Drone Strike: A Joe Matthews Thriller

by David Austin

  Joe watched with a morbid fascination as the action unfolded below. Resembling a scene from a disaster movie, he looked on as huge chunks of concrete, twisted rebar, and mangled vehicles that had been crossing the overpass at the time of the explosion crashed down onto the highway. The horrified driver of the Mercedes Sprinter stood on his brakes, but his reaction was too slow, and the van collided with a particularly large section of the collapsed overpass. A long, exposed piece of rebar shattered the windshield and pierced the driver’s chest, pinning his body to the seat.

  The CAT vehicle swerved and came to a halt, narrowly avoiding crashing into the van. While the driver looked for a way around the destruction to rejoin the motorcade, the operator with the Stinger on his shoulder was still looking up, scanning the dark sky for the Reaper. He caught movement in his peripheral vision and interrupted his search for the briefest of moments, curious to find out what had drawn his attention away from the drone attacking them from above. It was the last thing he would ever see.

  The enormous form of a truck hauling a tanker-trailer full of gasoline had not been able to stop in time and drove over the edge of the destroyed overpass. The rig crashed down onto the Sprinter and the counter assault team’s Suburban, crushing them like a couple of empty beer cans. Gas flooded the area, pouring from gashes in the ruptured trailer. Mercifully, everyone in the vehicles was dead when the fumes ignited, sending an apocalyptic-looking fireball into the sky as flames engulfed the wrecked interchange.

  Bringing up the rear of the motorcade, the Kuwaiti National Police car had been able to stop in time and back out of the kill zone. In a zombie-like daze, the police officers exited their vehicle and stood shoulder-to-shoulder, fixated on the inferno. Each man whispered a quiet prayer, thanking Allah for sparing their lives this day.

  CHAPTER 50

  Joe’s eyes darted back and forth between the Reaper and what was left of the motorcade, looking for signs it was about to fire another missile. Having been on a protective detail whose convoy had come under attack, he could imagine the conversations and actions taking place in the vehicles below. The members of the Director’s Protective Staff were his friends and colleagues, and it tore at him that he was not down there in the mix with them. Then Jeanne Emerson’s voice came through his headset, and she relayed their plan to take cover in the mall’s parking garage. At this point, Joe thought it was as good an idea as any.

  Having missed the exit for the mall back at the interchange, the motorcade slowed and then turned right, heading the wrong way up an entrance ramp. With lights flashing and sirens blaring, the Jordanian limo driver weaved in and out of oncoming traffic as if he were doing slalom drills on a closed track. The four-vehicle convoy rocketed up the ramp oblivious of the shouts and honking horns of infuriated drivers. Making a left off Jassem Mohammed Al-Kharafi, tires screeched as the motorcade looped around a traffic circle and exited onto the 360 Mall’s perimeter road. All four drivers mashed their gas pedals to the floor, the perceived safety of the parking deck in sight a mere five-hundred meters away.

  Even with the distortion created by the transmitter and the directional antennae, Joe saw the Reaper begin an unsteady turn, as if the pilot was lining up for another shot. With frustration evident in his voice he called out, “Fred?”

  “Done. I’ve got the ground control station’s coordinates.”

  About fucking time, he thought. “Eli?”

  Miller was so close to breaking through and regaining control of the Reaper he could taste it. He just needed a few more seconds to complete something no one thought possible – hacking a remotely piloted aircraft during flight. Lost in the code scrolling across his screen, he replied, “Almost there.”

  “Not good enough,” Joe said, aggravated with himself for going along with this crazy scheme in the first place. Good people had died tonight because someone wanted to test their proof-of-concept. Propping the antennae in his lap, Joe reached for his rifle. “I’m putting an end to this once and for all.”

  Looking up from his laptop, Eli said, “Wait! I’m almost there.”

  “You had your chance,” Joe countered. “Now we’re doing this my way.”

