Hal went to work with the anxiety that someone was watching him. He glanced up at the surveillance camera in the corner of the ceiling, relieved that it wasn’t trained on him. He then felt Yarbo’s eyes on him. Is this in my head? Am I being paranoid?
Hal continued his work, analyzing the Yemeni drone footage. Zooming into the image and marking anything that appeared to be a weapon or explosive. He took screenshots of suspicious gatherings of men and any vehicles nearby. All the while, blocking out the images from his dreams and the soreness in his arms, legs and shoulders.
The fluorescents were off in Hangar 302. The box was completely dark and the long back doors latched shut. The aircraft in the hangar — still and silent. The Aurora was especially sleek and lethal in the low light, most of which seeped through the crack in the bottom of the hangar doors. Giving the stealth aircraft an up-angle light. The kind of lighting killers in horror movies receive to make them appear more ominous. The black aircraft blended seamlessly into the dark hangar. Only the light glinting off the swept wings, angled windows and flat fuselage were visible.
A make-shift conference room of folding tables and a dozen chairs was set up under a wing of the Aurora. Beyond the tables was the MQ-10S drone, looking like the stealth off-spring of an Aurora and an F-117A. The drone had flat, black panels with sharp edges and corners to deflect radar, much like the Nighthawk design. Its fuselage was wider than other drones. The swept-back wings held no external munitions, storing them inside to reduce the radar signature.
Trest took a seat at the head of the table. Clad in his informal dress uniform. Beads of sweat formed on his temple. He appeared anxious, and leaned over to Baldo, who was on his left like the secretary of a CEO. “The hangar with the most advanced aircraft on the planet and the AC doesn’t work? Go see what’s wrong with it.”
“Yes, sir.” Baldo hurried off with nary a soul at the table noticing. They were too mesmerized by the magnificent stealth creatures behind them. The men and women surrounding Trest were a mix of corporate suits and high ranking military. Trest’s gravelly voice broke the stillness of the hangar.
“Thank you all for being here. Pardon the un-office-like atmosphere. And the high temperature. Some of you already know each other. For those who haven’t met, why don’t we go around the room? Introduce your name and whatever you’d like to say about your company or division.”
Baldo returned to his seat. Shaking his head to Trest. Nothing could be done about the AC. Baldo listened to the introductions that went around the room. He sized people up by the rank on their uniform or the type of suit they wore. He spotted a fifteen-hundred-dollar tailored suit — concluding that the individual’s company knew how to grease the DoD.
Some department heads and executive used aliases in their introductions. Most were vague about their role and the reason for their presence. At these tables sat division heads for every aspect of Project Cloudcroft. There were corporate executives from Lockheed Martin, General Dynamics and Boeing. Parent companies of Skunk Works, Advanced Concepts Laboratory and Future Combat Systems. Representatives from top intelligence communities were present — CIA, PsyOps (psychological warfare), Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA), Air Force Intelligence, Special Operations Command (SOCOM), and the Department of Defense’s own RD lab known as DARPA (Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency).
Too many people, Trest thought, pondering the risk for leaks. Second guessing his own decision to invite them all. He addressed the group, “As you all know, I’m meeting the President this week to present a full report on Project Cloudcroft. It has been a long tradition that the President need not know all the details of black ops, for obvious plausible deniability reasons and to limit the potential for security breaches.” Trest took a breath, glancing around the room and continued. “So, what I need from each of you — is a report in non-classified terms defining what your company, department or division does. Keep it simple. A page or less. And by defining, I mean defining in such a way as to not…” He searched for the words… “Let the cat outta’ the bag. So to speak.”
Some around the room nodded, understanding. Others had confused looks. An Air Force Intelligence officer asked, “What do I say about exfil? How do we justify the stealth helos?”
“Write that your team provides recon and on-the-ground assessment,” Trest said. “Talk about how it improves the effectiveness of missions”
Arthur Lewis, a heavy-set man from Skunk Works had an astonished expression. He spoke up. “Are you telling me the President doesn’t know anything about this?!”
“He knows the basics, Art,” Trest replied. “He knows we’re tasked with more precise ordinance delivery in the RPA program. And that’s all he needs to know. The lawsuits from drone strikes are piling up and he’s taking the heat. Believe me, he doesn’t want to know more. We just need to assure him that we’re drastically reducing collateral damage. And so far, we are. What are those numbers, Ted?”
A member from Air Force Intelligence thumbed through his notes and spoke up. “We’ve gone from a collateral damage casualty rate of fifteen percent per mission to point five percent per mission.”
Trest jumped in. “Use that in your notes. From fifteen innocents killed per one-hundred drone strikes down to one per one-hundred strikes.”
“Is the President aware of the targets?” Art asked.
“Indeed.” Trest boldly replied. “He often provides us with the kill-list.”
“How about congressional oversight?”
Empty stares around the table. People looked at each other, waiting for a response.
Trest was losing patience. “This is a clandestine op. You all knew this. It has a low enough budget to fly under the radar. That’s the whole plan. That’s why the President AND Congress approved it. Both through the CIA black ops budget and discretionary funds from the DIA and AF Intel.” Art grimaced. The whole thing left a bad taste in his mouth.
“Our enemy doesn’t exactly carry the Geneva Convention handbook,” Trest continued. “Some might see that as a distinct military advantage for them. Don’t forget, the purpose of this program is to reduce the loss of innocent life.” Trest paused. “I know this is more involved than a typical black op. There are a lot of moving parts. We can easily keep the lid on smaller operations, but something of this magnitude… Well, we have to find ways to hide things in plain sight.”
Trest paused. Waiting for comments from the group. Wiping a swath of sweat running from his temple to his cheek. “If there are no further questions, I’d like to move on.” Trest glared directly at Art, who shook his head no. “Good,” Trest replied, looking over in the direction of Baldo. “Somebody get me a Dr. Pepper!”
Trest had never been to the White House. He felt underwhelmed as he patiently sat alone in the antechamber to the Oval Office. Waiting for the President to grant him entrance. The two-hundred-year old Victorian home had a musty smell that the housekeeping staff failed to conceal with an even more obnoxious “aroma.” The floorboard under Trest’s chair creaked when he shifted his weight. Making him wonder how sound the flooring was and how long the old boards could withstand any kind of a fire. The voice of a Secret Service agent snapped Trest out of his daydream. “Air Force?”