Mike Maden - Drone Threat

“What do they know?” Eaton asked.

“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see the tanker crashes all happened within thirty minutes of each other. The wire services want to call this a terrorist incident — a case of ‘suicide truckers.’”

“Holy Moses,” Chandler said. “Just what we need.”

“We’ve got to give them something or they’ll go out with it,” Abbott said.

“What do you suggest?” Lane asked.

“Environment and Public Works has been pushing for a new highway bill. Money for more roads and bridges. We can spin it that way.”

“You want to blame all of this on potholes?” Pearce asked.

“Of course not. But I can feed them some inside dope about new funding legislation we’re proposing—”

“But we’re not,” Lane said.

Abbott smiled. “That’s where the spinning part comes in. Let me promise them something exclusive on the highway bill we may or may not be working on, and promise to backfill this other story when we’ve got more facts to give them. If I toss in the national security angle, that should buy us another day.”

“That supposes we actually learn anything by tomorrow. What exactly do we have right now? Let’s go around the room, starting with you, Julissa.”

The attorney general shook her head, frustrated. “The Dallas FBI field office is flying up to Texarkana right now with a computer forensics team. They’re already remotely accessing the site to monitor it and shutting it down to keep anything else from happening. The San Diego computer services firm Kan-Tex contracts with is cooperating as well. It will be at least a day and probably more before we can identify the hackers.”

“Or maybe never, if they’re good enough,” Garza added.

“Maybe not,” Eaton said, shrugging. “Good news is that we managed to piece together enough security camera footage to trace the flag drone’s flight path backward from the White House lawn to its point of origin. We discovered it took off from the back of a boat moored at the Capital Yacht Club.”

“Please God, tell me the boat belonged to a registered Republican,” Chandler said, grinning.

“A Green Party lawyer, actually. A lobbyist for one of the environmental organizations. She was and still is out of the country. We’re still digging around but my team is confident she’s not the one behind this.”

Lane turned to the DNI seated next to him. “Mike?”

“Melinda indicated yesterday that chatter is up. Same on our end. The jihadi sites are all abuzz that something’s going on, but nothing specific. If ISIS is behind this, they’re keeping quiet about it.”

“Any reason to think they’re not behind it?” Lane asked.

“Nobody’s claiming anything at the moment. Doesn’t mean they won’t later. And this kind of attack — public, disruptive, newsworthy — is right up their alley. The only thing missing is a high body count.”

“They gave it one helluva college try today,” Chandler said. “We’re just damn lucky they couldn’t pull it off.”

“Seems to me they could’ve killed dozens, maybe hundreds more. Those tanker trailers are practically rolling ordnance, and they had complete control of the tractors pulling them,” Pearce said. “All they had to do was wait for worse traffic or run those tankers into more vulnerable targets.”

“Are you suggesting restraint again?” Pia asked. He’d read yesterday’s briefing minutes. Thought Pearce’s point was interesting.

“Seems like it.”

“Restraint for what purpose?”

“Clearly not terror, at least in the classic sense. I think these attacks are pointed at the president. First it was the airports, now it’s the highways. These both have profound economic implications.”

“We’ve already established that ISIS is trying to pull down our economy,” Chandler said. “What’s your point?”

“The attacks are escalating. That means the consequences for not acceding to their demand to fly the flag only get worse. The goal is to get you to fly that flag, Mr. President, not kill Americans.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Garza said.

“Why is flying the flag so important?” Lane asked. “Wouldn’t a terror strike on our soil be victory enough?”

“This is about humiliation, not just publicity,” Pearce said. “ISIS pledged to fly the black flag over the White House back in 2014, the same year they declared the Caliphate. If they fail to keep that promise, they’re the ones who are humiliated.”

“Believe me, I have no intention of ever flying that black diaper over my own home,” Lane said. “Alyssa, spin the story any way you need to to keep the newspapers away from this as long as you can.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Chairman Onstot will be here in an hour to talk about our military options. Let’s break for lunch and reconvene when he arrives. If we can’t find the bastards here, we’ll have to take the war to them over there.”

Chandler and Grafton exchanged a glance. Music to their ears.

A late-model sedan turned off the two-lane asphalt and onto a tree-lined path. Tires crunched on the gravel as the sedan crept a hundred yards toward the single-story ranch house. Security cameras fixed to light poles tracked their progress.

“There he is,” the passenger said.

The garage doors were open. A windowless black-panel van stood far inside, to the right, leaving the rest of the expansive garage open. A bright yellow-and-red Chinook Charter logo decorated the van’s swinging back doors.

The sedan pulled up onto the spotless cement driveway and shut off its engine after parking directly behind the van. The two men climbed out. Sport coats, ties, leather shoes. The driver was heavyset with a dirty-blond mustache. The dark-haired passenger was taller and leaner and clean-shaven but with a heavy five o’clock shadow.

The door leading from the house into the garage opened. Norman Pike stepped into the garage in his stocking feet and put on a pair of slippers. He held a heavy ceramic coffee cup in one hand.

The two men entered the garage. The tall passenger scanned the space. Neat as a pin. No oil or dirt or even dust on the garage floor. Everything was perfectly organized and uniform in storage racks and metal cabinets. There was also a tall mechanic’s tool chest on wheels and a workbench with a vise.

“Mr. Pike?” the driver asked, reaching into his coat pocket.

“Yes?” Pike took a sip of coffee, his eyes focused on the driver’s hand.

“My name is Agent Barr.” He held up his wallet so that Pike could read it.

“FBI?”

“And this is Agent Fowler. We’re both from the Milwaukee office.”

“Nice to meet you fellas. What can I do for you?” Pike reached out and shook hands with both men. Fisherman’s hands, Barr noted. Strong and calloused.

Agent Fowler glanced around the garage. “Nice little shop you got here.”

“Helps me keep everything shipshape. I run my business out of my house.”

“A charter business?” Agent Barr said.

“Yeah. Out of Cheboygan.”

“I always wanted to do that,” Agent Fowler said. “Nothing beats a day on the lake, fishing.”

“I’m a lucky man, for sure.”

“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?” Agent Barr asked.

“Of course not. You want to come in? Just made a pot of coffee.”

“Sure, if you don’t mind. It was a long drive.”

“Follow me.” Pike headed for the door. He stopped at the threshold and removed his slippers, placing them neatly on a plastic pad. He turned around. “If you don’t mind—”

“Of course not,” Agent Barr said.

Pike went in as the two agents unlaced their shoes, leaning against the wall for stability. They exchanged silent, irritated glances. They set their shoes down neatly next to Pike’s.