Alex Berenson - The Night Ranger

“I didn’t come here for you. I came here for them.”

“But I tol’ you on the phone no way.”

“I thought I could change your mind.”

“You wrong.”

“Figured that out my own self.” Wells leaned back against the wall of the hut, closed his eyes. He didn’t expect to think of anything except the pounding in his head, but when he opened them he had a plan. He forced himself to stand, took a deep breath to clear his head. “Wizard. What if I can get rid of Awaale? Kill him. Will you let me have the w azungu?”

“No more Dita Boys?”

“I can’t promise that, but with your help I can kill Awaale at least.”

“And pay ransom?”

“Ransom, too. That’s ambitious.”

“They kill Samatar—”

“The guard.”

“Yah. I need something to show my men.”

And yourself. But Wells didn’t argue. “There’s forty thousand in the pack. In a bag at the bottom. That’s all I have.”

“Forty thousand shillings.”

“Forty thousand dollars, give or take. Not too bad for one day’s work. And I’ll throw in my lifesaving idea for free.”

Wizard sorted through the pack until he found the money, bundled up and dry in a Ziploc bag. “Okay. What your idea, mzungu?”

“First things first. You have a way to reach Awaale?”

25

LANGLEY

The drone pilot was no taller than Shafer, muscled up the way short guys so often were. Like he thought he was fighting for real instead of with a keyboard. He had slick black hair combed straight back. His name was Augustine Tomaso. Shafer couldn’t believe anyone outside the Old Country went for names like that anymore. He wanted to ask Tomaso, Was there a recent wave of Sicilian immigration that I missed? Was it for a favorite uncle? Some kind of retro hipster thing? Come on, man, I have to know. And, by the way , what’s with the hair? He kept his mouth shut. Tomaso might look like a Sopranos extra, but he’d been invaluable so far.

The actual flying was the easiest part of piloting a drone. Unlike fighter jets, unmanned aerial vehicles were underpowered and designed to fly slowly and smoothly. The Reaper’s long wings gave it plenty of lift. Its onboard software rejected commands that might make it stall or spin out. Overriding the software was possible but rarely necessary. CIA and Army drones could even take off and land on their own—and they had a better safety record than Air Force drones, which pilots controlled during takeoff and landing. The gap didn’t give Shafer much confidence in humanity’s future.

But the pilot wasn’t entirely useless. His real job was making sense of the flood of information from the drone’s cameras, heat sensors, and radar. Both the drone and the computers that controlled it from the ground had software filters to process the data. But the software couldn’t tell a kid holding a stick from a guerrilla pointing an AK, or a wedding party from a terrorist meeting. When three pickups filled with armed men broke off in three directions, the computers couldn’t decide which was the most important to follow. Not yet, anyway. And tonight, when Wells asked for the Reaper to annihilate a row of technicals, the software didn’t know that the right move after the bomb hit would be a pivot back to the center of camp to see how the White Men reacted.

“They’re going crazy out there,” Tomaso said. “See?”

Shafer didn’t. Worse, he wasn’t sure where Tomaso wanted him to look. The pilot’s workstation was straight out of a Wall Street trading floor, a half-dozen computer monitors offering different feeds. The smallest screen, on the far right, replicated the altitude, speed, and heading of the drone’s flight against a plain blue background. The dummy shot, Tomaso said when Shafer asked. In case I get confused. The Reaper’s thermal cam fed another monitor with a smorgasbord of red and blue streaks that reminded Shafer of the worst acid trip of his life. Forty-five years ago, and his mouth still went dry to remember.

“What am I looking for?”

“They’re huddling up.” Tomaso pointed to a cluster of reddish shapes on the thermal cam. “If we wanted mass casualties, this would be the time. Put a bomb in there, it’s seventy-five percent KIA, WIA.” Tomaso knew the outlines of the mission, that the hostages were probably in the camp and an American operative was nearby, but no details.

“Not on the agenda.” Not yet, anyway.

“Looks like this guy’s talking.” A red splotch that Shafer now recognized as a man stood in the center of the thermal cam, surrounded by dozens of similar streaks. Tomaso clicked on the man, surrounding him with a white border.

“Now, he moves anywhere, we’ll go with him. It’s a long shot. Let me see if I can get anything from the optical cam. Be nice to see his face.” Tomaso pulled up yet another menu on another screen and ran through a series of commands. “Clouds still too thick.”

The red figure grew taller. “What’s that?” Shafer said.

“Raising his arms. Rousing the troops, maybe.”

Shafer wondered what this man who called himself Wizard was telling his soldiers. Probably trying to calm them after the shock of the explosion. Whatever he said didn’t take long. The clot of men broke up, and the white-bordered figure marched toward the site of the explosion.

“Checking out what we did to his trucks,” Tomaso said. “Want me to go with him?”

“Yes.”

Tomaso pulled up a menu. “I’m dialing down the therms so they don’t fry the screen when we go back over there. There’s an autofilter that comes on when you play Whac-A-Mole with the Hellfires or the GBUs, but I took it off when we went to the center of camp.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“Nah, man, I like it, it’s thinking out loud. Plus I’ve found that above a certain age, this isn’t that intuitive for people.”

“What age would that be? Eleven?”

“No offense. It’s easier if you’ve grown up with video games.”

“None taken, Augustine.”

Tomaso raised an eyebrow: You’re old enough to be my grandpa and you’re making fun of my name? Classy.

The Reaper’s cameras turned far faster than the aircraft, so the drone flew away from the men on its screens for nearly a minute. The change in perspective made Shafer vaguely seasick. Tomaso didn’t seem to mind, or even to notice. Shafer had never felt so obsolete. Those old Mustangs were great. Pretty as anything. But they’d hardly get off the line today.

“Okay, now they’ve met this third guy—”

—

Shafer’s phone rang. Wells. Who wasn’t showroom clean but still had a few years of useful life. Shafer hoped.

“You hit the trucks.”

“Blew out three technicals.”

“How did they react?”

“They didn’t exactly muster into squads and secure the perimeter. Lot of confusion. You’re still on the southwest side.”

“Correct.”

“The sentry—”

“Took care of him. You looking at me?”

“No. Watching guys on the hill above the trucks. We think one’s Wizard, but we can’t be sure. If they come your way, we’ll pick you up again. Give me your coordinates so we know exactly where you are.”

Wells did. “Don’t confuse me with the sentry. He’s maybe eighty meters closer to camp.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Didn’t say he was dead. Said I took care of him.”

“Like a massage, you mean.”

“Any read on where they’re keeping the hostages?”

“Not yet.”

“Tell me exactly what happened after the bomb hit.”

It was then that Shafer recounted the meeting, and Wells told Shafer his plan: Wizard should be ready to deal . . . and if not I’ll take him out.