Authors: Dale Brown and Jim DeFelice
Duka, Sudan
L
i Han circled the wrecked aircraft. It was worth even more than he’d thought at first glance. It was unique, far more advanced than anything he was familiar with. Granted, he wasn’t an expert in UAVs, but he knew a great deal about computers and processing technology, and what he saw here was truly impressive.
The building in Duka hadn’t changed at all since he’d been there last. Nor had Duka itself—still a sleepy backwater occupied by tribesmen barely removed from the medieval ages. The people walked around in a mixture of modern and ancient dress, and were armed with AK-47s and the like, but they still thought the way people thought in the Stone Age. If he had been a sociologist, he’d have found it fascinating.
But he was not. He was a scientist, and not even that.
His escorts were all sleeping upstairs, even the two men who had been posted by the door as guards. Just as well.
While the locals posed no threat, Li Han knew the Americans would be looking for the aircraft. Embedded in its skin were two devices sending repeater-type radio beacons, obviously intended for tracking. One of them had been damaged in the crash, but the other was still working. Carefully removing them, he’d placed them into the back of the truck, covered them with a tarp, and had the Brothers drive them to another building a kilometer away. It was an elementary ruse, but at least he’d have some warning if the Americans came.
He put his knee down on the dirt floor as if genuflecting before the marvel in front of him. The airfoil was made of carbon-fiber and metallized glass, with a few titanium elements. The manufacturing process was so advanced he doubted it would be of interest to any Third World country, even the Iranians. The Russians might not even be able to duplicate it.
The Chinese, of course, would be highly interested, but they were the one country he could never deal with. Not even on this. The ministry considered him a traitor, and would pay any price for his head.
Selling the engine would be easier. It was a downsized turbine, nothing particularly fancy or difficult to copy. The Israelis were very much interested in lightweight engines for their own UAVs, and they paid extremely well. But being that this was American technology—markings indicated at least some of the parts had been manufactured by GE—it was possible, perhaps even likely, that they already had access to it. They might even have helped develop it.
As far as he could tell, the optical sensors were trashed beyond use and even recognition when the aircraft crashed. The same went for the infrared sensor, though in that case he thought some of the parts might be salvageable and potentially salable to Iran for their own research. The price wouldn’t be high; it was more likely something he could throw in to make a larger deal.
The weapons system was a straight Hellfire missile setup. He could get about three thousand dollars for the salvageable mount and related electrical parts—not even pocket change. The missile itself would have fetched much more, but part of the propulsion system had shattered on impact and appeared irreparable.
And then there was the computer and guidance system, which looked to be the equivalent of a mainframe computer stuffed into a box no bigger than a woman’s purse.
UAVs were essentially radio controlled aircraft. Their “brains” received radio signals, then translated those inputs into electrical impulses that guided the throttle and the various control surfaces. In truth, it wasn’t all that complicated—children’s toys had been doing something similar for decades. The circuitry for sending flight data and information from the other sensors was trivial.
But this UAV’s brain was far different. It had six processor arrays, all clearly custom-built. This suggested a parallel computing architecture that would be overkill for even the most complicated aircraft. Not only could you fly a Boeing Dreamliner with this much power; you could fly an entire fleet of them.
And still have plenty of processing room left for a championship game of chess.
The obvious conclusion was that the computer flew the aircraft without the help of a ground pilot. But what else did it do?
Li Han was determined to find out. His only problem was to do that without destroying the programming.
And to do it here. It seemed safer to hide out in Duka than attempt to return to the Brothers. But that meant limited power. The electricity in the house worked only a few hours a day, and he didn’t want to attract attention by getting a gas generator like some of the locals. He had battery lanterns, and his laptop was extremely powerful, but there was no mistaking the musty basement for a Shanghai computer lab. He was lucky to even be in a building with a basement, as crude as it was.
The overhead light flickered as Li Han leaned over the computer box. There were two network interface plugs, the standard 5E receptacles used by local area networks around the world. There was also a pair of much larger connectors that looked to Li Han like specialized optical cable receptors. These were irregularly sized, larger than the thumb-sized hook-ins one would find on advanced audiovisual equipment in professional studios or similar applications.
