Текст книги "Drone Strike"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

The faintest of smiles appeared on Grease’s lips.

6

CIA campus, Virginia

“SPACECRAFT TWO IS SIXTY SECONDS TO TARGET area,” said Colonel Schaffer, the Air Force liaison tracking the X-37B. “They need a final go to launch.”

Breanna glanced at Jonathon Reid, then back at the screen showing where Turk was. The pilot was wearing a small ring that allowed the Whiplash network to locate him at all times.

“Has Gorud sent the signal?” she asked Reid.

“Still waiting,” he replied, his voice so soft she could barely hear it over the whisper of the air conditioner. It was a habit of his—the more tense he felt, the quieter he made his voice. Undoubtedly it had served the old CIA hand very well when he was in the field.

Gorud was supposed to signal that the operation was proceeding by calling a prearranged number in Egypt that they were monitoring. The number belonged to an Iranian who spied on the West, a nice little piece of misdirection cooked up by Gorud himself. They expected the call when they boarded the helicopter, but though Turk was clearly aboard and moving, there had been no signal.

Breanna stared at the screen, watching as Turk moved away from the airport. They didn’t have real-time visual of the operation, having decided that even a stealthy UAV might give them away if something went wrong. Iran, using Russian technology, had already demonstrated the ability to track American drones.

There was something wrong about the way the aircraft was moving—it didn’t seem like a helicopter.

“Is the X-37 close enough to Birjand to pick up that aircraft?” Breanna asked Schaffer.

“Negative. Not even close. Is there a problem?”

“Turk’s supposed to be in a helicopter.”

“What’s wrong, Breanna?” asked Reid.

“I’m pretty sure Turk’s in a plane, not a helicopter as planned.”

“Maybe they had to change their arrangement,” said Reid. “Will he be able to control the UAVs?”

“He should. The question is whether they can stay in the area, and do so without attracting too much attention.”

“Maybe Gorud thought the plane would be less noticeable,” said Reid.

At one of the original briefing sessions on the planning, someone had mentioned that there were often helicopter flights in the area; she remembered quite clearly because she’d asked a question about it.

“I’m not trying to second-guess their operation,” she told Reid. “I am concerned because we haven’t confirmed that it is our aircraft. Gorud hasn’t checked in.”

“Understood.”

“Ma’am.” Schaffer cleared his throat. “If you want a launch, you need to authorize. The window on this pass is only forty-five seconds.”

If she authorized the launch and Turk wasn’t in a position to “catch” the UAVs, the mission would be aborted and the aircraft lost. The operation would have to wait another twenty-four hours, and the margin of error would be cut in half.

Breanna looked again at the screen plotting Turk’s location. He might be heading for the target. Or he might be going to Tehran—the logical place to bring a prisoner.

Something her father had told her years before popped into her head: There are always reasons to put off a mission, Bree. A lot of them, and they’re always good ones. Going ahead is always the lonelier way. But it’s almost always the better choice.

“Launch,” she told Schaffer.

7

Iran

TURK BRACED HIMSELF AS THE CESSNA BANKED sharply. It turned nearly 270 degrees in what felt like a half second, dropping at the same time. His stomach felt as if it had hopped up to his eyeballs.

“What the hell are we doing?” he demanded as the pilot leveled off.

“We have to avoid being detected,” said the man in the right front seat. While Turk labeled him the Israeli because of what Gorud had said earlier, his accent sounded Eastern European. But then those two things were not necessarily a contradiction.

“You haven’t told me what happened to the helicopter.”

“This will have to do,” said the Israeli.

“What happened?” snapped Turk.

“It’s immaterial,” said the Israeli. “This is what we have. Do the job.”

“Listen—”

Grease patted him twice on his leg, silently trying to calm him. The pilot started speaking quickly in Farsi.

“Let’s all relax,” said Grease, first in English, then Farsi. He turned to Turk. “You OK?”

“He’s going to have to stay very close to the site,” Turk said. The plane dipped sharply. “And he’s going to have to fly a hell of a lot better than he’s flying.”

“He’s a good pilot,” said the Israeli.

“And I’m a good truck driver.”

They leveled off, the plane steadying. They were flying fast and low, and it was possible that the pilot was just jittery because he was a little nervous—the Israeli didn’t exactly put people at ease. Even a light plane, if unfamiliar, could be a handful. Turk tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, leaning back in his seat and recalculating the mission in his head, rearranging what he would have to do.

