Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland) (3 page)

“Gotcha.” Turk clicked off the mike, then remembered the admiral. “Roger that, Control. Copy and understood,” he added in his most official voice.

“We’re landing?” asked the admiral.

“Affirmative, sir. The swarm is just about out of fuel. Sir.”

“You knock off all the sirs, Captain.” Blackheart’s voice sounded just a hint less gruff.

“Thanks, Admiral.”

Turk took a few more lazy turns, circling and finally lining up on the runway for his final approach. Emergency vehicles were waiting a respectful distance—nearby, but not so close as to imply they didn’t think he’d make it.

B
REANNA FOLDED HER A
RMS, WATCHING THE LA
RGE
screen as the Phantom made its way toward the long stretch of cement. They had switched the video feed to a ground camera mounted in an observation tower near the runway. From a distance, the F-4 seemed to have a black shroud above its body.

“They should be staying at altitude, shouldn’t they?” Breanna asked Armaz. “Why are they descending with him?”

“I’m not sure. They may not think it’s the right altitude.”

“You still can’t get them back, Sara?”

“I keep trying,” Rheingold said. “Short of sending another shock through the range, I don’t know what else to try.”

“Bree—Dreamland Control wants us to keep Old Girl in the air,” said Paul Smith, turning from his console. He was practically yelling. “They want to recover their tankers first. They’re worried the nano-UAVs will attack them.”

“For crap sake? Why didn’t they tell us that five minutes ago?”

“Ma’am—”

“Bob?”

“On it,” said the controller.

T
URK EYEBALLED
HIS INSTRUMENTS QUICKLY AS HE
continued on course for the emergency runway, then unfurled his landing gear. He tensed, then felt his breath catch—he’d been worried the UAVs would object somehow. But they seemed content to let him land, adjusting their own speed as he slowed.

“Tech Observer, abort landing,” said Stevenson, the controller. “Go around.”

“I have to ask why,” he said tersely.

“Dreamland has a couple of tankers they want to get down first,” said Breanna, breaking in. “They’re not sure what the UAVs will do when you land.”

“Well, in theory, they’ll land with me, right?”

“We agree, Whiplash,” said Breanna. “They’re just concerned. Can you go around, or should I have the tankers divert elsewhere?”

“Negative, negative, I’m good. Going around.” Turk tamped down his frustration as he clicked into the interphone. “Admiral—”

“I heard. Do what you have to do, son.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

Turk pushed his throttle and cleaned his gear, restoring his wheels to their bays. The aircraft’s speed picked up immediately. The UAVs started to scatter, momentarily left behind.

In the next moment, he heard a faint clicking noise on his right. It was an odd sound, something like the click a phone made over a dead circuit. He filed the noise away, too busy to puzzle it out.

Two seconds later a much louder sound on the right got his attention—a violent pop shocked the aircraft, seeming to push it backward.

And down.

Turk struggled to control the plane, hands and feet and eyes, lungs and heart, working together, moving ahead of his brain. By the time his mind comprehended what had happened, his body had already moved to deal with it, trimming the plane to concentrate.

“Captain, is there trouble?” asked his passenger.

“Slight complication, Admiral. We’re good.” Turk’s mouth was suddenly dry. His chest pushed against the seat restraints—his heart was pounding like crazy.

He was at 1,500 feet, 1,300. The nano-UAVs were still around him, though at least part of one was in the left engine, or what remained of it.

Like a bird strike, he thought.
Deal with it.

“Whiplash Observer?” asked the control tower.

“I’m landing.”

“You’re on fire, Whiplash,” said the controller.

Ordinarily, that would have been the cue to pull the ejection handle. But Turk worried that his passenger wouldn’t fare well—they were low, there wasn’t much margin for error, and it was doubtful the admiral had ever parachuted from a plane.

And besides, he could land the damn plane with his eyes closed.

Come on, Old Girl, he thought. Let’s take this easy now. You’ve seen harder challenges than this.

