Reprisal One moved over the mountain, humming a hundred feet above the ocean waves. Its four helicopter blades allowed it to hover as the pilot, at a computer station inside the residence, assessed the winds around Morne du Vitet. Delilah Hussein and Oliver watched from the stone patio at the rear of the residence. The landing struts unfolded from the body of the octagonal craft. A phalanx of eight men waited near the open, grassy area between the main building and the guard barracks.
The wind died. The pitch of the battery-powered engines whined higher. The specially designed drone rolled, turning into its final approach. Three minutes later, the craft was earthbound and the attendants secured it to four fifteen-foot high cement posts in the southern quadrant of the massive compound. A fifth attendant flipped a lever and a massive green tarp framed with large-diameter steel bars slid over the craft, hiding it from the prying lenses of satellites.
“Oliver, explain to me again how this drone prevents the Americans from learning our location?” Hussein asked. She didn’t understand the technology or the strategy behind the flying machine’s capabilities. Only that it worked. Nonetheless, Oliver’s detailed answer put her mind at ease.
“Oui, Madame,” her manservant began. “Reprisal is a communications drone equipped with a remotely switched 4G/satellite high bandwidth connection. All electronic communications, email, video files, pictures, and text messages are uploaded to the hard drive when Reprisal is on the pad via a direct secured connection. The hardware is kept off, unpowered, except when files are being transferred. While it is in flight, the software and hardware are again switched off so as not to send out signals that can be intercepted.”
“Now I remember,” Hussein said. “And how does it stay invisible?”
“Reprisal lifts off from the pad here in the compound. It flies directly south, since that is the shortest distance to water. It stays below five hundred feet, flying preprogrammed routes which change with every sortie.”
One of the men climbed under the drone, sliding on his back on a wheeled dolly. Oliver and Hussein watched the technician complete this task. He reappeared with a small black case and ran toward Hussein and her male concubine. The remaining men stood at rigid attention, guarding the communications vehicle.
“We will have the information downloaded, Madame. The messages will be decoded within ten minutes,” the minion said.
He disappeared inside the residence. When he was gone, Hussein addressed Oliver once more.
“Continue,” she said.
“The aircraft flies the preprogrammed route, a different one every time. When it reaches the predetermined location—again these locations change with each trip—it ascends to transmitting altitude, about three thousand feet. The pilot, in the residence, turns on the software and hardware remotely and begins the transfer. All incoming and outgoing encrypted messages are received and sent. The hardware is then turned off. Reprisal descends below radar detection. Since it is always far out to sea, land-based radars do not see it until it climbs.
“Every route Reprisal takes is a different one. It is quite ingenious actually.”
“Excellent. That makes me feel better. Make sure the drone’s batteries are changed out and it is airborne as soon as possible,” she commanded. “I want messages and updates every hour going forward. We are entering the most crucial phase of the operation.”
“I understand, Madame. I will make it so.”
“How does the drone know what route to take?”
Oliver was ready for the question. “Our pilot,” he motioned toward the house, “has plotted and programed thirty-five different courses all around the Caribbean. The drone follows a different path on each and every sortie. It flies less than fifty feet above sea level and possesses infrared sensors and artificial intelligence allowing it to detect ships and other obstacles. If it encounters an object or group of objects it will divert, giving a wide berth. This reduces the possibility of detection by warships or drug interdiction patrols. It has also been outfitted with thermite charges. If forward movement ceases or altitude changes abruptly without computer involvement or if its sensors detect that Reprisal is being followed, it will self-destruct.
“The Americans no doubt have been and will be trying to intercept all communications. The messages are routed through the pods on the drone and transmitted at various locations over the ocean, depending on the sortie and the time they were sent.”
“You’re sure the Americans cannot extrapolate our position from these communications?” Hussein asked.
“Extremely unlikely. We will be gone before they figure it out. And each message is written in code.” Oliver had not told Hussein that, a few weeks ago, The Watcher had slipped and used her name in a transmission. It was a one-time occurrence and had not been repeated.
Hussein nodded.
“Is the old wine cellar prepared?” she asked.
“It is. Everything is ready. Charlie and Pierre and two more of my best men are ready to monitor our guests. They will be most uncomfortable.”
“Excellent,” Hussein frowned. “Is Charlie under control?”
“The situation has been addressed with medication,” Oliver assured her. “I personally monitor that he takes it each morning. There will not be a repeat of last time.”
“I followed you, Jason. Stop lying to me. What’s her name? I’ve known for a month now.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Are you screwing one of those tarts that work up there? You are, aren’t you?” Chrissie seethed. “Look at me! Tell me the truth!”
Jason refused to lift his eyes. She had been at him for the last few hours, unrelenting in her sporadic interrogations. Jason had refused to answer during their first confrontation. He had escaped and retreated to his bedroom. Ten minutes later, she pounded on the door until he opened up.
The second battle was louder and more virulent. Again, Jason managed to withdraw without revealing the truth. He had to retreat back into the living room to get away a second time. Chrissie left him, slamming her bedroom door only to reappear fifteen minutes later. They were now embroiled in their third skirmish in front of a muted television flashing scenes of The Matrix.
“How do you expect me to marry you if you can’t be honest? What’s her name?”
Jason shook his head. “Who?”
“The woman at the strip club. You make me sick. You know that!”
Jason struggled to cast a halting glance in her direction. “Chrissie, it’s hard to explain.”
She wrinkled her lips into a smirk. “No, it’s not. You just tell the truth. How long has it been going on?”
He refused to speak, averting his eyes for the tenth time.
“I need a drink,” she said.
Chrissie moved to the small portable bar in her living room. She poured herself a large shot of tequila. “What happened to the man I knew?” She lifted the glass to her lips and threw her head back. Jason watched her face contort as the harsh liquid slipped down her throat. “The Jason I knew a decade ago would never have done this. The Jason I met two years ago loved me. At least, that’s what I thought.”
Jason moved to her. Chrissie poured another two fingers of the liquid and was holding it. “Chrissie, I love you very much.”
She shook her head. A pained snicker consumed her features. “Fuck you!”
Chrissie tipped the shot glass, hurling its contents at Jason. The tequila splashed into his eyes. He staggered backward. He felt her fist smash into his face. Tumbling toward the floor, he tripped over the coffee table. Jason landed on his back between the sofa and the table.
His hands went to his face and eyes. The stabbing of a million white hot needles obliterated his sight. On the periphery of his consciousness, he heard Chrissie stomp out of the room. A minute later, the slam of a door reverberated throughout the house.
Thimble Shoals Light bobbed unseen in the darkness. Oleg Gundersen had ordered all running lights extinguished. He wanted as little illumination as possible on the activities of the next few minutes. The crescent moon found a crack in the clouds, sending what felt like a spotlight onto the ship and the silent waters.
Forsiktig! The American Kraken is out there!
When the lunar sickle ducked behind another bank of cumulus cover, Gundersen lifted his arm and moved his index finger in a circular motion. He watched as the forward derrick operator of the Thor pushed a lever and the crane swung into place over one of the Zodiacs. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of Chesapeake Bay against the hull, the thrumming of the crane’s hydraulic motor, and the occasional creaking of the aging ship.
A harness had been placed under and around each water craft. As the large iron hook dangled a few feet over the first Zodiac, one of the paramilitary types, standing in the raft, brought the four ends of the harness together and hung them on the hook. He motioned for the crane operator to take up the slack.
The rest of the five-man team climbed aboard. Two short whistles preceded the whining of the motor. The craft was hoisted out of the hold, swung over the deck, and lowered to the black waters of Chesapeake Bay.
Thirty seconds later, the rubber boat was free and motoring into the darkness.
The tension in Gundersen’s chest eased, if only for a moment. He removed his kommander’s cap and ran his cracked hands through his mangy hair. Removing a cell phone from his pocket, he punched in a text addressed to the number he had been given. The first delivery was made a few hours ago. The second craft was now off his vessel.
Second delivery made! Moving to final destination!
Hussein ambled into the converted bedroom two doors down the hall from her own massive master suite. Sitting at a desk in a high-backed leather chair before two massive, high-definition monitors was the drone’s pilot, wearing a creased pair of khakis and a black cotton polo. Hussein’s eyes followed the young man’s left arm from his shoulder to his wrist. A large-faced Gucci watch adorned it. Her eyes continued past the small, squiggly tattoo on his forearm to the hand. The third finger sported a college ring from École Polytechnique.
“Bonsoir, Michel. As-tu l’information?” she asked. Good evening, Michel. Do you have the information?
“Oui, Madame. C’est ici.” It’s here, the young man replied, pointing to one of the monitors.
Hussein had recruited him a year ago. A true follower, the young man had demonstrated his value in computer programming and communications. The removable communications hard drive taken from the drone was being downloaded in another bedroom.
“Excellent. Download the data to my phone, s’il vous plaît.”
A moment later, Hussein’s cell phone beeped, the familiar chirp letting her know she had a message. The messages from the drone had been uploaded.
“Merci beaucoup,” she said. “Le drone will be ready for its next flight in about an hour.”
“As you wish.”
“And the social media accounts?”
“Monitored every day, Madame. There have been no inappropriate posts or tweets.”
“Excellent!” Hussein smiled. Each one of her thirty men on the compound had been issued his own cell phone, provided by The Simoon. All phones were preprogrammed to block the use of social media and were collected and stored while her soldats were on the premises. Only she and Oliver were allowed to possess cell phones or any other electronic device inside the compound. The only other person associated with their cause who was allowed the use of an electronic device was The Watcher. And they communicated by encrypted text messaging and used the communications drone to play hide-and-seek with the signals.
