“Do you like it?” Hail asked his friend, still talking to Rodgers via the drone sitting at the other end of the coffee table.
Rodgers didn’t know what to say, but he decided on, “Yeah, it’s a nice big bird.”
After all, what was one to say when given a massive falcon?
“Go open your balcony doors, and I’ll show you something very cool,” Marshall said.
“Hmm,” Rodgers hummed in the back of his throat and asked, “What I think is cool is likely very different than what you determine is cool.”
Hail laughed, “Really; this will amaze you.”
Marshall’s voice was so upbeat that it reminded Trevor of when they were young boys, and Marshall had built some sort of contraption that compacted trash or walked the dog. Or when he built an electric skateboard, and when he rewired his room to a central control panel nearly burning down his home in Guam. Marshall thought those were cool too, but Trevor never really shared the same enthusiasm for his projects. Somehow, Trevor had always been sucked up into
Marshall’s excitement and had found himself hooking up the dog for walking or collecting trash that needed compacting. Trevor Rodgers stood and walked over to the sliding glass doors that led to his sixth-story balcony. He unlatched the door and slid it opened on its track.
With a hum of propellers, the drone that Hail was using to communicate with Rodgers came to life and lifted off the coffee table. Rodgers watched as the drone flew toward him. With the LED screen still unfurled, Rodgers could still see Hail’s face displayed on the front of the machine.
“Excuse me,” Hail said, and Rodgers stepped out of the way. Hail flew past him and out to the balcony.
The balcony was not very deep. It was just wide enough to hold a square white table that had been placed between two thick plastic chairs. The furniture was perfect for either a morning coffee for two or a couple of beers after work. There certainly wouldn’t be any parties being held on Rodger’s terrace. The view wasn’t all that spectacular. It was a well-kept neighborhood, continually upgraded over the years, but Rodgers’ balcony looked across the street at a plain brick condominium.
Hail landed his black drone on the plastic table, making sure the screen was facing out toward the street so he could see Rodgers and vice versa.
Rodgers was halfway through the balcony door when Hail asked him, “Can you grab the bird and bring it out here?”
Rodgers reversed course returning into his apartment. He gently grasped the falcon. His fingers were pressed into the drone’s wings. The thumb of his right hand touched some sort of protrusion poking out from the bird’s chest, and he cautiously moved his thumb up a little higher to avoid it. He was amazed how little the bird weighed. Rodgers guessed it weighed less than two pounds. He was certain a real falcon of this size would have weighed more than three pounds.
Holding the bird out in front of him like a Ming vase, Rodgers returned to his balcony.
Hail told him, “Set it on the railing, and hold it there for a moment.”
Rodgers looked down at the bird’s metal feet and lined them with the top of the black aluminum railing. He realized if he let the bird go, it would simply fall off the balcony. It would either land on the cement floor of the balcony or on the narrow strip of grass outside.
The falcon’s movement startled Rodgers. He felt the bird come to life, and he heard something like a small electric motor whirl inside the bird. He saw the bird’s feet ratchet open and the claws begin to extend. The thick back toes of the falcon
curled underneath the railing, while its front claws slid over the leading edge of the railing. Then both sets of toes pulled in tight.
“OK,” Hail said. “You can let go now. It’s got a good grip on the railing. Please stand back.”
Rodgers let go of the bird slowly as if he had just finished balancing a basketball on the end of a broom handle. He kept his hand extended in case the bird started to fall from the railing, but it made no such movement. Rodgers lowered his hands and stepped back until his back was against the glass doors.
“What now?” Rodgers asked Hail.
“This,” Hail said.
Rodgers saw a hot stream of fire shoot out from under the bird’s tail. The flare was followed by a loud hiss of a small rocket engine. Its metal feet let go of the railing, and the falcon shot up into the air at an 80-degree angle. It happened so fast Rodgers’ hands flew to his face to cover his eyes and the bird vanished into thin air.
The FBI director slowly lowered his hands from his face, and everything had returned to normal. There had been no rocket exhaust, loud noises and now there was no falcon. It had cleared the tallest of the buildings on Q Street and disappeared into the city landscape. It took Rodgers a moment to realize what had just happened.
Angrily, he asked Hail, “What in the hell was that all about? Why didn’t you warn me?”
“That was the surprise I told you about. I mean, would you have set the bird on the railing if you knew that it was powered by a rocket engine and was going to take off?”
“No, probably not.”
“I didn’t think so, but it was important to get that bird airborne. If not, I didn’t think I would have an opportunity to meet with the president this morning.”
