Edwards came on Charlie’s headset and suggested a trial of the new chair. He told Charlie to be on the lookout for a fake truck, sitting on the test-firing range.
Charlie did as Edwards instructed, manipulating his new system to visualize the test area. He was pleased that he could move the aircraft easily. He could see the objective at five miles and elected to shoot at that distance. Each of his index fingers activated an X that moved and centered on the image. Pressing his right thumb on the red firing button, a Hellfire missile shot from the drone. After a delay of a few seconds, it struck the bull’s eye painted on a cardboard replica of a truck and exploded on impact.
“Bra—vo,” Edwards said.
REUTERS
Canberra, AUSTRALIA
The American Ambassador to Australia, Mr. David Martin, has been summoned back to Washington amid growing anger in the capital, Canberra, over allegations that the target of last week’s foiled terrorist attack was a CIA-sponsored “black site” for the control of military drones in the Middle East. U.S. Officials, citing national security interests, have declined to comment on rumors that the three men and one woman apprehended last week in Sydney were actively searching for a drone control station rumored to be located somewhere in the vicinity of Byron Bay, a small resort town on the east coast of Australia. Members of the Australian Parliament on both the right and the left are calling for a full investigation of all civilian defense contractors doing business with the United States.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Four years ago, Billy Watson inherited the family peanut farm and a modest bank account. His low crop yield reflected his hatred of farming, and within two years, he was on the verge of bankruptcy. His friends and farm hands left him to a life of solitude. Each evening he went to the Varsity Bar, drank, and hit on women. All of Chapel Hill knew he was a drunkard and a drug addict, so none of the girls showed any interest in him. But he didn’t care.
Tonight, things were different. A new girl from out of town seemed interested. She was young and pretty. Her eyes were brown and her long blonde hair curled up as it touched her shoulders. Her face was smooth and pear-shaped, with prominent cheekbones. She didn’t seem to mind that his rough beard hadn’t been trimmed in six months, his unkempt hair hadn’t been combed in weeks, and his eyes were so blood shot from inebriation that their color was in question. Billy couldn’t keep his eyes off her large breasts.
Michelle drank wine as he ordered Vodka, straight up. “I’m from Suthern Jaw-ja,” she said in a made up accent that even the inebriated farmer knew was false.
“So, tell me, really, are you from New York or is it Jersey?”
She blushed, “Am I that bad as a southern belle?”
“Yeah, well no. As the southern belle, you’re prettier’n any girls from the South I’ve ever met, but you talk like a Yankee trying to imitate Scarlett O’Hara. Better stick to ‘Naw-thun’ talk.”
As they laughed she moved close to him. “You’re cute,” she said as one of her breasts rested on his arm.
Soon, sex was the only thing on his mind. She was willing and wanted to go back to his farm house. He drove his pickup as she followed in a gold Cadillac Seville.
At the farm, an excited Billy Watson jumped out of his vehicle and ran to hers. As he helped her from the Cadillac, she rubbed his crotch and pulled his head to her chest. His virility had suffered from the alcohol and coke, but it was back tonight. She undressed in his bedroom, and then he watched as she crawled, naked, onto the bed, and then on top of him.
Suddenly four men and a tall brunette walked into the room and stood by his bed. He sat up abruptly, “What the…?”
Nicole shoved him back down. Each man grabbed an extremity.
Billy struggled, kicking and screaming. “Michelle! Do you know these people?”
Michelle reached over and pinched his cheek firmly and leaned her face to within a few inches of his. “Billy, I need your fuckin’ farm and I don’t need you to plant fuckin’ peanuts on it.”
Billy started to weep. “Please, I’ll do whatever.”
“You’re fuckin’ pathetic. Where’s my knife, Nicole?” Michelle asked.
“Don’t hurt me.”
Nicole handed her a hunting knife with an eight inch blade.
Michelle ran it down his neck. “Nobody screws me without paying.” She laid the blade of the knife against his windpipe. She pressed the knife until blood oozed from a shallow cut. Billy pulled against the men restraining him.
“You’re what’s wrong with America,” she screamed. “The free ride is over!”
She grabbed his penis. With a single swipe of the blade, she cut it off. Billy screamed in agony. She shoved the organ down his throat, choking him.
He mustered all his strength to pull away, but the four men held him down firmly. Michelle pressed a pillow over his face until his struggling ceased.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Major General Ahmad Kahn of the Afghanistan National Air Force flew by helicopter from his headquarters in Kabul to the airfield adjoining the American drone hangars on the outskirts of the city. The hangars were isolated on the perimeter of the Afghani Air Force facility, which was home base for Russian-made Mi-15 and Mi-24 helicopters, as well as Russian Antonov cargo transports.
One of Kahn’s spies had told him the drones were being moved to a base in Iraq. After the copter landed, a waiting jeep took Kahn to the American commanding the drone operation, Colonel Edwards. Without a word of greeting, the two men shook hands coldly.
Kahn was abrupt in stating the purpose of his visit. “I forbid you from moving your drones without my permission!”
“The first time I reported to your fuckin’ office about bringing two of our drones, the Predators, to Kandahar, the Taliban put a fuckin’ IED in the hangar we were assigned to,” Edwards said. “It killed two of my men.”
“I don’t care. I order you to keep the drones here!”
“Well, old buddy, the rules have changed,” Edwards said, putting his hands on his hips. “I’m not moving them back.”
“But the leaks have been sealed. There are no more spies in my office.”
“Bullshit!” Edwards snapped. He then turned on his heel and walked away.
On his way back to the helicopter, Kahn sent a text message to Kahlil in Damascus.
For 150 years, Ambuda Kahlil’s family had been making and selling oriental rugs near the Bab Tuma (St. Thomas’s Gate) in the old, walled city of Damascus. Kahlil had followed in his father’s footsteps. With his good eye for selecting and weaving the highest quality rugs, his business had expanded, as had his bank account. Recently his friends in ISIS had convinced him to become an important financial contributor, and along with sending a cash donation, he’d also begun using his business to secretly relay messages between ISIS allies.
Kahlil felt the Blackberry in his pocket vibrate. The incoming text read: AMERICAN DRONE BASE LEAVING KANDAHAR. MY CONTACT SAYS MOVING TO IRAQ
Upon receipt of the message in Damascus, Kahlil forwarded it to a courier for delivery to Jorad Hormand.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN