Drone Games (3 page)

“Neither of us is perfect,” Naimi said, brushing the apology aside. “We all must rethink from time to time. What sets Allah’s people apart is our ability to adapt and survive under adversity. Allah gave you a mind that easily marries technology to strategy. I have no such skill. You told me that this drone can follow coordinates to a general area and then be delicately guided to its target by a distant soldier. I believe you, and I trust you. If you have discovered an opportunity with aircraft landing gear, then I will support it. And you seem to have everything in hand,” Naimi continued. “I understand the drone is a finalist in a science competition in Rome. If it wins, then the entire world will notice.”

“Notice what? A flying assassin that can kill an aircraft or a harmless surveyor that collects rocks on Mars?”

Naimi considered the point and had to agree. “Your colleague, the drone’s inventor . . . where is he staying?”

“The award ceremony is at the Sheraton Roma. He is at the Atlante Star near the Vatican. Suite 400.” Al-Aran’s eyes swept the café. He lowered his voice. “America is asleep, Ali. We can stab a knife in her heart. On her own soil. I have the right soldiers, the right plans, and it is the right moment in time. We must act before she awakens. Her economy staggers next to a cliff. All we need to do is push. Ours is no longer a military war, but a war of economics. My operations will bring unparalleled suffering to four sectors of the US economy: airlines, consumable meat, stored water, and standing forests. Air, earth, water . . .” A waiter approached. Al-Aran waved him off. “. . . and fire. Four passenger aircraft will fall from the sky. Twenty-seven cattle feedlots will be infected. Nine reservoirs will be poisoned, and sixteen forests will be set ablaze. The targets are spread throughout America, each selected to achieve the widest impact. Akil himself has gone to great lengths to establish four different identities, one in each airport city. He has found access to every target runway. I have never seen such vulnerability.”

“Where are these airports?”

Al-Aran arranged four pawns on the chessboard. “San Diego International, New York’s LaGuardia, O’Hare in Chicago, and Milwaukee, a mid-sized city on a Great Lake. It will begin there. The runway proximity is excellent.”

Naimi opened the newspaper with a sharp snap.

“What do you ask of the council?”

“Permission,” Al-Aran answered, booting his laptop. “The acts I propose to commit against America’s homeland will encourage others across the world to join our faith and our cause. We will show a unified struggle by undertaking all operations at once. We will strike with a fist forged by Allah. I need only to finalize locations and dates with each of my lead soldiers.”

“Over the Internet?” Naimi whispered angrily. “Target locations, dates, and naked information? Our most sensitive plans displayed for all to see? You are aware that President Warren and his NSA collect Internet messages and even phone records of American citizens, news organizations, and even journalists with impunity?”

Naimi was forever fearful of computers and their so-called secure networks. He believed they were listening devices used by American intelligence agencies—something that was actually proven to be true.

Al-Qaeda thrived on publicity, the fuel that bred passion. Zawahiri, Osama bin Laden’s replacement, advocated using all forms of modern media to call for America’s destruction. The recent rollout of the Shamukh al-Islam website, used by members to communicate and issue propaganda statements, had just activated its first Twitter account with twenty-nine tweets.

“You forgot foreign allies,” Al-Aran said smugly. “The president is under severe criticism for doing so. The people have turned against him. One report suggests that there will be official censure and perhaps even impeachment. He has just announced a plan for complete surveillance reform.”

Naimi wanted to laugh. “Take caution in your political conclusions, my friend. Especially with the propaganda that flows from the American news media. I doubt if they have read the US Attorney General’s brief in defense of the matter. Mr. Warren will clearly demonstrate that he has the power and authority to continue these so-called ‘data intrusions’ under the guise of national security.”