“I really don’t understand anything you just said,” Rodgers told Hail. “What does launching a rocket-powered falcon have to do with meeting the president?”
“I tell you what,” Hail said. “I’m kind of in a crunch for time right now, but I will give you a full update when I return.”
“When do you get back?” Rodgers questioned. “Where are you going?”
“I told you; I have to meet with the president,” Hail said.
Rodgers watched helplessly as the video drone Hail was on began to hum, lifting from the table. The black drone hovered over the railing and turned back toward Rodgers.
Hail smiled at his friend.
“Thanks again, Trev. I owe you one,” Hail said sincerely.
The thin flexible video screen began rolling back onto the stick supporting it, and even before the stick began to rotate into its flight position, Hail was already flying toward the White House.
As Rodgers watched the drone disappear over the tops of the neighboring condominiums, no less than three FBI security men broke down his front door and burst into his living room with guns drawn, apparently having heard the commotion.
TWO YEARS AGO
BOAT RAMP AT TARKWA BAY—LAGOS, NIGERIA
T he next point of contact for Afua Diambu was anchored three miles out in the Gulf of Guinea. The young jihadi saw the boat long before he pulled up behind it.
After a big breakfast at McDonald’s in Lagos, Victor Kornev had driven Afua and his new small tri-hull boat to a small boat ramp in Tarkwa Bay. The bay was a good point to launch a boat because it opened directly into the Gulf of Guinea. No larger than a small fishing boat, Victor Kornev had concerns about the small boat making it that far out to sea, especially in bad weather. But the hot day offered very little wind and the ocean’s waters were calm.
Afua had waved to Kornev as the small boat pulled off the trailer, but the Russian had not returned the wave. Instead, the arms dealer simply stood there, waiting to hear the boat’s engine catch before getting back into the banged-up Peugeot. Kornev pulled the car forward to drag the trailer out of the water.
As Afua guided the boat into the deep water of Tarkwa Bay, he looked back to notice that Kornev had stopped his car. The arms dealer was watching Afua from his car’s side mirror. Afua waved again; it was met with no reaction from the Russian. Kornev drove off into the dense trees and disappeared.
Tarkwa Bay was 1000 meters of glassy water before it merged with the Gulf of Guinea. Kornev had informed Afua that the boat awaiting his arrival was very large and painted blue over white. He had indicated Afua should have no problems seeing the yacht anchored a mile from shore. The name of the boat was the Nigerian Princess. As with most luxury vessels,
its name was written in English on the stern of the ship.
Once out on the open water, a steady breeze from the south was creating three-foot swells that made the little boat hop and skip. Afua had been in many boats during his lifetime, either as a passenger or as a driver. At one time, Afua had been a pirate and had preyed on tourists and smaller vessels that came too close to the Nigerian coastline. But those activities had normally taken place on the Niger or Benue rivers. The ocean was a totally different experience.
Even then, the ocean’s vastness had taken Afua’s breath away. It reminded him of his boyhood home of Batagarawa and the stark Sahara Desert. The ocean and
the desert shared many attributes. In both, one could die from dehydration, become lost, or become scorched by the sun. Both appeared infinite. The desert had never provided the jihadi with anything tangible, other than the motivation to get himself and his family away from it, and, of course, the loot when he was a pirate.
After this unsavory task was completed, Mohammed Mboso had assured Afua that he would own his own region of the Boko Haram territory. That would allow for him and his family to once again move up in the world. Instead of living in a large apartment, his family would own their own home situated on a large piece of private property. Maybe they would even have their own pool.
As he pulled back on the throttle and decreased speed, he smiled at the thought. He was now within 100 meters of the big boat. Or was it a ship? Afua decided it was probably a yacht—by those who cared about such trivial matters. The boat was sleek, smooth, and shaped like the tip of an arrow. The nose of the yacht was pointy. A graceful arch of tinted glass and Plexiglas formed a shape that would assist the yacht to effortlessly glide through the water and wind. The arch terminated at the back of the boat which was quite stubby in comparison to the front. The flat area on the back of the boat had some writing that spelled the words: Nigerian Princess.
Now, almost at a dead stop and turning sideways to the waves, Afua applied about half throttle. He pointed his boat toward the large vessel. He was told that he would be met by a man by the name of Isaac Obano. Obano was a big-time real estate broker. He worked on many commercial deals with foreign entities who wanted to buy a chunk of Nigerian land for business purposes.
