Read Online Game of Drones by Rick Jones, Rick Chesler - Free Book Online
Authors: Rick Jones, Rick Chesler
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On the screen was a detailed schematic of the mini-drone, no larger than a Bald Eagle. An NSA staffer gave a brief run-down on the remora's specifications and capabilities, filled with words like elusive , acrobatic , and Semtex ...
“The first jet never saw it coming,” said Director of National Intelligence David Wilcox. The DNI was subject to the authority and control of the president and required to serve as the chief advisor to the commander in chief, to Homeland Security, and to the National Security Council about intelligence matters connected to national security. He was also the head of the sixteen-member Intelligence Community who oversaw the National Intelligence Program, in general. The responsibilities were huge. And the man who helmed this agency appeared as strong and powerful as his station, sporting a large frame, a sturdy jaw line, and stress lines that were deep notches grooved into a face that should have appeared much smoother for a man of fifty-three.
“When the first remora struck it,” he continued, “the pilot ejected. And then the Reaper drone took on the remaining two fighters. In that ensuing battle, the second remora was released from its mooring carriage to engage with craft number two. According to Coven One, the surviving pilot, it wasn’t even a close contest. The remora engaged with its target and eliminated it despite the jet pilot’s efforts to evade.”
“And the Reaper itself?”
“Taken down by the remaining fighter. But the drone had completely exhausted its payload by then--both Hellfires and both remoras.”
The president steadied his eyes on the screen. That meant Shazad had four Predators and ten MAUVs left at his disposal, and an infinite amount of targets to choose from. “Are we getting anything from the Internet? Any insurgent chatter that could lead us to Shazad and his team?”
This was specifically directed to the NSA and CIA personnel, those responsible for national security abroad. But the answers were the same: None at this time, Mr. President; we’re getting little from our sources, Sir; there doesn’t seem to be any reactionary response, Mr. President.
Not a thing, Mr. President.
Not . . . a single . . . thing.
He never felt so powerless in his life. The drone was a dead end. He willed himself to keep his team moving, to keep looking for something they might be able to latch onto. He'd learned long ago during his political rise not to get too bogged down in the details. Let his people handle the technical crap--MUAVs and whatnot. Follow the big picture and you can't go wrong.
“Zawahiri's the focus of all this," he came up with. "What’s his status?” Carmichael directed his gaze to the Director of the CIA.
Marsden Manetti's appearance could be summed up with a single color: he always sported a gray suit, gray tie, and gray shoes to go along with his gray hair and eyes. In the decade or so he'd known him, Carmichael had never seen the CIA top dog with a beard, and he suspected it was because it, too, would be gray. A concession to overkill. Even without the beard, though, Manetti had occasionally been teased about his color scheme (the women tittering something about Fifty Shades), but his response was always the same: "The world is not black and white." Indeed , Carmichael thought as he watched his Central Intelligence director begin to respond.
“We think that Pakistani officials are debating whether to hand him over to us. They’re apprehensive since al-Qaeda started verbalizing threats. So far, I'd say their commitment to this matter is tenuous at best.”
“What’s the point of having the eighth largest army in the world if you’re not going to utilize it? They need to make a stand and not be bullied.”
“You won’t get an argument from me, Mr. President, but that is where they stand. As best we can tell, at least some of their political elite are mulling over the pros and cons of the situation, now that al-Qaeda has reared its
“The first jet never saw it coming,” said Director of National Intelligence David Wilcox. The DNI was subject to the authority and control of the president and required to serve as the chief advisor to the commander in chief, to Homeland Security, and to the National Security Council about intelligence matters connected to national security. He was also the head of the sixteen-member Intelligence Community who oversaw the National Intelligence Program, in general. The responsibilities were huge. And the man who helmed this agency appeared as strong and powerful as his station, sporting a large frame, a sturdy jaw line, and stress lines that were deep notches grooved into a face that should have appeared much smoother for a man of fifty-three.
“When the first remora struck it,” he continued, “the pilot ejected. And then the Reaper drone took on the remaining two fighters. In that ensuing battle, the second remora was released from its mooring carriage to engage with craft number two. According to Coven One, the surviving pilot, it wasn’t even a close contest. The remora engaged with its target and eliminated it despite the jet pilot’s efforts to evade.”
“And the Reaper itself?”
“Taken down by the remaining fighter. But the drone had completely exhausted its payload by then--both Hellfires and both remoras.”
The president steadied his eyes on the screen. That meant Shazad had four Predators and ten MAUVs left at his disposal, and an infinite amount of targets to choose from. “Are we getting anything from the Internet? Any insurgent chatter that could lead us to Shazad and his team?”
This was specifically directed to the NSA and CIA personnel, those responsible for national security abroad. But the answers were the same: None at this time, Mr. President; we’re getting little from our sources, Sir; there doesn’t seem to be any reactionary response, Mr. President.
Not a thing, Mr. President.
Not . . . a single . . . thing.
He never felt so powerless in his life. The drone was a dead end. He willed himself to keep his team moving, to keep looking for something they might be able to latch onto. He'd learned long ago during his political rise not to get too bogged down in the details. Let his people handle the technical crap--MUAVs and whatnot. Follow the big picture and you can't go wrong.
“Zawahiri's the focus of all this," he came up with. "What’s his status?” Carmichael directed his gaze to the Director of the CIA.
Marsden Manetti's appearance could be summed up with a single color: he always sported a gray suit, gray tie, and gray shoes to go along with his gray hair and eyes. In the decade or so he'd known him, Carmichael had never seen the CIA top dog with a beard, and he suspected it was because it, too, would be gray. A concession to overkill. Even without the beard, though, Manetti had occasionally been teased about his color scheme (the women tittering something about Fifty Shades), but his response was always the same: "The world is not black and white." Indeed , Carmichael thought as he watched his Central Intelligence director begin to respond.
“We think that Pakistani officials are debating whether to hand him over to us. They’re apprehensive since al-Qaeda started verbalizing threats. So far, I'd say their commitment to this matter is tenuous at best.”
“What’s the point of having the eighth largest army in the world if you’re not going to utilize it? They need to make a stand and not be bullied.”
“You won’t get an argument from me, Mr. President, but that is where they stand. As best we can tell, at least some of their political elite are mulling over the pros and cons of the situation, now that al-Qaeda has reared its
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