Each Predator system consisted of a pilot, his sensor operator, and a set of four separate Predator drones that they controlled from inside an air-conditioned military shipping container—in this case at Creech Air Force Base, near Las Vegas, Nevada. They pulled twelve-hour shifts there in what were called “reachback” operations, and then went home for breakfast in the suburbs. Jordan sometimes suffered the same disorienting effects the Predator teams reported from remote operations. It made it hard to keep up a battle rhythm when you found yourself in a convenience store buying a Slurpee an hour after ordering the deaths of five insurgents half a world away. It was easy to forget this was all very real somewhere and not just a super-high-res game. There was counseling for that, but he didn’t think it was a good career move to take advantage of it.
Jordan continued to monitor the contents of several screens at once.
“SO, we’ve got forty degrees more of heading.”
“Sensor copies.”
A voice from higher up the command chain suddenly broke in on the radio. “Kodar Tree, this is Sentinel. Request weapons load-out.”
Others were listening in, then. It underscored to Jordan the sensitivities of operations above the masses of Shia pilgrims moving through Karbala. U.S. combat forces had officially left the country—a pronouncement that seriously pissed off the U.S. troops who were still there. These drone flights were overhead to look for trouble and pass intelligence to the Iraqi army. And Lazzo was right; the Ashura festivities had been attacked by militant Sunnis before.
“Sentinel, we are Winchester.”
Unarmed. This close to the shrines, he damned well better be Winchester.
“Kodar Tree, you may proceed. Sentinel out.”
“Copy that, Sentinel. MCR, we are on-station, heading one-seven-eight. Pilot out.”
They watched for several moments as the optics package zoomed in along Route 9, the wide, gritty boulevard stretching cracked, sun-blasted, and arrow-straight south through the city. Lined with run-down housing blocks, the road was packed with tens of thousands of pilgrims moving on foot. Jordan whistled. “That’s quite a crowd.” He keyed his mic. “Pilot, keep tracking south, and you should intercept that gopher momentarily.”
“Wilco.”
“There.” Sergeant Lazzo pointed up at the screen with a pocket laser pointer, but it was already obvious to them all.
“MCR, we’ve got a visual on that gopher. It is a cyclops—repeat, cyclops—heading tree-fife-eight. Probably has a bent parrot.”
Jordan saw the unmistakable outline of an American drone as it motored north at barely two thousand feet altitude. What the hell? “Kodar Tree, copy that cyclops. Designate cyclops Target One. Shadow Target One, and get me its tail number.”
Lazzo raised his eyebrows.
“Pilot copies.”
“Sensor copies.”
Lazzo shrugged. “One of our drones with a malfunctioning transponder, then.”
Jordan studied the screen. “But how the hell did it get there? And why isn’t there a record in Blue Force Tracker? I mean, that’s a Reaper.” Jordan stared at the high-def video of a gray American MQ-9 Reaper drone, still tracking north above the highway. Visually similar to the smaller propeller-driven MQ-1 Predator, the Reaper was half again as large, and capable of carrying far more weaponry. This one was flying lower than any drone—especially a Reaper—should. Was it having engine trouble?
“MCR, Target One has stars-and-bars, but no visible tail number. Repeat, no visible tail number.”
“Copy that, Kodar Tree.” Jordan changed radio channels. “Sentinel, MCR, heads up. We have a visual on MQ-9 cyclops with bent parrot and no visible tail number over Karbala, slow and in the weeds, heading tree-fife-fife. No record of this flight. Please advise.”
Radio and instant message chatter swelled in response, and Jordan muttered to Lazzo as he dialed an extension on his phone. “I thought CIA had stopped this cowboy shit.”
Lazzo was still squinting at the screen. “But AWACS would have checked with JSOC before calling us.”
Jordan held a finger to his headset switch, waiting for an answer. “Well, it’s somebody’s goddamned drone, and it couldn’t just wander into the neighborhood without anyone knowing about it.”
“That thing’s loaded for bear.”
As the optics zoomed in on the Reaper, Jordan could see the hard-points on the wings bearing a full complement of fourteen AGM Hellfire missiles. In the background below it, thousands of black- and white-robed pilgrims pointed up as the shadow of its wings passed over them.
“This is one hell of a Charlie Foxtrot.” He could see pilgrims in the crowd filming the drone with video cameras and cell phones. “You watch, that’ll show up on Al Jazeera later.”