Sons of Valor, page 30
“I’m not trying to shut you down here, okay?” he said. “That wasn’t my intention. What I’m trying to point out is your confirmation bias. You think al-Saud is a terrorist mastermind, so you interpret everything he does through that lens, resulting in your own bias.” She raised her eyebrows, and he chuckled. “Yeah, that’s right—me read books. Me think big ideas too.” Then, holding up his hands as she began to protest, he continued, “The way I see it, on one end of the spectrum there’s me, who thinks al-Saud is just another terrorist dirtbag with delusions of grandeur. On the other end is you, who thinks he’s the next bin Laden. The truth probably lies somewhere in the middle.”
“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” a voice said behind her headrest. “Mind if I weigh in?”
She rotated in her seat and saw Theobald leaning into the aisle.
“By all means,” Chunk said with a nod.
“You said you think the drone is airborne right now,” Theobald said, looking at Whitney.
“That’s right. I think as soon as we hit the safe house, al-Saud scrambled the drone.”
“You think they were using the Mingora runway at night after the airport was closed?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then how are they flying it? Line of sight using another portable transceiver?” Theobald pressed.
“Exactly.” She pulled out her tablet computer and navigated to the picture index from the last hit. “These are the images you guys took at the warehouse where you found that control gear. Now if you look, here’s the CONEX box with the suicide bomber. But the warehouse is big enough to hold multiple CONEX boxes. In fact, if you look closely, it almost looks like the floor is lighter in a couple of rectangles next to the one Hamza left behind. We know he uses handoffs, and that requires multiple transceivers and multiple pilots.”
“But they don’t need a CONEX box for that,” Chunk said. “They certainly didn’t haul a CONEX box into the Hindu Kush when they hit us the first time. All’s they need is a laptop, an antenna, a power supply, and peripherals. They can fit all that in a couple backpacks.”
“Yes, but you can’t fit a dozen HJ-10 AGMs in a backpack. You can’t fit spare drone parts and aviation fuel in a backpack,” she fired back. “I’m telling you, he took his show on the road. Hamza al-Saud has selected another target, and I’m willing to wager my job that he intends to hit that target before the drone runs out of fuel.”
“Have we checked any LOS transmissions in the drone control frequency band?” Chunk asked her.
“Yes, people are working on it,” she said.
“I think I’m starting to figure out how your brain works,” Chunk replied. “And what did the signal nerds come back with?”
“So far nothing,” she said through a sigh. “But I’m still holding out hope. It’s much more difficult and time consuming to sift through historical data from multiple sources than to have a dedicated, focused search running in real time.”
“Okay, let’s presume NSA comes back with no LOS transmissions in the vicinity of the Mingora airport during the time between the safe house hit and the hangar hit. Are you ready to drop it?”
“No,” she said.
“That’s what I figured,” he said with a tired chuckle. “Okay, well, how else could they control the drone?”
“Satellite relay comms is the standard protocol for the Predators,” Theobald said.
“Yeah, but I thought we already ruled that out. They might have a drone, but there’s no way in hell al Qadar has a satellite, so don’t even fucking go there, Miss Confirmation Bias,” Chunk said, looking at her.
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” she said, shaking her head.
“Is there any chance they could hack into one of our satellites, or piggyback their signal off a commercial one and control it that way?” Chunk asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “That question is outside my area of expertise.”
“Understood, but who can answer it?”
“We need to talk to a drone guy,” Theobald said. “And a signals guy, and a radar guy, and probably a cyber guy too. More importantly, we need access to folks with the tech and resources to locate, track, and shoot down the drone in real time.”
“Where can we do that?” Whitney asked.
“Kandahar,” Chunk said. “That’s the command and control for all drone sorties in the region, and they have the firepower necessary to finish the job.”
“Then we need to go to Kandahar,” she said definitively.
“No, uh-uh,” Chunk said. “We’re regrouping in J-bad. We’ve got wounds to lick, and if you do find us a target to hit, that’s where we want to launch out of. Not Kandahar.”
“But I—” she began to protest, before Theobald cut her off.
“I’ll take you,” the DIA man said. “There’s nothing for us in J-bad. Our NOC is blown; we lost Andy. I gotta talk with my Head Shed, but I imagine the plan is to head home and regroup, so going to Kandahar is actually on the way for me. Besides, no offense Whitney, but you showing up there by yourself with your little blue CAC card, harassing everyone with crazy questions, ain’t gonna get you far.” He turned to look at Chunk. “I’ll get her into the OGA compound. I know a bunch of those guys, including a couple of drone pilots. I think we’ll get a better response on the spooky side than if we go marching into the Air Force operation center, making wild-ass claims and conjectures.”
“You’d do that for me?” Whitney said to Theobald.
“Sure,” he said, pinching the skin between his weary eyes. “Because I happen to think you’re onto something.” She watched the man’s eyes tick back toward the rear of the Beech, where the body of his fellow DIA agent lay underneath a camo poncho liner. He closed his eyes, and his jaw tightened. “And anyway, like I said, we need to get Andy home to his girls.”
