Drone Warrior A James Barlow Adventure

DRONE WARRIOR

A James Barlow Adventure

By Captain Jack Watson

The next war may be fought by airplanes with no men in them at all...

— Air Force General Henry H. Hap Arnold Proclamation on V-J Day 1945

Drone Warrior: A James Barlow Adventure

Copyright © 2014 Jack Watson

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Dedication

Our world is a complex, beautiful, and oftentimes sinister environment. Those living in freedom are protected from individuals choosing to hide in the darkest shadows of society. Our protectors are often visible, but many are transparent. We do not see or hear about their efforts — most of us rarely, if ever, get to know them. This book is dedicated to the men and women of law enforcement, military, and clandestine agencies worldwide. While I sometimes poke fun at your organizations in the context of storytelling, no one is more grateful than I am for your courageous service. YOU ARE ALL MY HEROES.

Jack Watson — 2014

Acknowledgments

There is a popular misconception that the process of writing a book is simply that of putting pen to paper or letting your fingers dance across a keyboard, and in so doing your words will magically weave a story of passion, adventure and interest for the intended audience. This is a myth obviously perpetuated by those who have never published. After completing my 5th book for Atlantic Publishing, all I can say is WOW. The process is a complex and time-consuming affair. Publisher Doug Brown and his lovely wife Sherri are at the front of the thank you line. Without their support, critical comments, and suggestions, this novel would be nothing more than an interesting idea.

The complexities of editing a manuscript filled with jargon and technical terms requires patience, and in my case a willingness of the editors to accept the fact that military and clandestine operators do not speak in a normal voice. You can’t be a bad ass and speak like an English professor. Connie Marse and Susan Miller are such editors. Their corrections and comments elevated the manuscript to a publishable document, and I hope they are as proud of the end result as I am.

Many of us judge a book by its cover, and credit for the DRONE WARRIOR wrapping goes to the very talented Jackie Miller who not only designed the perfect cover, but crafted the elegant layout of the finished book. Jackie, you’re simply the best.

One of the principal characters in this book was based on the incredible personality of a fellow pilot I shared many adventures with in Vietnam. He showed me that reality is a perception that can be easily manipulated as long as you’re willing to put yourself out there. After Vietnam, DB (as I’ll refer to him) spent many years as a field operator for the CIA. We remain close friends to this day.

Thank you to award-winning military and aviation classics author Robert Gandt who helped me in more ways than he can imagine. Your guidance and writing wisdom has been invaluable.

Many thanks to my loyal friend, Jose Fernandez, for taking the time to read the completed manuscript and providing his valued input. You redefine the word friendship.

Writing is a somewhat lonely endeavor without the support of those closest to you. My wife Leigh deserves special thanks and hugs. She is the inspiration for most of my thoughts and all of my dreams. She indulges my fantasies, encourages me continually, and is my most honorable critic. Without her my life would not have been nearly as exciting.

Author’s Note

It was the winter of 1969. Several months had passed since Astronaut Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon. During his short walk, I was on equally foreign soil as an Army pilot flying in South Vietnam, a place I’d never heard of growing up in the suburbs of San Diego, California.

I had the opportunity to meet Mr. Armstrong shortly after his return from the moon. He was on the USO tour with the Bob Hope Show in Nam.

As fate would dictate, I met up with Mr. Armstrong a second time more than a year later at a Lockheed AH-56 Cheyenne Helicopter live-fire demonstration back in the United States. Oddly enough, he remembered our meeting in Vietnam. To say the least I was honored, but then again, I imagine Neil Armstrong forgot very little in his amazing life.

At the AH-56 demonstration, our first moon walker sat in the observation bleachers amidst several hundred military and government leaders, and myself. (I led nothing, but had flown the 6th Army commanding general to the demonstration from Crissy Army Airfield in San Francisco — it’s now a dog park.)

Looking around the elite audience, I noticed more people looking toward Mr. Armstrong than at the Cheyenne’s impressive firepower demonstration. He was, to all in his presence, an iconic figure. On that particular day I came to the realization that people would always be more important than machinery. Always…

Fast-forward 50 years. It seems only natural that if a machine can do the work of man, why risk life or burden muscle and bone? Uncomplaining robots can easily accomplish tasks without wearing out or placing mortal humans at risk.

