Drone Threat (20 page)

34

M
C
LEAN, VIRGINIA

Tarkovsky pointed the assault rifle at the masked gunman's head, just over the trembling shoulder of the woman the gunman was using as a human shield. The warehouse was dark and the gunman poorly lit.

“Get back, or I'll kill her!” the gunman shouted.

The woman screamed. “Help me!”

Tarkovsky pulled the trigger once. The weapon leaped in his hand. The gunman's head snapped backward as blood spattered on the wall behind him. The woman screamed again and dashed away into the shadows as the man's corpse thudded to the ground.

“Nice shot,” al-Saud said.

“That felt remarkably real.” The Russian smiled. He handed the rifle back to his Saudi host.

Al-Saud racked the Blue Fire wireless smart weapon, a laser simulator rifle with recoil, and pressed a remote control, bringing the lights back on and shutting down the 4K digital projector. “That was a judgmental training system program. JTS is an American device, of course, but our Special Security Forces use it in counterterror training. It's quite effective. My security staff trains on a similar unit at the embassy. I train on this one in my home because it's a pleasure.”

“I enjoyed it immensely. I wouldn't mind getting one of these for myself.”

“Someday you must visit my home in the desert. I have a live ammo shoot house on the property. Same JTS software but an even more lifelike close-combat experience.”

“That is very kind of you.”

“Coffee? Or something stronger?”

“Coffee will be fine, thank you.”

Al-Saud pointed toward the stairwell that led from the expansive training room to the living area upstairs. The white brick Georgian mansion was a bright shining jewel mounted on top of a gently sloping hill surrounded by an acre of closely manicured emerald-green lawn.

Al-Saud ordered coffee from the attendant in his private salon, and the two of them sat down by the large brick fireplace. The room, like the rest of the house, was decorated in traditional American style. Tarkovsky didn't see any references to the Kingdom, Islam, or the desert. If he didn't know any better, he would have sworn an American lived here, not a member of the Saudi royal family.

Al-Saud looked completely relaxed in his turtleneck and slacks, like a man on vacation. Tarkovsky felt overdressed in his sport coat and tie.

“I'm so glad we're taking the time to get to know each other, Aleksandr. I was pleasantly surprised when you called yesterday.”

Tarkovsky nodded. “We have only had the chance to speak briefly in public gatherings. I felt that a private conversation was in order. I didn't expect to be invited to your home. I'm honored.”

“It's modest, but comfortable.”

A lovely young Filipino woman entered the room, efficient and demure. She set the silver tray down and left wordlessly.

“How do you like it?”

“Black,” Tarkovsky said. He assumed al-Saud was referring to the coffee.

“Same.” The Saudi poured for both of them.

“If I may cut to the chase, Your Excellency—”

“Faisal. Please.”

“Thank you. The reason why I wanted to speak with you was to discuss the situation with the Americans and ISIS. The Americans are unwilling to commit ground troops to battle ISIS on their own soil. However, my country stands ready to do so. But President Lane seems reluctant to accept the idea.”

“And you've come to me because . . . ?”

“I would appreciate your assistance in helping me convince him.”

“Strange you should raise this now. Only yesterday I was with the president and some of his advisors. They asked me what I thought about Russian intervention.”

“Would you mind sharing your thoughts?”

“Not at all. I told President Lane it would be better if the United States committed its own forces to the battle.”

Tarkovsky's smile faded. He tried to hide his disappointment.

“However, I also said that if he was still reluctant to do so, that an alliance with your country would be the next best option.”

“And did he accept your proposal?”

“No, he didn't.” Al-Saud sipped his coffee.

“Perhaps he would be open to further overtures?”

“I'm reluctant to press the matter. My government has other requests for him, and I wouldn't want to jeopardize those for a war he doesn't want anyway.”

“I have it on good authority that Vice President Chandler is strongly in favor of a Russian-American security alliance. You would have his support and ours in other matters if you made this petition with the president.”

“And what is your ‘good authority'?”

“The vice president told me so himself.”

The Saudi nodded. “Clay did seem keen on the idea. But no matter. It's the president who is reluctant to allow us to purchase and operate our own advanced drone program, not Chandler.”

“Chandler would support such a move.”

“I know. But he isn't the president.”

“Not yet. If you can be patient . . .”

“Talk to
Daesh
. Talk to the Iranians. Will they wait patiently for President Chandler to assume office before trying to overthrow us?”

“Of course not. Your country's strategic situation is quite precarious at the moment, isn't it?”

“We're standing on the knife's edge.” Al-Saud paused. “Your country's
superlative aviation industry is now deploying the next generation of drones.”

“Yes, we are.”

Al-Saud set his coffee down. “Might your government be willing to sell us such systems? We would want complete operational autonomy, of course.”

