Mike Maden - Drone Threat

No doubt the protests on the streets and the shouting matches on the TV shows would only escalate in the days to come — democracy’s version of a relief valve. But Pearce knew none of them mattered. Cataclysmic decisions like war didn’t take place in front of television cameras or radio microphones. They happened in well-appointed government and corporate offices with period furniture and air-conditioning, by people with manicured fingernails and hair plugs and bleached teeth.

Pearce checked his latest e-mail from Dr. Ashley. Over 60 percent of the country was now under Gorgon Sky surveillance. It would be nearly 100 percent before the week was out, Alaska and Hawaii included. He wasn’t sure how she had pulled that miracle off. Lane should give her a presidential citation for her herculean efforts. Pearce wasn’t sure how he felt about living in a surveillance state, but he felt even less comfortable living in a war zone without it. The chickens had, indeed, come home to roost.

Pearce shut off the television. The news was only feeding the animal growing inside of him. He turned to his computer. He had a mountain to climb now and few ropes to work with. Lane instructed him to draw up Drone Command plans to conduct long-term operations in the Middle East. Despite Pearce’s strenuous objections, these included supplying the Saudis with all of the MQ-9 Reaper drones they could afford to purchase. In a perfect world he’d coordinate with the DoD and the armed services, but there was no way in hell he could overcome the bureaucratic resistance he’d meet as they each pursued their own drone acquisition and operational plans, especially now that they were on a war footing. That battle would have to wait until after his confirmation. For now, all he could hope to accomplish was to draw up the Drone Command operational plan and lay out his vision for the future of drones without regard to the rest of the federal government.

His fingers tapped haltingly on the keyboard as he tried to formulate the first sentence of the first paragraph of his executive summary, but his monkey mind was in full swing, a thousand ideas crashing around in his brain all at once. He pushed away the keyboard. What was the point? Besides, something was wrong with this whole setup, but what? He couldn’t put his finger on it. Too many moving parts, too many players, too many deals getting cut behind closed doors far beyond his reach.

Lane knew the score. He even said it in his speech. Al-Mahdi would never let the civilian population of Raqqa evacuate. Air Force Global Strike Command would unleash holy hell on the city and kill more than two hundred thousand residents in hopes of killing the half hundred lunatics trying to start Armageddon. Of course, al-Mahdi and his closest advisors wouldn’t wait around. Hell, they were probably already long gone and hunkered down in the basement of some other third world shithole.

Morality aside, the destruction of Raqqa would be a public relations disaster of the highest order for the United States. Maybe that was the ISIS plan all along. No matter that they were the ones pulling the temple down on their own heads. They’ll still blame us for it , Pearce knew. They’ll never forget it. They’ll use it to recruit more terrorists who will cause more destruction in the West, and the West will retaliate again, and again and again.

How do you fight the fanatical Muslim mind-set? Pearce had been asking that question for years while trading potshots with them. And the answer was always the same: bullet to bone.

Unfortunately, the murderous cowards liked to take their shots while hiding behind the skirts of women and children.

If they don’t care about their own, why should we? He’d asked that question a thousand times, too.

And the answer was always the same: Because we’re not them.

And that’s why he feared they may win in the end.

Total war was the only answer, he was sure of it. Lane chose half a war, which meant a forever war. Just as many would die in the long run, but there would be no victory for the United States, and the drone attacks at home might continue anyway.

Pearce failed to convince Lane to steer away from starting the war if he wasn’t going to finish it. The whole point of getting back into the political arena was to try to change things from the inside. Isn’t that what Margaret had said?

Well, he was as inside as he could get. Thousands would die soon and all of that blood would be on his hands, too. “Sins of omission.” Where had he heard that before? All because he couldn’t stop the drone attacks.

Guilt like snow fell on him, heavy and cold.

He’d failed his country. He’d failed Margaret.

He was useless. More than useless.

Pearce shut his computer down. He needed to get out of this place. Head home.

And get seriously fucking hammered.

Pearce called Myers’s cell phone from his car, but it was Mann who picked up again. She was sedated and resting under doctor’s orders. He promised to have her call Pearce when she awoke. Mann also assured Pearce that the German government was helping with her security — discreetly. The German press hadn’t been alerted to the incident or even to the former president’s presence on German soil. The last thing Berlin needed was more publicity about immigrants and violence after the incidents of mass rape and beatings that had been taking place since the tidal wave of migration began in 2015.

He thanked Mann again for all his help and rang off. He wished he could have talked to Margaret, though. He wanted to tell her that he was spiraling out of control. But then again, he probably wouldn’t have said anything. He couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her.

One more bender was all he needed to clear his system. Then he’d walk the straight and narrow for good.

A soft knock on the door of her Georgetown loft sent Grafton scurrying to open it. Tarkovsky stood in the doorway. His two hulking bodyguards remained in the hall, their backs discreetly turned away.

She pulled him inside her loft and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. He returned the favor.

“I’ve missed you,” Grafton whispered breathily.

The handsome Russian pulled off his sport coat. “Something smells marvelous.”

“I’ve ordered in.” She led him by the hand to the dining room. Candles, wine. A feast.

“Before I forget.” Tarkovsky reached into his pocket.

She bit her lower lip with anticipation. “Something for me? Something terribly expensive?”

“Not expensive, but something I think you will find extremely valuable.” He pulled out a thumb drive. Handed it to her. She examined it.

“It’s not Tiffany but it’s interesting. What’s in it?”

“Your friend Pearce. My contact in the SVR came through. Turns out there was a secret, unauthorized file on him. Not many details. But I think you’re going to be quite surprised at what you’ll find in there.” He loosened his tie.

“Surprised in a good way?”

Tarkovsky poured two glasses of wine. “Only if you want to get rid of him.”

Grafton pocketed the thumb drive. “You said a secret file? Sounds like someone had a special interest in him.”

“Pearce killed two SVR operatives in Mozambique just a few years ago. They want their revenge. Of course, the SVR would never attempt an operation on American soil without my government’s permission. But if Pearce can be removed from service some other way? There’s an old Russian saying, ‘Never let the perfect be the enemy of the good.’” He laid his hands on her shoulders.

She gazed into his hungering eyes. “I didn’t realize Voltaire was Russian.”

Tarkovsky began unbuttoning her blouse. “That’s what made him such an effective Russian spy.”