Richard Clarke - Sting of the Drone

“Fascinating, both groups sent their top guys,” Ray replied. “All right, we have two sources that indicate no collateral targets on board. We also have video from both the Global Reach and the mini-drone that only shows targets. Does anybody object to a strike on this ship?”

“State’s good. Go.”

“Justice clears off.”

“DOD chops. Clean kill.”

“CIA approves.”

Ray Bowman had been on the secure phone to Winston Burrell at the White House and obtained his approval.

“All right, GCC, execute the strike,” Ray ordered.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 27

GLOBAL COORDINATION CENTER

OPERATIONS ROOM

CREECH AFB, NEVADA

Erik indicated to the pilot to drop the two small torpedoes. Again, the panel on the bottom of the Global Reach opened and the rotary launcher spun about, until a torpedo was in position. When it detached and dropped, another one rotated into place and was then released. Like the mini-drone, they dove toward the water and then popped parachutes. Unlike the mini-drone, the torpedoes cut loose of their parachutes, fell below the surface of the water, and then fired up high-speed motors that sent them toward the yacht, their sensors programmed to detect the audio and magnetic signature of the large boat.

As the torpedoes sped ahead, Ray said to everyone on the circuit what they probably all were already thinking, “This is perhaps the biggest hit we have ever done. The leaders of the two most active AQ groups, and apparently planning some sort of simultaneous attacks, which we might just head off.”

The video screens now showed images from two cameras on the Global Reach. One showed the white lines made in the water by the speeding torpedoes. The other showed a high-definition close-up of the two AQ leaders talking on the aft deck of the yacht. Erik, as Flight Controller, could also see the video feed from the mini-drone. It startled him. Erik saw that there was another speedboat headed toward the bow of the ship. In the boat were two men and four boys, and fishing poles.

Erik’s eye darted to the many controls on his console. One of the buttons would detonate the torpedoes before they made contact with the yacht. Another would kill the video feed from the mini-drone. His left hand snapped out. He stopped the video feed.

The image on the Big Board from the Global Reach showed the water erupting, engulfing the rear of the yacht. Then a second explosion and then a third as the fuel tank erupted. What had been the yacht and the water around it was now a column of water and black smoke rising into the air, throwing pieces of metal and wood up and out.

Erik heard Ray over the headset, “Good job, guys. Big deal. And nice, clean kill.”

Erik spoke into the microphone, “Kill Call closed.” He flicked the switch that ended the videoconference.

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 12

EXCHANGE STREET

PORTLAND, MAINE

“Have anotha?”

What was the question? Bahadur thought. He had struggled to learn English as spoken by the Australians, which had been very difficult. Now he tried to comprehend the American dialects. He assumed the American woman was offering him more coffee. “Oh, no, thank you. One cup is enough.”

“Let’s see, you were only on the Internet for ten minutes and had one cup. Let’s say five dollahs,” she said.

He paid the bill, with cash as he had been paying all of his bills, and walked out of the Java Net Cafe onto Exchange Street. Its bright aqua facade had been easy to find. He had used an iMac to check one of his Gmail accounts, but he had first connected to an anonymizing Web site so that Google’s servers could not record the Internet IP address of the café. The Somali was to meet him when he walked out of the café.

On the sidewalk in front of the café, Bahadur saw the Somali and then looked to see that there was no one else within earshot. Bahadur spoke aloud the code words from the Hadith that were in the green moleskin notebook for this sleeper. “Give to a beggar even if he comes on a horse.”

The Somali, who had looked nervous standing waiting on the sidewalk, seemed now suddenly calm. He bowed his head briefly. He knew that Bahadur was not from the FBI because this man knew a phrase to use with him that only two or three men in Pakistan knew, a personal phrase from the Prophet that had been assigned only to him when he had pledged bayat, allegiance to al Qaeda.

“Shall we walk down to the water?” Bahadur suggested. It was a chilly, late autumn day. There would be few people walking on the piers. They turned right on Commercial Street and looked out at the boats, then they strolled slowly out onto one of the docks. When they were far from anyone else, Bahadur began.

“Why do you want to do this?”

“Really, bro? For the money? I could tell you it’s because my granddad got killed by the SEALs in Baidoa, but he didn’t. He’s still alive. Moved to Mog. I do hate the Americans, but truth is I am one, too, technically. I was born here. There’s a bunch of Somalis live here. Here and in Minnesota. The Americans must have thought it was funny. Move the Somali refugees to the coldest-ass places in the country. Have them freak out when they see snow.

“But get it straight dude, I ain’t no suicide guy. My cousin asked me if I had the balls to do this for a lot of money. He said he can’t do it because he was born there. The FBI keeps an eye on them, the guys who came here, even when they were like two years old at the time they got to the U.S. of A. If I do it, I got to split some of the money with him. I’m okay with that.”

Bahadur raised his hand to stop the Somali from talking. Otherwise, the Pakistani thought, the young man would have kept jabbering all day. He might look Somali, but he sounded very American. That was good.

The al Qaeda people he had met in Karachi had been right, this young man would raise few suspicions.

“We do not want suiciders. They are too crazy. They screw up. We want someone smart. You place the bomb in the tunnel then you leave. You have been to Boston before? Been on the T?” Bahadur asked.

“Sure, man. Done Beantown a shitload. Concert at the Garden last year. Then we took the trolley over to BU, Green Line. Still have the Charlie Card with money left on it.”

Bahadur was unsure what all of that meant, but did not ask what a Charlie Card was. “You will have to go back and do some trial runs. See where you can leave the bomb. Check out the security. Look for the police, the cameras. Carry a backpack with books. Do nothing to raise suspicion. Do you have a car?”

“It’s on the old side. Needs new snow tires, but it runs. Might be better if I got a new one.”

“No, do nothing to attract attention. Do not spend money, especially after the job. Not here. Go to Europe after Christmas. We can show you a good time in Paris, girls, whatever. We will pay for all of that. Then we will give you the rest of the money and you can buy what you want, but in Europe, not here.”

They were now standing outside of the Portland Lobster Company. The sign had a picture of a large red bug. Bahadur did not know how people could eat them. It was not just that, as bottom feeders, they were haram . They looked scary. How could they taste good? It would be like eating a scorpion.

“Do you eat lobsters?” he asked the Somali.

“I do, all the time. Get them off the boats. They’re cheaper than anything else I can get. Like two and a quarter a pound on the docks. But the Somalis who came here from over there, they get all freaked out about us eating them. They say they’re dirty. They ain’t dirty, you wash all the sand out, get rid of all that yellow stuff inside. Over there, my mom says the beaches were full of them, but little ones without the claws. But the Somalis over there don’t eat them even when they’re starving. Crazy.”