“MCR, I’m seeing SAF from the ground. Looks like IA is having a go.”
Suddenly, above the narrow streets of Karbala’s old quarter, the Reaper exploded—blasting into fiery pieces that spun downward across a dozen city blocks, trailing streamers of smoke into the narrow-alley neighborhoods around the shrines.
The colonel turned to face Jordan. “What the hell just happened?”
Jordan shook his head. “It wasn’t us, Colonel. The F-16s are still inbound.”
The colonel kicked a chair, sending it spinning away. “Goddammit!” He turned quickly. “Call off the jets. The last thing we need is more armed aircraft over this disaster.”
Jordan called off the strike and hung up the phone. He then gazed up at the screen like everyone else in the place—staring in mute shock at the magnitude of the carnage.
The Predator’s optics panned across the thousands of wounded and dead, pilgrims in bloody clothing, Iraqi soldiers rushing forward to carry away wounded. People weeping and tearing at their clothes and hair as dead or dying relatives were pulled from their arms.
Jordan sat back down. Numb. “There’ll be hell to pay for this. . . .”
* * *
Henry Clarke awoke facedown and still dressed in a black Castangia pinstripe suit. Splayed diagonally across his bed, he groped for a phone as it chimed somewhere in the soft glow of LED charging lights. “Dammit, where the . . .” He finally saw his cell on the nightstand, its front panel glowing through a cocktail napkin with a cell number and lipstick smeared across it. He swatted away the napkin and grabbed the handset. “Yeah?”
A pause.
He sat up and flicked on the nightstand lamp. “Shit. I am. Yeah. Yes.” He looked around. “Now?” He glanced at his watch, then reluctantly nodded. “All right. Fine. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Two minutes later Clarke, wearing jeans and an untucked white button-down shirt, opened his red townhome door in bare feet to reveal an austere, well-dressed woman in her fifties coming up his stone steps. A black Lincoln Town Car idled at the curb outside—double-parked on his Georgetown street. The driver and another suited man watched her go inside. She waved them off, then muttered to Clarke, “Get inside before you catch cold, Henry.”
She entered the foyer in a commanding fashion as Clarke closed the door and followed in her wake. “It’s three in the morning, Marta. Couldn’t this have waited a few hours?”
“You smell like gin.” She sniffed. “And perfume. Are we alone?”
“Just the staff. With your nose I’m surprised you can’t smell them too.”
She dismissed his jibe with a wave and kept walking, examining the high plaster ceilings, the Federalist furniture, carved marble mantel, and original art. “I’d forgotten about this place. A bit traditional for a man your age.”
He was tucking in his shirt. “It’s been in my family a long time. Reminds me of my mother.”
“I wouldn’t have figured you for the sentimental type. Although I’m sure this place works wonders on K Street girls.” She had already entered his study and grabbed the remote. She appeared to know the layout of the place.
“How bad is it?” He stood in the doorway.
She powered on his plasma TV, flipping through satellite channels. She came first to BBC One. Scenes of Middle East horror filled the screen. Streets running with blood as viewed from the air. The chyron at the bottom of the screen proclaimed, “U.S. drone attack on Shia shrine kills thousands; thousands more injured.” The female anchor weighed in: “. . . official statement, but condemnations of the attack have come swiftly from China, Russia, and heads of state throughout the Muslim world.”
The live image switched to recorded amateur video showing a low-flying Reaper drone launching missiles against the dense crowds around the shrines. The U.S. stars-and-bars insignia was clearly visible on the fuselage.
“The incident took place in full view of tens of thousands of pilgrims moving on foot through the Iraqi city of Karbala. Although Pentagon officials deny U.S. involvement, pieces of the wreckage carried away by locals bear U. S. markings and serial numbers. Many view this attack as an act of American revenge for a deadly series of terror bombings in the continental United States—including one that claimed the life of Virginia senator Aaron Arkin and six staffers eight weeks ago. One Middle Eastern diplomat described today’s events as ‘a blind giant lashing out against unseen attackers.’”
“Holy . . . what the hell happened?”
“Have you read Black Swan yet?”
“I saw the movie.”