Daniel Suarez - Kill Decision

Jordan sat back down. Numb. “There’ll be hell to pay for this…”

Henry Clarke awoke facedown and still dressed in a black Castangia pinstripe suit. Splayed diagonally across his bed, he groped for a phone as it chimed somewhere in the soft glow of LED charging lights. “Dammit, where the…” He finally saw his cell on the nightstand, its front panel glowing through a cocktail napkin with a cell number and lipstick smeared across it. He swatted away the napkin and grabbed the handset. “Yeah?”

A pause.

He sat up and flicked on the nightstand lamp. “Shit. I am. Yeah. Yes.” He looked around. “Now?” He glanced at his watch, then reluctantly nodded. “All right. Fine. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Two minutes later Clarke, wearing jeans and an untucked white button-down shirt, opened his red townhome door in bare feet to reveal an austere, well-dressed woman in her fifties coming up his stone steps. A black Lincoln Town Car idled at the curb outside-double-parked on his Georgetown street. The driver and another suited man watched her go inside. She waved them off, then muttered to Clarke, “Get inside before you catch cold, Henry.”

She entered the foyer in a commanding fashion as Clarke closed the door and followed in her wake. “It’s three in the morning, Marta. Couldn’t this have waited a few hours?”

“You smell like gin.” She sniffed. “And perfume. Are we alone?”

“Just the staff. With your nose I’m surprised you can’t smell them too.”

She dismissed his jibe with a wave and kept walking, examining the high plaster ceilings, the Federalist furniture, carved marble mantel, and original art. “I’d forgotten about this place. A bit traditional for a man your age.”

He was tucking in his shirt. “It’s been in my family a long time. Reminds me of my mother.”

“I wouldn’t have figured you for the sentimental type. Although I’m sure this place works wonders on K Street girls.” She had already entered his study and grabbed the remote. She appeared to know the layout of the place.

“How bad is it?” He stood in the doorway.

She powered on his plasma TV, flipping through satellite channels. She came first to BBC One. Scenes of Middle East horror filled the screen. Streets running with blood as viewed from the air. The chyron at the bottom of the screen proclaimed, “U.S. drone attack on Shia shrine kills thousands; thousands more injured. ” The female anchor weighed in: “… official statement, but condemnations of the attack have come swiftly from China, Russia, and heads of state throughout the Muslim world.”

The live image switched to recorded amateur video showing a low-flying Reaper drone launching missiles against the dense crowds around the shrines. The U.S. stars-and-bars insignia was clearly visible on the fuselage.

“ The incident took place in full view of tens of thousands of pilgrims moving on foot through the Iraqi city of Karbala. Although Pentagon officials deny U.S. involvement, pieces of the wreckage carried away by locals bear U. S. markings and serial numbers. Many view this attack as an act of American revenge for a deadly series of terror bombings in the continental United States-including one that claimed the life of Virginia senator Aaron Arkin and six staffers eight weeks ago. One Middle Eastern diplomat described today’s events as ‘a blind giant lashing out against unseen attackers.’”

“Holy… what the hell happened?”

“Have you read Black Swan yet?”

“I saw the movie.”

She cast a dark look at him.

“What?” He shrugged. “It’s not the first time the U.S. has bombed the wrong people, Marta. This is a big mistake, but it’ll blow over.”

“No. This time is different…” She clicked the remote to surf news channels, from Al Jazeera to Russian English-language television, then to American cable news. Coverage of the attack was everywhere. Shots of injured being rushed to hospitals in Red Crescent vans. Screaming women and children. Most of America had not yet woken up to its latest public relations disaster. “U.S. Reaper Drone Massacres Shiite Pilgrims” and more crassly: “The Empire Strikes Back.”

One looped video sequence showed drone wreckage raining down in fiery pieces over the city, the reporter in midsentence: “… above the city immediately afterward by an enraged Iraqi military.”

She nodded to herself. “Destroyed, of course. Pieces paraded by civilians on TV. The chance of getting that wreckage back: slim to none.”

He sighed. “It’s a terrible accident, but we’ll get past it.”

She muted the television. “It wasn’t an accident. This was an attack on the United States.”

Clarke frowned in confusion.

“It wasn’t our drone, Henry.”

He sank into a wing chair. “What do you mean it wasn’t ours? Who else has Reaper drones? Britain?”

“I mean it wasn’t a friendly Reaper drone.” She narrowed her eyes at the screen. “I’d be curious to know how they got it past our radar. I suppose they could have launched it from a nearby desert road. Gorgon Stare would have been useful here. That’s a funding angle we should pursue in committee. Make a note of that.”

Clarke glanced around for a pad of paper but almost immediately gave up and frowned at her. “You’re saying someone copied a Reaper drone?”

“It would hardly be necessary to ‘copy’ one. Nearly half of them have been lost in action-crashed or shot down. Not all of them recovered. Parts and pieces moving through the black markets of Central Asia.”

“Seriously?”

“Technology spreads, Henry. That’s what it does. That’s why constant progress is necessary. Why we must always stay one step ahead. This is a teaching moment for those willing to learn.”

He nodded toward the news, which now panned across screaming, injured children in a hospital ward. “This could be very bad for Brand America.”

“Yes, and that’s why it’s critical we encourage these older drones to proliferate. Otherwise whenever there’s a drone strike-like this-the world will blame the United States. That must change.”

He watched the muted television for a moment-the looped replay of the mystery drone launching its missiles. “Do you think this attack is related to the terror bombings here in the States?”

She ignored the question and instead presented one of her own. “How does this disaster affect our clients?”

Clarke grimaced. “It’s not good. It’ll damage public perception of unmanned aircraft.”

“Unless we successfully deflect responsibility.”

“With powerful visuals like this circulating, that’ll be a tough sell.”

“You leave that to me. Just make sure your people are ready to work their mimetic magic.”

They both stared at images of tiny, shroud-wrapped bodies being carried through an angry crowd.

A black MH-47 Chinook helicopter raced in darkness along the slopes of a steep valley lined by snowcapped mountains. Pale moonlight reflected off the peaks and silhouetted the large chopper momentarily before it nosed steeply into blackness, descending rapidly in a combat landing. As it continued its erratic maneuvers, blinding green-white flares spat out of its tail every few seconds. Soon the pilot pulled the nose of the chopper up, bringing it down toward a blacked-out forward operating base studded with satellite dishes and radio antennas. The chopper rotated in a cloud of dust, then deftly touched down on a gravel landing zone.

As the turbine engines wound down, the rear ramp descended, and a dozen heavily armed U.S. Army Special Forces soldiers in black body armor and face masks emerged, pulling along a hooded prisoner wearing a mud-spattered shalwar kameez and chapan — his hands secured behind his back with PlastiCuffs.