Clearly, the 5E connectors were his way in, but he didn’t have any 5E wiring.
Could he find it here?
There was a sound outside, upstairs—an engine. Li Han froze. For a moment he expected the worst: a missile crashing through the roof. But the noise was just a truck passing on the road.
He took a deep breath and began thinking about where he might find a computer cable in this part of the Sudan.
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
I
t was well after 2:00 a.m. by the time Jonathon Reid got home. The house was quiet, his wife sleeping. It was a modest house by Georgetown standards—three bedrooms, a bath and a half, no granite or marble on the property, and the only thing “faux” was the fake flower on the kitchen windowsill. Reid or his wife cut the small lawn themselves. But the house felt like an immense place tonight. He walked through the downstairs rooms quietly, absorbing the space and the quiet. Thinking.
Possibly, he was making too much of this. There was always that danger when you only saw parts, not the whole.
Reid slipped quietly into the master bedroom. He took off his clothes and reached to pull the blanket down. But as he started to slip into bed, he realized there was no way he would sleep. He looked at his wife, her face turned away from him. As good as it would feel to curl his body around hers, he didn’t want to wake her.
He left the room and walked to the far end of the hall, to the guest room. It had been his oldest daughter’s room years before. Repainted several times, it bore no visible trace of her, but to Reid it still felt as if she were there. He could remember setting up her bed the first night they moved in. He’d sat here countless times, reading her stories.
He could close his eyes and imagine himself on the floor next to her bed, telling her while she slept that he had to go away again, explaining that it was his job and that even if he didn’t come back—something he would say only when he was positive she wasn’t awake—he still loved her, and no matter what, would be her father and protector.
Reid eased himself down to that very spot on the floor next to the bed, then leaned back and stared at the ceiling. A dim brownish light filtered in from the window, casting the room in faded sepia.
If the CIA was running an illegal assassination program, from a country it had been ordered to leave, with a potentially uncontrollable weapon, what should Jonathon Reid do? Where was his loyalty? What was his moral obligation?
The CIA was his life. He had a deep personal relationship with the director, not to mention countless fellow officers, present and retired, who would surely be affected by any scandal.
He also had a deep personal relationship with the President. He was one of her husband’s best friends, and hers as well.
And there was his obligation to his country, and to justice.
How did those obligations sort themselves out here? What exactly was he supposed to do?
Li Han was not on the preapproved target list. It was possible, though unlikely, that he had been added under a special mechanism allowed by national security law; those proceedings were compartmentalized, and there was always a chance that Reid’s search—thorough, and itself skirting the bounds of his legal duties as a CIA officer—had missed this particular authorization.
Even so—even if there was no authorization—did that make the targeting wrong? Li Han was such a despicable slime, such a threat to the country, that his death could easily be justified. Truly it would save lives; he wasn’t running an agricultural program in Sudan, after all.
The Agency’s development of the UAV clearly had begun under the previous administration. While the recent reorganization did not allow for such programs, there were always gray areas, especially when it came to development.
Given the CIA’s long history of producing such weapons, not to mention the Agency’s record of success, this was another area that at worst might be a minor transgression. And certainly in his case, given Reid’s relationship with the Office of Special Technology and Whiplash, Reid could easily be criticized for trying to guard his turf. And in fact he might even be doing that, unconsciously at least.
Utilizing a software program that could hunt down and kill on its own? Without authorization?
Raven sounded like science fiction. But then, nearly everything that they did at the Office of Special Technology sounded like science fiction as well. So did half the gadgets covert officers carried in their pockets these days, at least to an old-timer like Reid.
What should he do?
He’d need more information—talk to Rubeo, look at the authorizations he hadn’t had a chance to access. Confront Edmund. Ask what exactly was going on.
Then?
Well, he had to go tell the President, didn’t he?
She
might
actually know about the program. She might have authorized every single element. It was possible.
Maybe he just didn’t know the whole story. Maybe the original Raven was just a pipedream, and had become a sexy name for a cool looking aircraft. Maybe there was nothing special about the aircraft at all.
“Jonathon, what are you doing on the floor?”
Reid looked over at the doorway. The dim light framed his wife’s silhouette. In that instant she was twenty-five again; they had just met, and she was the most beautiful woman he could ever imagine, in every sense of the word.