Many individuals wrestle with the idea of machines replacing man, and subsequently, putting humans out of work. Worry not. Someone still has to design, program, build, and sell these convenient replacements. Essentially, you can like it or become robo-phobic — regardless, robotic machines are here to stay.

Our place in the future is to adapt and remain smarter than the objects we create. The human brain is the world’s most complex computer, but emotions and physical limitations inhibit its full use. Robots have no emotions or physical limitations unless we design them that way. This is both the strong suit and the weak link.

The military is among the first big-league users of robotic machines, replacing combat soldiers with what I call warbots. That evolution is now in high gear.

Development of warbots is a growth industry spanning all branches of the military in many countries besides the United States.

Keeping a soldier at arm’s length from the enemy and out of harm’s way during an engagement is difficult for any battlefield commander. No one in command likes friendly-fire casualties or sending soldiers to die if it can be avoided. How robo-warriors will automate and change the dynamic of warfare in the future is anyone’s guess.

For ardent military technogeeks like myself, I trust this novel will be deserving of your time. Like all works of fiction, this story is designed to suspend reality. It is based purely on my perception of a world in which we might possibly live in the not-so-distant future. Inspired by a real life event, the premise, as you’ll see, is plausible.

Currently, unmanned aerial systems (UASs) like the ubiquitous MQ-1 Predators and MQ-9 Reapers are selectively targeting terrorist leaders whose names are on what some call a kill list. So far, this particular brand of fighting has been carried out exclusively on foreign soil.

The 9/11 attacks on the Pentagon and World Trade Center proved beyond doubt that enemies of the United States can be both clever and resourceful. This cleverness needs to be countered by any means available to the United States. While drones may not be the ultimate counterterrorism tools, up to now they have been one of our most effective.

Many decision makers in the United States government believe use of drones to execute high-value targets is unlawful. The legality of targeted killings continues to be a disputed subject among academics, military personnel, and government officials. Defenders of drone assassinations describe them as legitimate within the context of self-defense (e.g. when employed against terrorists or combatants engaged in asymmetrical warfare). They claim drones are more humane and accurate than manned aerial vehicles like jet fighters, bombers, or helicopter gunships. A measured number of academics, members of Congress, media sources, and human rights groups are critically opposed to this method of execution. They assert that assassinations or extrajudicial killings are illegal under international law and within the United States. Numerous geopolitical scholars reason that use of drones as aerial assassins actually increases hatred of America by those on the receiving end of such attacks.

One thing is certain. Most military leaders agree that drone use provides a protective presence on the battlefield, and, when necessary, a powerful resource to use against terrorism.

History teaches us that fanatical terrorists have a resolve that never seems to wane, especially when religion is used as both reward and directive.

A day of drone dominance in a decisive military action is just beyond the horizon. At that time, defense of United States soil might well be placed squarely on the shoulders of subsurface, ground, and airborne warbots. Laws will be rewritten, arguments about morality will continue, and technology will be refined. How politics and use of UASs might shape such a confrontation is just one aspect of this novel.

I apologize in advance for small stretches of imagination necessary to weave this story. As you’ll see, very little is s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d.

In the battlefield, warbots now rank as one of the most sought-after tools requested by field commanders.

Remotely controlled warfare breaks the tradition of several thousand years of man-versus-man battle. Every advance in robotic warfighting has required a rethinking of military tactics.

This novel could easily be a historical accounting. To most of America, the 9/11 attacks would have been labeled as a fantasy if foretold in a story such as this.