As long as they stayed in the general area, they’d be OK. He’d have the Cessna fly a long, continuous circuit as close to the target as the pilot dared. Once he acquired the UAVs, things would happen pretty fast.

Turk checked his watch. They were four hours from the rendezvous time. The mission plan had called for the helicopter to take about two hours getting to the refuel site; the target area was another hour and a half away.

“Are we stopping to refuel?” Turk asked.

“Nonstop,” said the Israeli. “Straight line.”

Turk leaned forward, checking the gauges. The pilot had the throttle at max; they were pushing 140 knots.

“Set your speed to 110 knots,” Turk said, calculating their flight time. “One hundred and ten knots.”

The pilot made no move to comply.

“Tell him to drop his speed to 110 knots,” Turk told the Israeli. “Or I’ll strangle him.”

Grease glanced at Turk, then took out his pistol.

The Israeli said something to the pilot. The pilot disagreed, and they started to argue.

“Look, we don’t want to get there too soon,” said Turk. “If 110 knots is too slow for the aircraft, then we’ll have to change course and fly around a bit. But he’s heading straight for the target area. I don’t know what you’ve told him, or what you think we’re doing, but we don’t want to get there too soon. Do you understand? This isn’t a race. We have to be there in a precise window of time.”

“He says we have to maintain speed,” said the Israeli harshly.

“The pilot does exactly what the captain says,” Grease announced, raising the Iranian-made Sig and nudging it against the edge of the pilot’s neck, “or he dies.”

The pilot glanced back nervously. The plane edged with him, reacting to his hand on the yoke.

“Don’t be a fool,” hissed the Israeli. “You’ll kill us all.”

“He’s going too fast,” said Turk. “Tell him to relax. Tell him I’m a pilot, too. I know what I’m talking about.”

“He knows where he has to go and when to get there,” said the Israeli, only slightly less antagonistic. “He wants a cushion.”

“We can’t afford a cushion. This isn’t a transport. Tell him there’s a penalty for getting there too soon.”

The Israeli frowned.

“Does he know what we’re doing?” Turk asked. “Do you?”

“He knows the very minimum he needs to know. As do I.”

The pilot said something. His voice was high-pitched, jittery. A thick ribbon of sweat poured down the side of his face. Turk thought of finding a place for them to land and taking over flying the plane. But he couldn’t do that and guide the UAVs.

“Tell him I know that he’s nervous, but I trust that he can fly the plane,” said Turk. “Tell him I’m a test pilot. And I like his skills. Tell him to relax, just relax and fly. He’s a good pilot. A very good pilot.”

The last bit was a lie—a rather large one—but Turk’s goal was to get the man to trust him, and accurately evaluating how he was flying would not do that.

The pilot nodded, though there was no sign that he relaxed.

“Tell him that we’ll be flying a low figure eight when we get to the area,” said Turk. “Even if we get there when planned, we’ll have to do that for more than a half hour. That’s a long time. We don’t want to be detected. The longer we’re there, the more chance of that—that’s why we want to slow down. And it’ll conserve fuel.”

“I want him to know the minimum necessary,” answered the Israeli. “Telling him he has to orbit for a half hour isn’t going to calm him down.”

“Tell him whatever the hell you want,” said Grease, “but make him do what Turk says.”

“I think we should all calm down,” said the Israeli. “There’s no need for excitement.”

“Then let’s follow the captain’s game plan. To the letter,” said Grease.

8

CIA campus, Virginia

“THE CALL HAS BEEN MADE,” SAID REID, RISING. “That’s their plane.”

Relieved, Breanna looked at the large area map of Iran projected on the front wall. They had hours to go; she knew from experience the time would alternately drag and race, as if her perceptions were split in two.

“Breanna, could we speak?” said Reid, touching her elbow.

“Sure.”

Breanna got up and led Reid down the hall to her office. The lights flipped on as she entered. She saw the small clock on the credenza at the back, thought of her daughter, and wondered what subject she would be studying now.

Just starting English. They always did that before lunch at eleven.

Breanna stopped in front of her desk, standing at the side of the room. She’d been sitting too long; she felt like standing.

“Gorud made a call from the airport,” said Reid. He stood as well. The gray-haired CIA veteran seemed a little more tired than normal, but there was good reason for that. “After the plane took off.”

“Plane?”

“There was a problem and they had to substitute. There wasn’t enough space in the aircraft. Gorud opted to stay on the ground. It was either him or Grease.”

“I see.”

