Richard Clarke - Sting of the Drone

FRIDAY, AUGUST 14

WORLD WIDE NEWS HEADQUARTERS

NEW YORK, NY

The bottom, again. She threw the ratings report in the waste bin under her desk, closed her eyes, and ran her left hand through her hair. Then Karen Rosen remembered that her office had a glass wall looking out onto the news floor. Everybody could see her, unless the curtain was pulled. And it wasn’t. She had to look positive, give no signs of impending doom to further demoralize the team.

They really were the best news team left, the best international correspondents, the longest stories, in-depth coverage of issues. Yet, there they sat at the bottom of the cable ratings, getting little more than a million people in the United States in prime time. That meant three hundred and twenty million Americans watching something else, or worse yet, not watching at all, playing soldier on computer games or streaming pirated movies.

What passed for news on the legacy networks was morning shows about diets and cooking, evening news about elderly people’s medical problems, and once a week a “magazine” show that was often indistinguishable from reality TV or Hollywood gossip. She had thought about moving to print, but the scene there was worse. Magazines were disappearing, Newsweek and U.S. News gone. Newspapers were dropping like flies and those that were left were trying to figure out how to make money online, putting things behind a pay wall that nobody was paying to penetrate.

She looked across the newsroom, filled with a combination of grizzled veteran correspondents and editors and a bevy of young, enthusiastic twenty-somethings hoping to make a name for themselves while making the world better. Fred Garrison, the international editor, was standing, talking with the new Middle East rover kid, Brett something. She caught herself thinking that if that kid could look that sexy on camera, that would sell. She hit the intercom button to the International desk. “Fred, can you come in for a minute. And, is that Brett with you, bring him in for a second so I can just say hi to him.”

“Hey, Karen, what’s up?” Fred Garrison said, walking into her office. “You know Bryce, of course.” He emphasized the name. “Bryce Duggan, our soon-to-be veteran war correspondent. How many combat assignments have you had in your first year on the job with us?”

“Just three. Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” the young man beamed. He had three days of blond stubble, a build like that Olympic swimmer, and a shirt with too many buttons undone. Karen feigned disinterest. “Yes, of course, Duggan. You speak Arabic, if I recall correctly.”

“Speak it, he majored in it at Toronto. Then a year at the Kennedy School before stringing for the FT in Cairo,” Garrison said. “He’s done great work so far. Just need to get him more airtime. And more money. He’s back for his first year review. I’m trying to find some money in my budget for a raise for him.” Duggan seemed to blush.

“Well, more airtime we can easily do,” Karen smiled. “I’ve been thinking our viewers need to get to know our reporters better, see the same ones more regularly, build up a rapport with them. Maybe tie it in to some online stuff, like a reporter’s blog.”

Garrison scowled. “We do have the same ones on night after night when they’re covering a persistent story, but most of the time stories only last a few days and then they don’t get back on for a couple of weeks. We can experiment with the blog thing, as long as it doesn’t take up too much of their time from the field reporting.”

“Well, maybe a series. Get a topic, a theme, and travel around covering it from different places. Viewers could follow them, see how they have to travel, the backstory, get to know the reporter as well as the topic.” Karen was thinking out loud.

“Got any ideas for a series, Bryce?” Garrison asked.

“Sure, lots.” Duggan said. “How hard it is for millions of people to get drinkable water, the struggle young women are having challenging customs in the region, the growing gap in education—”

“Hard news, Bryce, wars. We want to make you into a war correspondent,” Garrison countered.

“Right, the next SCUD stud. Who was that guy in the First Gulf War who was always standing outside while everyone ran into the shelters when the SCUD missiles were falling all around him?” Karen said. Garrison suppressed a smile.

“Well, we could do children made orphans by several different wars, we could try doing something on the drone strikes and how they are often counterproductive, or we could—” Bryce replied.

“Drones, that’s it, drones. You go to each country where the U.S. is secretly flying drones. There was a great report on it from some university the other day, long thing, it’s on my desk,” Garrison said. “But, Karen, that would cost money. Eight, maybe ten, countries. Team of three, plus Bryce, some local security guys in some of these places, a little baksheesh, you know, walking-around money.”

“I’ll find the money, including the raise. Give me a budget tomorrow morning, Fred,” she replied. “Nice to meet you, Bryce Duggan.” She kept her eyes on him as he walked back into the newsroom.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 15

JAMSHED DISTRICT

KARACHI, PAKISTAN

“I hate this city,” the older Arab said.

“You hate everything. That is why it so difficult for you to recruit new followers,” Bahadur replied.

“We love Islam and we have no problem recruiting. We have enough people in America to do the attacks,” the younger Arab added.

“Then why do you need us?” Bahadur answered. “If al Qaeda is still so strong, why us? Why don’t you do the attacks in America without us?”

The older Arab looked Bahadur in the eye for a moment before replying. “We have learned not to expose our men in America. Too many have been lured into thinking they were talking to brothers, getting an assignment, a mission, only to be arrested by the FBI. The new people we have do nothing to risk being identified. They do not visit Islamist Web sites. They go only to the regular mosques. They buy no guns, no bomb material. They do no planning of missions. They wait. Our men will do the missions, but we need someone else to be the controllers, to set up the operations.”

Bahadur hoped no one had followed the Arabs to this small appliance store in the Jamshed district of the sprawling city. Qazzani gang spotters were out in the neighborhood looking for signs of surveillance.

“How did you find those people?” Bahadur asked.

“Our friends in the U.S., the Ikhwan, they are often teachers, or bankers, or doctors. They look for young men who want to do a special Jihad. They send them out of America for vacations, never an Islamic country. Trinidad, Brazil, Mexico. There we meet them. We test them. Those who pass, we instruct on how to wait without attracting attention. Then they go back.”

The younger man looked to the older Arab for confirmation that he could give more detail and then added, “Some of them we appoint as a cell chief. Each cell chief knows five to ten other men. The men know only their cell chief, but each one of them we give a special code word of his own. We give it when they pledge loyalty to al Qaeda. If someone recruits them to do a mission, if he does not say the code word, the men know the recruiter is FBI.”

“We need you to build the bombs, to survey the targets, to coordinate the attacks,” the older Arab said, “but we have good people.”

“These people, they are all Arabs?” Bahadur asked.

“No, very few. Some are Somalis. Some Nigerians, but my friend,” the younger Arab smiled, “all are Americans. Either they were born there or they became citizens. No visas needed. They all have American passports.”