Sting of the Drone

34

^{SUNDAY, DECEMBER 13}

^{SOUTHWEST GATE, THE WHITE HOUSE}

^{WASHINGTON, DC}

Three large, green helicopters took off in sequence, headed south. It happened every Sunday afternoon. The First Family returning from Camp David, where the President and his wife liked to take the twins for the weekend. Ray Bowman was not allowed to enter until the “movement” was complete. As the three ships moved off, he inserted his badge into the card reader and punched in his PIN, nodded to the Uniformed Secret Service officer and walked up the snow-lined West Executive Avenue.

It was what one National Security Advisor had called the broadest narrow street in the world. On one side was more power than any one person had anywhere else, but also unrealistic expectation of what could be done with it. On the other side were the staff in the massive Eisenhower Executive Office Building, who knew the limits of power because they could never get everything done that the people across the alley wanted accomplished.

As he walked under the awning and into the ground floor of the West Wing, Ray thought about the job of the National Security Advisor. It had incredible scope and enormous influence, without all of the glare of media attention and the harassment of Congressional hearings. He wondered if, one day, he might be able to convince a President to let him have the job. To get there, he had to avoid disasters on his watch at the PEG. He knew that was not going to be easy.

Winston Burrell met him in a small conference room in the Situation Room. It seemed more like a private dining room for four, maybe six, except that in addition to all the dark wood there were lots of digital clocks and a very large flat screen. Burrell looked like an old city political boss, a rotund man in his early sixties, sitting in his little back room on a Sunday afternoon, receiving his ward leaders one at a time. In a way, Ray thought, that is what Winston Burrell was, more political than strategic, more boss than CEO. He saw his job as dealing with constituencies, here and abroad. For Burrell, Ray was an enforcer, someone he could trust to deal with difficult problems, discreetly, not someone he ever had to put on a State Dinner guest list.

“Some guardian angel you are,” Burrell began.

“I know.”

“Let’s see, we have six hearings scheduled on the Hill on our drone policies. The UN has created a Special Rapporteur, whatever the fuck that is, to keep an eye on our use of drones. She’s in Geneva, must be a cushy job. And the AG tells me there are now twelve distinct lawsuits filed in various courts around the country to stop us killing Americans with drones, to stop us from violating international law and Human Rights agreements we are party to, and to get all sorts of data on our use of flying killer robots under the Freedom of Information Act.”

Ray poured himself a coffee from the decanter in the middle of the conference table. “To say nothing of the media frenzy. Especially WWN. It’s a ratings thing for them. Now 60 Minutes is piling on, planning an entire show on drones next week. And our best pilot just got flattened by a semi on the interstate. It’s all going great, Win. Got anything else you want me to look after while I’m at it?”

“Is there any good news?” Burrell asked.

“Some. We seem to have scared the terrorists—at least, they haven’t used a Stinger against us in a while, since we started firing back at the shooters. We foiled an attempt to hijack another drone and shot down the aircraft involved, linked it to ex-Pakistani intelligence by the way.”

“I’ve been thinking of designating them, ISI, as a terrorist organization,” Burrell observed. “What’d you think? State is bullshit with me for suggesting it.”

Ray decided to let that question pass. “Drones are still the only game in town, Win. Without them Qadhafi would still be running around in the desert in Chad or someplace plotting a comeback. Al Qaeda would still have a Shura Council of experienced managers in Pakistan. The Taliban would be running even more of Afghanistan. Half a dozen Americans would still be hostage in Somalia and the President of Yemen would be toast, literally.”

“You don’t have to sell me, Ray. It’s the only thing CIA can do. And the Pentagon says it’s either drones or it’s huge commando raids with SEALs, or better yet, plastering the countryside with B-2s. But there have been too many mistakes. You know what the President said when I told him drones were the only way we had to deal with al Qaeda in Yemen? He said drones were doing the recruiting for al Qaeda in Yemen. He’d heard it on television. It could be right, you know.”

“I will get an analysis, but I doubt it’s right,” Ray replied.

“You remember that the Agency had a very sensitive human source who tipped them off about the gathering in Vienna? They won’t even tell me anything about who the source is or how they got him. My guess is that the Jords or the Brits, maybe the Indians or the Emiratis developed the source, not CIA.”

“Well, whoever it was, he was right about Vienna. The group we hit were Qazzani’s men in Europe, but they were planning to do some contract work for al Qaeda, bombing German subways,” Ray recalled. “What’s that got to do with anything now?”

“The same source, whoever that may be, has reconnected and sent word that as a result of our attack in Vienna, there is a major plot afoot to seek revenge. Two groups are operating independently, but both will strike simultaneously, allegedly in the U.S. Two falcons, whatever that means. The source personally overheard that phrase ‘two falcons.’ That’s all we’ve got, no where, when, how, who,” Burrell said.