“All right then, it’s settled,” Chunk said. “When this bird lands, my team will get off, and you guys can head to Kandahar.”
“Do we have enough fuel to just drop them and go, or do we need to refuel?”
“We could probably make it, but we need to stop,” Theobald said.
Whitney looked at her watch, unable to help herself. The drone was up there—she was sure of it. Every minute could mean the difference.
Theobald saw the look.
“I know we’re in a hurry,” he said, “but we can’t let Andy travel like this. We need to get him properly . . . set up. They have what we need at J-bad. I promise we’ll be quick.”
She stole a glance at the booted foot sticking out from under the shiny poncho liner. Beside him, Stan sat on the floor against the bulkhead, his face in his hands, openly weeping. She felt her stomach tighten. Maybe if she’d been better on the rifle. Maybe if she’d moved faster, and they’d gotten out of the building quicker . . .
She shoved the thoughts back into the shallow grave in her mind, where she knew they would dig themselves back out in short order, but right now she had no time for this.
“Of course. I’m so sorry, Bobby. So . . . I’m just—sorry. Take your time. I’ll wait on the plane. And thank you—both of you,” she said, looking between him and Chunk. “For trusting me.”
Theobald nodded, stood, and headed to the back of the plane leaving them alone.
Chunk sat with pursed lips, looking at his hands. Finally, he looked up at her. “I don’t think we got al-Saud either.”
“You really don’t?”
“No. My gut tells me he’s still in Pakistan.”
“Mine too.”
Chunk got up from his seat. “I’ll tell the guys that when we land they should clean weapons, clean up, and fully reload. If the drone is still up there, and you find that son of a bitch, we need to be ready. I’m gonna move the team to COP Blackfish, east of J-bad and right on the border. It’ll cut twenty minutes off the infil back to Pakistan if you find us a package. Plus, there’s a whole squad of JSOC army shooters there, and we’ll make it a FARP with armed and fueled air from the 160th. We’ll use Russian-made Mi-17s the Stalker boys keep handy for this kind of shit, so if we have to go after your boy, we can do it with full-on air, but deniability. You get us a location and a green light, and we’ll kill that motherfucker. Okay, kid?”
She smiled and nodded, unsure why her eyes were suddenly rimmed with tears.
Chunk didn’t say anything else, just glanced at Andy’s body, then back to meet her gaze in solidarity.
CHAPTER 37
kandahar airfield
afghanistan
1430 local time
A gust of wind blew dirt in Whitney’s face as she crossed the tarmac. She squeezed her eyes shut, but too late. Her left eye stung, and she couldn’t open it when she tried to blink.
“Did you get something in your eye?” Theobald asked, stopping a half stride ahead of her.
“Yeah,” she said, pulling her top lid over her bottom to try to clear the offending debris.
“There’s always shit blowing around out here. Especially on the tarmac. That’s why I never go anywhere without shades,” he said, tapping his Ray-Bans.
“I lost mine somewhere in J-bad,” she said, rubbing her eye with a knuckle.
“You all right?”
“Yeah, I think I got it, but you know how it is—feels like there’s something still in there even when you got it out.”
“A metaphor for my life,” he said with a head shake.
She blinked a few more times, then started walking.
“Hey, Whitney, a word of advice when we go in there,” Theobald said, striding next to her. “Try to keep the details of the operation in Mingora to a minimum. The folks we’re going to talk to are good people, but these guys love to be in the know. You get what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I get you,” she said, feeling a twinge of irritation at his insinuation that she would leak like a sieve.
“All I’m sayin’ is this isn’t a swap meet, but they’re gonna try to make you feel like it is. Just don’t let anybody rope you into an information horse-trading session.”
“Sure. Thanks for the heads-up,” she said and realized that this was his way of coaching her to avoid a common mistake she might be unaware of.
He nodded, then pointed at the rooftops visible in the gap between two drone hangars. “AFSOC owns those two buildings. Big command center in there. Very busy. Very official.”
“Is that where we’re going?”
“Nope. We’re going to the red-light district,” he said with a smug little grin. “OGA has a building in back.”
She nodded as she took in the layout. The base was much bigger than she’d imagined, with buildings and hangars everywhere. On their approach in the Beech 1900, she’d made a cursory count of the aircraft on the Kandahar tarmac: one C-17, seven C-130s, two “company” jets, a half dozen A-10s, four F/A-18 Super Hornets, and too many helicopters to count. Theobald, who’d been watching her from his seat, had chimed in that there was even more firepower than meets the eye, because most combat aircraft were stored in ready hangars.
Squinting against the wind and the sun, she followed a half step behind him until they reached a metal building the size of a large construction trailer. Its monochrome desert-tan paint job matched the hangars and most other buildings on base. It looked insignificant from the outside, but if there was one thing she’d learned since joining the Tier One, it was that appearances were usually deceiving.
The entry door was locked, and Theobald used a keycard on a lanyard around his neck to badge in. He held the door for her, like the gentleman that he was, and she stepped inside. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the modestly lit environment. They had the AC cranking, and the chill embraced her like her handsy uncle and his suffocating hugs at Christmas when she was growing up.
