Drone Games (2 page)

It was perfect for plotting jihad.

Naimi opened the
Wall Street Journal
and quoted from an article, “Al-Qaeda leader Ayman al-Zawahiri calls for more 9/11-style terror attacks inside the United States.”

Publicity such as this in a major Western newspaper gave him comfort and hope. Al-Qaeda needed a victory. Something to rally around and be proud of again. He wanted to stand and shout, but he tempered himself.
On the night they killed Osama bin Laden, the Americans danced in the streets and performed their disgusting fist pumps
, he recalled. He would not celebrate this headline. Not yet.

Naimi set the newspaper down. “The FBI calls us radical jihadists. Perverters of Islam. They say we are emboldened and still a dangerous threat. Perhaps they have discovered your plans, Faiz. Attacking fifty-six targets is bold and dangerous—for them and for us. Some on the council are questioning your tactics, especially this business of crashing three passenger planes with a flying toy. Frankly, I have concerns.”

“Four passenger planes,” Al-Aran corrected in English without looking up, his face buried in a small spiral notebook, his eyes alternatively shifting from the notebook to a game board on the table. He stroked his black, trimmed goatee as he studied a series of attacks against enemy positions, probing for weaknesses. Seeking maximum damage. There were several options: Frontal, diagonal, and even flanking and L-shaped attacks. Al-Aran shook his head in disgust. The pathways were blocked, the targets impenetrable. The only option left was mass suicide against enemies that he termed the
white faces
.

“The Americans are like children,” Al-Aran said. “Frightened and paranoid of hirabi. They see terrorists in their dreams. Allah has always shown us the path to victory. If Zawahiri seeks larger targets, then he will be pleased with my operations. Great risk brings great reward. My tactics are sound.”

“I hope you are correct,” Naimi cautioned. “Day after day the Americans increase their security. I suspect now that whenever Arabs attend a marathon race or walk through a shopping mall, even their smallest children carrying stuffed animals will be harassed and searched. Years ago, we carried nitrocellulose through airports in Madrid, Heathrow, and even New York, thanks to that spiced aftershave with the ship on the bottle. Now even water is forbidden.

“Did I ever tell you that Zawahiri was only fifteen when he planned to overthrow the Egyptian government? We played together in the same suburb of Maadi just six miles north . . .” Naimi peered over his glasses. “Are you even listening to me? Look at you. Your concentration is weak. You have lost originality and surprise. You telegraph every intention. You study that notebook until your eyes swell, and for what? Your soldiers are still slaughtered like sheep. I think you have become distracted by that computer always at your side. Too much conversing on the Internet with the students at your Georgia Technical Institute. Next you will invite the American NSA into your classroom.”

Al-Aran accepted the scolding because he knew Naimi was right. Something had gone terribly wrong. His reputation as al-Qaeda’s best operational strategist was at stake. Now even he had doubts.
How can I have been so stupid?
he wondered. Frustrated, he spat at the notebook and swept it off the table.

Naimi politely retrieved it. He thumbed the pages, chuckling at the nonsensical maze of lines and scribbling. All for a simple game. A separate section caught his eye. It had no scribbling.
Hogeschool van Amsterdam, Domein Techniek: Analyses of Boeing 777 Landing Gear
.

Al-Aran sat back in his chair, massaging his balding scalp with both hands. The situation was hopeless. His attack force had started with fifteen men and one woman. A lopsided ratio, but the woman was extremely powerful. Her skills equaled those of the men combined. Now even she was dead.

Those accursed white infidels
.

He gave Naimi a vengeful glance, then surrendered the game with the lip of his teacup.

The black king tottered over onto the chessboard.

“It seems I am too clever for you, Faiz,” Naimi said, inserting his pipe snugly into the corner of his mouth and drawing several deep puffs. The tight brown ball flamed orange. “The secret of chess, win or lose, is knowing that you have caused severe and repeated damage to an enemy. That itself is quite gratifying. Your plans will reignite a war that we once started but never fulfilled. Terrorism is a morally demanded duty. America is like a house that a snake has entered—a house filled with children. Who among us would not step forward and kill that snake? If you are successful, the world will know your name and your face. It will be prudent for you to disappear.”

“With a band of masked horsemen into the mountains of Pakistan?” Al-Aran grumbled, recalling the last rumored sighting of the ghostlike Zawahiri.