“He decided it was important enough to break the planned protocol. That’s why it took so long. I just wanted you to know. I’ve got to go back over to the big building,” Reid added, using his slang for the Agency’s administrative headquarters across the way. “I have to run back for a quick meeting. I’ll be here again in time for the actual show.”

“OK.”

“You’ll alert the President?” said Reid.

“Of course. I better get back inside. The WB-57 will be launching from Afghanistan soon.”

9

Iran

TURK RAN THROUGH ALL THE TESTS A THIRD TIME, RECEIVING one more confirmation that everything was in top order and ready. The main screen on the controller, which resembled a laptop, was currently displaying a situation map, with their location plotted against a satellite image. He tapped the window to the left, expanding it and then selecting the preselect for the target area. The image that appeared looked at first glance like a sepia-toned photo of capillaries crisscrossing a human heart. Only after he zoomed the image did it start to look something like it was: a synthesized image of the target bunker, taken in real time.

The image was being provided by a WB-57, flying at high altitude just over the border from Iraq. Owned by NASA but currently being flown by an Air Force pilot, the WB-57 was a greatly modified Cold War era B-57 Canberra. Originally designed as a bomber, the high-flying, ultrastable plane had proven adept at reconnaissance from the earliest days of its career. After their retirement from the bomber fleet, the planes continued to do yeoman’s service during the Cold War, snapping photos of missile sites and other installations. When no longer useful to the Air Force, a handful of planes were taken in by NASA, which made them into high-flying scientific platforms, gathering data for a number of scientific projects.

This WB-57 had been borrowed from NASA for a more ominous assignment. Inside its belly was an earth-penetrating system that could map deep-underground bunkers in real time. The gear would be used to monitor the nano-UAVs as they penetrated the target.

Related to the technology developed for the HAARP program, the complex monitoring system used the auroral electrojet—a charged-particle stream in the ionosphere high above the earth—to send a burst of dispersed ELF, or extremely low frequency waves, into the bunker. The WB-57 tracked the waves, using them to draw pictures of what was happening beneath the earth’s surface. The angle and direction of the waves meant the WB-57 could stay a considerable distance away from the bunker.

Even at 60,000 feet the plane was vulnerable to all manner of defenses, from Iran’s recently acquired Russian S-200s and even older Hawk missiles left from the Shah’s era. And while it could provide detailed images of what was underground, its sophisticated equipment could not provide even the fuzziest picture of the ground’s surface. For that Turk knew he would have to look at the video provided by the Hydras as they approached the target.

He fiddled back and forth with the screen configuration, trying to decide how much priority to give the optical view of the lead UAVs. He tried his favored arrangement for the Sabre UAVs, dividing the screen into two unequal parts, the right side about three times as large as the left. He then created a pair of panels on the right, with an area plot at the bottom and the larger, forward video feed at the top. The left panels were split into four equal boxes, each to receive a feed from a different UAV. That would make it easier to switch as the mission progressed.

The control unit bounced on Turk’s knees as the Cessna jerked upward. They were flying in a mountain range, at roughly 8,000 feet, which left a hundred feet and sometimes far less between their wings and the nearby mountaintops. The pilot was even more nervous than he’d been when they took off, and on top of that appeared physically exhausted. He kept glancing to his right as he flew, checking on the Israeli in the right seat but rarely saying a word.

The Israeli said even less. His attitude made the severe Gorud look like a carnival clown high on laughing gas. Turk had begun thinking of him as the Grim Reaper, but grim barely described his demeanor.

“This shows where we are, right?” Grease asked, pointing at the lower map on the control unit.

“Not exactly,” answered Turk. “It shows where the target area is. Then when I add this, we get a GPS indicator to show that we’re in it. But I don’t want to query too often, on the off chance that the Iranians will monitor the signal.”

“Is that likely?”

Turk shrugged. It wasn’t, but at this point the fewer chances the better.

“So we’re close?”

“We’re a little ahead of schedule.”

“That’s not good?” Grease said, reading Turk’s frown.

“We’ll have to keep flying around. I’m afraid of being seen. There are radars all along this area, and a major antiaircraft site here at Natanz. Not that they’d need much to shoot us down.”

The antiaircraft sites had all been marked on a special map in the briefing files, which were destroyed when Grease torched the pad computer. But in truth the location was immaterial—the Cessna was already well within their range. The success of the plan hinged on staying low, near the mountaintops. As long as they did, the radars associated with the missile batteries were unlikely to see them.

