Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland) by Jim DeFelice, Dale Brown Page B
Authors: Jim DeFelice, Dale Brown
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names,” said the Israeli.
Turk slipped back and looked at Grease. “At least I know now I’m on the right plane,” he muttered.
The faintest of smiles appeared on Grease’s lips.
6
CIA campus, Virginia
“S PACECRAFT T WO IS SIXTY SECOND S TO TARGET area,” said Colonel Schaffer, the Air Force liaison tracking the X-37B. “They need a final go to launch.”
Breanna glanced at Jonathon Reid, then back at the screen showing where Turk was. The pilot was wearing a small ring that allowed the Whiplash network to locate him at all times.
“Has Gorud sent the signal?” she asked Reid.
“Still waiting,” he replied, his voice so soft she could barely hear it over the whisper of the air conditioner. It was a habit of his—the more tense he felt, the quieter he made his voice. Undoubtedly it had served the old CIA hand very well when he was in the field.
Gorud was supposed to signal that the operation was proceeding by calling a prearranged number in Egypt that they were monitoring. The number belonged to an Iranian who spied on the West, a nice little piece of misdirection cooked up by Gorud himself. They expected the call when they boarded the helicopter, but though Turk was clearly aboard and moving, there had been no signal.
Breanna stared at the screen, watching as Turk moved away from the airport. They didn’t have real-time visual of the operation, having decided that even a stealthy UAV might give them away if something went wrong. Iran, using Russian technology, had already demonstrated the ability to track American drones.
There was something wrong about the way the aircraft was moving—it didn’t seem like a helicopter.
“Is the X-37 close enough to Birjand to pick up that aircraft?” Breanna asked Schaffer.
“Negative. Not even close. Is there a problem?”
“Turk’s supposed to be in a helicopter.”
“What’s wrong, Breanna?” asked Reid.
“I’m pretty sure Turk’s in a plane, not a helicopter as planned.”
“Maybe they had to change their arrangement,” said Reid. “Will he be able to control the UAVs?”
“He should. The question is whether they can stay in the area, and do so without attracting too much attention.”
“Maybe Gorud thought the plane would be less noticeable,” said Reid.
At one of the original briefing sessions on the planning, someone had mentioned that there were often helicopter flights in the area; she remembered quite clearly because she’d asked a question about it.
“I’m not trying to second-guess their operation,” she told Reid. “I am concerned because we haven’t confirmed that it is our aircraft. Gorud hasn’t checked in.”
“Understood.”
“Ma’am.” Schaffer cleared his throat. “If you want a launch, you need to authorize. The window on this pass is only forty-five seconds.”
If she authorized the launch and Turk wasn’t in a position to “catch” the UAVs, the mission would be aborted and the aircraft lost. The operation would have to wait another twenty-four hours, and the margin of error would be cut in half.
Breanna looked again at the screen plotting Turk’s location. He might be heading for the target. Or he might be going to Tehran—the logical place to bring a prisoner.
Something her father had told her years before popped into her head: There are always reasons to put off a mission, Bree. A lot of them, and they’re always good ones. Going ahead is always the lonelier way. But it’s almost always the better choice.
“Launch,” she told Schaffer.
7
Iran
T URK BRACED HIMSELF AS THE C ESSNA BANKED sharply. It turned nearly 270 degrees in what felt like a half second, dropping at the same time. His stomach felt as if it had hopped up to his eyeballs.
“What the hell are we doing?” he demanded as the pilot leveled off.
“We have to avoid being detected,” said the man in the right front seat. While Turk labeled him the Israeli because of what Gorud had said earlier, his accent sounded
Turk slipped back and looked at Grease. “At least I know now I’m on the right plane,” he muttered.
The faintest of smiles appeared on Grease’s lips.
6
CIA campus, Virginia
“S PACECRAFT T WO IS SIXTY SECOND S TO TARGET area,” said Colonel Schaffer, the Air Force liaison tracking the X-37B. “They need a final go to launch.”
Breanna glanced at Jonathon Reid, then back at the screen showing where Turk was. The pilot was wearing a small ring that allowed the Whiplash network to locate him at all times.
“Has Gorud sent the signal?” she asked Reid.
“Still waiting,” he replied, his voice so soft she could barely hear it over the whisper of the air conditioner. It was a habit of his—the more tense he felt, the quieter he made his voice. Undoubtedly it had served the old CIA hand very well when he was in the field.
Gorud was supposed to signal that the operation was proceeding by calling a prearranged number in Egypt that they were monitoring. The number belonged to an Iranian who spied on the West, a nice little piece of misdirection cooked up by Gorud himself. They expected the call when they boarded the helicopter, but though Turk was clearly aboard and moving, there had been no signal.
Breanna stared at the screen, watching as Turk moved away from the airport. They didn’t have real-time visual of the operation, having decided that even a stealthy UAV might give them away if something went wrong. Iran, using Russian technology, had already demonstrated the ability to track American drones.
There was something wrong about the way the aircraft was moving—it didn’t seem like a helicopter.
“Is the X-37 close enough to Birjand to pick up that aircraft?” Breanna asked Schaffer.
“Negative. Not even close. Is there a problem?”
“Turk’s supposed to be in a helicopter.”
“What’s wrong, Breanna?” asked Reid.
“I’m pretty sure Turk’s in a plane, not a helicopter as planned.”
“Maybe they had to change their arrangement,” said Reid. “Will he be able to control the UAVs?”
“He should. The question is whether they can stay in the area, and do so without attracting too much attention.”
“Maybe Gorud thought the plane would be less noticeable,” said Reid.
At one of the original briefing sessions on the planning, someone had mentioned that there were often helicopter flights in the area; she remembered quite clearly because she’d asked a question about it.
“I’m not trying to second-guess their operation,” she told Reid. “I am concerned because we haven’t confirmed that it is our aircraft. Gorud hasn’t checked in.”
“Understood.”
“Ma’am.” Schaffer cleared his throat. “If you want a launch, you need to authorize. The window on this pass is only forty-five seconds.”
If she authorized the launch and Turk wasn’t in a position to “catch” the UAVs, the mission would be aborted and the aircraft lost. The operation would have to wait another twenty-four hours, and the margin of error would be cut in half.
Breanna looked again at the screen plotting Turk’s location. He might be heading for the target. Or he might be going to Tehran—the logical place to bring a prisoner.
Something her father had told her years before popped into her head: There are always reasons to put off a mission, Bree. A lot of them, and they’re always good ones. Going ahead is always the lonelier way. But it’s almost always the better choice.
“Launch,” she told Schaffer.
7
Iran
T URK BRACED HIMSELF AS THE C ESSNA BANKED sharply. It turned nearly 270 degrees in what felt like a half second, dropping at the same time. His stomach felt as if it had hopped up to his eyeballs.
“What the hell are we doing?” he demanded as the pilot leveled off.
“We have to avoid being detected,” said the man in the right front seat. While Turk labeled him the Israeli because of what Gorud had said earlier, his accent sounded
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