She still was, to his eye.
“Jon?”
She came over and knelt by him. “Are you OK, honey? Is your back bothering you?”
“I was feeling a little . . . stiff,” he said. It wasn’t a lie, exactly, just far from the truth. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Sitting on the floor isn’t going to make your back better,” she said. “Come on and get a heating pad.”
“I’d rather a nice backrub,” he said.
He reached his hand up to hers. She took it. Forty some years flew by in her grip.
“Come to bed,” she told him softly.
Reid got up and followed her to their room.
Approaching Duka, eastern Sudan
D
anny Freah hated to lie, even in the line of duty. It was the one aspect of Whiplash and working with the CIA that he didn’t particularly like.
In his role as a covert officer, Nuri often pretended to be someone else. He was a smooth liar, a born bullshit artist and a good actor: as soon as he put on the watch and jacket he’d bought in Asmara, he became a slime-bag arms dealer. The performance was utterly believable.
By contrast, Danny felt awkward in the uniform, and not just because it was a little tight around the chest. Fortunately, his job was simple—follow Nuri and keep his mouth shut.
Duka had grown around a small oasis on a trading route that led ultimately to the sea. It had never been a particularly large city, though during the short period when the railroad was active it quadrupled in size. Most of the people who arrived during that tiny boomlet had left, leaving behind a motley collection of buildings that ranged from traditional African circular huts to ramshackle masonry warehouses. The place was far from prosperous, but what wealth was here was expressed in odd pieces of modern technology. Power generators hummed behind a number of grass-roofed huts, and Danny saw a few satellite dishes as well.
The huts were the most interesting to him. These were in the oldest part of town, clustered along the western edges. Most sat in the center of small yards and garden patches. A few of the yards had goats and even oxen. There were also chickens, which wandered near the road as the Mercedes approached.
Danny hit the brakes several times before Nuri told him it was senseless—the birds would only get out of the way at the last moment, no matter how fast or slow he was going.
“You’re sure about that,” said Danny.
“They always do.”
“Why do they let the birds roam around? Aren’t they afraid of wild animals?”
“Lions?”
“Well—”
“I doubt there have been lions or even hyenas around here for centuries,” said Nuri. “Lions would be worth a fortune. The hyenas they’d kill for meat.”
Though Danny’s ancestors had come from Africa, he wasn’t sure where. He felt no connection to either the land or the people.
“This place was pretty poor, right after the railroad stopped,” continued Nuri. “A bunch of aid organizations got together and tried to help. Most of the money was siphoned off by the central government.”
“That why there are so many rebel groups down here?”
“Not really. People expect corruption. The resentments with the government have more to do with tribal rivalries and jealousies, and outside agitators,” added Nuri. “The outside people come in, find a malcontent or some crazoid, give him a little money and weapons. Things escalate from there.”
“Are the Iranians here?”
“Not so much. Hezbollah tried getting some traction a little farther north, but it didn’t work out. The Brotherhood, which is made up of Sudanese, isn’t even that strong. You can be from the next town or a related tribe and still be considered an outsider.”
“Like us.”
“Oh, we’re definitely outsiders. But we have money,” said Nuri. “And we’re not going to stay. So we’re in a special category. They like us. Until they don’t.”
Danny swerved around a goat that had wandered near the highway. The Mercedes fishtailed and the rear wheels went off the road. He fought the car straight, half on and half off the pavement, then gently brought it back.
“About a half mile more,” said Nuri calmly. “There should be a road heading to the east.”
W
orried that even going near the abandoned warehouse buildings would seem suspicious, Nuri had Danny drive through the city to a rise about three-quarters of a mile north of the warehouse area. He got out there, making a show of stretching his legs and then pretending to go off to the side to relieve himself in case anyone was watching.
Reaching into his pocket, Nuri took out a small case about the size of a quarter. He opened it, then gingerly removed what looked like an oversized mosquito from the interior. It was literally and metaphorically a bug—a tiny video camera was embedded in the eyes; the legs were used as antennas. The rest of the body was a battery, with about a twelve-hour life span.
He walked into the weeds and positioned the mosquito. Its circuitry had woken up as soon as he took it from the box.
