Drone Threat

18

“What’s your opinion, Troy?” Lane asked.

Pearce frowned, still processing. He started out his CIA career as an analyst, not a fighter. Combat required instant decisions. Thoughtful data interpretation took a little more time.

“The language is generally right. Almost reads like a fatwa except there are no suras referenced. No reason to think it’s not a genuine ISIS threat.”

“We’re inclined to agree,” Lane said.

Grafton nodded gravely, fighting back a smile. The timing of the drone threat couldn’t have been better. It’s almost like I’d planned it myself.

“There’s an identical note in Arabic,” Eaton said. “I’ve sent it over to the ISIS desk at the CIA for exegetical analysis. Maybe there are grammar or syntactical clues as to the authenticity.”

“How did the Arabic read to you?” Pearce asked. He knew the retired army general was fluent.

“I’m no linguist but it seemed grammatically correct. Sophisticated syntax. Educated. An adult, I presume. Native speaker would be my guess. But that’s all I could glean from a quick read. The two pages were laser-printed so we won’t have any clues from handwriting analysis.”

“Printed? Did it arrive in the mail?”

Lane chuckled. “Airmail. A drone, actually. Landed on the South Lawn basketball court. The damn thing looks like something you’d buy down at HobbyTown.” Lane picked up a tablet from the coffee table and handed it to Pearce. The Secret Service had sent over photos.

“That’s a cool toy. It looks like it has VTOL capabilities. Helicopter means you can land or take off from anywhere, forward flying increases speed and drops the energy cost in half. Where is it? I’d like to see it.”

“It’s over at the FBI lab right now,” Eaton said. “They’re doing a complete forensic workup on the vehicle, the letter — what you have in your hand there is a photocopy — and the flag. It might be a day or two before we get any hard clues, if there are any to get.” The attorney general was out of town at the moment and out of the loop, so Eaton was taking point with the FBI at Lane’s request — an unusual but temporary necessity. He wanted to keep the circle small for now. No need to drag the assistant attorney general into this.

“The FBI lab is the best in the world,” Chandler said.

“Agreed. But it isn’t like those idiot TV shows,” Eaton said. “There aren’t any magic machines to pull fingerprints off an eyelash. We might come up empty if there’s a pro behind this. We’re also running through the SIM cards to see what images were recorded by the two onboard cameras.”

“I’ve read that a large number of hobby drones get out of the range of their radio controllers. Maybe it’s just that?” Grafton said.

“They’re called flyaways,” Pearce said. “But the newer systems are designed to land immediately or return home if that happens.”

“So you’re certain this isn’t a flyaway?” Chandler asked.

“Not at all. But if you check the make and model of the drone you can find out how it’s programmed. Just call the manufacturer. But by the looks of it I’d say it was one of the newer ones. I doubt it was a flyaway, but we might as well double-check.”

“What if this thing wasn’t purchased at a store? Just assembled from parts?” Grafton asked.

“You can still check the part numbers on the components. I’d focus on the flight controller. There’s a slim chance that sourcing the components could lead you in the right direction — assuming the same person who bought the parts also assembled them and was kind enough to have it all sent to a single physical address.”

“Already on the to-do list,” Eaton said. “Like you say, it’s a long shot, but the FBI has one hell of a sniper rifle.”

“Could this drone be connected to yesterday’s subway attack?” Chandler asked.

“Anything’s possible, but I doubt it. Yesterday was a protest attack. No threats were made, no demands issued,” Eaton said.

“I agree. The operator yesterday used a controller and line-of-sight navigation. Not nearly as sophisticated as today’s event,” Pearce said.

“I’ve sent over some agents this morning to have a little conversation with our subway attackers,” Eaton said. The college-age anarchists had posted their drone gas attack videos on social media anonymously, but the FBI quickly found and arrested them. “Maybe they heard something on the grapevine. Or maybe we can get them to put their ears to the ground in exchange for lighter sentences.”

Lane glanced around the room. “Assuming this is a genuine ISIS threat, how credible is it?”

“What would be the point of making a worthless threat? Wouldn’t that just make them look weak?” Grafton asked.

“Maybe it’s a test to see how we’ll react,” Chandler said. “Probing our defenses.”

“Or lack thereof,” Grafton said. “How did that thing even get over the fence?”

“Too small to detect on radar,” Pearce said.

“But commercial drones are supposed to be programmed with firmware that won’t allow them to navigate near high-value targets,” Eaton said. “It’s called ‘geo-fencing.’”

“Must have been overwritten or deprogrammed,” Pearce said.

“And what about the other anti-drone defenses? The signal-disruption stuff?” Chandler asked.

“You said there were cameras onboard?” Pearce asked.

Eaton nodded.

“Have your people download the navigation software. My guess is those cameras were used for a visual navigation system to locate physical waypoints. You should have the FBI check for inertial navigation gear, too.”

“Accelerometers? Gyroscopes?” Lane asked. “Is that even possible? The ones on my aircraft were huge.”

“Everything’s smaller these days. Even your smartphone has them. But the sophisticated kind of inertial guidance system you need to fly an aircraft like this is no bigger than a ring box. Wiring it into a piece of autopiloting software is no problem if you know how to do the programming.”

“And ISIS has access to that kind of skill?” Lane asked.

“Without question,” Pearce said. “A thirteen-year-old can do it. Go to any online DIY website. The do-it-yourself crowd is very generous with the info, and the hardware is widely available.”

“That’s terrifying,” Grafton said.

Eaton tapped notes into her iPad. “I’ll have the software techs check on that right now.”