He took the plane into a turn, realigning himself for a landing as quickly as he dared. Just as he straightened his wings, something popped on the right side. A shudder ran through his body, the rattle of a metal spike being driven into a bed of shale. He began moving his feet, pedaling, pedaling—he was three years old, trying to get control of a runaway tricycle plummeting down the hill of his parents’ backyard. The dog was barking in the distance. The world was closing in. Rocks loomed on either side; ahead, a stone wall.

“Stand by. Landing,” he said tersely.

Landing gear deployed, Turk felt his way to the strip, steadying the plane as she began drifting to the right. His nose started coming up; he fought the impulse to react too strongly, easing the Phantom down. The seconds flew by, then moved slowly, excruciatingly—the wheels should have touched down by now, he thought.

The nano-UAVs dispersed just as the rear wheels hit the smooth surface of the runway. He was fast, and little far along the runway, but that was all right—he had another 10,000 feet of marked runway to stop, and miles of salt flat to steer through if necessary. The emergency vehicles were speeding up from behind . . .

Turk’s relief vanished as a flame shot up from under the right side of the plane. The first nano-UAV had hit the belly, rupturing the tank there and starting a small fire.

He popped the canopies as the F-4 braked to a stop. Undoing his restraints, he pushed himself up from the ejection seat, helmet still on and oxygen still attached. He ripped off the gear and hopped onto the wing, leaning back to grab Admiral Blackheart. Black smoke curled around them.

“Out of here, Admiral, let’s go,” said Turk, grabbing the admiral under his left arm and lifting him out of the plane. He took a step back but slipped, falling backward onto the wing. The admiral fell onto his chest.

A cloud surrounded them, enveloping the two men in a toxic blackness.

“Almost home,” Turk told the admiral, struggling to get up. He reached his knees but the smoke was so thick he couldn’t see the tips of his fingers as he fished for a grip. He finally hooked his fingers into the admiral’s soft biceps. Turk pulled him to the edge of the wing, then tumbled with him to the ground. Blackheart’s head hit his chest as they landed, knocking the wind from him. Struggling to breathe, Turk turned to his belly and pulled up his knee, levering himself up and pulling the admiral with him.

The smoke drenched them both in inky soot, covering their mouths and poking at their eyes, a caustic acid. Turk pushed and pulled and pushed, finally getting his balance and then his breath. He had the admiral under him like a messenger bag, moving forward until finally the sky cleared and it was bright again, the sky a faultless blue.

There were trucks. A jet streaked overhead.

Someone grabbed him. Someone else took the admiral from him.

“I’m all right,” protested Turk.

“Move back,” said the airman who’d grabbed him. He was a parajumper, an Air Force special operations soldier trained as a medic. “Come on now. Get in the ambulance.”

“I’m OK,” said Turk. He turned back to look at Old Girl. As he did, one of the fuel tanks exploded, sending a fireball nearly straight up into the sky. Flames erupted from the fuselage, and two more fireballs shot from the sides.

“Old Girl’s going out with a bang,” he muttered, turning to find the ambulance.

2

Iran

C
APTAIN
P
ARS
A
V
AHID RAISED HIS A
RMS UPWARD AS
he walked between the two mounds of sand, stretching his upper body in a vain attempt to unknot the kinks coagulating his muscles. He had been sitting in his MiG on high alert for hours, waiting to fly. It was a ritual he had repeated for weeks now, the government worried that the Americans and Israelis would finally carry out their threats to attack Iran.

Or more specifically, the secret bases in the area of Qom, which lay many miles to the north. The fact that work on a nuclear bomb was being conducted was perhaps the worst kept secret in the world.

Vahid had never been to Qom itself. In fact, though his unit was specifically charged with protecting it, he hadn’t so much as overflown it—the government had laid down very strict rules some months before, closing an Iranian air base there and warning that any aircraft in the vicinity was likely to be shot down.

Besides, given the shortage of jet fuel plaguing the air force, Vahid rarely got to fly at all these days.

Qom was an ancient city, dwarfed in size by Tehran but still among the ten largest in Iran. More important than its size was its history. It was sacred to Shi’ites, long a center for religious study, and a site for pilgrims since the early 1500s. Though he was a Muslim, a Shi’ite by birth, Vahid did not consider himself devout. He prayed haphazardly, and while he kept the commandments, it was more for fear of punishment than belief in afterlife or even earthly rewards.