Otherwise, her charges were all single men with no family ties who had been sequestered for this mission. Some had committed criminal acts in the past with no lapses to date and had demonstrated a strong allegiance to their cause. The troops were given as many nonelectronic distractions as possible to enjoy when not on duty: movies, magazines, board games, and television. But she also knew that people would always try to find a way circumvent the rules.
Her French computer expert monitored the social media platforms, making sure that no posts originated from any of the devices on her compound. Each man was allowed twenty-four hours off the compound each week. They were searched and body scanned with a wand upon their return to make sure no contraband of any kind made its way onto the grounds.
She had left Oliver to supervise the preparation of the next flight. She smiled at the ingenuity of the drone’s utility. The American intelligence community had the best, most comprehensive networks available to intercept and decode communications. By accessing cell towers, servers, and databases legally and illegally, the CIA, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the FBI, the National Security Agency, Homeland Security’s Office of Intelligence and Analysis and the National Reconnaissance Office, among others, could ferret out threats with amazing speed and accuracy.
Hussein had tried to bypass this technical ability during the assassination attempts twenty-four months ago. Electronic communications were forbidden. Communications took place through Cold War methods, dead-drops, and human transfers. The Americans had gotten away from these techniques, preferring to rely on drones and electronics to collect intelligence. The old ways had worked, for the most part, until Thomas Pettigrew had stumbled upon her plan.
Out of necessity, he had been disposed of. So had her reliance on outdated spy craft.
Jason Rodgers had inserted himself into the mix, trying to find out how and why Pettigrew died. Hussein shook her head, recalling her mistake. She had tried to involve the pharmacist in her pharmacy operation, an operation that was a cover for her ultimate pursuit—the assassination of two presidents. She had misjudged Rodgers. And he had brought down the plan and saved the two American criminals.
She had allowed him to get too close!
Hussein was not finished with Jason Rodgers. She owed him. This time Rodgers himself would deliver her weapon of destruction to America’s doorstep. She owed him the agony he had caused her. And Delilah Hussein always paid her debts.
With financing from their allies in the Middle East and beyond, she had overseen the installation of modern, high-tech equipment that would allow her to complete this mission, the most important example of which now sat on the landing pad in the southern quadrant of the island compound.
The octagonal-shaped communications drone equipped with folding antennae and transponders had an operational range of eight hundred miles. It flew to within this distance in an arc from the east coast of Florida to a location north of Bermuda, returning to Hussein’s compound after each sortie. Flight was powered by four fifteen-foot helicopter-like blades mounted on rotating stanchions that could tilt along a three-dimensional axis, allowing it to steer and fly in any direction. The engines and removable computer hard drives were powered by four rechargeable lithium batteries, each the size of a suitcase. The hard drive was removed from the craft after each sortie and its information—mainly, messages from The Watcher—downloaded. Communications with her compatriots in Syria were transmitted by secure satellite phone.
When Reprisal One reached a preprogrammed location, it dispatched any messages from its cache and received incoming messages by polling the various devices, secure phone, and computers that were programmed into its software.
When all the information was gathered, the computers were turned off and disconnected from their battery source. This prevented any signals from being intercepted by the Americans as the craft followed a different preprogrammed route each time. The $10 million aircraft had performed flawlessly.
The data from the latest flight had just been received on her phone. Hussein opened the first message. It was from the captain aboard the Thor:
First package delivered. En route to second.
The second was from The Watcher:
The first package is wrapped and ready. The second is also home now. Await my signal before moving in.
She was interrupted by a knock at the bedroom-cum-communications-room door. Oliver, her tall, athletic manservant and concubine, poked his head inside.
“Madame, your guest has arrived on the other island,” he declared.
Hussein smiled. She had made several attempts to entice her American guest to visit her. Reluctantly, he had agreed. He possessed information she needed. Information that would make what remained of her family whole again. And she was going to extract it from him.
“Excellent. Have the boat made ready,” she instructed. “Tell them that I will be there within two hours.”
She wanted to look her former ally in the eye. She smiled once more. It was all coming together!
He had been flown to another island on which sat a second isolated but smaller compound. It was a risky move to bring this man so close to her operation. But a necessary one. Then she would fulfill a promise she had made to The Watcher.
Hussein turned her mind back to Jason Rodgers. She had vowed revenge. And she would have it. She—and her allies in Syria—had planned, financed, and implemented the current mission. They would strike again at the Americans. And in a fitting twist, Hussein would make the pharmacist experience the same kind of devastating agony he had caused her. The need to see the pharmacist’s face fill with terror was unbearable. It was a need she would see satisfied.