  Without realizing what he was doing, Eli reached out and grabbed Joe’s arm in a feeble effort to prevent him from retrieving the weapon. Joe shifted in his seat so he could look the NSA man directly in the eyes. With a menace in his voice usually reserved for his nation’s enemies, Joe growled, “If you want to be able to use that hand in the foreseeable future, you’ve got about three seconds to let go of my arm.”

  Legitimately fearing for his well-being, Eli released his grip on Joe’s arm. “Sorry. I…I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Joe, you may want to take a look at this,” Jamison said from the cockpit’s left seat.

  The Reaper seemed to have resumed stable flight. What the hell? Joe thought, then looked down at his lap. Shit! When he had turned to face Miller, the antennae had shifted in his lap and lost line of sight with the drone. The break in the connection had once again given the Russian pilot full control of the UAV and its systems. And he was going to take full advantage of Joe’s mistake.

  Extending the rifle out the Twin Otter’s open window, Joe seated the stock in his shoulder and thumbed the selector switch to Auto. But before he could pull the trigger and unload a full thirty-round magazine into the nose of the UAV, a third Hellfire missile erupted from its underwing pod and zoomed toward the motorcade below. “No!” Joe screamed, feeling the rifle buck in his shoulder over and over until the bolt locked back on an empty chamber. He watched the multi-million-dollar UAV spin out of control and disappear into the darkness, then refocused his attention on the motorcade below. Even though the Reaper was out of commission, Joe couldn’t shake the sense that his actions had been too little, too late.

  The Jordanian agents in the follow car scanned their sectors as the driver dodged shoppers and did his best to keep from rear-ending the limo.

  The agent seated behind the driver yelled, “Missile inbound from the left!”

  “Block left,” the veteran shift leader ordered.

  Without hesitation, the driver pulled up beside the Maybach limo carrying their king. When being selected for the prestigious positions on the royal family’s protective detail, each man and woman had sworn to give their lives to protect the monarchy. Today it was these four men’s duty to make the ultimate sacrifice.

  Jeanne Emerson looked on with a combination of amazement and professional appreciation at the Jordanians’ selfless actions. More than most in her position, she knew what it was like to put herself in harm’s way to protect someone. But getting between your principal and a Hellfire missile took a level of commitment that was off the charts. She only hoped she would make the same decision if the roles were reversed.

  The shift leader looked down to the right and made eye contact with the limo driver. Having been on the detail for over ten years, the men had become close friends. A wave of sadness came over the limo driver, knowing his friend and colleague had only seconds to live. But that sadness was quickly overwhelmed by a sense of pride in the man’s dedication to his duty. Speeding toward the entrance to the parking deck, the shift leader gave his friend a smile from his seat in the Suburban as if to say, “Everything’s going to be okay.” Then the missile penetrated the left side of the follow car.

  The four members of the Royal Guard died instantly as the Suburban was ripped apart by the Hellfire’s explosion. Flinching from the shockwave’s impact and bright flash of light, the limo driver jerked the steering wheel to the right to get away from the blast. Remnants of the follow car’s chassis slammed into the Maybach as it approached the parking deck’s ticket-taking machine and retractable arm. The heavy armored limo slid sideways, snapping the machine off its mount on the small island dividing the lanes. Furiously working the steering wheel and hitting the brakes, the driver attempted to regain control of the Maybach, but his efforts were futile. He had carried too
much speed when entering the parking deck. But who could blame him when the alternative was to stay out in the open and eat a missile?

  The squeal of the Goodyear run-flats struggling to gain traction echoed through the parking deck. Looking to his right, the Jordanian agent-in-charge’s eyes went wide as the car slid toward a concrete support column. “Brace for impact!”

  Doug Kelly had a front row seat to the action, and what he saw made him cringe. The Maybach seemed to be moving in slow motion as it headed for the support column. As to be expected, the concrete support didn’t give. After bouncing off the column, time sped back up and the Maybach careened across the lane, the sound of crunching metal and screeching tires echoing through the garage as it smashed nose first into a row of parked cars.