His true religion was flight. Vahid had dreamed of flying from the time he was three. Becoming a pilot had been a pilgrimage through the greatest difficulties, his barriers even higher because he had no connection with either the service or the government. His love had not diminished one iota. Even today, with the service’s chronic fuel shortages, problems with parts, poor repairs, bureaucratic hang-ups, and political interference—Vahid could put up with them all as long as he got a chance to get in the air.

The pilot paused at the crest of the hill. Two hours would pass before the faithful would be called to prayer with the rising sun. The words would stretch across the bleak, high desert air base, with its dusty hangars and dorms.

“Captain, you must be careful,” said a voice in the darkness. “You are very close to the perimeter.”

Startled, Vahid jerked back. A soldier was standing nearby, rifle at the ready. Vahid stared, then realized it was Sergeant Kerala, a man whom he knew vaguely from an earlier assignment. His Farsi had the accent of the South.

“I hadn’t heard you,” said Vahid. “But why are you working at night?”

“I made the wrong comment to someone.”

“Ah.” Vahid nodded. The wrong remark heard by any one of the half-dozen political officers assigned to the base, and the consequences could be quite severe. “I was just taking a walk. My legs are stiff.”

“Do you think there will be an attack?”

Vahid was taken off guard by the question. His first thought was that it was a trick, but there was little chance of that.

“I don’t honestly know,” he told the sergeant. “We are ready for whatever happens.”

“I don’t think the Americans will be so insane,” said Kerala. “The Israelis, them I am not sure about.”

“We will defeat them. Whoever it is,” Vahid assured him. “We’re ready. I’m ready.”

“Yes,” said Kerala. “We will have a great battle if they are foolish enough to try. God willing.”

3

Washington, D.C.

P
RESIDENT
C
HRISTINE
T
ODD SAT DOWN ON THE SMALL
settee in the passage off the Cross Hall of the White House, listening to the hushed murmur of guests arriving in the State Dining Room a short distance away. Todd was hosting a dinner to honor the heads of several museums, part of a recent initiative to expand awareness of American history. It was a subject dear to the President’s heart, and she was especially looking forward to talking to the curator of a recent Smithsonian exhibit on George Washington. But history was hardly the only thing on her mind tonight.

“Decision made?”

Todd looked up at her national security advisor, Michael Blitz. Blitz looked like a walrus in his tuxedo—a gruff and grim walrus.

“Still working on it,” she told him.

“The Israeli ambassador is inside already.”

“Mmmm.” Todd patted the bench, signaling for Blitz to sit. Blitz’s voice had a tendency to carry, and she didn’t want any of the guests overhearing.

“There really are only two options,” said Blitz. “Let Iran have the weapon, or attack now. Stop the process.”

“But for how long, Doctor?”

Blitz had a Ph.D. in international affairs, but Todd tended to use the honorific sporadically. He’d told her several times that he took it as an indication of how she was feeling about him and his advice: if she used “Mister,” he was on thin ice; if she used “Doctor,” he was sunk.

“If we strike, we stop it for
at least
a year,” said Blitz. “Maybe as long as five.”

“Your staff estimated less than twelve months.”

“That’s too pessimistic. Even the Secretary of State thinks it will be halted longer than that.”

Todd glanced toward the hall, where one of her Secret Service agents stood, making sure no one wandered down the wrong way. A light scent of food wafted in; the
amuse bouche
maybe, or else a figment of Todd’s hungry imagination—she’d skipped lunch.

“We need two years before the ABM system is fully operational and can protect Israel,” said Blitz. “Iran knows that. That’s why they’re trying to move so quickly.”

“If there was a guarantee of success—or even a probability,” said Todd, “then the decision would be easier.”

“The Israelis will attack if we don’t. The result of that will certainly be war—declared or undeclared. And as I said this afternoon, the probability of Iran actually using the bomb at some point goes up to one hundred percent in that scenario. Bad for your second term.”

Todd managed a smile.