“Portugal,” Naimi answered. “The
Abuzenima
is an Egyptian vessel that sails the Saharan coastal routes. My brother has been captain for many years. I’ll speak with him. His name is Riad, the peaceful one. He has a farm sixteen kilometers east of Aljezur. He raises sweet potatoes, peanuts, and broad beans. A mysterious animal visits his garden each night and leaves a calling card. He believes it is a mongoose, but I think not. When you meet, you must tell him that it is an Iberian lynx. He will know that you are a friend. Then you will no longer be hirabi, but retired terrorista. The fertile valleys of Aljezur are beauti—”

“
Kysse, kysse, kysse, kysse, kysse, kysse
. . .”

The men turned.

Two of the art students, goaded by the daring group chant, put on an even more sensuous exhibition that included bumping and grinding. The vulgar display ended with a raucous cheer.

Al-Aran turned to Naimi. “There is Egypt’s future—a new democracy, one that accepts the culture of Western filth. Infidels were never allowed here. Now even women come and do as they please, and good Arab men say nothing.”

“Times change, even in old places,” Naimi said, stirring his tea. “Tell me more of this flying toy.”

Al-Aran produced his pipe and slapped the bowl vigorously against his palm. His dark eyes burned angrily at the students.

“It is a sophisticated drone, not a toy. Remotely controlled and four years in development. I supported the design team. The drone’s inventor is my colleague in Atlanta. I have his trust and confidence. And remember, liquefied nitrocellulose is still common lacquer. Clear and highly combustible, yes, but US airport scanners will detect explosive liquids even when they are mixed with a harmless companion.”

“You are not worried?”

“I do not intend to fly through their security lines,” Al-Aran stated with a hint of sarcasm. “The drone will carry solid explosives in quantities more than sufficient to severely damage an aircraft.”

“I thought you abandoned Semtex because of its chemical signature.” “I did abandon it,” Al-Aran answered. “Semtex has always been a wonderful plastique in both availability and power. Unfortunately, it is too easy to identify and follow. The Americans know it is our weapon of choice.”

“Then what will you use? RDX? PETN?”

“Potassium chlorate,” Al-Aran replied. “At one thousand meters per second, it cannot match the detonation velocities of other high explosives, yet it will still produce enormous damage. But more important, it will quickly dissolve in water, making the spent residue virtually untraceable. And that is key. The first aircraft explosion must be bathed in uncertainty. Deciding how to acquire and transport potassium chlorate is a nonissue. We can make it ourselves with no worries of sabotage or compromised supplies. The way to defeat American airport security is to avoid it entirely. Let them search forever and waste time and resources scanning passengers and protecting an aircraft’s interior. I will attack the exterior. If Allah once allowed us to successfully carry chemicals through airports, he will bless my plans.”

Naimi removed his pipe. “The travel routes for your students are safe?”

“Foolproof,” Al-Aran replied. “Some of my best have come through our new northern crossing. They rent fishing boats on a Canadian border lake and drift to isolated points on the American shoreline. Not one has been challenged or even approached. They reach Minneapolis without the slightest concern. America’s Homeland Security demonstrates the height of its ignorance, from senior management to the lowest levels. Unqualified employees in key positions are rarely fired for even the gravest incompetence. I know a middle-aged woman who worked for our campus payroll administration in Atlanta—a scatterbrained peahen. Now she parades back and forth as a TSA supervisor in baggage and x-ray security at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. Hired to meet a gender quota. America’s border is a wineskin with gaping holes. Think of it—a country’s security entrusted to peahens! There is continual chaos in US immigration. Even the American Congress continues to avoid the issue for fear of offending Latino voters. And now, thanks to Cale Warren and his amnesty, Allah has opened a window of opportunity.”

“The American president is not stupid,” Naimi countered. “He boasts that he can place an agent every thousand feet on their borders. He would not propose something as foolish as amnesty without recourse. Perhaps it is an elaborate trap?”

Al-Aran scoffed. “Ten thousand miles of trap? I could personally drive a herd of camels from Mexico into Arizona and the immigration patrols would tip their hats and point me to water.” Al-Aran smiled, but then frowned at Naimi. “Why are you laughing?”

“I am sorry, Faiz, but that is a sight I would pay to see: my best strategic planner high on a camel, clutching the cantle horn, a quiet voice singing in the moonlight.”

