Richard Clarke - Sting of the Drone

Ray and Sandra were examining a hard copy map of the area around the war-riddled Somali capital of Mogadishu. They had found the village where the truck was about fifty kilometers outside of the city. “Looks like there is a fairly open stretch of highway between the village and where the urban sprawl begins,” Sandra observed.

“That’s where we suggest you hit it,” the General replied.

As they watched the screen, the truck was clearly visible in the early morning light. It began to move out of the village and onto the road. In front of and behind it were open pickups. “Erik, zoom in on the pickups,” Sandra ordered. Everyone on the conference call was watching the same video feed, which was being sent to all of the departments on the Kill Call.

“Oh, shit,” Sandra said into an open microphone. The image on the screen was of a flatbed truck filled with at least four women and perhaps as many as eight children. As the image panned to the lead vehicle, they saw an identical image, a dozen more civilians.

“Can’t hit that,” the Justice lawyer announced. “If that truck bomb is as big as you think, if you hit the truck, it’s taking out all those civilians in the trucks in front and behind it.”

“He’s got that right,” Ray said to Sandra with his microphone on mute so that the other sites could not hear him. “Looks like the bad guys have figured out our rules and are using human shields.”

The small convoy turned onto the main road for Mogadishu and began to pick up speed. “We’ve only got about twenty minutes or so before they get into built-up areas. If we are going to hit it, we need to do so when it’s on this road,” the General announced.

With the microphone still off, Ray said, “We better call Winston.” He picked up a handset and hit a button for the office of the National Security Advisor. Sandra saw his expression change when someone at the other end answered. “Then could you please ask him to step out of the dinner for a minute. We’re on a Kill Call.” He hit the Speaker button so that Sandra could hear when Dr. Burrell came on the line.

“Ray, I hear you two got slaughtered this afternoon at hipsy. Not good,” Burrell began. “We better be extra careful on these strikes. What’s this one look like?”

Ray let the remark about the House Intel Committee go, for now. “We have a large truck bomb on the road into Mogadishu. It was made by Shabab, the local al Qaeda affiliate. In a few minutes it will be driving into a built-up area where we won’t be able to take it out without causing all sorts of collateral damage from our missile and the truck bomb itself going off as a secondary explosion.

“Right now it’s on an open road in the middle of nowhere, but the trouble is that it’s being escorted by two trucks, each of which has about a dozen women and children.”

“Well, sounds like you are out of Schlitz, Ray,” Burrell replied.

“Well, sir, it’s a matter of what is worse, killing people who seem to be escorting this bomb to its destination or allowing it to go off and killing maybe ten times more innocent people,” Sandra interjected.

“Yes, but it won’t be us who will have killed the people when the bomb goes off and it would be us if we strike the truck. And after the orphanage fiasco…” Burrell replied. “Besides, it doesn’t sound to me like there is an imminent threat of a terrorist attack against Americans .”

“There is a UN compound at the other end of this road,” Ray replied. “You remember how many people were killed at the UN headquarters in Baghdad by a truck bomb just like this. Not sure how we explain that we just sat by and watched. May even be some Americans there. There’s also the African Union compound and the Somali government buildings, a big marketplace, lots of possible targets.”

“Ray, I have to get back to this dinner with the Israelis. Here’s what I suggest, you warn the UN and the others and suggest they evacuate possible targets. You do what you think best after that, but under no circumstances are we using the Predators in any strike that kills civilians. Not now. It’s getting way too hot. Gotta go.”

“Schlitz?” Sandra asked when Burrell had signed off. Ray rolled his eyes. He hit the microphone on button. “We’re back.” He glanced up at the image of the trucks moving down the road. “Doesn’t look like anything has changed. CIA, State, DOD, can you all go through your channels to warn the UN, Somalia, African Union? We are not authorized to fire because of the risk of the civilians being killed. Anybody got any ideas?”

The conference link was silent except for the humming from the microphones’ static. “If we don’t do something, some of the guys on our side of this fight are going to get killed pretty soon. I don’t know that they can evacuate everything that is a possible target, not fast enough,” the General replied.

The red light came on next to Erik Parson’s screen. Ray hit a button that connected his audio feed from Las Vegas to the group. “I want to confirm my orders,” Erik began. “I am not authorized to fire where there is a risk of hitting civilians?”

“That is correct,” Sandra answered.

“Is there any rule against scaring civilians or bombing dirt?” Erik asked.

“Nice,” Ray replied. “No, Colonel, you may scare civilians and you may bomb nothingness. Just do not strike anywhere that could cause civilian casualties from our missiles.”

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 13

THE GLOBAL COORDINATION CENTER

OPERATIONS ROOM

CREECH AFB, NEVADA

In the GCC, Erik Parsons walked about five meters from the videoconference site to the cubicle in which Sergeant Rod Miller and Major Bud Walker were flying the two Predators over Somalia. “Sergeant, step aside. Let me fly that baby for a minute,” Erik said, replacing the pilot. He grabbed the joystick and put the first Predator into a steep dive from ten thousand feet. The image on the screen showed the ground rushing up at the camera. Then the road quickly appeared on the screen and the three-truck convoy ahead. The Predator flew low over the convoy and banked right. The faces of the women and children on the truck showed clearly in high definition, faces of surprise and horror. “Christ, Colonel, you got that sucker down to one thousand feet off the ground. They’ll shoot you down,” Sergeant Miller said from behind him.

“Can’t shoot me down. I’m not in Somalia. I’m in Vegas,” Erik replied as he hit the toggle switch on the side of the joystick to arm the Hellfire missiles on the Predator. “Bud, look at the image from Bird Two. What’s in front of these three trucks?”

Bird Two was the second Predator, operating as a reconnaissance spotter, flying at twelve thousand feet, above Stinger range. Major Walker panned the camera out ahead of the convoy. “Nothing on the road this early. I can see three or four clicks ahead. Nothing on the road or on either side of it but dirt, sir.”

Erik quickly brought the Predator around for a second pass. The trucks had stopped. People were jumping out, running. Four men were standing still shooting rifles, probably AK-47s, up toward the incoming Predator. Erik hit the Launch button on the joystick once, moved the Predator slightly left and fired again, again to the left and fired, and a fourth time. He then pulled the joystick back hard, forcing the Predator into a steep upward climb to the right of the road.

“Give me the video feed from Bird Two on the Big Board!” Erik yelled.

The image on the screen showed four smoke trails as Hellfire missiles from Bird One streaked over the convoy. In seconds, the missiles hit less than a kilometer ahead of the trucks. Two hit the road, two others hit just off the pavement, one on either side. A wide wall of brown smoke and dust rose up across the path of the convoy. Erik brought Bird One around and began another dive toward the now stationary trucks. It was out of missiles as it passed overhead, this time at fifteen hundred feet. The camera showed that the trucks in front and back were empty of their earlier passengers. What looked like as many as eight men were shooting upward, but even they were running away from the road as they shot. The images from Bird Two showed a cluster of people, the women and children passengers from the trucks, hunkering down in a dry river bed about four meters below the level of the road and about six hundred meters to the north of it.