Just as Charlie was receiving the alert, Air Force Colonel Ben Edwards, director of drone operations, ran into the hut.
He glanced at Alpha Charlie’s hands as they moved the joysticks. Edwards marveled at how Charlie’s fingers glided over the controls and easily performed maneuvers that his other pilots struggled with.
Edwards suddenly saw the blinking red light on the fuel gauge. One hundred pounds of fuel left. Seventy-two miles of life left in the fuel tank, not enough to get the aircraft halfway back to Kandahar. “Charlie,” he said, “you’re running out of fuel.”
Alpha Charlie pretended not to hear. He had already extended the flight time five hours by using the updrafts of the mountains to conserve fuel and by lowering the aircraft’s speed to 320 mph. But now he was concerned. An hour earlier, he’d ordered his Global Hawk refueled, but the airborne tanker had yet to appear on his radar screen.
His focus remained locked on the three monitors in front of him. Screen A showed a scurry of activity in the small, peaceful Haqqui tribal village. Bin Garza was going for a ride. That was it. Charlie’s waiting was over. He leaned forward and watched carefully.
In the center of the village, a 1960s Mercedes sedan and a 1980s Chrysler New Yorker were parked in front of an adobe house. Alongside the two cars, a small entourage surrounded three men who had just left the house and were walking to the vehicles. A dozen cheering villagers reached out to touch the men as guards pushed them aside. On Screen B, the forensics experts focused on the faces of the men and enlarged them. Screen C showed a broad view of the five-square-mile area surrounding the target.
Screen A showed the men getting into the two cars, while screen B flipped through stills of the faces. The computer fine-tuned the quality of the images, and then Charlie heard excitement build from the other hut.
“That’s definitely Bin Garza,” Charlie said in a low voice.
“And that’s his number two, Shakel, with him. We can get two for the price of one, if we hit ‘em now.”
The third man on the screen kept his shemagh pulled over his face and could not be identified.
“Alpha Charlie,” Colonel Edwards said, “we have Al Qaeda’s two top men together. Targets confirmed. It’s now or never. Get ‘em.”
Alpha Charlie turned to Screen A, the target monitor that showed live pictures from the MQ-4A Global Hawk drone he controlled. This aircraft was the largest and best-equipped drone in his fleet, but it was brand new and untested. It had been airborne for nearly 48 hours and had circled at 50,000 feet, filming the area where Pakistani intelligence had said the Al Qaeda operatives were staying.
Sweat dripped down Charlie’s brow as he saw the plummeting fuel gauge now reading empty.
Time was running out. Charlie focused the camera, centering it on the now moving car.
A pissed off Edwards looked at Screen C. “Fuck! There’s a hill! They’ll disappear behind it in twenty seconds. Charlie, you gotta strike now!”
Alpha Charlie didn’t respond, but he heard Edwards. He had one shot and didn’t want to miss. His mental clock ticked down — 20, 19, 18; he remained calm and showed no signs of tension. His left hand guided a blinking red target square over the car. With the image of the square fixed to the target, Charlie centered the X. He quickly touched the red trigger button with his right thumb and fired the five foot-long missile which carried over thirty pounds of explosives. Click. The Hellfire missile locked on the Mercedes. 7, 6, 5, 4… At a speed of 950 MPH, the missile would be paying the car a surprise visit within three seconds.
But would it get there in time?
CHAPTER THREE
A high-pitched WHIRRRRR, like the sound of a model airplane, filled the sky above the village. The driver of the Mercedes looked up to see the silvery flash of reflected sunlight emerging from the obscurity of the mountain behind.
As the driver accelerated, he saw the five foot-long Hellfire missile speeding towards them. Bin Garza screamed in terror as he gripped the seat of the car and braced himself. The explosion was tremendous, ripping the men and car to pieces.
One hundred feet away, the unidentified man in the shemagh, Omar Farok, felt his Chrysler bounce around like a toy ball. The concussion of the impact nearly deafened him. He watched from the Chrysler as a fireball swallowed up the Mercedes, followed only by a blinding cloud of smoke and dirt.
Fortunately for Farok, his driver was familiar with the terrain of the village and the Chrysler instantly turned left onto a mountain path, dodging around trees. As the Chrysler slammed to a halt, a terrified Farok dove out of the car and ran into a mountain cave. He sat trembling as he watched another Hellfire missile devour the Chrysler in a ball of red flames.
Farok’s driver staggered into the cave. His face had been blackened by the flames and his clothes nearly ripped from his body. Farok stood and walked to him. “We alone survive. We are going to turn away from Al Qaeda. You will help me as we merge with the Islamic State in Levant. Our state is Iraq and Syria. The caliphate. The Islamic State in Iraq and Syria. ISIS is the new direction.”
The driver’s eyes widened as he looked at Farok. “But Bin Garza directed Shakel and you to continue to pursue a moderate course with Al Qaeda. To steer from the brutality of ISIS. To gain the confidence of the people we control by treating them like our own family.”
Farok’s fists knotted. “You know I spoke in opposition to his gestures of kindness to the people in Bin Gaza’s control. A true leader is strong and gains respect by making people fearful of his vengeance, as God invokes the fear in all of us. Strict discipline is the new direction of our Islamic State. I will slay all who disobey me.”
“You cannot disobey Bin Gaza’s directive. We must continue on in Al Qaeda,” the haggard driver said. “And I will fight your disobedience.”
Farok jerked a pistol from his shemagh and fired five shots. His driver fell to the dirt. His mouth opened to speak, but his head fell slowly to one side before words came out. Farok shot him three more times, then shouted, “God tells me to join the Islamic State! I will dispense with Bin Garza’s weakness!” He looked upward. “Allah, I swear on your blessed name, I will make the American pigs quake in fear of me.”
Colonel Edwards and the forensics team cheered.
Alpha Charlie did not celebrate, even as the refueling aircraft came in and saved his drone from sputtering to the earth on its last pound of fuel. He was pleased about the millions that he had made from this kill. The extra money would allow him to shift his drone control station and missiles back home and continue his missions from there, but still, he wasn’t about to jump up and down and cheer. He’d done his job.
He stood as bottles of Dom Perignon were uncorked. Without fanfare, Charlie grabbed a drink and downed it. Then he poured himself another. As he swallowed, he thought to himself, “All in a day’s work.”