Al-Aran shrugged. “It makes no difference. They will never discover us. Can’t you see, Ali? We will never compete with America’s military or technical might. The NSA can unravel the encryption that millions of Internet users rely on to keep electronic messages confidential. Their newest data center in the state of Utah is capable of collecting and analyzing every security camera video, every email, text, or voice message ever created. They are dealing in volumes of storage called zettabytes—trillions of megabytes. The entire United States produces 3.2 zettabytes of data each year. The Utah facility alone can store over five zettabytes. So what good does it do to try and hide?

“My communicating on the Internet is simple and appears in plain sight. Your own council uses Internet websites to boast of victories and recruit soldiers. But you neither trust nor understand the technical workings and efficiencies of modern social media and the simplicity of electronic mail. I do. Anyone on Earth may participate. Each day, billions of messages travel back and forth from usernames and identities that are completely obscure. If we avoid obvious flags and keywords and profess Western cultures and lifestyles, then detecting and interpreting our messages is impossible. It is as simple as showing a desire to eat or drink that which is forbidden.

“Let them monitor. How would they find a single cup of water in the oceans? More important, why would they want to? No intelligence team of humans or supercomputers would have reason to suspect anything. You must trust me, Ali. The Internet is everywhere, even in old places. Using it to communicate works perfectly when one thinks and speaks like an infidel.”

Naimi nodded thoughtfully as he took all this in. “Air, earth, water, and fire. Which operation will bring the most death?”

“Death cannot be our only objective.”

“What do you mean?”

“We must change the way we think, Ali,” Al-Aran said. “Our targets must be economic. Bin Laden knew this, and now Zawahiri has also reached that conclusion.” He leaned forward. “Look at the attacks in Boston and Kenya. What do we gain if a soldier with a backpack manages to break through the defenses in a US airport? A few hundred dead and perhaps one aircraft. The Americans will grieve, their president will predictably speak of healing, and then they will assess and bolster their front-end security. A completely shortsighted victory.

“But when multiple aircraft begin to mysteriously explode in flight, the Americans will have no choice but to close their skies and their airports. The financial impacts, even for a few days, will be fantastic. Imagine five days, or ten. What if we could clip the wings of seven thousand passenger planes indefinitely?”

The two men contemplated that for a moment—the legs of a major transportation sector broken. The economy of the United States brought to its knees once again by al-Qaeda.

“We have always known that America’s airlines are a golden target and worthy of sacrifice, but there are others. I have a soldier poised in London, a courier who has devised a completely foolproof and undetectable way to carry fifteen kilograms of dried meat—meat that is infected with bovine spongiform encephalopathy—from Heathrow to Miami, on a passenger aircraft, no less. His team will mix it with common feed pellets and then harmlessly sightsee across America, visiting cattle feedlots, pastures, and even family farms. Or perhaps he could use drones? Within a month, the raw fear generated by hundreds of confirmed and pervasive outbreaks of mad cow disease will bring the US beef industry to ruin.”

Naimi turned back to his newspaper. This was precisely what Zawahiri had been advocating in recent jihadi blogs produced by their media wing, as-Sahab: to bleed America’s security and economy as punishment for the continuous war on Islam and Muslims.

“When would the first aircraft fall?”

“In nineteen days,” Al-Aran answered. “Monday, May 18. Akil has selected a morning departure. I need only your approval.”

There was an extended silence, as if everyone in the café had knowledge of the conversation and was waiting for the pronouncement.

“The earth, water, and fire operations must wait,” Naimi calmly ordered. “You may attack America’s airlines. If Akil succeeds, we will see about their meat.”

“Those who happily leave everything in Allah’s hand will eventually see Allah’s hand in everything,” Al-Aran whispered. “I leave for Atlanta tomorrow.”

“It is in his hands,” Naimi agreed. “But the destruction of four passenger aircraft will require four drones.”

“Six. One will be tested, and one will be kept for future . . . assessment.” Al-Aran smiled. “There are twelve waiting in a Georgia Tech research lab next to my office.”

“I wager two or three will achieve success,” Naimi said, folding the newspaper under his arm and rising from the table. “Guard yourself, Faiz. May Allah bestow his blessing upon young Akil and this flying technology.”

Al-Aran methodically tapped his keyboard. A Gmail screen appeared with an interactive chat box. There was one contact name in the list, online and available. Al-Aran typed out a message.

PartyLuvr30308:
Dude, the party is set for the eighteenth of May. I’d like to finalize things around noon on the fourteenth. I really have a taste for some good barbecued pork.

The return message came moments later.

Toothdoc2b:
Sweet. Sounds like fun. I know a restaurant where the meat falls right off the bones. Can’t wait! C U soon. Best.

Milwaukee, WI

American Legion Post 154

AKIL DOROUDIAN closed his laptop.

He lowered the window of his 2003 Toyota Camry and peered across the parking lot. Satisfied that the East Layton Avenue address matched the one in the newspaper ad, he shut off the engine. The stiff spring wind was making his eyes water. A tear ran down his cheek. A rare event—he never cried for anyone or anything. He wiped it away.

Akil lifted his Milwaukee Brewer’s baseball cap and fingercombed his lengthy, red-brown hair. He drew out a small white book from his jacket and rubbed his thumbs lovingly across the gold-leaf lettering. He pulled on the end of a thin cloth ribbon, and the Holy Qur’an split open. Transfixed, he digested the text with passion, as if he were rededicating himself to some lover or deep cause. In essence, he was.

Surah 9. Repentance, Dispensation

1.
A declaration of immunity from Allah and His Messenger, to those of the Pagans with whom ye have contracted mutual alliances:

2.
Go ye, then, backwards and forwards, as ye will, throughout the land.

3.
And an announcement from Allah and His Messenger, to the people assembled on the day of the Great Pilgrimage, that Allah and His Messenger dissolve treaty obligations with the Pagans. If then, ye repent, it were best for you; but if ye turn away, know ye that ye cannot frustrate Allah. And proclaim a grievous penalty to those who reject Faith.

4.
Then fight and slay the Pagans wherever ye find them, and seize them, beleaguer them, and lie in wait for them in every stratagem of war; but if they repent, and establish regular prayers and practice regular charity, then open the way for them: for Allah is Oft-forgiving, Most Merciful.

Akil kissed the book and tucked it away.

He dialed his cell phone. After four rings, an answering machine picked up. A female voice spoke.

“You’ve reached the Russian Star Tattoo Parlor. We’re located at 2460 Kettner Boulevard just off West Laurel Street across from San Diego International Airport. We’re open from noon to ten o’clock. Remember, no matter who you are, you must be special to wear the Russian Star.”
Beeeep
.

Akil looked at his watch. “Hello. This is Eddie Ginosa again.” His voice was young, confident, educated with a Midwest American accent. “I left a message yesterday. I just want to make sure you got my deposit check for the apartment. I’m in Milw . . . Minneapolis doing some last-minute packing. I’d like to move in a few days early to clean. If it’s all right with you, I’ll even pay for paint. I’ll try and call late—”

“
Hola
. . . um, hello,” a soft-spoken Spanish voice answered.

“Who is this?” Akil asked.

“Marissa. It’s early here,
señor
. Everyone is asleep. Can you call back?”

“You’re not sleeping,” Akil said flirtatiously.

She yawned. “I know. My kids woke me up. They’re hungry.”

Akil frowned into the phone. “Is this the Russian Star?”

“
Sí
. I mean, yes. I work here, but I also live here. It’s just temporary. I don’t exactly have my own place.”

“That’s cool,” Akil said. “Um, I need to leave a message for Viktor Karkula. I mailed a money-order down payment for an apartment. Do you know if he got it?”

“Viktor is the owner. I think he did, but I’m not sure. You’ll like the place; it’s right above us. The last tenants weren’t real quiet, so Viktor made them leave. He gets really mad when people party and make noise. He has a bad temper.”