AS TWO GUARDS RAISED their rifles and entered the forest in search of me, the record shows that Parizad was in the large barn of the five-hundred-acre farm, filling his crop-dusting drone fleet with Demon Rain, this batch laden with more sarin liquid than previous concoctions. Parizad was interested in testing the most potent combination of hallucinogenic drug known to man.
The video cameras installed in the expansive space showed Parizad walking among ten octocopter drones arrayed like helicopters on an airport apron. Parizad wore a protective mask and poured a liquid from a milk jug into the tanks of each drone, carefully closing each lid with rubber-gloved hands. He walked to the front of the barn, removed the gloves, and texted: In position?
Yes. The pigs are ready.
Parizad had 150 pigs shipped in from Smithfield Foods the previous week. There was a portable, six-foot-high cattle corral two hundred meters from the barn, which facilitated the holding and transportation of the Angus cattle that roamed the farm. The pigs had been separated into the ten holding areas and had been provided corn. There were large, two-hundred-pound hogs and small thirty-pound piglets, with all sizes in between.
Parizad walked back to the drones, started each of them, their eight tiny blades whirring silently in the cavernous space. He opened the application on his tablet and drew a flight plan with his finger around the perimeter of the barren cornfield that was five football fields long and ended at the corral behind the barns. He slid the image for Drone 1 onto the path and watched as the actual drone lifted from the floor of the barn and buzzed through the open doors, then tilted onto the path Parizad had outlined on the application. Keeping his mask on, he walked through an opening in the fence that surrounded the house and the barn and stood on a small hillock overlooking the endless furrowed rows of brown stalks. There was little ambient light, and the stars were brilliant against the black sky. The cattle corral was a series of man-made shapes against the natural terrain.
Repeating this process for each of the ten drones, he watched as each drone followed a different path he had designated. Ten squares with live thermal video streams appeared on his tablet next to the macro view of the cattle corral and the pigs. The drones were programmed to spray at a specific GPS point on the ground. As each drone approached its target, it began releasing an aerosolized mist of sarin gas from fifteen feet above ground level.
Parizad studied the flow rates of the fluids being released. He calculated the distance from which he had launched the drones to their intended spray areas and knew he would need more distance from the objective area. As the drones executed their missions for their designated flight times of thirty minutes, Parizad studied the geography around the intended target area, calculating other supplies he might need. This was the final rehearsal before the attack.
And he listened.
The pigs grunted and squealed high-pitched noises. The Demon Rain blanketed them to the point that within a matter of two minutes, every pig was dead.
Perfect.
The first of the drones buzzed past Parizad and landed in its original location, wobbling as its eight blades lowered it to the dusty plank flooring. The others followed suit as he checked the spray tanks of each.
Parizad looked again at his tablet, now showing an image of the Camp David compound, which was less than thirty miles from the front gate of the farm. He had much left to think about at this point, but his plan was solidified.
His layered approach to attacking the Americans fit well with his long view that a mere act of retribution was a disservice to his father and Soleimani, his mentor. Rather, his plan to create psychological fear and inflict lasting economic damage within the United States—and, by extension, the rest of the world—was a multifaceted juggernaut of defensive and offensive actions.
Mahmood walked into the barn.
“I think that went well,” he said, removing his protective mask.
“I agree. Between this and the tests in Yazd, I think we have evidence that we will be successful.”
Mahmood nodded.
“Half of the crowd dies and the other half attacks?”
“Something like that. When the drones spray the crowd at the inauguration, those that don’t die from nerve damage will be holding their phones up to take pictures. Our hack into all iPhones and Androids will mesh with the hallucinogenic properties to make the crowd do our work for us.”
Holding at bay the very people charged with deterring threats to the United States, Parizad was now able to maneuver a twenty-first-century array of forces in the cyber and physical domains to extend the conflict with the United States, seizing upon inner discord and parlaying the Americans’ nefarious personal ambitions into a golden opportunity for Iran.
Like any well-laid war plan, Parizad’s political demands were well conceived and approved by his country’s leadership.
His three other drone operators entered the barn to join him and Mahmood. They were all wearing protective masks.
“First, decontaminate the drones,” Parizad said. “Then yourselves.”
When they were done with both tasks, Parizad convened his team in the command center above the garage, where they discussed minor issues and the fixes they would implement until the attack.
He thanked his men and issued instructions before retiring to his room. The extensive camera system allowed him to see the guards at the main gate and surrounding his inner perimeter.
He was reviewing his checklist when his cell phone rang.
“We have a problem. Sinclair is in D.C.!”