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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.”

  She cast a dark look at him.

  “What?” He shrugged. “It’s not the first time the U.S. has bombed the wrong people, Marta. This is a big mistake, but it’ll blow over.”

  “No. This time is different. . . .” She clicked the remote to surf news channels, from Al Jazeera to Russian English-language television, then to American cable news. Coverage of the attack was everywhere. Shots of injured being rushed to hospitals in Red Crescent vans. Screaming women and children. Most of America had not yet woken up to its latest public relations disaster. “U.S. Reaper Drone Massacres Shiite Pilgrims” and more crassly: “The Empire Strikes Back.”

  One looped video sequence showed drone wreckage raining down in fiery pieces over the city, the reporter in midsentence: “. . . above the city immediately afterward by an enraged Iraqi military.”

  She nodded to herself. “Destroyed, of course. Pieces paraded by civilians on TV. The chance of getting that wreckage back: slim to none.”

  He sighed. “It’s a terrible accident, but we’ll get past it.”

  She muted the television. “It wasn’t an accident. This was an attack on the United States.”

  Clarke frowned in confusion.

  “It wasn’t our drone, Henry.”

  He sank into a wing chair. “What do you mean it wasn’t ours? Who else has Reaper drones? Britain?”

  “I mean it wasn’t a friendly Reaper drone.” She narrowed her eyes at the screen. “I’d be curious to know how they got it past our radar. I suppose they could have launched it from a nearby desert road. Gorgon Stare would have been useful here. That’s a funding angle we should pursue in committee. Make a note of that.”

  Clarke glanced around for a pad of paper but almost immediately gave up and frowned at her. “You’re saying someone copied a Reaper drone?”

  “It would hardly be necessary to ‘copy’ one. Nearly half of them have been lost in action—crashed or shot down. Not all of them recovered. Parts and pieces moving through the black markets of Central Asia.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Technology spreads, Henry. That’s what it does. That’s why constant progress is necessary. Why we must always stay one step ahead. This is a teaching moment for those willing to learn.”

  He nodded toward the news, which now panned across screaming, injured children in a hospital ward. “This could be very bad for Brand America.”

  “Yes, and that’s why it’s critical we encourage these older drones to proliferate. Otherwise whenever there’s a drone strike—like this—the world will blame the United States. That must change.”

  He watched the muted television for a moment—the looped replay of the mystery drone launching its missiles. “Do you think this attack is related to the terror bombings here in the States?”

  She ignored the question and instead presented one of her own. “How does this disaster affect our clients?”

  Clarke grimaced. “It’s not good. It’ll damage public perception of unmanned aircraft.”

  “Unless we successfully deflect responsibility.”

  “With powerful visuals like this circulating, that’ll be a tough sell.”

  “You leave that to me. Just make sure your people are ready to work their mimetic magic.”

  They both stared at images of tiny, shroud-wrapped bodies being carried through an angry crowd.

  CHAPTER 2

  Warning Order

  A black MH-47 Chinook helicopter raced in darkness along the slopes of a steep valley lined by snowcapped mount
ains. Pale moonlight reflected off the peaks and silhouetted the large chopper momentarily before it nosed steeply into blackness, descending rapidly in a combat landing. As it continued its erratic maneuvers, blinding green-white flares spat out of its tail every few seconds. Soon the pilot pulled the nose of the chopper up, bringing it down toward a blacked-out forward operating base studded with satellite dishes and radio antennas. The chopper rotated in a cloud of dust, then deftly touched down on a gravel landing zone.

  As the turbine engines wound down, the rear ramp descended, and a dozen heavily armed U.S. Army Special Forces soldiers in black body armor and face masks emerged, pulling along a hooded prisoner wearing a mud-spattered shalwar kameez and chapan—his hands secured behind his back with PlastiCuffs.

  One of the soldiers shouted, “Paatsezhey!” and shoved the prisoner along.

