Drone

“Coming hard to starboard, Lieutenant.”

The Iranian naval crew had been brought in for just such a mission. They had been stationed in Cuba for over three months waiting for an opportunity for naval jihad against the Great Satan and had spent their time studying Mexican naval operations and Spanish. Operating the vessel was simple enough; ship controls were universal in design and function these days. All of the enlisted men selected were veteran sailors and eager for martyrdom.

The ship’s bow turned surprisingly fast and soon pointed directly at the giant white letters painted along the side of the enormous hull.

“All ahead flank.”

“All ahead flank,” the helmsman repeated.

With any luck, the lieutenant hoped, they’d rip the containership in half and sink her before the American fighter bombers pinging on his radar scope could stop them.

The two automatic deck guns continued to boom and roar as they fired their shells. The noise was fearsome even inside the sealed bridge. The air bore the faint copper smell of the explosives despite the air scrubbers. The big white letters on the containership were quickly pockmarked with giant shell holes and the big steel containers on deck practically melted under the stream of lead from the 20mm gun.

“One minute to target, sir!” the helmsman shouted proudly.

“Inshallah!” the lieutenant shouted back with a joyous smile.

But the lieutenant had made a tactical error. By maneuvering the Joaquin into ramming position, he put himself between the two F/A-18 Hornets and the Star Louisiana. That gave the Hornets a clear line of sight to the Joaquin. They acquired radar lock on their target, then fired four antiship missiles from twenty miles away.

Too late.

Ten seconds later, the bow of the Joaquin tore into the starboard side of the big containership, ripping a twenty-foot-tall hole in the hull and fatally snapping the ship’s steel spine.

The Iranians cheered as they were thrown against the bulkheads with the force of impact, but their victory cries caught in their throats as the four inbound missiles struck the Joaquin, vaporizing the warship in a cloud of fire and steel.

Thirteen minutes later, the Star Louisiana sank with all hands on board.

Inshallah.

55

San Diego, California

The news about the Mexican patrol boat attack on the American freighter and its subsequent sinking by U.S. Navy aircraft jammed the radio and television news broadcasts all day, but Pearce couldn’t pay attention to any of it. Pearce knew Myers would have her hands full and she’d be lucky to get out of a full-blown shooting war with Mexico before the day was over.

But that was her problem. Pearce and his team were laser-focused on tracking Ali and hell-bent on setting up a capture with zero civilian casualties, which was growing increasingly unlikely.

After arriving at L.A.’s Union Station by bus, Ali grabbed a couple of cabrito tacos from a nearby food truck and washed them down with a grape soda before purchasing a ticket with cash for a shared Prime Time Shuttle ride to the San Diego airport. What made Pearce nervous was that Ali wore a beige windbreaker that he kept zipped up at all times.

Judy Hopper flew Pearce in a company helicopter to the San Diego airport where Pearce Systems maintained a private hangar. The Eurocopter AS350 she was flying was decked out with Pearce Systems corporate logos, which wasn’t ideal, but there weren’t any other options at the moment.

Pearce grabbed the company car—an unmarked sterling gray 2013 Ford Mustang Shelby GT 500—out of its designated parking spot and took up station at the shuttle drop-off ten minutes before the shuttle was due while Hopper waited for him to radio her.

At the San Diego shuttle drop-off, Ali grabbed a taxi that jumped on southbound I-5. Pearce trailed Ali in his Mustang as Judy kept tabs on both of them by helicopter. A few minutes into the ride, she called Pearce.

“He’s heading for Petco Park. That’s got to be his target.”

“Agreed,” Pearce said.

“We’d better grab him before he gets in. The Padres game is sold out. I heard it on the radio.”

Pearce knew that if Ali really did have access to a bomb or some other WMD, Petco Park would be the perfect venue to set it off—live on national television. Pearce weighed the arguments raging in his head. Ali was probably wearing a suicide vest under that zippered jacket and was probably smart enough to load it up with glass marbles and some kind of detonator that kept him from being caught by any of the metal detectors he’d already passed through. If the Iranian had booked his reservation for the seventy-two-virgin hotel, a mass murder at Petco Park was the perfect place to check in.

But something still didn’t add up. Ali had practically begged to be discovered and followed. He made no attempt to hide his face with either a hat or sunglasses, let alone engage in the tricks every junior field operative employs to avoid detection by electronic surveillance. Ali wanted to be discovered and followed. Why?

“Stay close, Judy. I might need you. How far away are Johnny and Stella?” Pearce had had Judy contact them as soon as Ali hit the freeway.

“Twelve minutes, tops.”

Ali’s cab dropped him off at Petco Park just in time for the start of the second inning. The sellout crowd of over forty-five thousand people roared as some sort of a play was made inside. He picked up a ticket at the will- call booth for the sold-out game against the Los Angeles Dodgers and dashed inside.

Pearce dropped his car off at the valet service and ran up to the only open ticket window, desperate to find a way into the sold-out game without setting off alarm bells. Before he could concoct a cover story, the ticket seller asked, “You Troy Pearce?”

“Yeah.”

“Some guy just left this for you.”

The ticket seller slid a ticket under the glass. Pearce snatched it up. The Iranian had style.

Pearce raced through the casual stadium security with a flash of a fake CIA identity card and made his way to a third-floor Premier Club suite right behind home plate. He pushed through the unlocked door.

Ali stood at the bar and poured himself a club soda. His windbreaker was off. No suicide vest. Not even a gun or a knife.

Pearce unholstered his .45 caliber Glock and marched straight at the Iranian, shoving the muzzle tip against the side of Ali’s head.

Ali didn’t flinch. He held up the glass with the fizzy water and said, “Cheers,” lifting the drink to his mouth. Pearce batted it away.

“You Americans. No manners.”

“I’m two heartbeats away from blasting your brains against the wall. Tell me why I shouldn’t?”

“Because if it was a good idea, you would have already done so. Why haven’t you, Pearce?”

Hearing the Iranian pronounce his name chilled him. The Quds Force was a serious organization with world-class intelligence-gathering capabilities, but it was more likely that Ali had gotten his name through the torture he’d put Udi through. Pearce’s grip tightened on the pistol.

“No answer? Let me help you. Is it A, because you don’t know why I went to all the trouble to arrange this little meeting? Or is it B, because you don’t know what might happen if I don’t come out of this suite alive? Or is it C, because you sense there is something else at work behind the scenes that you still have not figured out?”

“All of the above, ass wipe.”

Ali smiled. “Honestly, I’m surprised. Now lower your weapon, or I will signal my man to fire his SA-7 at your helicopter and kill your friend Judy.”

Pearce’s eyes narrowed. How does he know about Judy?