Drone Threat

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.”