Tarkovsky nodded noncommittally. “Well, yes, perhaps. Though, like you, we don't want to alienate the Americans. As you said, Chandler is supportive of drone sales to your country. So is his chief of staff, Vicki Grafton. Have you met her?”

“Only once, briefly, at an embassy function. She was also in the meeting I attended yesterday.” Al-Saud reflected for a moment. Smiled. “A beautiful woman.”

“She's quite brilliant, actually. And very well connected with senior defense leadership on Capitol Hill. She would also be in favor of selling drones to your country, as would the American corporations that make them. You should try and meet her again.”

“An excellent idea.”

“But even if you got your drones, that won't be enough to stop ISIS or the Iranians. You still need vast numbers of combat troops to defend your interests. We stand prepared to do so. Our own interests are at stake in the region also, including Iraq. Events could force us to act unilaterally. However, it would be better if we were invited in.”

“By us?”

“Of course. But by the Americans, too. The symbolism would be important to the world. And to us.”

Al-Saud leaned forward and poured more coffee for Tarkovsky. “You mean, the sanctions. As in, lifting them.”

“Those as well.”

Al-Saud set the pot back down, thinking. “So where are we, exactly? Where are our mutual interests?”

“I have some influence with Ms. Grafton as well as a few other resources. I will press your case for American drone sales as well as for
an American commitment to dismantle and destroy the
Daesh
Caliphate. If the Americans are unwilling to do so, my government will. And if the Americans refuse to sell you their drone systems, I can safely say that my government stands ready to provide them.”

“All of this is quite generous. What is it that you want from me in return?”

“Perhaps you can use your influence to convince the Americans to lift their sanctions against us and to invite us into the war against ISIS.”

“In effect, you're asking us to change dance partners in the middle of a dance.”

“Only because the other partner won't dance to your tune. If the Americans won't exercise leadership in the region, we will partner with you and the other Sunni governments to protect Sunni interests. But we're more than willing to partner with the Americans as well. In fact, we prefer it. Shared responsibility is in all of our best interests.”

“Why do you suppose President Lane can't see that?”

Tarkovsky sighed. “It's a legacy from his political mentor, Margaret Myers.”

“Is Myers still playing a role in his administration?”

“It's unclear. However, Troy Pearce is one of Lane's closest advisors. I suspect he is the biggest problem you need to deal with.”

“Yes, I met him yesterday as well. A quite unpleasant fellow.”

“Former CIA special forces. Very dangerous. And smart. The CEO of his own security company, specializing in drone operations.”

“Any suggestions about how we might deal with him?”

Tarkovsky set his cup down and leaned forward. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

—

TH
E BRIGHTLY COLORED
monarch butterfly stood on the lip of the chimney just above the room where the two ambassadors were meeting. Its polycarbonate wings gently flapped, keeping the piezoelectric nanogenerators powering its onboard microphone and the rest of the
unit. The Israeli engineers who built the audio surveillance device had done a brilliant job of biomimicry.

Perhaps too brilliant.

A brick-red American robin perched in a nearby elm spied the butterfly drone. It swooped in and snatched up the mechanical monarch in its yellow beak before the Israelis knew what happened and, worse, before the conversation down below had ended.

35

TEXARKANA, TEXAS

Kan-Tex was one of the largest independent trucking firms in the United States. It owned and operated a vast fleet of tanker trucks that hauled oil, gasoline, aviation fuel, and other liquid petrochemicals across the entire contiguous United States. It had a number of federal and state contracts, but its primary business was civilian commercial long hauls for refineries and distributors.

When Maria Mejias joined the company twenty-four years earlier, she thought she would spend her entire work life in a cramped, single-wide office trailer, trapped behind an IBM Selectric typewriter filling out dispatches for her boss, Jimmy Haygood, a semi-literate trucker turned businessman. But her boss turned out to be a business genius, building a national trucking empire through the ruthless acquisition of less efficient trucking firms. He also managed to increase his own operating efficiencies through the use of automation, which came relatively late to the trucking industry. Jimmy was famously loyal and generous with his employees, offering great benefits and profit-sharing opportunities. Maria took advantage of his generosity and completed her online bachelor's degree in management information systems. An online pop-up ad during one of those courses led her to contact a San Diego company specializing in automated dispatching systems.

Maria introduced the San Diego company to Jimmy and he instantly understood the system's potential. His company had lost a $56 million lawsuit for a fiery school bus wreck caused by a Kan-Tex driver falling asleep at the wheel. Fortunately, Jimmy's insurance covered the jury
award, but his new insurance premiums threatened to eat up his profits along with the sky-high fuel costs he was experiencing at the time. He was desperate for answers, and Maria's contact in San Diego delivered them on a digital silver platter.

