Chapter 38
The Maghreb
Al-Jaghbub Airfield
The light assaulted Malenkov’s eyes, and he squinted mightily. Even behind dark sunglasses, the sun at the edge of the Sahara was merciless in its brilliance.
“There,” said Gamling, pointing into the distance.
He followed the engineer’s gesture and picked out the drone. It was roughly five kilometers away, barely visible. “The paint scheme blends in well,” he remarked.
“The skies here, like those in our target area, are often obscured by dust. I chose the best camouflage scheme to deny lookup visuals.” Gamling watched a monitor closely.
A joystick was attached to the computer by an umbilical, but he wasn’t manipulating it.
The controller, Malenkov had been told, was only for emergency use—a backup if something went wrong.
The aircraft was flying in a completely autonomous mode.
They were standing at a makeshift workstation outside the hangar.
The table was covered in computers and monitors, a rat’s nest of wiring connecting it all.
Malenkov watched raptly as the drone approached, alternating between the main screen and the slender form in the sky.
The aircraft was large for a drone, roughly the dimensions of a Cessna trainer, yet its wings and fuselage were noticeably sleeker.
The nine others in the hangar were exactly like it.
Gamling said, “These are fire-and-forget weapons. Once they have launched, the route is final and they cannot be recalled. Our target will have defenses. Because of it, we cannot rely on the usual methods of navigation. Frequencies can be jammed to prevent VHF signals, and GPS denial is also a possibility.”
“How does it navigate, then?”
“I have written my own algorithms. The most accurate method uses an antenna linking to low earth orbit satellites. The Skylink constellation has the best coverage for where we are operating.”
“Can’t that also be jammed or disabled?”
“It can, but it isn’t likely. Skylink is owned by a private company that doesn’t like to inconvenience its customers.
It also has few military contracts to make it worth targeting.
But even if that were to happen, there is a backup—a completely autonomous navigation system.
It uses a low-power mapping radar to compare terrain to an onboard database. ”
“A terrain map? The drones will approach from the sea, will they not?”
“Yes, but they won’t be far off the coast. Shoreline stands out beautifully on radar.
Since we know precisely where we are going, I only needed to install ground maps for a narrow ingress corridor, and of course, the target area itself.
Even if the system loses all connections, the aircraft should be able to maintain course and deliver its payload.
The backup navigation package is what I am testing today. ”
Malenkov watched the drone approach. It was driven by a single tail-mounted propeller and seemed unusually quiet.
He knew its propulsion system was a hybrid design—a gas engine for takeoff and long-range cruise, and an electric motor for infrared stealth when approaching the target area.
It was a baseline Iranian design, the Republican Guards having worked feverishly in recent years to improve their drone technology.
What had begun as an effort to gain advantages on future battlefields had morphed into a lucrative stream of export cash from both government buyers and black markets.
“I can barely hear it,” Malenkov remarked.
“The noise signature is at a minimum in full electric mode.”
“How fast is it traveling?”
“One hundred and sixty knots. That is very fast for an electric drone. A high-speed model was necessary to maximize our chances of success.” Gamling tapped on his keyboard.
“There. I have interrupted the satellite signal and put our drone off course by one thousand meters. The terrain map should take over and make an automatic correction.”
Malenkov watched closely. Within seconds, he saw the drone turn sharply toward the extended centerline of the runway.
Once aligned, it turned a second time to track the desired attack profile.
The aircraft flew closer and closer, and at the last moment it check-turned slightly toward the hangar and overflew their workstation at an altitude of less than one hundred meters.
When it was almost overhead, the aircraft seemed to disappear in a cloud of mist.
Malenkov could hear the drone now, but the sound dissipated the moment it went behind the roof of the immense hangar.
Seconds later, he was enveloped in a fine mist. The vapor cooled his exposed skin and drew into his lungs with each breath.
It was as if a cloud had settled from a clear sky.
He knew the mist was only water, but it was unnerving all the same.
He looked at the former postal worker with irritation. “Was that necessary?”
“Accuracy is everything. I am still fine-tuning the descent rates of the aerosol. Together with projected wind information, I must calculate the optimum altitude for dispersal.”
Malenkov used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the water from his face.
The drone landed five minutes later, its autonomous system bringing it to a smooth touchdown on the wide runway. As soon as it came to a stop, Gamling killed the engine. The two men boarded a large electric golf cart and headed toward the runway.
Malenkov studied the drone closely as they pulled up beside it.
This was the first time he had seen one in action, all his previous encounters having been in the hangar with airframes that were partially disassembled or wrapped in protective sheathing.
The wings were straight and long, the tail a thin V-configuration.
A single three-blade, pusher propeller was geared for maximum speed.
It was similar in configuration to the American Predator drone, only smaller in scale and lighter.
The cylindrical fuselage contained both the aft-mounted hybrid engine and tanks for the payload and fuel.
The aircraft had been purchased from HESA, Iran’s largest manufacturer of drone aircraft.
While most of the company’s offerings were military variants, the Shahed-151 was part of its civilian lineup.
The aircraft was intended for agricultural spraying, the application of pesticides and fertilizer from low altitude.
Which was very near what Malenkov had in mind.
Gamling put locking pins in the flight controls to keep them from moving, then backed up the golf cart toward the nose of the drone. He connected a tow bar to the aircraft’s nosewheel and soon they were pulling it toward the open hangar door.
“Is the material shipment on schedule?” Gamling asked.
“It is.”
“And once it arrives?”
“It’s not the kind of thing one leaves laying around. Qasim has the transfer bay ready. When the material arrives, we will load and launch…assuming your aircraft are ready.”
“They will be ready today. But I cannot speak for the weather. As Qasim is fond of saying, ‘The will of God prevails.’ ”
Malenkov snorted derisively. “The terror we are about to unleash—God would have nothing to do with it.”
They arrived at the hangar, and as soon as they passed inside, security men heaved the big rolling doors closed.
Malenkov had no reason to expect surveillance—one of the reasons he had chosen such a desolate location—but there was no sense in tempting fate.
The moment he stepped off the golf cart his phone rang.
He checked the screen, and when he saw who it was, he moved away before answering. “Well?” he said.
“We didn’t get him,” said Bartos, the head of the search in Tangier.
“What went wrong?”
“He was in his building, but hiding in a different unit. Our equipment wasn’t accurate enough and he slipped out. We followed him to a souk, but then he ditched his phone. He must have realized we were tracking it.”
Malenkov’s face creased in anger. He had always known he would have to eliminate the financier. When he’d caught wind that Klaus was turning against them, the timetable had simply advanced. Unfortunately, the Swiss was proving elusive for an amateur.
“Do you think he is still in Tangier?” Malenkov asked.
“Most likely. We found his passport in his apartment, and we have a source in Moroccan customs. If he tries to leave, we’ll know it.”
Malenkov had doubts about any source in that part of the world. He did, however, agree that Klaus was likely still in Tangier. “You’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. Track down his friends and acquaintances. Put every available set of eyes on the street.”
“We’ll need more manpower.”
“Ten?”
“A hundred would be better.”
Had it been anyone but Bartos, Malenkov would have taken that as a joke. “I’ll do what I can. And make no mistake, when we do find him, he must be silenced once and for all. Our mission is close to going live, and he is the only one who can jeopardize it.”
“We’ll take care of it.”
The call ended, and Malenkov pocketed his phone thinking, If I only had a dollar for every time someone has told me that.