Mike Maden - Drone Threat

Rowley dashed over. He lifted each of Pearce’s eyelids, checking for dilation. “You better get that noggin checked when we land, but I think you’re okay for now.”

Pearce stood up on wobbly legs. The plane was already rocketing down the tarmac.

“Whoa, boss. We’re taking off. Better sit down and buckle up,” Luckett said as he plopped into his own seat and strapped in. Rowley did the same.

Pearce pushed past both of them, steadying himself with the leather headrests as the plane angled steeply into its climb. He made it to the front of the cabin and fell into a chair facing an open console attached to the bulkhead. It was a remote-control station. He pulled on the headphones and dialed up Ian.

“Ian, you still there?” Pearce powered up the computer monitor and pulled out the sliding keyboard and joystick.

“Troy! Thank heavens. It’s good to hear your voice. I was getting worried. Your men filled me in. I’m sorry for what happened. I didn’t know what to do.”

“There wasn’t anything you could’ve done. Please tell me you tracked those dickheads back to their rat hole.”

“Are you at the console yet?”

“Just opened it.” The computer monitor flicked on. Another ghosted image appeared, but this time it was a small village. A crosshair was fixed on a large building. Several trucks were parked outside, still glowing from the engine heat.

“What am I looking at?”

“That’s where they all ran to ground. The whole stinking lot of them.”

“Any civilians inside?”

“None that I’m aware of.”

Pearce flipped a few more switches. Seized the joystick.

“Ian, I need you to log off.”

“Troy, I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

“Not asking your permission. Sign the fuck off now.”

“Troy—”

“I’m trying to protect you. Now do as I say or I’ll fire your ass.”

There was a brief silence as Pearce armed one of the two Hellfire missiles slung under the Heron’s wings.

“Logging off, under protest,” Ian said. His line went dead.

“Duly noted,” Pearce said.

He pressed the trigger. A moment later, the screen flared with a blinding white light. When it faded, it revealed a heap of hot, smoldering ruins where the building and trucks had stood.

Pearce stared at the screen. Armed the other missile. Fired. It struck the flaming wreckage and the screen flared again.

Pearce wished he had another one.

He fought the urge to scream.

He dialed up Ian and turned the control of the Heron back over to him, then powered off his console. He leaned back in his chair, the horrific images of the night flashing in his brain like a strobe light. He covered his face with both heavy hands.

And wept.

The sun rose pink in the early dawn.

The Turkish special forces captain stood in the midst of the ruins of the church, a pile of smashed rubble and smoldering wood. His men were fanned out, turning over splintered pews and shattered brick, searching for human remains.

The captain glanced up at the pink-gray sky. The blast shattered one of the nearby utility poles. Its grim human cargo had been tossed through the air and now lay twisted in the dirt, still attached to the crossbar. But the rising light revealed the gruesome line of bodies high in the air that still remained, leading away from the church and down the long, winding road away from the village.

Butchery, the captain thought. But useful. The Kurds were a problem and ISIS a convenient solution for Ankara. His own country had slaughtered the Armenians in the same way years before. He shrugged. His moderate Islamic government knew what it was doing and he wasn’t in charge of the Kurdish operation. He shouldn’t even be on this side of the border. His duty was to obey orders, but the army didn’t pay enough money.

“Captain!” a short, stocky corporal called out.

The captain picked his way through the ruins and made his way over to the corporal, who pointed in earnest at the corpse beneath the burnt timbers.

The captain nodded at the wood. “Move that.”

The corporal lifted a big chunk of wood with a grunt and tossed it aside, wiping his hands onto his camo pants, staining them with ash.

The captain knelt and examined the corpse. It was only half of a human torso, relatively intact from the gory waist up. The face was partially charred and badly disfigured, but there wasn’t any doubt.

The captain pulled out his cell phone and framed the shot to make the gruesome figure less so. The important feature was the face. He snapped a few shots until he got one he was comfortable with and even took a few minutes to crop and edit it.

“Good work, Corporal. There’s a thermos with black coffee in my kit. Go get yourself some.”

“Thank you, sir!” The corporal threw a hasty salute and scrambled uneasily toward the chopper as the captain speed-dialed a number.

“It’s me, sir. Captain Orga. We’ve found Kamal al-Medina. I have a photo.” The captain attached the photo to an encrypted text message and sent it. He waited for a few moments for the man on the other end to receive the picture and process it.

The man asked a question.

Orga answered. “An American drone strike, certainly.”

Another question.

“Hyssop said he’s ex-CIA. Goes by the name of Troy Pearce.”

Breaking glass.

Pearce awoke, startled out of a fitful sleep. Head pounding. He glanced at his pistol in its holster on the nightstand, but something stopped him from snatching it up.

Bacon.

He smelled bacon.

His stomach was sour, but the bacon smelled like maple and sweet pork fat. His mouth watered. But that meant someone was cooking downstairs.

More glass broke.

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and pulled on a pair of jeans that lay crumpled on the floor. He sniffed the wrinkled T-shirt. Not good. He tossed it aside.

The white marble tiles felt cool under his bare feet as he made his way unsteadily toward the staircase. The air in the stairwell was heavy with the smell of fried potatoes now, too. Maybe he really had died and gone to heaven.

But, judging from the way his head throbbed, it could’ve been the other place.

He carefully picked his way down the floating white oak stair treads until he reached the kitchen. The whole downstairs was a huge open-concept floor plan of glass and marble. Ultramodern and elegant, just like the woman in the kitchen.

“Morning,” Pearce said.

Margaret Myers looked up from the frying pan full of potatoes. Another was larded with scrambled eggs. She wore form-fitting athletic wear that complemented her healthy physique. The former president only pushed herself harder in the gym these days out of spite for her adult-onset type 1 diabetes. Her brand-new wireless iLet Bionic Pancreas receiver was strapped to her waist and hidden beneath her shirt.

“Good morning. I’m sorry if I woke you.”

Pearce glanced over at the stainless-steel garbage can brimming with beer bottles, its electronic lid jammed open.

“Sorry about the mess. I thought you weren’t coming back until tonight.”

“Caught an early flight. Thought we could spend the day together instead of me hanging around in a stuffy old hotel. How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Better than when you left.” He stepped closer to her.

She pushed the pan of eggs off the burner and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I was so worried.”

He pulled her in closer but his mind was somewhere else. “I know.”

She leaned back. Cupped his face in her hands. “You need to shave.” She sniffed, grinning. “Maybe a shower, too. Breakfast will be ready in ten.”