Drone Threat (31 page)

55

Pearce frowned. “What do you mean, you ‘made this war'?”

“Who do you think sent that drone to the White House with the flag and the threat?”

“You?”

Al-Saud shrugged. “Well, not me, personally. But I helped arrange it. You know, Pearce, you're not the only drone expert in the world.”

A news report flashed on the television screen. Live images of the bombing of Raqqa suddenly appeared. The Saudi reporters shouted, “It has begun!”

Al-Saud pumped his fists in the air, shouting “
Allahu akbar!
” over and over, laughing and pointing at the TV.

Pearce stared at the gruesome images, a city under bombardment. It made him sick to his stomach. Alyssa Abbott obviously had won the argument that the live video feeds of Raqqa's destruction would be the perfect piece of propaganda to terrorize would-be terrorists. Pearce wasn't so sure.

“How many civilians made it out?” Pearce asked.

“Just a few thousand, according to your satellite imagery.”

“Hundreds of Muslims are dying right now, maybe thousands. Don't you care?”

Al-Saud shook his head. “If they die, it is Allah's will that they die. Besides, they're mostly Syrians.”

“You're a callous f—” Pearce caught himself. “So tell me, why didn't
you kill more Americans while you were at it? Why not drop the planes in midair or poison all the water?”

“Despite what you may think of me, I'm not an uncivilized man. I like Americans. The only purpose of the drone attacks was to finally rouse President Lane to war against
Daesh
. Your country was never really in danger. I only wanted to make it appear that way. There are no other attacks planned for your water system, or any other drone attacks of any kind.”

“What if Lane had refused to go to war? And refused to raise the flag?”

“Then the plan would have failed. But obviously it didn't. It was Allah's will that it succeed.”

“You wouldn't have escalated?”

“No. I must stand before Allah and give an account of my life someday. I will not have the blood of innocents weighing against me in the balance.”

Pearce nodded at the television. “What about
their
innocent blood?”

“Their blood is on America's hands, not mine. But their sacrifice also serves Allah's purpose. Those videos will be used as jihadi recruiting tools around the world for years to come, guaranteeing your country's continued interest in the War on Terror, which means continued interest in protecting the Kingdom, which is Allah's will.”

“I don't know what god you think you're serving, but the Koran says that Allah loves the just.”

“And you are a Crusader-blasphemer.” Al-Saud stood up, pulled his pistol back out. He racked the slide. “Would you care to pray before you die?”

Pearce doubted it would help. He shook his head. “No, but I have a question.”

“What?”

“Why did you try and assassinate President Myers?”

“The goal was only to wound her, not kill her. It was an expert shot that guaranteed her life.”

“Why?”

“To get you out of Washington, of course.” Al-Saud smiled. “She is an admirable woman. You were a lucky man, Pearce.”

A loud crack threw the room in to total darkness, killing the lights outside, too. Pearce twisted in his chair. There was enough moonlight that he could see shadowy figures racing across the grass.

Al-Saud's men shouted outside the room. Gunfire erupted. Bullets shattered the door just as the window glass exploded.

Al-Saud lifted his pistol and pointed it at Pearce's head. Squeezed the trigger.

An explosion blinded Pearce and smashed his eardrums. The stabbing pain in his skull was the last thing his brain registered.

—

“
TROY
!
TROY
! Are you with us?” Ian shouted in Pearce's skull.

Pearce's eyes blinked open to a sweating, scowling Saudi face. A wide, toothy grin began spreading beneath the thick mustache. The man wore the uniform of the Saudi Special Security Forces.

“Are you injured, Mr. Pearce?” the major asked. He whipped out a combat knife.

“I'm here, Ian. Quit yelling,” Pearce said.

“Excuse me, sir?” The Saudi said as he cut away the PlastiCuffs still pinning Pearce to his chair.

“Who are you?” Pearce asked, his brain still ringing from the flash-bang.

“Major Muhammad ibn Saleh al-Bunayan.” He helped Pearce uneasily to his feet. “I see no wounds, sir. How do you feel?”

“I'm fine, Major. Who sent you?” Pearce stretched the kinks out of his back and the strain in his wrists.

“I did,” Ian said.

“Hold that thought, Ian,” Pearce said. “It's confusing as hell trying to talk to both of you.”

Pearce and Ian were communicating through the elaborate “smart tattoo” inked across his back and snaking up his neck. The smart tattoo comprised a multilayered organic transmitter and receiver module. It was
powered by a bio-templated piezoelectric nanogenerator activated by Pearce's opening and closing his hands. The tattoo's subvocal speech-recognition technology meant Pearce could simply “think” his words to his Scottish computer genius. Pearce could hear Ian silently inside his head through bone conduction, much the same way Google Glass headphones operated. Because the smart tattoo was printed with electronically conducive organic hydro-gel, it couldn't be discovered through traditional metal detection. When Dr. Rao inked him with the smart tattoo five days before, he had no idea it would be field-tested so quickly, nor that it would be used to save his life.