  Shoppers screamed and car alarms wailed, but Doug ignored the chaos swirling around him. Instead, he strained his eyes, looking for movement inside the crippled limo as Janzen eased to a stop next to the Maybach. Leaping from the Suburban, Doug ran to the left rear door of the Maybach. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he peered inside, scanning for signs of life. The Jordanian liaison officer sprinted around the other side of the car and frantically began tugging on the battered door handle. Desperate to rescue the king, he continued pulling, but the door wouldn’t budge. The passenger side of the car had taken the brunt of the impact, bending the frame and wedging the door in place.

  Doug wasn’t having any luck with his door either, so he called out to his agents in the follow car, “Bring up the extractor!”

  DPS agents Jim Haldeman and Brett LaCava appeared at Doug’s side a minute later. Haldeman carried a big impact-resistant case and LaCava had what looked like large battery packs in each hand. Setting the case on the ground, Haldeman flipped the latches and opened the lid. Inside was a tool that resembled a miniature version of the jaws of life used by firefighters to pry open the doors of vehicles involved in traffic accidents. Due to space limitations in the back of the Suburban, this model was smaller, and battery operated, making it more portable and a fixture on the protective detail’s movements. Neither Haldeman nor LaCava ever imagined they would be using the device under these circumstances, but both men were happy it had been included in the loadout.

  While Haldeman went to work on the Maybach’s mangled back door, Erin O’Hearn and Rick Lauder exited the follow car to pull security. Their serious looks and the HK MP7s slung across their chests were enough to keep curious onlookers at bay.

  After an agonizing minute or two, the door’s locking mechanism finally popped. LaCava moved in and pulled the door open, holding it in place to create a clear avenue for Doug to enter the spacious cabin. Haldeman stepped around the back of the limo and put the extractor to work on the other door.

  Fearing the worst, Doug crawled through the opening and sat on a jump seat facing Director Sloan. He was stunned by what he saw. Not only were both men alive, but they were fully conscious and having a conversation about the events of the last few minutes. Other than his silver hair being a bit disheveled and the knot of his tie pushed to one side, Sloan looked none the worse for the experience.

  King Abdullah, on the other hand, was in some obvious pain and cradled his right arm. The bone between the elbow and the shoulder, appeared to be broken, probably from colliding with the door’s armrest during the crash. Otherwise, he was in surprisingly good shape considering what he had just been through.

  Doug stepped out of the destroyed limo, then bent down to help Sloan out of the car and ushered him into the back seat of the Suburban. He returned to the Maybach and offered a hand to help the king, but his assistance was politely refused. The former special forces commander was determined to leave the scene of the attack under his own power.

  The crowd of onlookers that had gathered around the spectacle gasped once they recognized King Abdullah as the man exiting the car. A hushed reverence fell over the group, but a few teenagers in the crowd couldn’t help themselves and pulled out their cell phones to snap a few pictures or record a video clip to upload to their social media accounts.

  Doug escorted the king around the other side of the Suburban, and once he was settled in the plush leather seat, closed the heavy armored door. Haldeman and LaCava stowed the extractor, then helped the battered and bruised Jordanian driver and AIC into the back of the follow car. Lauder and O’Hearn returned to the Suburban, and once everyone was buttoned up, LaCava asked over the radio, “Where to, Doug?”

  “The embassy. And make sure they have a doctor standing by.”

  “No,” King Abdullah interrupted. “We must go to the summit.”

  “Your Majesty,” Doug pleaded turning in his seat to face the king, “You and your men need medical attention. And after everything we’ve been through this evening, we need to get to a place of safety. We have no idea if the Russians have set up some type of secondary attack in case the drone strike failed to complete its mission.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but I would venture to say there is not a more secure place in Kuwait than Bayan Palace at the moment. And as for my injury,” he said, gesturing toward his broken arm, “I’ve had worse in my time, young man. We’ll have it seen to once I’ve had a chance to address my counterparts.”

