Mike Maden - Drone Threat

Chandler shifted in his chair, clearly frustrated. “What harm is there in talking with Russians? At least see what the options are?’

“Fair enough,” Lane said. “Clay, make the call.”

Chandler stole a glance at Pearce, smiled. “Will do, Mr. President.”

“If an escalated air campaign really is on the table, we need to pull in General Onstot on this,” Garza said. “But if we don’t change the rules of engagement, it won’t matter how many sorties we fly, they’ll all come back fully loaded because the pilots are scared shitless of the JAG lawyers breathing down their necks.”

“The ROEs are meant to protect civilian lives,” Peguero said. “Indiscriminate bombing creates more terrorists than it kills.”

“Rules of engagement are for the junior cotillion, not a war,” Garza said. The Vietnam combat vet didn’t suffer fools.

“Let’s table the ROEs until Onstot gets here,” Lane said.

“Shouldn’t we loop in the SecDef?” Eaton asked.

The president shook his head. “Not yet. This thing will gallop out of control if we get too many horses in the traces. The fewer people in the loop, the better.”

“Hate to ask it, but I’d really prefer that the White House press secretary be brought into this discussion,” Eaton said. “It’s one thing for me to call a media outlet and ask them to sit on a story for a day or two, but we need a media professional to spin this stuff if we want to try and keep control of the narrative.”

“You’re right. I’ll call Alyssa in a few minutes. Anything else?”

Nobody responded. Everybody felt the weight of the moment. No need to add more to it. Lane looked at the clock.

“If our ISIS friends hold true, we’ve got just under two hours before they pull their next stunt. Let’s convene back here at noon just in case they do.”

“Is there any doubt, sir?” Pearce asked.

Lane shook his head, resigned. “No, I guess not.”

Tarkovsky pointed the assault rifle at the masked gunman’s head, just over the trembling shoulder of the woman the gunman was using as a human shield. The warehouse was dark and the gunman poorly lit.

“Get back, or I’ll kill her!” the gunman shouted.

The woman screamed. “Help me!”

Tarkovsky pulled the trigger once. The weapon leaped in his hand. The gunman’s head snapped backward as blood spattered on the wall behind him. The woman screamed again and dashed away into the shadows as the man’s corpse thudded to the ground.

“Nice shot,” al-Saud said.

“That felt remarkably real.” The Russian smiled. He handed the rifle back to his Saudi host.

Al-Saud racked the Blue Fire wireless smart weapon, a laser simulator rifle with recoil, and pressed a remote control, bringing the lights back on and shutting down the 4K digital projector. “That was a judgmental training system program. JTS is an American device, of course, but our Special Security Forces use it in counterterror training. It’s quite effective. My security staff trains on a similar unit at the embassy. I train on this one in my home because it’s a pleasure.”

“I enjoyed it immensely. I wouldn’t mind getting one of these for myself.”

“Someday you must visit my home in the desert. I have a live ammo shoot house on the property. Same JTS software but an even more lifelike close-combat experience.”

“That is very kind of you.”

“Coffee? Or something stronger?”

“Coffee will be fine, thank you.”

Al-Saud pointed toward the stairwell that led from the expansive training room to the living area upstairs. The white brick Georgian mansion was a bright shining jewel mounted on top of a gently sloping hill surrounded by an acre of closely manicured emerald-green lawn.

Al-Saud ordered coffee from the attendant in his private salon, and the two of them sat down by the large brick fireplace. The room, like the rest of the house, was decorated in traditional American style. Tarkovsky didn’t see any references to the Kingdom, Islam, or the desert. If he didn’t know any better, he would have sworn an American lived here, not a member of the Saudi royal family.

Al-Saud looked completely relaxed in his turtleneck and slacks, like a man on vacation. Tarkovsky felt overdressed in his sport coat and tie.

“I’m so glad we’re taking the time to get to know each other, Aleksandr. I was pleasantly surprised when you called yesterday.”

Tarkovsky nodded. “We have only had the chance to speak briefly in public gatherings. I felt that a private conversation was in order. I didn’t expect to be invited to your home. I’m honored.”

“It’s modest, but comfortable.”

A lovely young Filipino woman entered the room, efficient and demure. She set the silver tray down and left wordlessly.

“How do you like it?”

“Black,” Tarkovsky said. He assumed al-Saud was referring to the coffee.

“Same.” The Saudi poured for both of them.

“If I may cut to the chase, Your Excellency—”

“Faisal. Please.”

“Thank you. The reason why I wanted to speak with you was to discuss the situation with the Americans and ISIS. The Americans are unwilling to commit ground troops to battle ISIS on their own soil. However, my country stands ready to do so. But President Lane seems reluctant to accept the idea.”

“And you’ve come to me because…?”

“I would appreciate your assistance in helping me convince him.”

“Strange you should raise this now. Only yesterday I was with the president and some of his advisors. They asked me what I thought about Russian intervention.”

“Would you mind sharing your thoughts?”

“Not at all. I told President Lane it would be better if the United States committed its own forces to the battle.”

Tarkovsky’s smile faded. He tried to hide his disappointment.

“However, I also said that if he was still reluctant to do so, that an alliance with your country would be the next best option.”

“And did he accept your proposal?”

“No, he didn’t.” Al-Saud sipped his coffee.

“Perhaps he would be open to further overtures?”

“I’m reluctant to press the matter. My government has other requests for him, and I wouldn’t want to jeopardize those for a war he doesn’t want anyway.”

“I have it on good authority that Vice President Chandler is strongly in favor of a Russian-American security alliance. You would have his support and ours in other matters if you made this petition with the president.”

“And what is your ‘good authority’?”

“The vice president told me so himself.”

The Saudi nodded. “Clay did seem keen on the idea. But no matter. It’s the president who is reluctant to allow us to purchase and operate our own advanced drone program, not Chandler.”

“Chandler would support such a move.”

“I know. But he isn’t the president.”

“Not yet. If you can be patient…”

“Talk to Daesh . Talk to the Iranians. Will they wait patiently for President Chandler to assume office before trying to overthrow us?”

“Of course not. Your country’s strategic situation is quite precarious at the moment, isn’t it?”

“We’re standing on the knife’s edge.” Al-Saud paused. “Your country’s superlative aviation industry is now deploying the next generation of drones.”

“Yes, we are.”

Al-Saud set his coffee down. “Might your government be willing to sell us such systems? We would want complete operational autonomy, of course.”

Tarkovsky nodded noncommittally. “Well, yes, perhaps. Though, like you, we don’t want to alienate the Americans. As you said, Chandler is supportive of drone sales to your country. So is his chief of staff, Vicki Grafton. Have you met her?”