Mike Maden - Drone Threat

“Lane showed me the files the Russians had on you. It was easy for the FBI to connect the dots after that.”

“And he actually trusts the Russians to not hand him a pack of lies?”

Her eyes bored into his. “Did they?”

Pearce darkened. One or both of Majid’s Russian mercenaries must have been working with the SVR. “That Majid guy was a dirtbag. I’ve killed better men for less.”

“Probably not your best line of defense,” Myers said, trying to make a joke.

Pearce sat back. “No, probably not.”

He wondered if she knew the rest of the story. How he stole Majid’s money and gave half of it to a charity he trusted and used the other half to start Pearce Systems. Whenever he was asked where he got his original investment money, Pearce always said he had a silent partner. Well, Majid was silent, all right, silent as the grave. He never felt guilty about it. Majid’s stolen cash was Pearce’s ticket out of the war and a way to do some good in the world on his own terms. If he had left the money alone, Chandler would have just given it to some other thieving warlord to fund the next circle jerk. Luckily for Pearce, the statute of limitations had run out on that particular felony or they might have charged him with that, too. Or maybe Chandler was just covering his own ass.

“What are you thinking?” Myers asked.

“Lane. I thought he was different.”

“He’s a good man but he has a hard job. He’s fighting a war he believes in, and he’s fighting it the way he thinks he needs to. Unfortunately, that means he’s relying heavily on people like Chandler now.”

“So this is really as much about Chandler as it is about me.”

“Chandler’s determined to ruin you. Lane is offering you a way out.”

“The pardon.”

“Probation, actually.”

Pearce was shocked to hear that. But then he processed it. “To keep me on the leash in case I decide to get out of line in the future.”

“Chandler’s idea, not Lane’s.”

“I’d rather take my chances in front of a jury of my peers.”

Myers shook her head. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“How?”

“You’re considered a national security risk and the evidence at hand has been classified as Special Access Program. It will take years to bring your case to trial and the restrictions imposed by SAP guidelines means it might also take years to adjudicate. And, no matter what, you won’t be able to get your side of the story out to the public.”

“I don’t get my Clarence Darrow moment?”

“Not even Atticus Finch.”

“I’d make a great Atticus Finch.”

“I know.”

Pearce frowned. “What do you think I should do?”

“The attorney general’s office is assembling an airtight case with irrefutable evidence. Frankly, the feds can’t lose no matter how hard you fight them. Chandler wants you to know he’ll do everything in his power to get you thrown into the supermax prison in Colorado with a life sentence.” Myers’s eyes teared up. “So what do you think I’d tell you to do?”

“I don’t know if I can walk away.”

Myers fought back her own rage at the system. Maybe Pearce had been right all along not to trust the government. He once told her that democracy was too important to be left to the politicians. She was beginning to believe it. The people who ran D.C. always did this to warriors like him. Honest soldiers had short careers in the U.S. military these days. She knew Pearce struggled for years with a dilemma. How does a man serve his country when he no longer trusts his government? She thought she knew the answer. But now that it was clear the government no longer wanted his service, she saw another path for him.

“You can’t win, Troy. You can’t stop the war. And you’ll lose your life behind iron bars. Or there’s this.”

Myers pulled a photo out of her purse and handed it to Pearce. He examined it.

“A sailboat?”

“Our sailboat. A Beneteau First 38. It’s waiting for us down in the British Virgin Islands.”

“Why did you buy it?”

“Because it’s blue, like your eyes.”

“Expensive?”

“Terribly. But you’re worth it.”

Pearce studied the photo more closely. He felt his heart lighten. “You want me to be a pirate?”

“I think you already are one.”

“We don’t know how to sail.”

“We’ll have all the time in the world to learn. Or we can just park the boat and fish off the back deck. You haven’t been fishing in a long while.”

“I miss it.”

“I know.”

“What happened to the idea that we need to be useful?”

“I can’t think of anything more important than you getting healthy and well, however long that takes.”

Pearce thought about what was happening in Syria. He knew what kind of carnage was taking place over there. He could smell the cordite and burnt flesh. He wanted to stop it. Felt guilty for not already stopping it. And then his mind flashed back to the ghost-white images of the women being butchered by the ISIS killers in Iraq. He couldn’t stop that, either.

He was worse than useless.

He handed the picture back to her. “Let me think about it.”

She pushed it back into his hands. “Keep it. It will look great on your windowless cell wall.”

He couldn’t help but grin a little. “I’ll use it to hide my escape tunnel from the guards.” He turned serious. “Any word from Ian?”

Her eyes narrowed. “He said everything’s being taken care of, as per your orders. He wasn’t specific.”

“He wasn’t supposed to be.”

“You’ve got to let it go. For you. For us.”

“I am.” He pocketed the photo.

“Really?”

He nodded. “I will.”

Myers leaned forward, peering into his face. “Promise?”

He lowered his eyes. “I’ll try. I swear to God, I’ll try.”

“What about Lane’s offer?”

Pearce shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”

“The offer won’t last.”

Pearce looked up. “Betray my country or betray myself. Hell of a choice.”

“I don’t see it as a betrayal of your country.”

“But I do.”

Another awkward silence. Myers heard the second hand ticking on the wall clock. “We’re almost out of time.”

“I know.”

“What shall I tell David?”

Pearce saw the pain in her eyes. He knew his answer.

He just couldn’t say the words.

It was only the third flight of the recently delivered Saudi Air Force MQ-9 Reaper drone and it was already routine. It could fly continuously for fourteen hours fully armed but it had been in the air for only eight on today’s mission, keeping watch over the Kingdom’s eastern shoreline on the Persian Gulf. The Reaper ran a continuous circuit from the border of Kuwait in the north all the way down the coastline to Bahrain in the far south and back again.

The nearsighted Saudi captain piloting today’s mission sat in an air-conditioned ground-control station parked at King Abdulaziz Air Base, just north of the bustling port city of Al Khobar. He was as newly minted as the Reaper he was monitoring, having just graduated from drone pilot training with the 9th Attack Squadron at Holloman Air Force Base in New Mexico.

The mission had been routine so far. In fact, it was mind-numbingly dull thanks to the vehicle’s autopiloting capabilities, just one function of the most advanced navigational software and avionics package available, designed and built by an American company.

The captain stifled a yawn. His sensor operator had stepped outside for a smoke, leaving him alone in the GCS. He thumbed through a well-worn Victoria’s Secret catalogue he’d found in the officers’ lounge. He succumbed to a second yawn as he flipped to a dog-eared page, struggling to see in the dimly lit room.