutes. Why?

  “Because I’m not the only one keeping tabs on them.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Joe’s phone vibrated and he tapped the screen to open the message that contained the photos. His initial impression of the men was that they weren’t intelligence officers conducting surveillance. No, these guys were muscle. And from the looks of them, they were either in Munich to do a snatch-and-grab with orders to return Rima and Nabil to Syria, or they were there to kill them at the first available opportunity. He cursed under his breath, knowing he was too far away to do anything about it.

  Meg tapped her phone’s screen as she walked, activating an encrypted beacon to allow Joe and his team to track her movement. She kept the two beefy Syrian hitters in sight, all the while searching the surrounding area to see if they had any additional support. If it was a rendition, they might have a third guy in a vehicle nearby, but that would probably be about it. These macho assholes would figure they could easily handle the woman and her young child. But what the men had no way of knowing was that the CIA had assigned one of their finest surveillance assets to watch the family. The hunters, oblivious of the fact that they were being stalked themselves, had become the hunted.

  Fixated on his phone’s screen, Joe cursed again. The distance between the blue dot indicating his position on the mapping app and the red dot representing Meg’s was closing, but not nearly fast enough. Chris was doing his best to weave the minivan carrying the team of operators through traffic without drawing the attention of Munich’s finest, but he was afraid they were going to be too late.

  “What’s your status, Meg?”

  “Just exiting the market and heading toward the apartment building. I haven’t picked up any additional hostiles or a vehicle. This is looking more and more like a hit. How far out are you?”

  The app on his phone put their arrival at the market at fifteen minutes, but the way Chris was driving it would be more like ten. “Ten minutes, max,” came his reply.

  Meg took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come, and said, “Okay. We’re going to need extraction, so here’s what I need you to do. Park on Westeniederstrasse at the southeast corner of the apartment building and we’ll meet you there.”

  Confused, Joe asked, “We who? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Rima and Nabil will be dead by the time you get here and I’m not going to stand by and watch it happen.”

  “C’mon, Meg,” Joe countered. “You’re not a field operative. You conduct the surveillance, then teams like ours come in and do the deed. If you go in there, you’re just going to add to the body count.”

  “You have no idea,” Meg said coolly as she watched Rima approach the building’s front door with the two killers in tow.

  *

  The Syrians’ orders had been simple – kill the woman and her child – and make it messy. Both men had taken plenty of lives during their careers and neither blanched at the tasking. Her husband was a traitor, and in their minds, it was as simple as that. Word of the gruesome murders would s
pread throughout the government’s ranks and serve as a warning to others – betray the regime and this will be your fate.

  They waited for the woman to unlock the door, then picked up their pace and closed the distance, ushering her and her son into the apartment building’s foyer. The woman turned around and was about to scream at the sight of the men but was silenced as the one on the left put his hand over her mouth. He lowered his head next to her ear and whispered in Arabic, “Don’t make a sound or my friend will kill your son in front of your eyes.”

  Rima submitted to the killer’s request as tears began to stream down her face. The day had started so wonderfully and now, deep in her heart, she knew it was going to end in a most gruesome and painful manner. The man spun her around and pushed her toward the stairs. His partner did the same with the boy. From the looks in their eyes and the bloodlust on their faces, the men were going to enjoy their work today.

  *

  Meg slipped her foot in the door to keep it from closing and entered the foyer. With their backs to the door, the men had no idea she was in the building. Sucks to be them, she thought, deciding to take the man on the right first. Slipping her hand into the purse hanging diagonally across her chest, Meg used the bag to muffle the barely audible click of a blade seating in place. When she withdrew her hand, it held a matte black folding combat knife. Measuring each footfall, she closed in silently on her unsuspecting victim.

  Crouching low, Meg rotated the knife in her hand, holding it in a reverse grip, and brought the blade across the back of the man’s leg, slicing through his hamstring muscle. The Syrian thug let out a cry at the unexpected pain radiating up and down his leg. With the severed muscle unable to support this weight, the man released his grip on Nabil and dropped to a knee. Meg rose to her full height and grasped the man’s forehead. Pulling it back, she hammered the knife down, driving the razor-sharp blade into the notch at the base of his exposed throat. The gruesome wound sent a geyser of blood spraying across the foyer. What didn’t spill onto the floor poured into his open windpipe, drowning the man in his own blood. He collapsed face first into a red pool that was rapidly expanding across the white-tiled floor.

  Rima screamed and clutched Nabil to her side, burying his face in her jacket in hopes of sparing him the nightmares that were bound to be brought on by the grisly sight.

  Forgetting his primary mission, the second man spun, swinging a backhand strike at Meg’s head. She managed to get both hands up to block the blow, but the force of the impact knocked her back against the wall. The man charged, infuriated by what this mere woman had done to his partner. Rage took over as he cocked his big right hand, preparing to deliver a blow that would surely crush this blond bitch’s skull. He fired his fist toward her head, but Meg saw it coming and ducked under the punch. She spun the knife around in her hand and in a blur jabbed twice at his abdomen, each time sending the blade deep into the man’s diaphragm. Confused as to what was happening, a questioning look spread across his face as the damaged muscle spasmed, making it impossible for him to breathe. With all thoughts of the mission forgotten, he was now more concerned with filling his lungs with air than avenging his partner’s death. Taking advantage of the distraction, Meg’s hand darted forward once again with blinding speed. Years of training with her instructor, a Vietnamese woman who was quite deadly despite her diminutive stature, ensured Meg’s aim was true. The blade passed between the man’s second and third intercostal ribs and entered his heart. The fight was over in a matter of seconds, the damage quick and catastrophic.