“I heard you were shot and left for dead in Syria a year ago,” said a brusque male voice with a down east Maine accent. Whitney turned to see a handsome man, midthirties, with hair the color of burnished copper, emerge from a door to greet them.
A wry smile swept across Theobald’s face. “The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated . . . It was, as they say, just a flesh wound.”
“I heard a building collapsed on you.”
Theobald shrugged. “Army strong.”
Chuckling, they embraced with synchronized back slaps.
“Whitney, this is Paul Bertrand. He’s the tactical operations officer here—responsible for all the mission planning and execution,” Theobald said, turning to her. “He might talk like a lobsterman, but don’t let that fool you. He’s an MIT Sloan Fellow and a helluva covert operator.”
“And an International Man of Mystery,” Bertrand added, his gaze meeting Whitney’s as he extended a hand to her. “One must never forgo honorifics.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, shaking his hand, then vacillating on whether to use her real name or NOC, she said, “Whitney Watts—eye candy, reluctant traveler, counterterror analyst.”
He laughed at this, then said, “How can OGA Kandahar be of assistance to you today?”
She looked to Theobald, her gaze a question.
“Yeah, go, just lay it all out,” he said, but she picked up a subtle undertone in the statement, a reminder of his counsel minutes earlier.
She nodded and walked Bertrand through her theories about Hamza al-Saud’s paradigm-shifting drone program and the strike against the convoy. She outlined how she believed al Qadar was controlling the drone and explained her concern that another strike was imminent. She did not, however, share details about the events in Mingora or the Tier One operations that had been conducted recently. Through it all, Bertrand listened without interruption or comment.
When she was finished, he simply nodded and said, “Ayuh.”
Whitney waited for him to say something else, but when he didn’t she looked at Theobald.
“That’s all you got to say? Ayuh?” Theobald said.
“I’m processing,” Bertrand said, running his fingers through his red-brown hair, then scratching the back of his scalp. After a moment he said, “You think it’s still in the air?”
She nodded.
“Then you should be able to find it with satellite and radar,” the OGA man said.
“Yeah, well, we haven’t,” she said and sighed.
He nodded and looked at Theobald, “Okay, so is that what you’re here for? You want me to help you get eyes in the sky to look for this thing?”
“Yeah, that and answer a few technical questions,” she said.
“Okay, sure. Do you wanna talk in a conference room, or stand here in our grand lobby and chat?” Bertrand said, gesturing to the little foyer between the entrance and a second security door.
“Conference room,” Whitney and Theobald said in unison.
“Good call,” Bertrand said and badged them through the security door. He led them down a narrow hallway to a small breakout room. “Coffee?” he asked, pausing at the threshold after waving them inside.
“God, yes,” Theobald said.
“Whitney?”
“Yes, please.”
“Back in a sec,” Bertrand said and disappeared.
“How’d I do?” Whitney asked, turning to Theobald.
“Perfect,” he said with a nod.
“How do you know Paul?” she asked, tucking her feet under her chair.
“He and I did a joint task force stint a few years back,” Theobald said, and with no further elaboration added, “He’s sharp
as hell.”
And that was all they had time for, because Bertrand returned quickly with two cups of black coffee. He handed them over, then dug a wad of powdered creamers, sugar packets, and stir sticks from his pocket and tossed them on the table. Then he flipped a chair around, straddled it, and sat facing Whitney.
“So first off, if this upstart al Qadar asshole is deploying a Pterodactyl using line of sight handoffs and portable transmitters, and you figured it out through SIGINT reconstruct, then you deserve a friggin’ medal because that’s nuts. Bravo Zulu,” Bertrand said, shaking his head in amazement and clapping.
“Thanks, I guess,” she said with a little shrug.
“Second, tactically speaking—and I’m talking from al Qadar’s point of view now—what a terrible way to have to operate. Talk about Chinese handcuffs. Conducting sorties like that would be a logistical and comms nightmare.”
“Yeah, but that’s my concern.”
Bertrand screwed up his face at her. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that if I were in Hamza al-Saud’s shoes, I’d be trying to figure out how to get satellite relay control up and running ASAFP. He knows we know he’s operating LOS. He knows we’re going to be scanning for transmissions in that frequency band in western Pakistan and eastern Afghanistan. He knows that the minute we detect a transmission, we’re going to send a Reaper over to check it out. When that happens, it becomes a quail hunt. We just flush and shoot. And the question he’ll be asking himself would have to be whether we are going to run out of Reapers with Hellfires before he runs out of drone pilots. I think the answer is obvious.”
Bertrand nodded. “Ayuh, that’s for sure. The thing is, a terrorist organization like al Qadar will never be able to get satellite relay control because, one, they don’t have the money to procure and launch a satellite, and two, no government—no matter how corrupt—is going to give a bunch of terrorists access to one. Not even Pakistan. It’s simply a nonstarter.”
“Yes, but what about hacking into an existing satellite feed? What if they hacked into a commercial GPS satellite?”
“No, they would need to access a satellite with a Ka-band transceiver,” Bertrand said. “You know that hump on the top of the Reaper drone’s nose?”