“You’re going to have to hold the plane a lot steadier once we reach the target area,” Turk told the pilot as the aircraft bucked. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The pilot didn’t answer.

“Tell him,” Turk told the Israeli.

“He knows.”

“Tell him anyway.”

He did. The pilot replied curtly, apparently not agreeing with whatever the man said.

“He suggested I fly the plane myself,” said the Israeli.

Turk laughed. It was the first time the man actually sounded like a pilot.

He reached forward and patted the man on the shoulder. Then he took the folded map on the board clipped to the instrument panel.

“This is where we have to stay,” he said, drawing the safe area within five miles of the target. He showed it to the pilot and then to the Israeli. “We fly a steady figure eight and hold altitude. We’re on the west side of the mountains. We have to stay steady until I say we go home. It’ll be a while.”

The Israeli explained. The pilot nodded.

“When he comes over the peak ahead, tell him to bank southward,” Turk told the Israeli. “Take it south gently, and stay in the area I’ve outlined.”

As bright as the stars were, the ground was pitch-black, with no lights visible anywhere nearby. The city of Badroud lay some twenty miles beyond the peak, off their left wing. Turk expected to see a yellow glow in that direction as they turned. When he didn’t, he checked their position again. The GPS locator in the control unit had them exactly twenty-two miles from Badroud, as did his handheld unit. They were precisely on the course.

Early, though—the UAVs wouldn’t be in range for twenty-two more minutes.

“We’re looking very good,” he announced, deciding to look on the positive side. “Just keep flying the way we planned, and everything will be fine.”

10

Omidiyeh, Iran

CAPTAIN PARSA VAHID TOOK HIS HELMET IN THE CROOK of his arm as he got out of the Khodro pickup truck, balancing the rest of his gear in his right hand as he reached for his briefcase with his left. Then he spun and kicked the door closed, walking toward the front of the ready hangar. The nose of his MiG-29 sat just inside the open archway. The aircraft was armed and fueled, sitting on ready-standby in the special hangar.

The pilot who’d been on watch until now was standing on the tarmac outside the building. He shook his head as Vahid approached.

“You’re late, Parsa,” said the pilot.

“Five minutes,” insisted Vahid. “I needed to eat.”

“You’re so busy in the day that you couldn’t eat earlier?”

Vahid shrugged. “If there had been a call before now, it would have been yours.”

“Phhhh. A call. The dead will rise before we fly in combat,” said the other pilot disgustedly, starting for the pickup truck. “The Israelis are cowards.”

“And the Americans, too?”

“Worse.”

“Good evening, Captain,” said Sergeant Hami, the night crew chief. “We are ready to fly tonight?”

“Ready, Chief. My plane?”

“Ho-ho,” said Hami, his jowls shaking back and forth. “We are in top shape and ready to fly when the signal comes.”

“So it’s tonight, then?”

“With God’s will.”

Vahid walked over and put his gear down on a table at the side of the hangar. A pair of metal chairs flanked the table; he and Hami would customarily play cards there for most of the watch. But first he would inspect the aircraft.

“A nice night to fly,” said Sergeant Hami, waiting as he set down his helmet and personal gear. His accent was thick with Tehran, reminding Vahid of the city’s many charms. “You will shoot down some Americans, yes?”

“If I have the chance.”

The nights were always like this: bravado and enthusiasm at first, then dull boredom as the hours dragged on. The first night, Vahid had sat in the cockpit, waiting to take off in an instant. Even the base commander now realized that was foolish. The U.S. forces in the Gulf were paper ghosts, strong in theory but never present. They kept well away from Iranian borders.

Of course, the same might be said of the Iranian air force, even Vahid’s squadron. The four MiG-29s, the most advanced in the Iranian air force, had been moved to Omidiyeh air base six weeks before. The base had been largely abandoned in the years following the Iran-Iraq war; while still theoretically open for commercial traffic, the only civilians Vahid had seen were the members of a glider club, who inspected but did not fly their planes the first week of the squadron’s arrival. Since then the base had been empty, except for military personnel.

He began his walk-around at the MiG’s nose, touching her chin for good luck—a superstition handed down to him by his first flight instructor. The instructor had flown in the Iran-Iraq war, where he had served briefly as a wingman to Jalil Zandi, the legendary ace of the Iranian air force.