And so the nightmare begins…

Captain Jack Watson — Author

KEY CHARACTERS

al-Zawahiri, Ayman — Assumed leadership of al Qaeda following bin Laden’s death

Barlow, Dave — Navy fighter pilot and UAV disciple; call sign Blade; father to James JB Clancy Barlow

Barlow, James JB Clancy — 18-year-old RC flyer; son of Dave Barlow

Beecham, Bob — Senior shift duty manager at the National Security Agency (NSA)

bin Laden, Osama — Former al-Qaeda leader assassinated by U.S. special operations forces (DEVGRU) on 1 May 2011

Cain, Donald — President’s chief of staff

Eccard, Tommy — Captain, USN; former Navy SEAL Team 6 (DEVGRU) operator; Naval Academy graduate, All-American wide receiver; CIA Liason at Langley

Edwards, Clancy — Owner of Clancy Edwards Aerial Applicators; Grandfather to JB Barlow; father of JB’s mother

Garrison, Ronald — Vice Admiral, USN; NSA director; 42 years old, squared away

Harmon, Phillip H., Ph.D — WESTECH president and co-founder; drone designer/manufacturer

Harris, Arnold — U.S. Customs and Immigrations officer at the Peace Bridge separating Canada from the United States

Haslow, Dan — Lieutenant Colonel, USAF; First officer (second in command) on Air Force One

Hicks, Donald — Director of Homeland Security

Hudson, Allan — Director SAD (Special Activities Division) CIA; former Delta Force operator recruited by the company for his SPECIAL SKILLS; Harvard-degreed lawyer formerly with ARMY JAG, changed to Infantry branch and served four years as Special Forces operator, then served four years with Delta Force, six years as SAD operator, and 11 months as SAD director

Ingram, Carl — Assistant deputy director at the National Reconnaissance Organization; 26-year NRO veteran; MIT graduate, PhD astronomy

Johnson, T. Bone Bones — Crop duster; former Air Force F-105 fighter pilot

Kazad, Hakim — Terrorist; engineer; graduated MIT

Kramer, Randolf L. — Secretary of Defense

Langhorne, Marlee and Daryl — Draft-dodging former U.S. citizens who defected to Canada during the Vietnam war; motor home owners; Internet porn site developers; no known relatives or friends

McBundy, Ted — RV transport driver

Nesbitt, Bobby — Captain, USN; aide to Admiral Robbins; he will be promoted to rear admiral; future Chief of Naval Operations

O’Conner, Pat — Lieutenant, USN (aka Badger); DEVGRU detachment leader assigned to head President Parker’s security detail during the countdown to the planned terrorist attack

Parker, John Edward — First-term President of the United States

Robbins, James E. Buzz— Admiral, USN; United States Special Operations Commander (USSOCOM); born July 7, 1961, in Starkville, Mississippi

Stark, Tammy — Captain, USAF; Global Hawk pilot based at Beale AFB, California; top of her pilot training class; graduated 13th at the USAF Academy; attractive, cheerleader looks, serious personality; one of the best Global Hawk operators in the Air Force

Preface: DRONE WARRIOR

Drone Warrior is a work of fiction. The events described herein are imaginary – the characters are fictitious and not intended to represent specific persons, living or dead. Certain technical details, although readily available in books and on the Internet, have been altered.

***

First-term President John Edward Parker has received confirmation that a credible terrorist threat against America will play out within the next seven days. NSA code breakers have discovered what they believe is a countdown timer that will zero out at the attack time. The nation is brought to high alert.

Admiral James Buzz Robbins, head of the elite anti-terrorism troops at the United States Special Operations Command [USSOCOM] is directed by the National Command Authority [NCA] to find and eliminate the terrorists before they attack. Hi-tech hunter-killer drones are dispatched across the United States to find, and if possible, destroy the enemy.

Special operations personnel from all branches of the military and clandestine services have assumed protection responsibilities for leading government officials, including the President.

The real target of the attack and the weapon that will be used is anybody’s guess.

Despite the efforts of America’s finest resources — only the last few seconds of the countdown will determine the outcome. Will America survive? Will the use of drones to actually target the terrorists be enough?

Strap in, hang on, and pray you’ll never be in the crosshairs of one of America’s unmanned aerial vehicles.

Chapter 1: YEARS EARLIER — AFGHANISTAN — SEAL TEAM CALL SIGN SPIKE ZERO SIX

Fuck me, that last round parted my doo-rag, Spider whispered, turning his head slowly to the right, his now bloodied camouflaged face looking straight at Lieutenant Mike Tibbits, aka Tank, or just plain old LT.