  The group moved swiftly past concentric rings of HESCO bastions toward the heart of the camp, where a forest of antenna masts stood next to prefab structures. As they passed, indigenous workers in green smocks looked up from their duties building new fortifications, leaning on their shovels to steal a glance at the knot of soldiers.

  The soldiers pushed their prisoner silently past armed sentries into an inner ring of defenses, toward an unmarked building secured with razor wire fencing. A sentry opened the doors to admit them into a vestibule, where still more sentries opened an interior door. No one spoke or saluted as the group moved swiftly through.

  In a moment the door shut behind them, and they stood in a Spartan room lined with equipment shelving, rows of radios in charging stations, and weapons in wall racks. One of the soldiers drew a knife and cut the PlastiCuffs from their prisoner’s wrists, while another soldier pulled the black hood from the man’s head.

  The prisoner calmly oriented himself as he rubbed his wrists. His long black beard and mustache with close-cropped hair lent him a distinctly Talibanesque air, which his lean frame and weathered skin only accentuated. He stared straight ahead with steel blue eyes.

  The lead soldier nodded to him. “Welcome back, Odin.”

  The bearded man answered in perfect Midwestern English, “Good to be back, Staff Sergeant.”

  “Follow me. Can we get you anything?”

  Odin shook his head as they walked down a hall lined by doorways. Several officers nodded with respect as he passed by. Before long they came to a wooden door. The staff sergeant knocked twice, and then entered a briefing room containing a single folding table. Plywood wall sections displayed sector maps and LCD panels displayed live satellite and surveillance images. Soft radio chatter kept up a steady background noise.

  “I have Odin for you, Colonel.”

  “It’s about goddamned time.”

  Looking up from the table was a man in his sixties wearing a blue Oxford cloth shirt and a dark blue blazer with khaki slacks, a laptop open next to him. His eyes were hard and his manner imposing. His powerful-looking hands hinted at the old commando he no doubt was.

  The staff sergeant left without a word, closing the door behind him. Odin stood to attention and saluted. “You wanted to see me, Colonel.”

  “Have you forgotten whose side you’re on, Master Sergeant?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, it sure as hell looks that way. I’m in a class-five political shit storm because of you.”

  “In the proper context my methods—”

  “Your methods have caused lasting damage to this mission. Here’s a clue, son: You’re supposed to disrupt enemy operations—not our operations.”

  “What I did made strategic sense.”

  “No, you thought it made sense—and it’s not your job to think. It’s your job to kill the enemy.”

  “I was taught that a special operator needs to think for himself—both strategically and tactically. To adapt to the situation on the ground or be overcome by events. Sir.”

  The colonel studied Odin. “How does warning an insurgent leader about an impending CIA missile strike make good strategic sense? My S-2 reports that the man’s current whereabouts are unknown. This individual will now live to fight another day—thanks to you.”

  Odin was silent.

  “How do you justify your actions, Master Sergeant?”

  Odin considered the question. “Sooner or later we will leave this place. And we need to leave behind more than just radicalized young men who’ve known only war. The tribal elder I saved is widely respected in those capillary valleys, and he’s a moderate compared to the people who would succeed him—although I don’t imagine that was obvious in the aerial imagery.”

  “Task Force Steel says he’s the hub of an insurgent network.”

  “Yes, in reaction to our military occupation of his land. But when we’re not around he kills foreign fighters and narco-traffickers. If we get the hell out of this guy’s way, he’ll do our work for us.”

  “Nonetheless—”

  “We don’t need conventional forces here, Colonel. Men like me can work the ground unseen, play political factions against each other, use proxies. As it stands, our patrols and bases are just targets, and the more firepower we use, the more enemies we create.”

  “That’s enough.” The colonel’s stare bored into Odin for several moments. “How did your team conceal its movements from our drones?”

  “We created decoy targets in their flight path—remotely fired mortars. Insurgents do it all the time to frame rivals. We made the snatch while our drones were distracted.”

  The colonel continued silently observing Odin. “You’ve made your distaste for drones widely known at battalion.”