“The voice you hear will neither be mine nor the Bedouin,” Al-Aran warned. “It will be the voice of the American economy in its death throes.”

“Al Jazeera made a television report on this Arizona,” Naimi recalled. “The US government will acquire and uplift its own fleet of drones. Do you know for what? Aerial surveillance of endangered sheep.”

“Praise Allah for their environmental priorities.”

“So you have the explosives and the tactics,” Naimi said. “Who will operate this drone?”

“Akil Doroudian,” Al-Aran answered. “Born and raised in Montreal. His father, Reza, and I served together in the People’s Mujahedin during the revolution. Reza was wounded on Black Friday and fled to Canada.”

The Iranian Revolution of 1979 deposed the Shah of Iran, a secular, lavish, and brutal dictator widely viewed as a puppet of the United States. Black Friday was named after the protests that occurred on September 8, 1978, in Zhaleh Square in Tehran. Government tanks and helicopter gunships killed eighty-nine demonstrators, including three women.

“Even in difficult times, our victories have been great,” Naimi announced. “Do you trust this Akil?”

“Akil’s parents are dead, but they left a child of Allah,” Al-Aran said. “He is young but disciplined. Unknown, with an average face. He blends well. A typical Western youth. He will not draw attention.”

“Akil . . . one who uses reason,” Naimi translated the Sunni name. “Where is he now?”

“Posing as a university student in a city in Midwestern America.”

“He has adequate resources?”

Al-Aran smiled slyly. “You forget that I am a tenured professor who travels. I have a healthy expense budget. We have safe arrangements.”

Naimi fondled his pipe bowl. “Discipline is a fine quality, but is Akil committed to our success?”

Al-Aran folded his arms. The skin below his left eye twitched. It always did that whenever someone questioned his judgment. “A difficult term.”

“Commitment or discipline?”

“Akil is the most cunning soldier I have ever trained,” Al-Aran said. “I wish I had ten thousand like him. His tongue is smooth, and his ability to think on his feet is quite remarkable. He is resourceful and intelligent, with a clean identity and background. His mind constantly searches for opportunities. His talent with electronics is excellent, and he is also a chemical genius. He will not make a fool of himself like that idiot Jdey.”

The FBI had recently posted a video on its website of Abderouf Jdey, a Saudi National from Yemen, performing a maniacal machine gun dance and screaming death to infidels. He was widely suspected of providing the explosives for the 2009 Christmas Day bombing (Amsterdam to Detroit), the October 29, 2010, cargo plane bomb plot (Yemen to the United States), and the May 8, 2012, passenger plane suicide bomber plot (Yemen to the United States). The FBI also believed that he fashioned and delivered the materials used in the Boston Marathon bombing, an action that was unsanctioned by Naimi’s council.

“Chemical knowledge is an ugly skill,” Naimi said. “But one that all of our soldiers must learn and exploit. Jdey is an excellent technician who can design anything. Unfortunately, he has become, shall we say, an exuberant liability. He is established in New York City. You may use him as you see fit.”

Al-Aran knew what that meant. Jdey was a carryover from another age and time, a lone-wolf jihadist who thrived on brute force—and lots of it. The US military prison at Guantanamo Bay was filled with them. Jdey routinely balked at organizational planning and tact. Naimi believed he had become uncontrollable.

“Akil knows this drone?” Naimi asked pointedly.

“He has studied the design.”

“Studied but never operated?”

“The training will come easily,” Al-Aran said. “In that respect, it is a toy.”

Naimi frowned at that. “Dispersing a liquid or powdered chemical into a lake or a city street, yes. Flying a remote-controlled toy in a straight line is not difficult. But for your airline operation . . . we are not speaking of a straight line.”

“The drone is easy to fly and maneuver. There are many vulnerable areas on an aircraft wing, especially near the inboard ailerons and flaps. It should work.”

Naimi narrowed his eyes “We have known each other too long, Faiz. You are not confident. Why?”

Al-Aran drew in a breath, then let it out. “I cannot guarantee success. Even a large hole in a wing might not destabilize a plane. The bond of airfoil and fuselage is simply too strong. The timing for pilots to complete their preflight checklists is also unpredictable. Sneaking the drone onto a runway and then chasing after a moving aircraft may indeed be too difficult. I am sorry, Ali. I may have to rethink the tactics.”