Shit Spider, you’re bleeding — you OK? Tank could see the dark blood on Spider’s forehead where the last round had grazed him and fucked up his camo-doo-rag.

Yea, just nicked me. I’m getting tired of this asshole, Spider muttered to no one in particular, not bothering to wipe the blood from his forehead.

Badger, any luck with the com? Tank whispered as he slowly turned his head to the right.

"No luck, LT; I’m going back through the frequencies. We should be high enough. Give me a few [minutes], and if that don’t work, I’ll start a fire and send out smoke signals.

Hey, if you’re gonna start a fire, use the fucker shooting at us for fucking kindling. My balls are aching from lying on this cold-ass ground. Fuck, I probably won’t be able to knock up the ol’ lady with my frozen swimmers, Tony Boxer Klioze piped from the far right.

Boxer, have you ever completed a sentence without using the word FUCK? Badger, his Bro and best friend quipped.

Fuck you, asshole, Boxer said mockingly.

Spike Zero Six was in a jam, thought the SEAL team leader — pinned down in the open with a small ledge concealing them from a well-positioned sniper staked out above them and out of sight.

The sniper would likely wait them out, knowing the SEALS would eventually rise to reposition themselves. Tank continued to ponder his options from a very small list.

Badger, I need some com, or our asses are toast. Make it happen. Tank knew Badger was doing his best, but he felt a sudden release of tension by giving the order.

***

Seated thousands of miles away from the Afghanistan-Pakistan border, a balding, middle-aged, fireplug-shaped Air Force major sat quietly in the dimly lit confines of a ground control station (GCS) trailer. Parked in military-like formation with similar trailers on a well-guarded ramp at Creech Air Force Base, this trailer was not remarkable in appearance or importance. What would happen inside in the next few minutes would however have great significance in the distant future.

Located about an hour’s drive from the glitz of downtown Las Vegas, Nevada, Creech Air Force Base was the transient home to several dozen such GCS modules. The interior and exterior walls of the GCS trailers were the color of desert sand. The loud whir of large air-conditioning units was continuous and annoying as you walked among the occupied section of trailers. The constant noise was the only indication that something was alive within this sea of rectangular metal boxes.

Once inside a GCS, a visitor might describe the interior temperature as slightly above freezing compared to the scorching Nevada sun just outside the door. Those who worked in the trailers daily just called them fucking cold.

Major Mike Hurley occupied the pilot seat in this particular GCS. Hurley had been passed over twice for promotion to lieutenant colonel. He would end his self-described roller-coaster-ride Air Force career in less than 60 days. The writing was on the wall. His career advancement was long over. Being passed over twice for promotion to lieutenant colonel was deflating to his once huge ego, not to mention a major disappointment to his spouse, who reminded him almost daily how nice life would be if she were a colonel’s wife.

Hurley loved the Air Force when he’d first become a fighter pilot years earlier. After four years of flying F-16s, with three deployments to the sandbox (Middle East desert), his unwanted transition to the MQ-1 Predator and then the big-dog MQ-9 Reaper drone turned out to be the low point in a career he had hoped would eventually lead to a star on his shoulder.

For ten years, his life had been spent in trailers such as this, remotely flying drones almost halfway around the world.

His last four field deployments to the sandbox had been as a member of a launch and recovery element (LRE). This was, by his estimation, the least desirable job of drone flying. Essentially, the LRE would only take off and land the drone. Once it was airborne, it was usually handed off to the stateside controller pilot who would fly the actual mission. He didn’t mind either job but hated being called a drone driver.

Logging flight time controlling the MQ-9 Reaper would not impress pilot recruiters at the airlines (they wanted applicants with real stick and rudder time in actual airplanes). Becoming an airline pilot would have been his post Air Force goal until drones ruined his life. Now his dream had changed, or at least he’d accepted the fact that he would never be an airline captain banging hot flight attendants on layovers.

His life was permanently woven into the fabric of the warbot world. He would probably end up as a civilian contract instructor pilot with General Atomics, the builder of the Reaper and Predator drones. It was definitely not what he’d envisioned for his life.