Even without the connection to greatness, Vahid would have venerated the instructor, Colonel One Eye. (The nickname was not literally accurate, but came from his habit of closing one eye while shooting on a rifle range.) The colonel could fly everything the Iranian air force possessed, from F-86 Sabres, now long retired, to MiG-29s. Like Zandi, One Eye had flown Tomcats during the war against Iraq, recording a kill against an Iraqi Mirage.

Vahid stopped to admire the plane. The curved cowl at the wing root gave it a sleek, athletic look; for the pilot, it evoked the look of a tiger, springing to the kill. The export-version MiG was one of thirty acquired by Iran in the mid-1990s; the air force now had just over a dozen in flying condition.

A siren sounded in the distance. Vahid froze.

A fire?

No.

No!

“The alert!” yelled Sergeant Hami. “The alert!”

Vahid grabbed his helmet from the table, then ran to the ladder at the side of the plane. As he climbed upward, a van with the rest of the ground crew raced across the concrete apron, jerking to a stop in front of the hangar. Hami helped Vahid into the cockpit, while the arriving crewmen began pulling the stops away from the plane and opening the rear door of the hangar.

Two nights before, a false alert had gotten Vahid out of the hangar, but he was called back before reaching the runway, some 1,000 meters away: the radars had picked up an Iranian passenger flight in the Gulf and, briefly, mistaken it for an American spy plane. He expected this was something along the same lines. Still expecting the flashing light at the top of the hangar to snap off, he powered up the MiG, turning over one engine and then quickly ramping the other. Hami, back on the ground, shook his fist at him, giving him a thumbs-up.

Vahid began rolling forward. The tower barked at him, demanding he get airborne. Ignoring them for a moment, he took stock of his controls. Then, at the signal from Sergeant Hami, he went heavy on his engines. The plane strained against her brakes. The gauges pegged with perfect reads. The MiG wanted to fly.

“Shahin One to Tower, request permission to move to runway,” said Vahid calmly.

“Go! Go!” answered the controller.

The MiG jerked forward, overanxious. At the other end of the base three pilots were running from the ready room. Their planes would be a few minutes behind. It was Vahid’s job to sort things out before they were committed to the battle.

“Cleared for immediate takeoff,” said the controller.

Vahid didn’t bother to pause as he came to the end of the runway—there were no other flights here, and it was clear he was under orders to get airborne immediately. Selecting full military power, he started the MiG down the runway. The screech of the engines built to a fierce whine. He felt himself starting to lift.

Airborne, he made a quick check of his readouts, then cleaned his landing gear into the aircraft. The MiG leapt forward, rocketing into the night.

Moments later the local air commander came over the radio, giving him his instructions directly.

“You are to fly north by northeast,” said the general, “in the direction of Natanz. There are reports of a low-flying airplane near the Naeen train station. We will turn you over to Major Javadpour for a vector.”

“Acknowledged.”

Vahid had to look at his paper map to find Naeen. It was a dot in the mountains north of the city of Nain, a small town camped at the intersection of several highways that transcribed the Iranian wilderness. He was some five hundred kilometers away.

Major Javadpour directed Vahid to the west of the sighting—he wanted him to fly close to Natanz, one of the country’s main nuclear research sites.

Gravity pushed Vahid against the seat as he goosed his afterburners. At full speed he was just over ten minutes away.

“We have no radar contacts at this time,” said Javadpour.

“No contacts?”

“We have two eyewitnesses who saw and heard planes. But no radar.”

“What sort of aircraft did they see?” asked Vahid.

The controller didn’t answer right away, apparently gathering information. Vahid pictured a flight of American B-2 Stealth Bombers, flying low over the terrain. They would pop up before the attack.

He might be too late to stop them. But he would surely destroy them. He had two R-27 air-to-air medium-range missiles and six R-73s, all Russian made, under his wings. The R-27s were radar missiles; he had been told they would have trouble finding B-2s unless he was relatively close, but this didn’t bother him at all. The B-2 was slower than his plane, and far less maneuverable. As for the R-73s, they were heat-seekers, very dependable when fired in a rear-quarter attack.

They might have escorts. If so, he would ignore them—the bombers were the far more important target.

Vahid continued to climb and accelerate.

“We still have no contacts at this time. Negative,” said Javadpour, coming back on the line. “The eyewitnesses describe a small plane, possibly a drone, very low to the ground.”

“A small plane?”

“Single engine. It may be civilian. That’s all the information I have at this time,” added the controller. “Maintain your course. I show you reaching the area in six minutes.”

Damn, thought Vahid, another false alarm.