Richard Clarke - Sting of the Drone

“Remember that intercept last month about something happening around Christmas?” she asked.

“Yeah, whatever happened to that?” Erik said.

“This is why these trips back to DC are essential, even though they take a lot out of me. You’d never know it on the outside, but people on the seventh floor at Headquarters, people downtown, are all trying to figure out how to stop the Christmas Bombings. That’s what they’re calling it, but they don’t want it to leak to the press, especially since there may be nothing to it.”

“Nothing to it?” Erik replied. “That just means they haven’t been able to develop any leads.”

“That’s exactly what it means.” She looked out at the variety of drones on the runway and in the hangars as they drove down the flight line. There were some of the older Predator and the larger Reaper drones based there for the pilots to use in training flights, some of the large Global Reach drones that went anywhere in the world from the United States, and some of the newly arrived Homeland Security drones to patrol the Mexican border, on both sides.

“That’s what struck me, Erik. We are the only thing that they have that works. We shoot at the bad guys and keep them so they can’t really set up shop and start training thousands of terrorists the way they used to do in Afghanistan before 9/11. But we can’t drone every guy who gets radicalized on the Internet in his dorm room. And we can’t shoot Hellfires into houses in the U.S. where they may be planning the next one. All we can do is get some small fraction of the guys overseas.”

Erik pulled up to the single-story, windowless white building that was the Global Coordination Center. “Maybe, but let’s go kill a few more of them,” he said, thinking about Jennifer alone in the hotel suite.

Walking onto the floor of the GCC gave Sandra all of the adrenaline rush the coffee had failed to deliver. She felt at home here, like she had a purpose. She strapped on her wireless headset and began the drill. “Okay, what have we got here? Let’s start with Virginia. CIA, what’s your story?”

“We have a HUMINT source with excellent access and substantiated previous reporting on the Qazzanis. He beaconed the vehicle of Musuhan, number three in the group. They’re meeting just over the Pak border inside Afghanistan, so the strike won’t raise concerns in Islamabad.”

Then the voice from Maryland came over the speakers, “NSA here. We geolocated the beacon at the coordinates of this compound that you are looking at on screen.”

Bruce Dougherty continued the story from his cockpit cubicle on the floor of the GCC. “We found the compound at those coordinates. Checked the plates on the vehicles parked outside. One is the vehicle we associate with Musuhan and the other is a vehicle of another HVT named Fadl Kaprani.” Bruce zoomed the camera in on vehicles parked outside a high-walled compound of one large and two smaller buildings. “They have been inside for hours. Some sort of cartel board meeting maybe. The usual smattering of guards on the roads in and up in the hills, one-zees and two-zees.”

“And you said the collateral score was zero?” Sandra asked.

“Yes, ma’am, we have imaged the area for seven hours now and there is no sign of any civilian activity. We have looked back at historical images from satellite sweeps and never any women or children. They had some guys there recently erecting that outbuilding there at the top. We think it’s a new, private hooch for a senior guy, so he doesn’t have to stay in the big house with the guards and cooks.”

Erik was flipping through the supporting documents on his iPad. “Legal has signed off on it. Pentagon and Agency have cleared the shot. The White House has been notified to stand by.”

“Okay, patch me in to Dr. Burrell,” Sandra agreed, looking up at the image of the isolated compound on the Big Board. “That’s a hell of a long meeting they’re having. Let’s get the shot off before it breaks up.”

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 19

KUNAR PROVINCE

AFGHANISTAN

The children were mainly Tajiks. The man who took them from the orphan school had promised that they would be resettled in a new school for Islamic orphans in Saudi Arabia, a beautiful new campus funded by a Prince. The man had also made a generous gift to the orphan school, so that even those children who could not yet go to Saudi Arabia would live in better conditions. No doubt some of that gift actually made its way to fixing the dilapidated building, buying some food. Most of it probably went into the personal bank account of the headmaster.

The seventeen boys, the oldest of whom was ten, had been thrilled by the bus ride, at first. The trip, however, had taken eighteen hours and the snacks they were given were not enough to quench their hunger. Thus, when they got to the compound, they gorged themselves on the hot food that had been prepared for them. There were sleeping rolls for twenty and soon, tired from the bus ride and drugged by what was in the food, all of the children were settled quietly in their bedrolls.

As the first of the boys began to wake, to try through the fog of the remaining sedative coursing through their systems to figure out where they were, they discovered that they could not open the doors to go out. One boy found a hatch door on the floor, the one that led to the tunnel, but that, too, was locked from the other side. The men who had fed them were gone. They were alone. The three boys who woke first learned this and began to be afraid.

The others never knew that fear. They had gone to sleep with full stomachs for the first time in months. They had settled happily into new, clean bedrolls, thinking of the ride in the airplane that the men had promised would take them to their new home.

The Reaper was circling at twelve thousand feet in a light ten-knot wind from the north. A Predator was two thousand feet above it to provide a second set of eyes. Occasionally, the Predator’s pilot would use its camera to scan the skies for any other aircraft. There were none in the area. The antennae on board the Predator scanned frequencies for mobile telephones, handheld radios, any electromagnetic signatures emanating from the valley below. There was only silence.

At Creech, the Reaper pilot’s control panel showed all systems nominal. On the Reaper’s underside, toward the front of the thirty-six-foot fuselage, inside a protective dome, the multispectral camera moved slowly, always pointing at the target below. The camera could zoom in close and provide High Definition images in daylight or zoom back and show the entire valley. At night, the Low Lite camera would flip into place, providing green or gray images as clearly as in midday. Toward the back of the aircraft, inside a four-foot blister, a synthetic aperture radar scanned the ground below, feeding data to an onboard computer that generated photographic quality images from the radar’s return, day or night. Below each of the thirty-six-foot wings, hanging from the weapons racks were two laser-guided 250-pound bombs and two Hellfire missiles.

The first Hellfire penetrated the roof of the house where the boys slept, and then it exploded. It had an antipersonnel warhead, one that spread smaller balls of explosives and razor sharp metal. The second Hellfire had a high-explosive warhead, designed to knock over walls from the overpressure created by its blast wave. Hellfires three and four hit each of the two smaller outbuildings inside the compound wall with high-explosive detonations. All four hit in less than a minute. Each impacted within eighteen inches of their designated aim point. The wooden gate in the compound’s wall was blown open from the blast. An alarm on one of the SUVs outside the wall began to wail.