Mike Maden - Drone

Titov glowered at Myers. “And why would we do such a thing? Because you simply order it?”

Myers pressed a button on her console. A live feed appeared as a picture within a picture on both of their screens. It showed a giant steel pipeline.

“Do you recognize this, Mr. Titov?”

“It looks like an oil pipeline.”

“It is. It’s the BTC pipeline. As I’m sure you know, it’s over a thousand miles long and pumps a million gallons of oil per day from Baku all the way to the Mediterranean. Right now, it’s the only viable means you have of transporting all of that Azeri oil you’re stealing out of the Caspian Sea into the European markets.”

Titov’s advisors murmured among themselves.

Myers pressed another button. Yet another live picture-in-picture image appeared, also of a pipeline.

“This is the 2,500-mile-long Druzhba pipeline, which your nation operates. It supplies 1.4 million barrels of oil per day from Siberian and Kazakh oil fields to end users all over Europe. This is your main oil artery to the West, Mr. President.

“In both cases, armed drones under my control are flying over these extremely vulnerable pipelines. On my order, they will destroy a section of each pipeline. No matter how quickly you are able to repair them, I will be able to destroy another section with the push of a button. Besides the environmental damage and financial cost these attacks will incur, the most important thing they will accomplish is to convince the Europeans that you are no longer able to deliver a reliable supply of oil. My nation, however, is prepared to step in and fill that void. Oh, and for what it’s worth, I have your natural gas pipelines targeted as well.”

Titov’s face hardened. “One moment.” He slammed a button that muted the sound on his end. Myers watched the room erupt into a frenzied conference. A minute later, he snapped the sound back on.

“You’re bluffing, Madame President. Your nation is not prepared to engage in a ground war with us. Your military has exhausted itself with its misadventures in Iraq and Afghanistan, and you yourself are about to be impeached for your war crimes against the people and government of Mexico.”

“Do not underestimate my nation’s capacity for war, Mr. President. But I concede your point. My nation does not desire war at this time, and my nation makes no threat to you.”

Titov pointed at the screen where the video images still played. “That is no threat?”

“I said, my nation makes no threat. Right now, I am the one making the threat. Those unmanned drones are flown by a private contractor under my employ. The American government has no part in this now. This is a personal matter between me and you, Mr. Titov. Not our governments. And you are absolutely right. I am about to be impeached, but that hardly means I will be thrown out of office, especially if our two nations are suddenly at war. But even if I was to be thrown out of office, I still control these drones and will still pose a threat to your pipelines, even from prison, if it comes to that.”

Again, Titov snapped off the sound and conferred with his advisors. Britnev bent Titov’s ear the most.

Myers wondered if she had overplayed her hand. She essentially called him out in front of his peers, just like in a schoolyard brawl. If Titov was like most men, he’d give himself over to his anger and pride, and her gamble would fail. The sound came back on.

“Your criminal mercenary Pearce is behind this, isn’t he?” Titov demanded.

“Troy Pearce is an honorable man, and he’s the best in the world at what he does. But he’s not the only resource available to me. I can always release the audio and video files I sent to you to Congress. Senator Diele would beg for war. Ask Britnev if I’m telling the truth or not.”

Titov didn’t have to. He’d been intimately familiar with Diele for years, dating back to when he was a KGB officer.

“Mr. President, the choice here is very simple. If you stay in Azerbaijan, you will never be able to exploit the oil resources available there anyway once I destroy your pipeline, and you will lose all of your capacity to transport your nation’s legitimate oil and gas reserves. At the very least, you’ll lose the European markets. We both know that the only thing propping up your economy is your oil and gas exports. Are you willing to start World War III knowing that you will begin that war in a state of economic collapse?”

Titov drummed his fingers on the table. He was dancing on the knife’s edge.

Myers wondered , Have I pushed him too far?

Titov finally spoke. “If we withdraw from Azerbaijan and you release these files, your Congress may still declare war on us, so perhaps it is best for us to stay where we are and see what happens?”

“If you withdraw from Azerbaijan, I guarantee that I will destroy those files. I’m no fool, either, Mr. President. A shooting war between your country and mine would be a disaster for both of us, and a nightmare for the whole world. There is nothing to be gained, except to advance the interests of our mutual competitors, especially China and Iran.”

“And what is to keep you from threatening our pipelines in the future? Even holding them for ransom?”

“You have my word.”

“That’s not good enough,” Titov said.

“What else can I offer?” Myers asked.

Britnev leaned into Titov and whispered something. Titov nodded, smiled.

“One thing in order to prove your sincere desire to avoid war.”

“Name it.”

Titov did. It was an outrageous suggestion.

To his astonishment, Myers agreed to it instantly.

Los Pinos, Mexico D.F.

President Barraza’s security detail stood alert around the office. Antonio sat behind his desk in an elegantly cut light blue suit, while Hernán took up his usual position, slouched on the couch with a glass of liquor in his hands.

Cruzalta sat opposite the president, and next to him, Senator Madero, a silver-haired elder statesman. Both men had been checked for weapons when they entered the building and again when they entered the president’s office. Madero kept a hand-stitched brown leather attaché case on his lap.

“What we have to say might be better said in private,” Cruzalta suggested.

Antonio shot a glance at Hernán, who nodded his approval.

Antonio turned to the security chief. “Dismissed.”

“But, Mr. President—”

Antonio’s glowering eyes cut him off.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

The security chief nodded to his men and they left the room.

“Say what you’re going to say, traitor.”

“Traitor?” Cruzalta could barely contain his rage.

“What my brother means to say is, what is it that you are proposing?” Hernán asked.

Madero opened his attaché case and handed Antonio a sheet of paper. He read it.

“There are 425 signatures on that list requesting that you vacate the office of president,” Madero said with great solemnity. “Enough to satisfy the constitutional requirements to elect an interim president.”

Antonio laughed. “I have no reason to step down.”

“You have over a one hundred fourteen million reasons to resign. Our nation is about to collapse into a civil war. We need new leadership, now,” Cruzalta said.

Antonio laughed again. “You?”

“No. Senator Madero is my choice, and the choice of the majority on that list, and of many of the governors.” Cruzalta was right. Madero was the most respected politician in Mexico. For decades, Madero had displayed courage, honesty, and integrity in his public service.

“If this nation is on the brink of revolution, as you think it is, then it’s of your own making. You’re the one who partnered with the Americans to kill poor Bravo and wage war on our people,” Hernán said.