Drone drivers leaving the service before him had cast a die. Civilian UAV manufacturers were hiring any drone pilot with wartime experience. The pay wasn’t bad, with higher-paying jobs going to drone jocks accepting deployment overseas.

With three kids and a five month pregnant wife to feed, he needed to find a job he was qualified for. He hated the sandbox, as almost everyone did, but accepted the fact that he’d probably see it again in the future. Hurley was an exceptional drone pilot. His future job search would be a brief one.

After Hurley was first passed over for promotion, his efficiency reports all seemed to reflect the same conclusion. His raters would all write: Major Hurley seems to lack the desire to be a military leader with higher responsibilities; advancement beyond his present rank is not appropriate at this time. This was, in Hurley’s words, a fuck job. Years earlier, he had beat the crap out of the rater who filled out his last evaluation. They were both captains at the time and his now a lieutenant colonel boss had made sexual advances toward his wife at the Nellis AFB Officers Club while Hurley was overseas. His wife had sent him emails about the incident, trying to provide damage control and stop rumors from escalating. Hurley didn’t care. His first action on return from the sandbox was to catch his supposed friend in the squadron parking lot late at night and literally beat the shit out of him, as he would tell his buddies who inquired about the altercation. It felt good at the time, but it was a career destroyer he had not anticipated.

Hurley’s upper eyelids drifted south as his mind drifted in and out of a bad dreamlike review of his shitty United States Air Force life. Only the barely perceptible 60-Hz hum in his headset kept him semiconscious. One nice thing about drones, he thought subconsciously, unless they’re actively engaging a target, they don’t demand a lot of attention when they’re in an orbit on autopilot. The pilot just sets up the parameters for the orbit, engages the autopilot, and the sensor operator does his thing. The hardest part for the pilot was staying awake during the long mission hours when all you’re doing is observing the sensor operator scanning the countryside.

The almost unbearable cold in Hurley’s GCS kept computers, monitors, and a wide assortment of electronic equipment happy. Outside, the hot desert sun baked the surrounding asphalt, causing heat waves to hover inches above the parking ramp surface.

Thank God for fucking air-conditioning, Hurley mumbled to himself, as he leaned further back in the high-backed, uncomfortably padded pilot seat.

Hurley was losing the fight to stay awake. His shift at the stick flying the drone was about halfway over. Behind him, whispers too low to ignore, but not loud enough to comprehend, drifted forward from the support staff manning the mission desk. They were interrupting Hurley’s self- proclaimed quiet time.

In the right seat next to Hurley, a young staff sergeant, Lester Cogins, from Knoxville, Tennessee, was fortunately wide-awake. His bright red hair and freckles had earned him the nickname Red wherever he went. Rather than fight it, he even thought about a legal name change to Red Cogins. Cogins was not, by his own admission, all that fond of the name Lester. He was a seasoned sensor operator with two tours in the sandbox. On off days, he liked hunting rattlesnakes in the reptile-friendly Nevada landscape. At least that’s what he told anyone who cared to listen to his inflated killer snake stories.

At this moment Cogins was stalking two-legged vermin with hi-tech electronics through a sophisticated array of fiber optic cables with uplink and downlink satellite signals that ultimately controlled a high-flying MQ-9 Reaper drone cruising on the Pakistan side of the Hindu Kush mountain range. The drone was almost 7,000 miles away as the crow flies.

Stretching his eyelids wide open, then relaxing the lid muscles, Hurley returned briefly to a conscious state, looking quickly at the situation screens showing his drone’s location over a map and what the sensor operator was observing through the high-powered drone camera. Hurley watched indifferently as the sensor ball turret on the distant drone slewed the camera lens a few degrees left then down. Cogins fine-tuned the infrared video feed of the patrol area below. Mostly black and partially grayish white, the IR image returns appeared as ghostly shadows on the display.

Thoroughly scanning a very mountainous area with vertical escarpments and overhanging ledges was no easy task. This particular patrol area was a notorious stronghold for terrorist leaders and their followers, particularly the Taliban. The warmer IR returns (usually warm-blooded or organic) would appear whiter on the screen. Chilly temperatures reflected from the ground at higher elevations displayed as a charcoal gray or black on the monitor.