“MY-PID, are we connected?” Nuri asked, tapping his ear set. The control unit he was using looked exactly like a higher-end civilian cell phone system such as a Jawbone Icon; rather than using Bluetooth to connect to a cell phone, it had a proprietary burst radio connection to talk to the control unit in his pocket. The control unit in turn connected to the MY-PID system via a link with the Tigershark, orbiting overhead.
“Connection established,” replied the Voice.
“Do you have a visual on the target warehouse?”
“Affirmative. Visual on target.”
“Gotcha.”
“Rephrase.”
I
nside the car, Danny used a pair of binoculars to examine the building where the UAV transponder was located. It was a simple metal structure, roughly two stories high and about 200 by 200 square feet. There were a dozen other buildings, most very similar, scattered around the area, all butting close to the railroad tracks and now disused sidings. There were clusters of houses near them, run-down shacks and battered brick buildings. Most were not occupied, according to MY-PID, which based the claim on the infrared readings from Tigershark’s sensors.
There were two openings in the target building: a large garagelike door facing the road, and a standard-sized door nearby. There were no windows.
MY-PID said there were two people inside the building. They appeared to be sleeping.
“No guards outside,” said Danny as Nuri got back in the car. “Just the two inside.”
“Not that we can see,” answered Nuri. He pulled out the MY-PID control unit, which was dummied up to look like an iPod Nano. He could have the computer tell him what it saw, but preferred to see it himself, even if it was on a ridiculously small screen. “There are kids playing on the other side of the railroad track. They probably get a few dinars for spotting strangers. Or anybody else.”
“Those kids are only seven or eight years old,” said Danny.
“Another year and they’ll all have guns,” said Nuri, sliding into the car. “Center of town is back the way we came.”
Danny toyed with the idea of simply driving up to the building and having a look. The Osprey and two of his men were a few minutes away, hunkered down in the desert. If things looked easy, he could call it in quickly and they could haul the UAV away.
But things rarely went as easily as they looked. Most of Whiplash’s advanced gear was still back in the States and wouldn’t be available for at least another twenty-four to forty-eight hours. While he wasn’t about to wait that long, it was better to wait for dark and come in with the whole team.
“Take a left ahead. There,” said Nuri, pointing. “The roads are all dirt from here on. I’ll warn when the next turn is coming up.”
They worked their way around a patch of houses to an open area that served as Duka’s business section. Small buildings were arranged haphazardly around the large dirt lot. There was a garage with several cars out in front; next to it were a pair of buildings with tin roofs that held small storefronts. A larger building, this one of brick, stood opposite the shops. About the size of a small ranch house in the States, the structure was shared by a medical clinic, a post office, and a store that sold farming gear.
Their destination was next to the clinic building: a squat, thatch-roofed pavilion that looked like an open-sided tent. About the size of a train car, it ran back from the open square at a slight angle, and was filled with a variety of benches, picnic tables, and cast-off plastic chairs. It was filled with people, more than two dozen, scattered in various groups. A pair of white-headed gentlemen played chess near the front; farther back, two men with machetes stood behind a squat, pale-skinned man whose face was covered with pimples.
The man was Gerard, the de facto leader of Meurtre Musique. He sat in a red plastic chair, gazing straight ahead.
“Someone should stay with the car,” said Nuri.
“Boston, you stay,” said Danny. “I want to get a look at him.”
“You got it, boss.”
Danny got out and followed Nuri into the pavilion.
“Bonjour, Gerard,”
said Nuri, rattling off a greeting in French.
Gerard stared straight ahead. Danny thought he looked like a strung-out heroin addict.
“I hope you have been well.” Nuri pulled over a chair and sat down, just off to the side of Gerard.
Danny walked over and stood behind him. He had arranged the strap on his rifle so it hung down near his hand; he kept his fingers on the butt grip, ready just in case.
The two men with the machetes eyed him fiercely, but soon turned their attention back to the general area. Danny wondered why: most of the people beneath the shed roof were old, and couldn’t have hurt themselves, let alone Gerard. His gun was the only one visible.
“Je voudrais de l’eau,”
said Nuri. “I’d like some water. What about you?”