The Saudi major frowned with confusion. “Sir? Who is this Ian you are speaking to?”

“Doesn't matter. Who sent you?”

“My commanding officer received the request thirty minutes ago directly from the White House.” The major began checking Pearce over. His face was partially swollen where al-Saud had struck him. Pearce knew he looked as beat to hell as he felt.

“Who in the White House sent you?”

“I need to have you examined by my medical officer.”

“Don't sweat it.”

“I have my orders.” The major barked a command in Arabic. A moment later another Special Security Forces officer rushed through the door, a combat medical kit slung over one shoulder. Pearce relented and let the medic take a few minutes and do his duty. Pearce was steered to a more comfortable couch, and the medic gave him a quick exam while Pearce continued questioning the major.

“I don't know who in the White House sent the request.”

“It must have been President Lane,” Pearce said.

“Permission to speak,” Ian said in his buttery-smooth brogue.

“Not yet,” Pearce said out loud.

“You must be speaking to that Ian fellow again.” The major frowned, scanning Pearce up and down. “Tell me, where are your comms?” the major said.

Pearce shrugged. “It's classified.”

“It was Vice President Chandler,” Ian said inside Pearce's skull.

“Chandler?” Pearce said. “Why the hell did you call Chandler?”

“I contacted the White House directly, but President Lane is incommunicado, heading for Beijing and the Asia Security Summit. The vice president is in charge of day-to-day operations for the time being. He authorized the mission to rescue you.”

Pearce was surprised. He assumed Chandler would have welcomed his disappearance.

“Please tell me you recorded the conversation with al-Saud.”

“Of course, but it's rough. I'll have to run it through an audio filter first.”

“Forward a copy of it to Chandler as soon as you can. We've got a war to stop.” Pearce turned to the major. “Where's al-Saud now?”

The major stiffened. “He's in our custody. He shall be dealt with.”

“I need to see him, right now.”

“That won't be possible.”

“Why not?”

“Orders.”

“From whom?”

The major shrugged. “Does it matter? You know how it is.”

Pearce swore. He had a feeling he'd seen this movie before.

“Troy, I've arranged for a Pearce Systems plane to land in Riyadh in the next twenty minutes,” Ian said. But the transmission was starting to break up. “As soon as it refuels, it's scheduled to bring you back home. There's a doctor on board as well.”

Pearce thanked Ian and told him they'd talk later with better comms. He turned to the major, tugging on his orange jumpsuit. “Any chance I can grab a shower, a set of clothes, and a ride to the airport?”

The major sniffed. Pearce's diaper was full. “Follow me.”

56

KING KHALID INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA

Good as his word, the Saudi major provided Pearce with a hot shower, clothes confiscated from the pro shop, and a ride to the airport in his command vehicle. Pearce's presence in the Kingdom was kept secret from the American embassy as per Chandler's request.

Pearce boarded his company plane and headed straight for the cockpit. He ordered the pilot to radio the tower and get the plane off the runway. “We're not leaving here without al-Saud in custody,” he told the crew. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

The onboard doctor—a physician's assistant, Sarah Swift—approached him in the cabin. “I need to check you out.”

“Not yet,” Pearce said. “I've got a couple of calls to make. We'll do it once we're in the air.”

“But, sir—”

Pearce's withering glare cut off the former combat medic in midsentence.

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Pearce dashed for his secured comms station and contacted Ian. The smart tattoo was already starting to fail, and it wasn't an encrypted system anyway.

“Ian, have you reached Chandler yet? I need to speak with him now.”

“I've tried to connect with him directly. His assistant says he's unavailable at the moment.”

“Tell his assistant Chandler either calls me back right now or I call the
New York Times
.”

“Will do. Give me a minute.”

—

CHANDLER WAS ON
the phone ten minutes later.

“Troy? It's me, Clay. How are you feeling?”

“Fucking fantastic. Did you listen to the digital recording Ian sent you?”

“Thank God you're alive. I couldn't believe my ears when Ian said you'd been kidnapped.”

“The recording? Did you hear it?”

“Of course. Al-Saud is a real son of a bitch—pardon my French. I'm glad we're rid of him.”

“That's one of the reasons why I needed to talk to you. I need to get my hands on him right now, find out who's running his terror operation.”

“I'm afraid that's not going to happen. He's in Saudi custody now.”

“Are you shitting me? The Saudis owe us everything. I just need him for thirty minutes. I'll even keep him alive.”

“You see, Troy, here's the rub. In order to save you, I had to cut a deal with the Royal House of Saud. The ambassador is one of theirs. They agreed to send in their best and rescue you, but they insisted on keeping the prince in their custody.”