“That squares with another report we had last summer about something big happening around Christmas,” Ray replied. “So, maybe, just maybe, something’s going to happen somewhere, possibly someday in the next couple of weeks, but we don’t know what it is or who is going to do it. Sounds like the summer of 2001. Nothing actionable, but be afraid. Be very afraid. Great.” Ray replied.

“Yeah, well I am not telling the President or anybody else to deliver that message to the public, not yet. The FBI is chasing down all their informants, shaking all the trees. Maybe it will turn out to be nothing. Meanwhile, I want you to stay focused on saving the drone program. I assume you know about the latest Inspector General investigation, the Red Sea incident?” Burrell asked.

Ray shook his head. “No, what incident?”

“Seems like there were civilians, including kids, killed when we blew up that yacht with the AQAP and Shabab summit going on it. The Pentagon IG says there was a cover-up, focusing in on the Air Force pilot running the Vegas squadron. Was he the one that just got hit by the truck?”

“Wasn’t him,” Ray replied, “but it sounds like he is about to be.”

Burrell slipped on his half glasses, balancing them near the tip of his nose. “We have to announce some changes, buy us some time.”

“What have you got in mind?” Ray knew what was coming was not good. He stifled the obvious questions: Who wrote this paper you are reading from? Why wasn’t I involved in whatever process came up with the “changes?”

Winston Burrell slipped on his half glasses to read from the file. “So right now we have two kinds of targets, people who are called High Value Individuals, and places which have the signature of terrorist bases, which are put on a High Priority Target List. But we have used those two lists to provide close air support to the Yemeni Army, and the African Union troops in Somalia, and now the Nigerians and the fucking Mali government. You know we did an air strike in Timbuktu for Christ sakes? Who gives a shit about Timbuktu? I didn’t even know it was a real place ’til we bombed it. We’ve become like Rent an Airstrike. Some of these guys we’re flying in support of are not nice people. No peace prize candidates among them.”

Raymond Bowman exhaled loudly. “Yes, but. We do not run those missions to support those governments as much as we fly them to stop al Qaeda and its affiliates from creating more failed states where they can set up terrorist training camps like bin Laden had in Afghanistan. You know what happens next in that scenario. They recruit thousands more nut jobs into being terrorists and then some of them start blowing up Americans abroad and, eventually, here. Has State or CIA got anywhere with their soft-power bullshit, preradicalization deradicalization? No, they haven’t. So what are you going to do, ask USAID to dig wells in Mali? That won’t stop AQIM.”

“Who?” Burrell asked.

“Al Qaeda in the Magreb,” Ray explained. “Used to call itself something like the movement for Preaching and Combat, bunch of Algerian misfits, but they affiliated with al Qaeda, changed their name, and now get money and training from the violent political Islamists all over the region. They are a potential threat to us.”

“Preaching and combat?” Burrell mused. “I remember some Irish group, the Society for Marching and Chowder. I think Nixon horned his way into it.”

“Not quite the same thing,” Raymond replied.

“No, I suppose not. But I am not going to take all of this heat so we can keep in power this President of Yemen or that potentate in Mali by using drones. Help them in other ways, quieter ways. And if some real terrorist camp pops up someday, that is really training people who are planning to attack Americans, then we send in the B-2s, fuck ’em dead.”

“That’s a policy,” Ray replied. He knew that now was not the time to fight it.

“Damn right it’s a policy. It’s the President’s policy as of this morning when he signed it,” Burrell passed a document marked Top Secret across the table. “It will leak to the Post tomorrow. And, Ray, we may have to do more, raise the level of proof that an HVI is really planning to attack us. The signature strikes, places on the HVTL, they’re a real problem. From now on we only do signature strikes when it is really a place where bad guys are getting ready to blow up shit in New York, or bomb some plane flying to JFK.”

Bowman stood up from the conference table and picked up his briefcase. If this was the way Burrell treated his friends and supporters, what must it be like to be an enemy? he wondered.

“Where the hell are you going?” Burrell asked.

“Vegas. I guess I have a new Presidential policy to put into place. And I also want to find out what’s going on.”

“What is going on?”

“They’re fighting back against the drone program, which means it’s hurting them and yet we are about to engage in some sort of unilateral disarmament, hand them another success. Winston, the ways in which they are coming after the drone program are very sophisticated. I just need to figure out the full extent of it, and who is ultimately pulling the strings. Answering that may tell us who is the Master Puppeteer on a lot of things. Maybe if I can show the President, he’ll rethink this new drone policy.”

“In the meantime, Ray, can you make this work?” Burrell asked.

Raymond Bowman looked Winston Burrell in the eye and held the stare. “I suppose I can, until—”

“Until what?” Burrell demanded.

“Until something does blow up in New York, again.” Ray stood up and headed for the door.