Mike Maden - Drone Threat

She took a deep breath as she turned the latch. The door popped open.

She should’ve stuck with procedure.

Pearce cleared the security station and made his way to the stairs leading up to the first floor, avoiding the elevator. Another man, tall and well dressed, was heading down in the opposite direction. He stopped.

“Excuse me. You are Troy Pearce?”

“Yeah.” Pearce noted the Russian accent.

“Aleksandr Tarkovsky.”

“The Russian ambassador. Pleasure to meet you.” They shook hands. Pearce noted the firm, calloused grip. Tarkovsky was a lifter.

“I’ve heard a lot about you. You are the nominee for the Drone Command directorship, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations. I hope sometime we can have lunch. I am very interested in drones.” He sensed hesitation in Pearce. His handsome face grinned broadly. “Nothing classified, of course. I am just fascinated by the possibilities of the technology. I am a science fiction geek.”

“Happy to oblige. I’ll call your office next week.” Pearce checked his iWatch even though he knew the time. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, I’m late for a meeting.”

“Of course. Please call my office. And best of luck.” Tarkovsky nodded curtly and sped down the stairs.

Pearce watched him for a moment. Strange. He wondered how much Tarkovsky really knew about him. There were elements in the Russian SVR who had put a bounty on Pearce’s head for killing Tarkovsky’s predecessor in Moscow a few years before. The Russians could never prove anything, but the SVR wasn’t organized around the concept of due process. Without divulging the reason for his concern, Pearce recently had made an unofficial inquiry with an old contact in the CIA, who privately assured him he wasn’t an official person of interest to the Russian government. That meant Pearce was probably safe while he was stateside.

The man who would take over Pearce Systems if he actually took the Drone Command job was also monitoring Russian sources. Ian McTavish was a cyberwarrior of unparalleled skill.

Pearce shrugged off his concern and headed for the Oval Office.

Vice President Chandler, Vicki Grafton, and the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, Melinda Eaton, were seated on the couches. President Lane sat in a chair. Pearce entered the room.

“Just in time for General Eaton’s brief. Seems we had a little incident a few hours ago.”

“Incident?” Pearce asked. He was confused. He’d arrived for a final prep meeting with Grafton before the Senate confirmation hearing. He was halfway to her office at the EEOB when he received a text instructing him to come to the Oval Office instead as soon as possible. No reason was given.

“I’ve got something I want you to look at,” Lane said. He held up a sheet of paper in his hand.

“Of course, sir.” Pearce took the paper and the chair opposite the president.

All eyes were on him as he read.

President Lane,

All praise is due to Allah, the Glorious, the Majestic! We praise Him, seek His aid, and ask for His forgiveness. We seek refuge with Allah from the evils of our souls and the wickedness of our deeds. Whomsoever Allah guides cannot be misguided, and whomsoever Allah leads astray cannot be guided back.

Allah has said, “Fighting has been enjoined upon you while it is hateful to you.”

And the poet has said, “The walls of oppression and humiliation cannot be demolished except in a rain of bullets.”

America has waged a cowardly war against the Ummah. It has waged war with cowardly drones against the Lions of the Caliphate around the world. A cowardly war that kills hundreds of innocent Muslims as your own secret documents testify against you.

But the Lions of the Caliphate do not act cowardly. They fight even amongst themselves for the privilege of killing Americans all over the world. Our Young Lions have begged to fight even in the heartland of America.

Today that day has arrived.

We soldiers of the Islamic State will erupt volcanoes of jihad throughout your nation. Allah will deal with America. He will defeat America with the worst of defeats. He will dismember America completely. In humiliation America will lay down in her own dust. In humiliation and failure and degradation she will weep tears of blood. You Americans will sleep with impotent rage in your hearts and fear pounding your beds. How good you are to prove to the world that we Muslims will not be defeated as long as we hold firm to the Book! How good you are to prove to yourselves that we Muslims will not be defeated as long as we hold firm to the sword!

But we are not without mercy, because Allah is merciful. Today we offer a hand of peace. Submit! Submit to the religion of peace. Submit to the Caliphate. To submit is easy. It will be a simple thing. Do not rage. Do not hesitate. It is but a single drop of rain compared to the great storm that awaits you if you do not submit.

You must submit in this way:

Inside this drone you will find the glorious Black Flag of the Islamic State. You must fly this exact flag only at high mast on the White House by 12:00 tomorrow (EST). You must leave it there for 24 hours so all the world can witness your submission and your testimony that Allah alone is God and Muhammad (peace be upon him) His Prophet.

If you do not fly the Black Flag of the Islamic State by 12:00 tomorrow the first blow will crash down upon your head. And each day thereafter the flag is not flown, a worse blow will be struck — another upon another until you submit or until the fifth day, when you will be utterly destroyed in a storm of unquenchable fire.

O Allah, there is no God but You! We fight for Your cause. You are exalted. We ask forgiveness and repent to You. All praise is due to Allah the Humiliator and the Subduer and to Muhammad (peace be upon him) His slave and messenger.

Inshallah.

“What’s your opinion, Troy?” Lane asked.

Pearce frowned, still processing. He started out his CIA career as an analyst, not a fighter. Combat required instant decisions. Thoughtful data interpretation took a little more time.

“The language is generally right. Almost reads like a fatwa except there are no suras referenced. No reason to think it’s not a genuine ISIS threat.”

“We’re inclined to agree,” Lane said.

Grafton nodded gravely, fighting back a smile. The timing of the drone threat couldn’t have been better. It’s almost like I’d planned it myself.

“There’s an identical note in Arabic,” Eaton said. “I’ve sent it over to the ISIS desk at the CIA for exegetical analysis. Maybe there are grammar or syntactical clues as to the authenticity.”

“How did the Arabic read to you?” Pearce asked. He knew the retired army general was fluent.

“I’m no linguist but it seemed grammatically correct. Sophisticated syntax. Educated. An adult, I presume. Native speaker would be my guess. But that’s all I could glean from a quick read. The two pages were laser-printed so we won’t have any clues from handwriting analysis.”

“Printed? Did it arrive in the mail?”

Lane chuckled. “Airmail. A drone, actually. Landed on the South Lawn basketball court. The damn thing looks like something you’d buy down at HobbyTown.” Lane picked up a tablet from the coffee table and handed it to Pearce. The Secret Service had sent over photos.

“That’s a cool toy. It looks like it has VTOL capabilities. Helicopter means you can land or take off from anywhere, forward flying increases speed and drops the energy cost in half. Where is it? I’d like to see it.”