“The bastard attacked our country and got us into a war.”

“And I've been assured he'll be dealt with harshly.”

“I don't give a shit how he's dealt with. I need to find out who he was working with. We need to stop the source of the terror attacks.”

“Did we hear the same recording? Al-Saud said the attacks were staged and over with. No more attacks have occurred since the last one, which confirms his statement. As far as I'm concerned, the terror threat is neutralized.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Pearce could practically hear Chandler's jaw clenching over the satellite connection.

The vice president hesitated a long while before speaking, obviously trying to calm himself down. “The Saudi government has publicly supported our actions against Raqqa and they're providing important logistical resources for our operations. I won't do anything to jeopardize that relationship. This war against ISIS is too important. Besides, we still have our best people on the case. We'll find whoever was responsible for this in due time.”

“Why take the chance? Al-Saud knows exactly who this is.”

“We need the Saudis to fight this war. The Saudis won't hand him over. Period. You said there was another reason you needed to talk to me?”

“Yeah. It's time to stop the bombing.”

“Excuse me?”

“The war is a sham. Al-Saud said as much. Civilian casualties are mounting even as we speak. Lane would stop it immediately if he knew about al-Saud.”

“I'm not so sure about that.”

“Call him. Tell him exactly what's happened.”

“The president is behind closed doors right now with President Sun and the other Asia leaders. I'm in charge now, and we're not calling the war off.”

Rage fell on Pearce like a bad fever. “You callous son of a bitch. This isn't a game. People are dying.”

“Everybody dies, Pearce, including you and me. It's just their time, that's all.”

“You're killing innocent women and children.”

“Innocent? I had no idea you were such a romantic. There's no innocence over there, especially in Raqqa. It's a jihadi Woodstock. Every baby on the tit is just another suckling terrorist waiting for his turn to kill an American.”

Pearce's grip tightened around the handset. “So help me God, I'll go to the press with this. Pull the blanket back and expose the Saudis for what they've done.”

“The Saudis? No. You mean, al-Saud. He's just one Saudi. Emotionally unstable, certainly. But the House of Saud is our staunch ally in the War on Terror and has been since 9/11. They have powerful friends on the Hill. Besides, we're now in the middle of a war against the most brutal and evil regime we've seen since Hitler. Are you sure you want to muddy the waters now?”

“I don't give a shit. It's the truth.”

“Truth is a funny thing, Pearce. Go ahead and tell the ‘truth.' But do so knowing that if you stop the war, you'll be saving ISIS from destruction. That means you'll be responsible for every person they rape, torture, and kill from now on. Is that a truth you can handle?”

“Don't try to play head games with me.”

“And don't forget. If you go to the press with your story, Lane will be impeached because he's the one that gave the order. Believe me, he's got plenty of enemies in Washington, and the long knives will come out lickety-split. And here's one more truth for you to chew on: If Lane's impeached, I'm the next POTUS.” Chandler couldn't help but laugh. “I bet you'd just love that, wouldn't you?”

Pearce wanted to puke. His head swam. This is why he hated politics, and Chandler was everything he hated about politicians. But in his own sick, twisted logic, Chandler was right. The damage he'd cause by blowing the whistle on al-Saud still wouldn't stop a war that everybody in Washington now wanted. He saw Lane's poll numbers after his speech. They were through the roof. Proof yet again that the “rally 'round the flag” phenomenon was the most dependable fact in American political life. Ever since Lane's speech, Americans wanted the war and they craved leadership, and Lane was giving them both. With that kind of credibility, the president could craft a lasting peace at the Asia Security Summit, too. It all made perfect sense—at least politically.

“Are we still connected? I don't hear you running your mouth,” Chandler said.

“I'm here.”

“The truth is a fickle lover, isn't it?”

Pearce remembered something al-Saud said. “Do you believe in God, Chandler?”

“It comes with the job description.”

“Good. Because when you meet Him, you'll have to give an account for what you've done. And so will I.”

“I'm prepared to give an account when that day comes.”

“That day will come sooner than you think if I have anything to say about it.”

“Are you threatening me, Troy? The sitting vice president?”

Pearce heard the mocking tone in Chandler's voice.

“No threat, Mr. Vice President. Just conveying my fervent hope and prayer.” Pearce hung up to the sound of Chandler's laughter.

Fuck Chandler
, Pearce thought.
Let him play his stupid games.
There were more important things to do.

He knew he could still try and persuade the president to call off the bombing and maybe even the war after Lane's meeting with President Sun. Equally important, there was still a lone wolf on the prowl whom he had to find. Whoever he was, he was dangerous as hell and was roaming free. It didn't matter to Pearce if he had stopped operations for al-Saud. The man was guilty of committing crimes on American soil and he needed to be brought to justice. Pearce had to find him.

But how?