Gerard’s head moved ever so slightly downward. Nuri straightened in his chair and turned toward a woman standing nearby. Gerard said something; the woman replied, then left, crossing the street.
N
uri continued his slow assault on Gerard’s silence, telling him that he had been doing much traveling in the past several months, seeing many people and learning many new things. He used French, even though it wasn’t his best language. He’d taken off the MY-PID ear set—Gerard might have wanted it if he’d seen it—but could speak the language reasonably well without the computer translator’s help.
He could have been speaking Portuguese for all the results he was getting. Gerard remained silent.
The man was a cipher. The first time they had met, Nuri thought he was stoned on some local alcoholic concoction; there were an almost infinite variety. But he’d spent considerable time with Gerard at their second meeting, and saw that he only drank pure water. And when the barrier actually came down—when Gerard broke his silence and spoke about the guns he was interested in buying—he was quite articulate and even a good negotiator. Nuri had decided that the stony glare was part of some sort of religious commitment, Gerard’s version of meditation or prayer.
His girl brought back two bottles of water. Nuri checked the seal to make sure his hadn’t been refilled from a local tap—always a possibility, and sure to induce diarrhea—then opened his. Gerard stared at the bottle, then took it. He had a small sip. Nuri sensed he was ready to talk.
“Are you happy with your current supplier?” Nuri asked in French.
“Hmmmph,”
answered Gerard.
“I don’t want to make trouble,” said Nuri. “If there comes an opportunity, I am always ready.”
Gerard handed the water bottle back to the girl. She was thirteen or fourteen, probably a relative as well as a mistress. Nuri tried not to be judgmental. Things were different here, and he had a job to do.
“We are satisfied with the Russians,” said Gerard in English.
“Russians?” Nuri switched to English as well. “They’re supplying you now?”
Gerard said nothing.
“They do give good prices,” admitted Nuri. The dealer might or might not be Russian; anyone from Eastern Europe was likely to be considered a Russian—Poles, Ukrainians, Georgians. All were more likely candidates, and most likely operating on their own. When he was last here, the
real
Russians were notably absent. “If you are satisfied, then there is no need to change. A good relationship is worth more than a few bullets, one way or the other.”
Gerard remained silent.
“And the government—have they been giving you much trouble?” Nuri asked.
“They are monkeys,” said Gerard. “Imbecilic monkeys.”
“Yes.”
“What would be of use to us would be medicines,” he said. “Aspirin would be a very good thing.”
“Aspirin? Of course. Yes. I believe I could arrange to find some of that. For the clinic?”
“The clinic is run by thieves,” said Gerard. “We have established a new one.”
“What other medicines?” asked Nuri.
Gerard rose. He moved stiffly, but compared to how Nuri had found him, he was a dynamo.
“I will take you to talk to the doctor. We will go in your car.”
D
anny followed Nuri to the Mercedes. Gerard, the girl, and the two guards came as well. They got into the back with Boston, while Nuri took his place up front. Danny didn’t like that—it was far too dangerous, he thought—but there was no way to tell Nuri that.
Gerard gave directions from the back in French. Nuri translated them into African, and MY-PID—connected via the team radio—retranslated to English.
The directions took them to a single story building that looked very much like an American double-wide trailer.
“Wait in the car,” Nuri said as the others got out.
“No way,” said Danny.
They exchanged a glance. Nuri frowned, but didn’t protest when Danny followed him inside the building.
T
hey were met near the door by a black woman in her early twenties. She was enthusiastic and friendly, and clearly didn’t speak the local language—she fumbled worse than Nuri did over the greeting.
“Do you speak English?” she asked. She had a British accent; Nuri pegged her as a volunteer, here to do her part for world peace.
“Certainly, Doctor,” Nuri answered.
“I am not a doctor,” she said, leading them through the crowded reception room. “I am just a nurse. Marie Bloom.”
“I’m sorry. Gerard introduced you as a doctor.”
“I think they use the word for anyone with a medical interest.” She smiled at Gerard, nodding. “He has been very good to us. You are here to see our clinic?”
“We may be able to supply some medicines for you,” said Nuri. “Through Gerard’s generosity. If I knew what it was you needed.”
“Oh that would be wonderful. Let me show you around.”