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On Tuesday morning, lawyers for Philip Kilpatrick and John Marcano filed motions to dismiss the wrongful-death suit with long briefs arguing that the case had no merit. Both asked for sanctions against Wyatt Jackson and Paige Chambers personally for filing the frivolous case. Paige was notified of the filings via e-mail through the court’s electronic filing system. She sat at her kitchen table and read through the legal documents, growing more pessimistic by the minute.

As expected, the defendants relied heavily on the Feres Doctrine and the Supreme Court case that threw out the lawsuit by military members who had been used as guinea pigs for LSD testing. The defense lawyers scoffed at the notion that the Anderson case was different just because Troy Anderson had been working for the CIA.

Whether or not Mr. Anderson, a longtime member of SEAL Team Six, was technically deputized by the CIA for this mission is of no consequence. His team leader was Patrick Quillen, also a Navy SEAL. Mr. Quillen reported to the commanding officer of SEAL Team Six, who in turn reported to the commanding officer of the Joint Special Operations Command. All of these men were members of the military. Moreover, as the Supreme Court noted in the Stanley case, the question is not whether the plaintiff is technically working for the military but whether the case is “incident to military service.”

The briefs also claimed that the case would jeopardize state secrets, though that issue was downplayed. They were well-written briefs, authored by lawyers from two of the largest firms in the country, and it gave Paige a new realization of how monumental the challenge was before her. It also made her consider, for the first time, what this suit might personally cost her. If a federal judge got mad and levied sanctions, both she and Wyatt could be fined tens of thousands of dollars. Typically, lawyers asked that the sanctions include the legal costs they have billed responding to the case. Just these briefs alone would probably cost $20,000 each, given the billing rates of the D.C. firms. Where could Paige get that kind of money?

She fretted over the briefs for a while and then called Wellington. He asked if they could meet later that day to parcel out the work for their response. He also told her that the court had set a hearing for Friday, May 25, the day before Memorial Day weekend.

“What did Wyatt think about the briefs?” Paige asked.

“He said they’re both crap,” Wellington replied. “He was in one of his I-told-you-so moods. He’d predicted the defense lawyers wouldn’t push the state secrets defense because it would be like hiding behind the Fifth Amendment and would make the president look bad. And sure enough, he was right—they only spent a few pages even referencing the national-security concerns.”

“Has Wyatt ever seen a case he thought he would lose?” Paige asked.

Wellington thought about that for a long time. “Not since I’ve been with him.”

NAJRAN, SAUDI ARABIA

Brandon Lawrence couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t say something. In the past six months, two of his Hellfire missiles had destroyed houses where the CIA later learned that only civilians had been present. One had killed a pregnant twenty-three-year-old mother, and another had wiped out three children under the age of ten. “Collateral damage,” they called it. But for Brandon, it was the failure of the CIA to do its job. They were so busy using drone pilots to kill people that they could no longer be trusted to know where the enemy’s leaders were actually hiding.

When he enlisted in the Air Force, it had seemed like the perfect job. Though he never learned how to fly a real plane, he had become one of the best drone pilots anywhere, his expertise in computer games finally coming in handy. Plus, he was patient and didn’t mind sitting through hours of drudgery as the drones flew over Yemen and looked for patterns representative of Houthi command and control.

But he had not signed up to work for the CIA. It had started during the Obama administration and accelerated with President Hamilton. CIA operatives were now in charge of most drones, using Air Force drone pilots like Brandon to gather information and take out enemy commanders. He found the operatives to be haughty, demanding, and always secretive. They treated him like a creature of lesser intelligence, one who could not be trusted with sensitive information.

All of that was bad enough, but it was the duplicity that finally spurred him to action. Less than twenty-four hours after the SEALs died at Sana’a, two CIA operatives had sat down with Brandon and made a request. About three weeks before the SEAL mission, another drone operator had launched a successful strike against some Houthi commanders holed up in a compound on the outskirts of Aden. Brandon and two other pilots had been watching the house for two days in order to verify the identity of the Houthi leaders.

