Mike Maden - Drone

Pearce finally holstered his gun, then poured himself a drink.

Ali laid everything out. Iran and Russia had forged a secret alliance to dominate their relative spheres of influence—the Middle East and Western Europe. The Russians had engaged the Iranians to provoke the Americans into a ground war in Mexico in order to keep them distracted while the Russians secured the rich oil fields of the Caucasus. A second Mexican-American war would also drive up oil and gas prices, which benefitted both Iran and Russia.

“And who was the brain behind the plan?” Pearce asked.

“Ambassador Britnev formulated the original plan.”

Or at least he thought he had, Ali mused.

“ Of course, his Kremlin masters had to approve it, and Titov himself signed off on it. The only problem with the plan is that we could never get Myers to comply with it. She is a woman of remarkable resolve, quite unlike any other woman I have ever known. I have had to improvise quite a bit.”

“And the Mexican government had no part in this?”

“Did I say that?”

“What role did they play in your scheme?”

“Since you killed both Castillo and Bravo, the Barrazas accepted my offer of protection against your government and the civil war that is about to erupt beneath their feet.”

“Then why did you attack the president at the Hidalgo church?”

“Hernán Barraza ordered the attack on his brother.”

“Why would he want you to attack his brother?”

“He wanted his brother to think that you Americans were trying to assassinate him.”

“But that drone could easily have killed the president.”

Ali shrugged. “Hernán wants to be president. He is already making plans for another attempt.”

“What proof do I have that you aren’t just making all of this up to get your dick out of the wood chipper?”

“It is normal in a business transaction to secure a contract with a deposit in good faith, particularly when one is doing business with a new partner.”

Ali reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper and set it on the bar. Pearce read it.

“I don’t believe it. The navy would have picked this thing up a long time ago.”

“Believe it. There are several Russian subs that operate with impunity in the Gulf of Mexico. You Americans are not as clever as you think you are. This submarine has been assigned exclusively to my unit for supply and transport.”

“Then why not use it to get back to Tehran?”

“I made that request. The Russians refused to allow me to ‘abandon my post,’ as they put it.” Ali was lying.

The Iranian pointed at the paper. “GPS coordinates and radio codes are valid for the next seventy-two hours, then they change again. I will not provide new ones.” He picked up his windbreaker and pulled it on as he headed for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Pearce asked.

“I’m leaving.” He pointed at the stadium. “Baseball bores me. I prefer American football. You are welcome to stay, of course. There is excellent room service that has already been paid for.”

“You aren’t going anywhere.” Pearce’s hand drifted toward his pistol.

“Of course I am. I told you, if I don’t leave here under my own terms, a thousand people will die. Maybe more. If you don’t find what I promise on that paper, then you have no need to fulfill your agreement with me. But if you do find that submarine, then you contact me with the cell number also on that paper and we will agree to a meeting place and time.”

And with that, Ali left.

The Quds Force officer had him by the short hairs and they both knew it.

Pearce’s face darkened.

The Iranian was still running the show.

Mexico City, Mexico

U.S. Ambassador Romero sat in the office of his Mexican counterpart, the secretary of foreign affairs, along with the Mexican secretary of defense, a retired general. Heated accusations on both sides finally simmered down to a low boil.

After the meeting, Romero reported back to Myers that he was convinced that the Mexican government had, in fact, not ordered the attack on the Star Louisiana and that he accepted the Mexican theory that a rogue naval officer had foolishly taken matters into his own hands. Romero further suggested that the matter now be handled by lawyers, insurance companies, and high-level bureaucrats, rather than generals and admirals if war was to be avoided. Myers thanked him.

An emergency cabinet meeting affirmed Romero’s recommendation despite Early’s concern that it was a Bravo operation. The chief of naval operations, a four-star admiral, assured Myers that operating a modern combat vessel was beyond the skill sets of street thugs. “So is hijacking a Reaper,” Early protested. It would be weeks before salvage operations could recover any bodies for identification—if any bodies were still intact. For Myers, the question of identity was academic. All that mattered to her at the moment was that the United States and Mexico had just avoided a shooting war.

But she wasn’t out of the woods yet. Myers knew that the House Armed Services Committee hearings would find a way to forge the tragedy into a weapon against her administration.

Gulf of Mexico

The Russian nuclear attack submarine Vepr was cruising at a leisurely five knots nearly three hundred meters below the surface of the gulf on a mapping exercise. No American warships were in the area. The nearest vessel was a small civilian pleasure boat on the surface four hundred meters away, according to its radar signature.

The young but professional crew was performing its duties with affable efficiency when a heavy metallic clang sounded against the Vepr ’s outer hull. Everybody suddenly shut up, as if a switch had been thrown. The captain ordered all stop, fearing they’d struck something. According to their charts, an abandoned explosives and ordnance dumping ground the Americans had used for decades was several kilometers north of their position, but radar and sonar both indicated nothing of the kind close by.

Moments later, a puzzled radioman called the captain to his station and handed him the headphones.

“Hello, Captain!” Yamada’s voice blasted in the Russian’s ears.

“What’s going on? Who are you?” the captain demanded.

“Doesn’t matter who I am, moke . What matters is that I know who you are.”

The captain frowned in confusion. “What do you want?”

Yamada explained to the sub captain that an underwater drone had just successfully attached an explosive device to the Akula-class submarine’s outer hull and— clang —was attaching yet others. There was no reason to worry , Yamada assured the captain, at least not yet .

The Russian captain at first expressed doubts, but a visual confirmation by an external video camera confirmed Yamada’s claims. Both the stealth UUV and the magnetic limpet mines attached to the Vepr ’s hull were visually confirmed.

Clang.

The captain resorted to vile threats, but within moments he succumbed to his worst fears as Yamada explained the captain’s dire situation.

“The Vepr must immediately withdraw from the gulf at full speed and return to the fleet base in Severomorsk or face certain destruction.” The Vepr was part of the great Northern Fleet that operated out of Murmansk Oblast near the Finnish and Norwegian borders.

“This is an act of war,” the captain declared.

“I am a private citizen representing no government. Private citizens cannot wage war,” Yamada countered. Pearce had instructed him to use this precise legal language.