Richard Clarke - Sting of the Drone

To the sensors on the SA-24s, there were now dozens of objects with the infrared signature of the Predator and then there were other objects with different, new infrared signatures, constantly changing. The missiles were programmed to recognize that the many Predator signatures were probably flares designed to fool it. Therefore, the missiles attempted to lock on the new signature source, but there were too many of them and they were too rapidly switching and transforming to permit target acquisition and lock on. Given that pattern, the missiles were programmed to fly to the general area of infrared activity and then to detonate, in the hope that some of the shrapnel from their explosion would strike the real target.

As the SA-24s streaked into the sky and the red star flares shot out from the Predator, the sensors aboard the Peregrine triangulated where the shooters were. Within two seconds of the Stingers leaving their launch tubes on the hillsides, four missiles with equal velocity leaped from the launch bay of the Peregrine, which was flying slightly above and behind the Predator. They raced toward the areas where the SA-24s had been fired. Once over the launch areas, the air-launched missiles exploded, spreading thousands of sharp, strong, antipersonnel razors out in a density such that anyone within two hundred meters would have been hit by a minimum of a dozen blades, each of which would be an artery-shredding, lethal attack.

The spotters and shooters stood watching their SA-24s climb through the air, but within seconds of their missiles being launched, just as they were beginning to see the red star flares come from the Predator, the eight men on the hillsides had become hundreds of shredded body parts. Almost simultaneously, the SA-24s erupted above in midair.

Bruce had programmed the Predator to go into a 12-g force turn and climb out as soon as it launched the red star flares and the Infrared Counter Measures pod began to light up. No onboard human pilot could withstand anything more than an 8-g turn. No human pilot could have executed such a fast maneuver by hand as quickly as the Predator executed the preprogrammed command. The machine was doing what no human pilot with a joystick could do. By moving so quickly, the Predator avoided most of the shrapnel from the SA-24s, picking up only small fragments of metal hitting its wings to no effect.

The op center floor broke into applause. Pilots stood in the cubicles and gave each other high fives. “Shoot at my birds, you little fuckers, and we will shred your asses,” Erik Parsons yelled above the din.

Sandra Vittonelli shook hands with Bruce Dougherty when his aircraft were stabilized and returning to base. She turned to Erik, “You see this is basically a two-player game theory exercise in which every player-move generates a response. Anticipate theirs.” She walked back to her office, off the operations room floor.

Erik Parsons looked at Bruce Dougherty. “What’d she say?”

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 1

30TH STREET AMTRAK STATION

PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

It was a giant angel, carrying a sleeping man. No one else was looking at it. The train station was filled with people, but no one looked at the giant sculpture that dominated the vast hall. It was such an odd country, so filled with religious symbols and so filled with sin, Bahadur thought.

It had been a long ride from Boston on the Acela train and the food had been awful. All of the seats had been taken, many by students returning from the Thanksgiving break. The rocking and swaying of the train car had made him almost ill. Bahadur knew that he should never go to any of the targets, but it would have been hard to arrange another way. He walked over to the map of the station. Yes, it was like New York’s Penn Station, but smaller and less protected. On one level there were the city subway trains and the trolley cars. On another level were the suburban commuter lines. In the middle were the long-range Amtrak trains to other cities. It would work. Three men, three bombs. All rail traffic would be stopped. And none of the men would know that there were others, just in case one got caught or backed out.

He walked out of the station and across the street toward the Center City area. There was the man in the blue and gold Drexel University jacket. Bahadur approached him, stood next to him, and said the Hadith phrase the man hoped to hear, “Shall I not inform you about the inmates of Hell? It is every violent, impertinent, and proud person.”

They began to walk together down Kennedy Boulevard. “You are a Saudi or a Yemeni?” Bahadur asked him after they had exchanged the meeting phrases.

“Both. My father is a Saudi, my mother is Yemeni. I was born here, in Philadelphia. I grew up in Lewisburg. My father taught at Bucknell,” the man explained.

“And you are a good Muslim?”

“I practice Islam, maybe not the same way you do, but I am a Muslim.”

“And you are willing to do this thing why?” Bahadur asked.

“Because all of my life, and especially since I was seven, since 9/11, they have taunted me because I am a Muslim, because I am a Saudi,” he said.

“But you are not a Saudi, you are an American by birth, a citizen, correct?” Bahadur asked.

“Not to them. To them I am a raghead. The Americans are so arrogant. They did not learn the right lesson from 9/11. They are still killing Muslims. They need to be taught again. They need to be deterred from waging war on Islam. They need to pay a high price. I hope I am not all that you are doing,” the student said. “I alone cannot make them hurt enough.”

Bahadur stopped walking and faced the young man. “There are many more. It will all happen at once. That is why it is essential that you do not go early or late.” Bahadur moved as close as he could to the student, their belts touching. “Once you are in this, you cannot back out or you, and your family, will pay the ultimate price for desertion. Do you understand? Not early, not late, no backing out.”

“Yeah, I get it, I get it,” the student said. “I am doing this.”

“And the money, what will you do with the money?” Bahadur asked.

“When I graduate in May, I am going to move to Beirut. There are engineering jobs there. And with the money, I can get a nice apartment on the Corniche to start. And a Porsche.”

“You will only get a little in cash now and when it happens. The rest will be in a bank in Beirut,” Bahadur explained.

“Okay, as long as it’s there.”

“It will be, if you do the job right. This is a matter of Islamic honor between us. We will pay.” Bahadur tried to sound convincing. “You will get the material that morning from the men who you know, from Lewisburg. You will have figured out how to leave it at the place on the plans and set the timer. You will be in a public place at the university when it happens. You can walk there easily from the train station. You will be shocked, horrified, by the attack. And then you will have only one more semester before you are living the good life in Beirut.”

They had arrived at the end of the Boulevard. There was a giant clothes pin, soaring many stories high in front of a skyscraper. Bahadur didn’t even bother to ask its religious significance.

“Now, there is another subway system that goes to New Jersey near here,” Bahadur stated. “Can you walk me to near where the station is?”

“PATCO, it’s this way.”

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 5

DESERT HILLS

NORTH LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

“Did you buy the house because the street was called Wind Warrior Drive?” Sandra Vittonelli asked Jennifer Parsons. The two women lay poolside in the Parsons’ backyard in North Las Vegas.