The CIA operatives explained that there might be some investigations about that strike. For purposes of national security, Brandon should tell anyone who asked that they had been monitoring that site for nearly a month. It’s complicated, he was told, but failure to do so would compromise several CIA assets in Yemen. The CIA director, who had discussed it directly with the president, was making the request.

At the time, Brandon had agreed. It wasn’t his job to ask questions. And though there had ultimately been no investigation, over time he felt less comfortable with the directive. He had discussed it with the other pilots who had been part of the two-day surveillance, confirming that they had received the same directive.

“It’s not unusual,” one of them said. “That’s the way the CIA works. Their first priority is to never compromise an agent.”

Brandon couldn’t figure out how it all fit together, but he somehow felt exposed. If there was an investigation, he might have to answer questions in some kind of official capacity. Who would be in charge of such an investigation? And what would happen if he lied to them?

The more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable he became. His drinking, already a problem, became heavier. He couldn’t sleep. He went to the doctor and obtained a prescription for anxiety.

But when he saw the lawsuit against the CIA director, he believed he had found a way out. He could call the plaintiff’s lawyers anonymously and provide a tip. That way, if he ever got in trouble for being part of some cover-up, he could have the lawyers confirm that he had exposed the CIA. It wasn’t perfect, but it seemed like the right thing to do. It was one thing to be part of a killing machine that all too frequently took out civilians. Perhaps that couldn’t be avoided. But it was another thing to lie about it to the authorities. He knew his history well enough to realize that the cover-up was usually worse than the crime.

The phone numbers for the lawyers were in the pleadings. On one of his off days, he picked up a burner phone in the city of Najran. Wandering the streets, he called the number for Wyatt Jackson. Just his luck, the man didn’t answer and his voice mail was full.

Before he lost his nerve, he dialed Paige Chambers.

VIRGINIA BEACH, VIRGINIA

She was groggy and confused—another phone call in the middle of the night. The display said Unknown Caller.

“Hello.”

“Is this Paige Chambers, the lawyer who represents Kristen Anderson?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“I can’t say. But I need you to know something that might be helpful to your lawsuit.”

The man sounded young and scared. He was definitely American, but Paige couldn’t place the accent. “I’m listening.”

“The CIA is telling its drone pilots to lie about how long some of their targets have been under surveillance,” the man said. “This whole thing is all screwed up. Civilians are dying and the CIA is covering something up.”

“How do you know this?”

“I can’t say.”

“Are you in the CIA?”

“I can’t say.”

“I’ve got to have some specifics. I can’t just go into court and tell them I got a phone call in the middle of the night.”

There was a long silence as the man on the other end of the line thought it through.

“There was a drone strike on March 11,” the man said, his voice shaky. “Three Houthi leaders were killed. That’s the one you need to focus on.”

Paige was wide awake now. She needed to keep this man on the phone. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because the CIA will lie to cover it up.”

“Cover what up?”

“That’s all I can . . .” The man’s voice trailed off.

“How do I get in touch with you?” Paige asked.

“I’ll call you back when I find out more information.”

“Wait. I need—”

The man hung up. Paige’s mind raced with questions. She quickly went to her computer and searched for information about the drone strike he had referenced. She found some articles about an alleged bombing on March 11 that had been credited to the Yemeni coalition government. It was probably a drone strike, and maybe that was the one this man was talking about. It fit a pattern—the Patriot had said that the assassination of Yazeed Abdul Hamid, which had also been credited to the Yemeni coalition government, was actually the work of U.S. Special Forces.

The drone strike had occurred two weeks prior to Cameron Holloman’s arrest. Maybe Wellington Farnsworth was onto something. Maybe Holloman was working for the CIA. Maybe he had provided the intel that led to the killing of these Houthi leaders. That would mean the Houthis were right all along in accusing Holloman of being a spy. It would also explain why the CIA was lying about how long certain targets had been under surveillance—they didn’t want them linked to Holloman.

Paige stayed up the rest of the night searching for more information. But when the morning sun replaced the dark shadows of her condo with the first rays of sunlight, Paige still had more questions than she did answers. She wondered if the phone call had been made by the Patriot but without the voice disguises. Or maybe it was just some nut with a grudge against the CIA.

She felt like she was wandering around in the dark, playing a high-stakes game where everyone was wearing night vision goggles except her.