The ground in the Hindu Kush was cool this evening, almost freezing. The Kush, as GIs referred to it, was a 500-mile long mountain range extending between central Afghanistan and northern Pakistan. It was full of an unusually large contingent of unfriendly terrorists and was being watched constantly by drones. To make matters worse, an almost equal number of friendly peasants occupied the same region. The trick was sorting their respective locations and knowing who to shoot at and who to protect.

Patrolling hours, for all drone crews, seemed to creep by at the speed of a fine cigar burn. Continuously sweeping the landscape looking for the unusual was the primary role of the drone. Patience as a drone crew member was a desired virtue not shared by many. Random searches were not the norm. Ground HUMan INTelligence was relied on heavily to define most drone patrol areas.

Well, hello there, Cogins muttered quietly, leaning forward quickly while adjusting the camera control joystick to reacquire what he had just seen. A clear image of six long, white shapes quickly swept across the screen again.

Definitely humans, thought Cogins as he quickly repositioned the sensor ball and zoomed in to get a closer look at the images. Whitish shapes appeared to be lying prone on the cool ground. Everything else on the screen appeared as darker shades of gray or midnight black.

A moment later, Cogins had the shapes in sharp focus. The 3D image overlay now on the situation screen provided a view of five motionless individuals lying within arm’s reach of each other. They were located about 40 meters east of a lone individual, who according to the topographical map overlay, was positioned on slightly higher ground on the face of a steep mountainside.

The shapes remained static and unchanging for about 15 seconds as Cogins continued to watch with interest. Weapons from the group of five were trained in the direction of the lone individual, who appeared to have a bipod-mounted weapon pointed directly at them. Suddenly a short volley of tracer rounds raced in the direction of the five silhouettes. The five reacted quickly and started to spread out wider in a line abreast about three meters apart. They did not return fire, which was not unusual considering the terrain and the higher-ground position of the single shooter. Cogins thought correctly that they probably didn’t have a clear shot.

Cogins reached out with his left hand and tapped the drowsy major on his shoulder to see if he was watching the action. Hurley jumped — startled. Now wide-awake, his pulse quickened abruptly, and the adrenaline of the moment pulsed through his body like a jackhammer to the brain. Hurley looked and comprehended instantly what the screens were showing.

What the fuck, Red, Hurley snapped, his attention now fully devoted to the action on the IR screen. A moment later, all the mission personnel in the GCS trailer were gathered behind Hurley and Cogins. When a pilot said, what the fuck, it usually meant something was wrong, or about to be.

Chapter 2: TARGET ACQUIRED

Equipped with the AN/AAS-52 Multi-spectral Targeting System, the General Atomics MQ-9 Reaper drone cruised slowly and quietly at 13,000 feet above sea level. The variable aperture infrared camera clearly resolved six human heat signatures two miles below.

These guys are definitely in a fuck trap, Cogins commented in his lanky southern drawl to anyone within earshot, which in this case was everyone.

No shit, Hurley canted a little too sarcastically. Stay locked on these guys, Red. I’ll circle clockwise and check in with Rock House."

Hurley immediately punched in a flurry of keystrokes on the keyboard in front of him, reprogramming the autopilot to set up a circular orbit around the newfound target. This would allow Cogins to continuously keep the camera eye locked on the targets below. Everyone in the GCS reacted as one by immediately returning to their workstations to work the problem and get a read on what they were looking at.

Rock House 35, Talon 19 level one three thousand, station Zebra, Hurley spoke, without hurrying, into his boom microphone.

Talon 19, Rock House 35, ahh… Roger, one three thousand. Squawk zero-two-six-three and ident.

Hurley typed commands followed by the 0263 keys at the prompt to activate the drone’s transponder — the identification beacon to assist in radar identification — 7,000 miles away. In moments, the transponder beacon in the tiny drone broadcast its position to the radar screen of the Rock House controller.

Talon 19, you’re radar contact bearing 265 degrees for 40 miles at one three thousand, Zebra altimeter three-zero-zero-two.

Loitering on station 40 miles east of