Drone

The Iranian was still running the show.

56

Mexico City, Mexico

U.S. Ambassador Romero sat in the office of his Mexican counterpart, the secretary of foreign affairs, along with the Mexican secretary of defense, a retired general. Heated accusations on both sides finally simmered down to a low boil.

After the meeting, Romero reported back to Myers that he was convinced that the Mexican government had, in fact, not ordered the attack on the Star Louisiana and that he accepted the Mexican theory that a rogue naval officer had foolishly taken matters into his own hands. Romero further suggested that the matter now be handled by lawyers, insurance companies, and high-level bureaucrats, rather than generals and admirals if war was to be avoided. Myers thanked him.

An emergency cabinet meeting affirmed Romero’s recommendation despite Early’s concern that it was a Bravo operation. The chief of naval operations, a four-star admiral, assured Myers that operating a modern combat vessel was beyond the skill sets of street thugs. “So is hijacking a Reaper,” Early protested. It would be weeks before salvage operations could recover any bodies for identification—if any bodies were still intact. For Myers, the question of identity was academic. All that mattered to her at the moment was that the United States and Mexico had just avoided a shooting war.

But she wasn’t out of the woods yet. Myers knew that the House Armed Services Committee hearings would find a way to forge the tragedy into a weapon against her administration.

Gulf of Mexico

The Russian nuclear attack submarine Vepr was cruising at a leisurely five knots nearly three hundred meters below the surface of the gulf on a mapping exercise. No American warships were in the area. The nearest vessel was a small civilian pleasure boat on the surface four hundred meters away, according to its radar signature.

The young but professional crew was performing its duties with affable efficiency when a heavy metallic clang sounded against the Vepr’s outer hull. Everybody suddenly shut up, as if a switch had been thrown. The captain ordered all stop, fearing they’d struck something. According to their charts, an abandoned explosives and ordnance dumping ground the Americans had used for decades was several kilometers north of their position, but radar and sonar both indicated nothing of the kind close by.

Moments later, a puzzled radioman called the captain to his station and handed him the headphones.

“Hello, Captain!” Yamada’s voice blasted in the Russian’s ears.

“What’s going on? Who are you?” the captain demanded.

“Doesn’t matter who I am, moke. What matters is that I know who you are.”

The captain frowned in confusion. “What do you want?”

Yamada explained to the sub captain that an underwater drone had just successfully attached an explosive device to the Akula-class submarine’s outer hull and—clang—was attaching yet others. There was no reason to worry, Yamada assured the captain, at least not yet.

The Russian captain at first expressed doubts, but a visual confirmation by an external video camera confirmed Yamada’s claims. Both the stealth UUV and the magnetic limpet mines attached to the Vepr’s hull were visually confirmed.

Clang.

The captain resorted to vile threats, but within moments he succumbed to his worst fears as Yamada explained the captain’s dire situation.

“The Vepr must immediately withdraw from the gulf at full speed and return to the fleet base in Severomorsk or face certain destruction.” The Vepr was part of the great Northern Fleet that operated out of Murmansk Oblast near the Finnish and Norwegian borders.

“This is an act of war,” the captain declared.

“I am a private citizen representing no government. Private citizens cannot wage war,” Yamada countered. Pearce had instructed him to use this precise legal language.

“You are a liar. You are an American.”

“Actually, I’m your worst nightmare. I’m a Japanese with a long memory.”

The captain shuddered. “A terrorist, then?”

“More like a contractor, terrorizing you at the moment. I am tracking your position by satellite. Failure to set course for Severomorsk and follow it immediately will result in detonation of the limpet mines attached to your hull. Once I see that the Vepr has returned to Severomorsk, I will contact your base commander, he will arrange to have a great deal of money transferred to an account of my designation, and then I will deactivate the mines.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Good!” Yamada laughed. “That would be a mistake. My ancestors have been killing Russians since the Battle of Tsushima. So, yes, I want you to worry about the fact that I might change my mind and blow your pig boat to pieces just for the fun of it, and I want you to sweat as you think about my finger on the button for every minute of every kilometer it takes you to get back to Severomorsk.”

Yamada laughed again and cut the link.

Sixty seconds later, the Vepr powered up to full speed and set a direct course for home.

But Yamada had lied. The robotic arm on his stealthy research UUV had only attached large magnets to the submarine’s hull. Pearce promised Yamada that his UUV would never be deployed in a military operation, so it took a while to convince his friend that scaring the Russians with magnets was not the same as blowing them out of the water with mines. Yamada finally yielded the point on the promise of lavish funding for his next round of whale research. Yamada was actually glad to screw with the Russians. He knew that the Soviets had killed whales illegally for over forty years, slaughtering nearly two hundred thousand of them globally and causing several population crashes. Making a Russian sub captain piss his pants seemed like a good start on payback to the idealistic pacifist.

Pearce was just as glad they were only magnets attached to the Vepr’s hull. If World War III was about to begin, he preferred it was someone else who started it. But he made sure that one of the magnets featured a GPS tracker with a signal that he would pass on to the U.S. Navy.

Ali had kept his side of the bargain. Galling as it was, now it was Pearce’s turn to ante up.

San Diego, California

Two days later, Ali appeared at the Pearce Systems hangar at the San Diego airport, as per Pearce’s instructions. One of Pearce’s private jets, a Bombardier Global 8000, sat in the cavernous space. Ali could see the two pilots in the cockpit window prepping for takeoff.

Pearce escorted the Iranian up the stairs into the luxurious cabin. On the back end of the passenger compartment was a sliding cantilevered door for privacy. The door was locked open. A rolling medical/surgical bed was in the separate space, along with a heart monitor and IV pump.

“What is that?” Ali asked.

A clean-shaven thirty-year-old Pakistani man in a sport coat and tie stepped into the cabin, carrying a doctor’s satchel and a small roll-on travel case. He was out of breath. “Sorry I’m late.”

Pearce shook the Pakistani’s hand with a smile. “You’re fine, Doctor. Take a seat, please.”

“Who is that?” Ali asked.

“I promised you safe delivery to Tehran. I didn’t promise to reveal my underground network to you so we’re going to have to knock you out with drugs.”