  Rima looked at the tall blond woman, then down at the two dead men on the floor. She repeated the process several times as her mind tried to process what had just happened. Finally, her eyes settled on Meg with a combination of horror and admiration. It would be unheard of for a woman in her country to obtain the training and skills to do such a thing to two of the regime’s hired killers. But here, standing before her, was a woman who had done just that. Unsure of what was going to happen next, Rima stepped in front of Nabil, placing herself between this femme fatale and her son.

  The knife was still buried in the second man’s chest, so Meg raised her empty hands to indicate she was unarmed and not a threat. She didn’t speak Arabic, so she decided to give English a try. “Rima, I need you and Nabil to come with me. As you can see, it’s not safe for you to remain here in Munich.”

  “You…you are American?” Rima asked in a shaky voice that held hope their ordeal was finally ending.

  “I am.”

  “How…how did you know where to find us?”

  With a smile, Meg said, “Tariq. He told us about your protocols. That’s how we knew where to start looking.”

  “Where is he? May I see him?”

  Meg reached into her pocket and checked her phone to see if the connection was still active. Seeing it was, she asked Joe, “Are you in place?”

  “Yeah. Black Mercedes van,”

  Returning her attention to Rima, Meg continued, “My colleagues are outside. They are the same men who rescued Tariq and got him out of Syria. They’ll keep you safe and take you to your husband. Okay?”

  Unable to think of a reason not to trust this woman, it didn’t take Rima long to consider her offer. Desperately wanting to be reunited with Tariq, she said, “Okay.”

  Next, Meg asked, “Is there anything you need from the apartment before we go?”

  Rima patted the oversized bag looped over her shoulder. “No. I kept everything important with me in case we were forced to run.”

  “Good girl,” Meg said, appreciating Rima’s thought process as she bent down to retrieve her knife. Grasping the handle, she pulled it out of the man’s chest and wiped the blood on his pant leg before collapsing the blade and storing it in an interior pocket in her purse.

  Meg stood and did a quick sweep of the area to make sure no incriminating evidence was left behind. Satisfied, she let Joe know they were coming out, then led the small family out onto the sidewalk, letting the door close on an unpleasant chapter of their lives, and the foyer that had come to resemble a slaughterhouse.

  CHAPTER 41

  “Roll the video please,” Hank Coleman, the secretary of defense, said over the encrypted line linking him to the Pentagon’s National Military Command Center. A lieutenant hit the Play button and the images came to life on the high-definition monitor mounted on the White House Situation Room’s far wall.

  “What are we watching?” President Andrews asked for the benefit of the other members of his national security team attending the Principal’s Committee meeting.

  “Sir, this is a recording of a video call from the aircraft commander of an AWACS, call sign Sentinel Five One, flying out of Sigonella Naval Air Station in Italy. The plane was on a routine patrol over the Med to keep an eye on Syrian and Russian military air activity.”

  The president nodded, then focused his full attention on the screen as the Air Force officer began speaking.

  “Among the routine traffic we’ve been monitoring, we picked up an Antonov AN-12 taxiing away from the target hangar at Khmeimim Air Base outside Latakia, Syria.”

  Indicating he wanted the video paused, Andrews asked, “I’m assuming the hangar he mentioned is the same one where we think our stolen Reaper is being housed?”

  “One and the same, sir,” Coleman replied.

  The video shook as the officer on the screen paused and grabbed a handle attached to the ceiling to steady himself. “Sorry, turbulence has been pretty rough tonight. There’s a front moving into our area of operations.”

  Coleman continued. “Minutes before the Antonov left the hangar, two MiG-29s, at this point we’re not sure if they were Russian or Syrian, not that it matters, launched from the base and took up harassing positions on either side of the AWACS. Nothing our crews haven’t dealt with in the past, but the timing was a little coincidental.”

  The video shook again, then the screen went black. Sensing something catastrophic had occurred the p
resident turned to Coleman. “What just happened, Hank?”

  *

  After a twenty-six-year career in the Air Force, with a lineage of military flying dating back to the Tuskegee Airmen, Lieutenant Colonel Margaret “Mags” Clement had experienced her fair share of nights like this. Flying the converted Boeing 707 through inclement weather while being hassled by a pair of enemy fighters was just another day at the office.

  Looking at the MiG’s anti-collision lights out the port side of the cockpit, she commented, “He’s awfully close.”

  “Mine too,” remarked her copilot, Major Rick Sanchez, as he kept an eye on the fighter off their starboard wing.

  Not one to mince words, Staff Sergeant Jerry Wilkins, the flight engineer for the sortie joined the conversation. “Those guys better get their heads out of their collective asses and give us a wider berth. That front is almost on top of us and it’s going to get bumpy from here on out.”

  Just as the words had left his mouth, the AWACS lurched upward, then dropped twenty feet, a roller coaster move that would have most people losing their lunch. Accustomed to flying in all kinds of weather, the experienced crew and the sixteen mission specialists in the rear of the plane monitoring the radar and communications systems took the turbulence in stride.

  Each of the MiGs shadowing the American Boeing hit the same patch of rough air. The jolt was more dramatic for the smaller aircraft, but both pilots managed to maintain control of their jets.

  Mags hoped the brief experience would encourage the fighter pilots to increase the distance between themselves and the converted airliner, but if anything, they seemed to be getting closer. Fighter jocks were idiots! she thought.

  A communication link had been set up as a deconfliction tool to prevent air-to-air issues between the various countries operating in the skies over the conflict in Syria. Mags decided this was as good a time as any to make use of it. Pressing the transmit button on the yoke, she hailed the fighter pilots on the prearranged frequency. “Unidentified MiGs, this is Sentinel Five One of the United States Air Force. Move away from our aircraft. Your presence is creating an unsafe condition for all of us.”