“Landing on the basketball court was smart,” Pearce added. “Far enough away that it didn’t appear to be a threat. Otherwise one of the Secret Service people might have shot it down with a service weapon.”

“But close enough on White House property to get our attention and make sure it got delivered,” Lane added.

“Smart thugs,” Chandler said.

Pearce nodded. “Smarter than you know.” He picked up the tablet again. Stared at the picture of the VTOL aircraft. “Whoever sent that letter was sending an even stronger message by flying this thing.”

Chandler frowned. “How so?”

“These things are small, low-tech, programmable, cheap. You can get them anywhere or build them yourself. They’re capable of small but significant payloads, especially with extended battery packs. You can’t see them, which means you can’t stop them. Whoever deployed this is telling us that he can strike anywhere at any time.”

“So you believe this really is a credible threat?” Lane asked.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“What should we do about it?”

“Ground every one of them until they’re all registered and accounted for,” Chandler said. “Better yet, just get rid of the things.”

Pearce couldn’t believe Chandler wanted to continue the argument from the other day. “There are more than seven hundred thousand assembled commercial drones sold every year in this country alone. You can’t possibly locate them all. More important, why ground them?”

“Because they’re a damn threat,” Chandler snapped.

“There isn’t an industry in the world that isn’t rushing as fast as it can toward automation. Drones are used in a wide variety of vital economic, research, and rescue activities. We have no idea how far or fast this technology will go, but stopping it now would be like banning the personal computer in the 1980s. Our competitors will lap us economically and militarily if we don’t keep spurring this technology.”

“Even these civilian models?” Eaton asked.

“You never know where the next big thing is coming from. It was the private sector that developed the Predator drone, not the military.”

“Then we need to at least get all of the pilots licensed and the drones registered, just like cars,” Chandler said.

Pearce stifled a laugh. “You think an asshole like al-Mahdi is going to run down to the DMV to register his drones so we can keep track of them?”

“So what’s your solution?” Chandler asked.

“Right now there isn’t one,” Pearce said. He didn’t even want to think about small drones that could easily incorporate inexpensive stealth design features like wave-bouncing facets or even sophisticated radar-absorbing materials. Both would make them even more difficult to detect.

“Maybe we should send out some kind of alert to local police departments and state agencies. Give them some kind of heads-up for extra precaution, especially around infrastructure — dams, power stations, nuclear facilities,” Grafton said.

Pearce shook his head. “I wouldn’t waste the manpower. It’s not as if law enforcement doesn’t already have its hands full these days. This threat is too nonspecific and the points of vulnerability are nearly infinite. If the locals are doing their jobs, they’re already on alert for suspicious activity. Tell them to watch out for suspicious drone activity and they might accidentally start arresting innocent real estate agents, farmers, and park rangers. Besides, if you put out a bulletin like that, the press will get wind of it.”

“Agreed,” Eaton said.

“Should we cancel Pearce’s hearing this morning until we get a handle on the situation?” Chandler asked.

The president shook his head. “No. There’s nothing to get a handle on and I need Troy more than ever, especially in an official capacity. Canceling at this late hour will send the wrong message about our intentions — might even raise suspicions. Right now I want everything we’ve discussed to stay between us and off the record. No point in raising alarms or causing a general panic.”

“And we still haven’t officially ruled out the possibility that this was just some kind of sophisticated hoax or a publicity stunt,” Eaton said.

“Fair enough,” Lane said. “Though I’m strongly leaning in the other direction.”

Grafton nodded in agreement with Lane. So did Chandler. “Feels like a genuine threat to me.”

“We’ve asked local law enforcement to scan their security cameras and try to get a visual on the drone’s flight path. They’re mostly pointed at the street but we might get lucky. If we can trace its launch point, we might get another clue about who’s behind it,” Eaton said.

“Even if the threat is real, you can’t comply with this demand,” Pearce said. “Ever.”

“Hell no.” Lane picked up the paper again and studied it. “It would send the worst possible signal to our enemies and allies alike. All hell would break loose. And if it turns out to be a hoax, after all, I’d be a laughingstock.” He glanced at Chandler. “How long would it take for your friends on the Hill to file an impeachment resolution after a FUBAR like that?”

“Half of a New York minute, and there’d be fistfights in the aisle to see who got to file it first.”

There was a soft knock on the door before it swung open. The tall Secret Service agent Pearce had seen before stepped in, carrying a sealed paper evidence bag.

“This just arrived from the lab, Mr. President. The contents have been cleared.”

“Thank you.” Lane took the bag and she left. Lane opened it. Stood up. Pulled out the familiar black flag with the Shahada in white Arabic text above the seal of Muhammed. He shook it out and displayed it for the others.

“ISIS calls it the Black Banner,” Eaton said. “It’s the most famous symbol of terror in the world now.”

Lane shook his head. “It’s a big piece of black toilet paper as far as I’m concerned.”

“We need to bomb these savages back into the Middle Ages, where they belong,” Chandler said.

“They’re already halfway there,” Pearce said. He thought about Tariq again, and the women ISIS had butchered that night not so long ago. He wished now he’d taken the ISIS fighters out preemptively with the Heron’s missiles before they had had the chance to murder. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Lane wadded up the flag and tossed it onto his chair. “Fuck ’em. We’ll just have to wait and see what their next play is. Until then, we’ll stay the course. Mel, you’re on point for this. Keep us all posted as things develop on your end. And please, everyone, let’s keep a tight lid on this. You especially, Troy — the Senate subcommittee will go apeshit if they get wind of this.”

“Of course,” Pearce said. He saw something familiar in Lane’s eyes. He’d seen it before in combat, many times.

The look of a man about to charge in, knowing his number’s up.