  “Drones are useful for recon, but they can’t replace a human being on the ground. And if you ask me, these missile strikes do more harm than good. Take that disaster in Karbala—suicide bombings and IED attacks have already increased in every theater of operations. It’s been a recruiting bonanza for our enemies.”

  “Pentagon says it wasn’t our drone.”

  “We both know that hardly matters. So you tell me: Are drones helping us or hurting us, Colonel?”

  The colonel seemed familiar with this sort of intense debate with his subordinates. He remained calm. “Like it or not, Sergeant, fifty other nations are developing their own drones as fast as they can.” He paused. “Which is, in fact, why I’ve called you here.”

  Odin frowned in confusion.

  “Are you familiar with the term lethal autonomy?”

  Odin nodded. “Autonomous combat drones.”

  “Yes. Drones that fly themselves and make a kill decision without direct human involvement.”

  Odin considered this with some dismay. “That’s a major RMA, sir.”

  “Tell me why it’s a revolution in military affairs.”

  “Because it would combine all the worst aspects of cyber war—anonymity and scalability—with the physical violence of kinetic war. A successful design could be stolen and cheaply punched out by the tens of thousands in offshore factories, then sent anonymously against anyone without fear of retribution.”

  The colonel regarded Odin then nodded to himself, apparently having made a decision. “I have a mission for your team, Master Sergeant. A mission that requires someone who, as you so aptly put it, can think for himself, both strategically and tactically. I’m adding you to the BIGOT list for a highly compartmentalized SAP, code-named Project Ancile. You’ll be one of only three people who know it exists, and you are to report to me and only me.”

  “What’s my objective?”

  The colonel closed his laptop and focused his gaze on Odin. “You are to discover the source of the drone attacks on the continental United States.”

  “You’re referring to the terror bombings, sir?”

  “That’s a cover story. The truth is more worrisome. We think whoever was behind the Karbala attack is also behind the CONUS attacks.”

  Odin considered the implications.

  “One more thing.” The colonel paused for emphasis. “You are to p
ursue your mission no matter where it leads you—even if you are commanded to stop. You must continue, and you must succeed. Do you understand me, Master Sergeant?”

  Odin nodded. “Yes, I believe I do, sir.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Raconteur

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Joshua Strickland, team lead for visual intelligence development here at the Stanford Vision Lab. I’d like to thank you all for coming today.”

  Strickland stood at the head of a darkened, windowless lecture hall in the basement of the Gates Computer Science Building. Beside him the camera-eye logo of the Vision Lab filled a large projection screen. In the PowerPoint afterglow he saw familiar and unfamiliar faces among a small audience seated primarily in the front two rows. He focused on the serious faces seated just before him.

  “An especially warm welcome to our distinguished guests from the Transformational Convergence Technology Office. Thanks also to our faculty advisor, Doctor Lei Li, without whose support we would not be presenting to you today.”

  There was timid applause from somewhere in the darkness.

  Strickland paused to collect his thoughts. So much was riding on this. He took a breath then began, “What you’re about to see is a visual intelligence technology we call Raconteur.” A click of his wireless remote, and the slide changed to an animation of dozens, then hundreds, and then thousands of individual video insets, swarming. It was a vast stream of graphic data. “Visual intelligence is often confused with ‘computer vision’—but it’s much more than that. Visual intelligence means giving machines the ability not merely to identify objects in images—which has been possible for years—but the cognitive ability to discern what’s occurring in a scene. Concept detection, integrated cognition, interpolation— prediction. What could have happened, and what might happen next. It means giving machines not only the ability to see but to understand what they see.”

  He searched the faces of those front and center. “Why is this important?”

  He clicked the remote, and the slide changed to surveillance images of London subway bombers moving through stations and standing in railcars. “In an increasingly dangerous world, video surveillance represents society’s best hope to detect threats before they materialize. But this flood of visual imagery means an exponential increase in the volume of surveillance video that must be analyzed—and analyzed real-time if it is to be of use not just in reviewing criminal acts after the fact but in preventing criminal acts.”