Just two years later, Maria was on the top floor of a brand-new office building, supervising twenty dispatchers sitting at automated terminals. Each workstation monitored up to thirty tanker trucks at a time. It was a real game changer for Kan-Tex. Not only did the new automated dispatching system track every single vehicle through GPS and provide real-time locations, it coordinated delivery routes, driver schedules, and even maintenance programs. Every aspect of the truck's mechanics was under automated sensor surveillance. Kan-Tex was able to minimize fuel and maintenance costs because the automated system indicated truck speed, fuel efficiency, engine wear, brake usage, and transmission performance.

But driver safety was paramount in Jimmy's mind, partly because the vast majority of all truck wrecks were caused by driver error. Automated braking systems and automated remote throttle control were installed to prevent drivers from driving too fast or recklessly. Not only did this save expensive fuel, it saved lives and greatly reduced the company's insurance costs. Mounted dash and rear cameras also broadcast real-time traffic video, giving dispatchers a live-action view of road conditions. The truck cabs even incorporated a driver fatigue monitoring system through eye tracking and blinking analysis. When the computer algorithms indicated a driver was overly fatigued, the dispatcher would be alerted and, if necessary, could take remote control of the truck and drive it from the workstation to get it off the road. It was similar to the Uninterruptible Autopilot system Boeing patented in 2006 to remotely seize control of hijacked aircraft.

In order for the system to work across the nation, every truck was connected by satellite link to the Kan-Tex dispatch center. But the entire computer system was serviced, maintained, and repaired remotely from the computer company's headquarters in San Diego.

Maria had just finished her cigarette break when she sat down at her
desk at noon. Her master monitor was networked into the other dispatching monitors. This allowed her to remotely supervise each dispatcher as well as select any of the 582 vehicles on the road they were all tracking today. She opened up her current favorite romance novel and dived back into the read, but ten minutes later a gentle alarm bell signaled that the entire dispatch system was down.

Maria glanced up at her master monitor and saw the blinking message:
SYSTEM DOWN FOR ROUTINE MAIN
TENANCE. SYSTEM WILL
AUTOMATICALLY REBOOT
IN 0:33 MINUTES
. The other dispatchers all turned around to face her, confused and annoyed. Maria shared their concerns. The system was supposed to shut down for automated maintenance tasks only at midnight, when the fewest number of trucks were on the road. She thought about calling up the San Diego help desk but calculated that by the time she actually got through to somebody to initiate a maintenance program shutdown and a system reboot, the current maintenance activity would have already completed. She made a mental note to send an e-mail to her San Diego contact and ask him to change the maintenance schedule back to Saturdays at midnight.

“Everybody take thirty,” Maria said.

The frowns evaporated as the dispatchers bolted for the break room. Maria glanced at her screen again. Thirty-two minutes to go. She dived back into the novel—it was just getting to the good stuff. She told herself again it was just routine maintenance.

No big deal.

DALLAS, TEXAS

Completed in 1964, the Woodall Rodgers Freeway Spur connected the two busiest traffic arteries in Dallas, U.S. Highway 75 and Interstate 35E. The only significant change the spur underwent in nearly fifty years was to accommodate the burgeoning arts district in downtown Dallas. In 2009 the city planners shut down a portion of the freeway and began turning it into a 5.2-acre urban oasis, the Klyde Warren
Park, a pedestrian-friendly complex of restaurants, jogging trails, a dog park, a botanical garden, and other urban pleasures. By digging a massive eight-lane tunnel underneath the park, the highly traveled Woodall Rodgers freeway was able to stay in operation.

Georgia Romero's forty-foot tanker sped into the Woodall Rodgers tunnel, hauling nine thousand gallons of aviation fuel. The eastbound traffic was mercifully light at 11:05 a.m. CST and she was making good time, cruising at sixty-five miles per hour. She'd been stuck in this exact spot during the five o'clock rush hour in years past. It was a nightmare she wouldn't wish on her worst enemies, not even her two ex-husbands, both OTR drivers like her. Her thirteen years behind the wheel gave her seniority at Kan-Tex, allowing her to pick the easiest routes, and the new dispatch system was doing a heck of job picking the best times. She didn't like the idea she was on camera all the time and that the dispatchers could be watching her at any moment. It was like OnStar from hell. They didn't even like her to wear her sunglasses because it interfered with the driver fatigue system they installed in her cab. She hadn't had a wreck in eleven years, but the dispatchers wouldn't relent.

Hank Williams blared on the radio and she sang lustily along. Her voice pinched off in mid-warble when her throttle pedal plunged into the floorboard and the truck lunged forward, snapping her head back against the seat. Before she could react, the steering wheel yanked hard left and the left brakes seized. Thirty tons of liquid payload shuddered violently behind her as the tractor spun left, whipping the long silver tank behind her in a hard swing out to the right. She caught a glimpse of the tank in her peripheral vision as it slammed into the tunnel wall in a shower of sparks and splintering metal. She saw the explosion before she heard it, but an instant later she was vaporized in the crushing ball of fiery gas that filled the tunnel like a thermobaric weapon.