“If you’re concerned, we should move ahead on the covert plan first.” Blitz himself preferred that option, and had in fact been pushing it. Todd saw the attraction, but didn’t like the odds.

“A twenty percent chance of success?” She sighed. “And that’s if we’re not discovered.”

“Better odds than anything else out there. Has Blackheart checked back with you?”

“No. I expect he’ll be positive. But I doubt the odds will change.” Todd heard her husband clunking down the stairs. She rose just in time to see him step out from the landing. His eyes twinkled as they caught hers—all these years, and she still felt her heart kick up a few beats.

“We’ll talk,” she told Blitz, holding her arm out for her escort.

T
WO HOURS LATER
T
OD
D FOUND HERSELF IN A CORNER
of the formal dining room, listening to a museum trustee describe funding problems. It was a litany she had heard many times in the past, and while she was sympathetic, there was little she could do about it. Her next budget—sure to be declared dead on arrival in Congress in any event—held arts appropriations steady from the year before. This in effect was a decrease, given inflation, but it was far better than Congress was likely to do. Even the defense budget would probably be cut in the coming year, something Todd was adamantly opposed to.

She listened for a while longer, then politely excused herself, deciding she would check in on her husband and work an early exit. She spotted the Israeli ambassador across the room, and turned to her right: she had artfully avoided conversing with him all evening, and aimed to keep that record intact.

She bumped into a short, thin man in his mid-thirties, who managed—barely—to avoid dropping his drink or, worse, spilling it on her dress.

“I’m sorry, Madam President,” he said, clearly embarrassed.

“Oh no, dear, I’m sorry. I turned without looking.” She smiled, trying to remember who he was.

“Mark Tacitus,” said the man. He held out his hand. “I, uh, I’m the son-in-law of—”

“Oh yes, yes, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.” His father-in-law was Simon Rockwell, a member of the Metropolitan Museum Board of Trustees in New York and one of her
biggest
contributors in the Northeast. “So—the last time we met, you were working on a book.”

“Finished. Yes.” He smiled awkwardly. “The book on Nimitz.”

“Of course.”

“He was an interesting man,” said Tacitus noncommittally. He seemed to think she was only making polite conversation.

“Do you still think the
Nautilus
was his most difficult decision?” Todd asked.

“Well . . .” The author flushed, probably trying to remember their last conversation. The submarine
Nautilus
became the world’s first nuclear powered vessel of any kind, and the decision to build it was extremely controversial. “I think in a way it was his hardest. There were a lot of decisions we could single out. Some good, some bad.”

“A lot good.” Todd caught sight of her husband. “Though not always obvious at the time, even to him. We’ll have to talk more in depth sometime,” she told Tacitus. “I was interested in what you had to say about his wife.”

“You read the book?”

The President laughed. She
had
read the book, lingering over the war chapters, where she admired how Nimitz had persevered, taking calculated risks but always sticking to his vision.

Set a course, and move ahead. Good advice for anyone, even a President.

Delay Iran by whatever means. Short-term risks that could pay big dividends were better than no risk that offered none. That was what Nimitz had to say to her.

“We will talk,” she said, patting Tacitus on the shoulder and starting across the room. “Thank you. One of my people will get in touch.”

Her husband was waiting. “Calling it a night?” he asked when she arrived.

“I’m thinking of it. There was a curator I wanted to see.”

“Sandy Goldman, in the blue dress over there. George Washington expert.”

“You read me like a book.”

“Thank you, Madam President.”

“I think I’ll have someone sneak her up to the library for a little chat. What do you think?”

“You’re the President.”

“Could you whisper in her ear? I have to talk to Blitz for a minute.”

Her husband slipped away. Blitz was only a few feet away, talking with two men from the Dallas Museum of Art. As President Todd walked in his direction, Blitz excused himself. They stepped aside.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” she told him.

“Not a problem.”

“It should move ahead.”

“What made you decide? The Israelis?”

“I haven’t talked to them about it, and don’t intend to.”

“What then?”

“Admiral Nimitz.”

Todd cherished the confused look on Blitz’s face all the way upstairs.