  Doug looked to Sloan for support, but the DCIA shrugged his shoulders, “You heard the man. Bayan Palace it is.” Withdrawing his secure cell from his jacket, Sloan dialed the Operations Center at Langley to get an update on the situation, planning to use the drive time to brief the king on what they had discovered.

  Exasperated, Doug keyed the radio. “Joe, tell me that goddamned drone isn’t still up there hunting us.”

  Joe exhaled, thankful to hear his friend was still alive. “The Reaper’s down. Sorry it took so long.”

  “You and me both, brother. But that’s a conversation for another day. We’re heading to the summit. Are we good to move?”

  “There’s a phalanx of first responders heading your way, but other than that, your route looks clear.”

  With Joe providing overwatch from above, Kelly gave the order, and what remained of the motorcade pulled slowly out of the parking garage, leaving the gathered crowd of onlookers with an experience they would not soon forget

  CHAPTER 51

  Two weeks had passed since the events in Kuwait, and the clamor against the United States for the drone attacks was a distant memory. King Abdullah’s speech to the delegates at the Arab League’s emergency summit had been one for the history books. His appearance as he stood before the group didn’t hurt, either. Disheveled, with a line of dried blood running from his eyebrow to his jawline and his broken arm supported by a sling from the CIA protective detail’s medical bag only enhanced his tale of survival on the way to the conference center. It was a tale that most if not all of the dignitaries in attendance would never experience or be able to fully appreciate. But ultimately, they had gotten the message. Russia, not America, had been the responsible party for the drone attacks across the region.

  Backed by intelligence President Andrews had authorized Director Sloan to share with the Jordanian monarch, King Abdullah laid out a convincing case against not only the Russians, but the Syrians and the Iranians for their participation in facilitating the operation. Within hours of the king’s speech, the full membership of the Arab League voted to pass a resolution urging Syria to expel all Russian personnel from the country and to cancel any leases of facilities in use by its military forces. Even though the resolution had no real teeth to it, the unanimous vote still sent a message to the Assad regime that they stood alone in this fiasco. The vote resonated twenty-five-hundred miles away in Moscow, where it signaled a halt to Russia’s ambitions in the region and any future cooperation with the Arab League’s members.

  As quickly as the greater Middle East had turned against the United States, their anger was now directed at the three countries involved in the conspiracy to kill their citizens. Protests and demonstrations raged throughout the region, requiring host coun
tries to increase security at the Syrian, Iranian, and Russian embassies. Many in the U.S. government took immense pleasure in watching the images on CNN International, Fox News, and the BBC of chanting mobs burning red, white, and blue flags. This time however, the red, white, and blue fabric embroiled in flames wasn’t the stars and stripes of the American flag, but that of the Russian Federation.

  *

  The members of the Principal’s Committee stood as President Andrews entered the Situation Room and walked to his seat at the head of the conference table. Sliding into the chair with the embroidered presidential seal, he motioned for everyone to sit and said, “Good afternoon, everyone. Let’s get started.”

  Lawrence Sloan was relieved to see the president was back to his normal self. When he had briefed Andrews after his return from Kuwait, the president had nearly blown a gasket at being told the Iranians had once again been involved in an attack against the United States. Even though they hadn’t pulled the trigger or fired a shot, they were equally complicit by allowing the Russians to launch the strike from their soil.

  In response to last year’s killing spree by a Quds Force hit team that had transformed downtown Washington into a war zone, the president had secretly authorized Sloan and the CIA to assassinate two of Iran’s most senior generals. Amjad al-Massoud, the leader of the Quds Force, and Malek Ashkan, who commanded the Quds base in Ahvaz, were killed by a bomb, an explosively formed penetrator, or EFP, that had been attached to the door of their staff car. Andrews had hoped the deaths of two of Iran’s most senior leaders would have made his point to the Ayatollah and his trusted circle of mullahs in Tehran. Apparently, that was not the case. This time, President Andrews was determined to send a message that would leave absolutely no room for misinterpretation.