Now, less than twenty meters from the stern of the ship, Afua saw no one. He saw no activity at all. The sun hit one of the yacht’s many glass windows and momentary blinded him. Then, a second later, the angle changed, and the ship came back into focus. Afua began to reach over to press his boat’s horn, but just as his finger was within an inch from it, he stopped and retracted his hand. He tried to recall the training the Russian had given him. Many of the buttons and switches on the console of the little boat did what they were supposed to do; however, a few buttons had been programmed to very specialized things. Afua looked over the buttons and switches, cataloging each one in his mind and matching them up with their true functions. Now, confident that the horn button would blast the horn, he pressed it. A nautical-sounding screech was emitted, and Afua once again eased off the throttle. Moments later, the sliding glass door on the lower deck of the yacht opened, and a well-built black man emerged wearing a yellow polo shirt, white tennis shorts and sandals. He walked to the stern of the yacht and gave Afua
a confirmative wave. Afua waved back and gently bumped the throttle forward a half-inch.
The man on the yacht began to unlatch a pair of karabiner eyehooks that had been secured to the ship’s cleats. The eyehooks were connected to cables threaded through a set of thick boom arms. Once the lines were freed, the man let them go, and the cables dangled out over the water. He opened a small control box, pressing a button that operated the boom extension. Afua watched the boom arms begin to grow and extend until they were hovering well out over the water. Once they were in place, the man on deck pressed another button and the cables with the eyehooks began to lower down toward the water.
Less than ten meters away from the yacht, Afua turned the wheel sharply to align the side of his fishing boat with the stern of the yacht. As he passed under one of the two cables, he popped his boat into idle and grabbed the hook. On closer inspection, he noticed that there were two eyehooks. Each hook was connected to its own short length of cable that made a “Y” and connected to the main cable. Before he could drift away, Afua quickly made his way to the front of his boat. He clipped one eyehook into a cleat on the portside gunwale of his boat. He then clipped the other eyehook to a cleat on the starboard side. Behind him, he located the other greasy thick cable with the shiny eyehooks. He passed between the split windshield walkway of his boat and grabbed the line. He connected this new set of eyehooks to the cleats on the backend of his boat. With his boat secured to the yacht above, he then sat back down in the driver’s seat and turned off the key.
The man on the boat yelled, “Welcome aboard!” to Afua in his native Nigerian tongue. Instead of yelling back to the man, Afua waited until his boat had been lifted out of the water, and pulled up to the same level as the man. Then without the need to yell, Afua said, “Thank you,” using his best English.
Over the last ten years, ever since Afua had been with the current Boko Haram leader, Iniabasi, his teacher had spent a great deal of time and effort teaching him English. During this time, Afua hadn’t understood why he would ever have a use for the language. Even though the official language of Nigeria was English, it was most often spoken in the large cities. Out in the urban areas, and even further into the sparsely occupied areas where Afua was born, it was seldom used. Even so, if Iniabasi told him that he would need to learn English, then Afua understood to move up in the organization, he would need to learn the language.
The Russian had warned him that if the yacht was boarded by the Coast Guard, or any other contingent of officials, Afua was to pretend not to understand anything officials asked him. He was to act as if he didn’t understand any language other than his own native Nigerian tongue. Isaac Obano would pretend to translate
any information of any importance to Afua, but no one anticipated that would happen. There was a good chance that the yacht might be boarded when they reached the Caribbean Sea, but the Nigerian Princess was a “pleasure boat” or a rich man’s toy.
Diambu’s boat was now suspended five feet above the ocean, parallel with the deck of the yacht. Afua stepped effortlessly stepped over the railing of his little boat and did a little hop onto the deck of the ship.
Obano held out his hand, and Afua shook it.
“Nice to meet you,” the realtor said.
“Nice to meet you as well,” Afua responded warily.
Obano stepped over to the controls that operated the tender launch. He pressed a button, and a hydraulic pump began to moan. The boom arms started to retract that pulled the boat into a hollow built into the stern of the yacht—an area designed to accommodate small boats such as this.
“No,” Afua said. “Let it stay extended. We can tie it off so it doesn’t sway, but it needs to be ready and out over the water.”
The big black man shrugged and released the button. “OK,” he said, closing and latching the control panel’s watertight cover.
“One line there and another there should do the job,” Afua said, pointing at tie down points on the swaying boat.
Obano went over to a storage hatch and retrieved a few selections of rope. It took the men less than five minutes, and the little tri-hull boat was tied off and secure.
Afua tested getting in and out of the dinghy, making sure that it would not be a problem if they were interdicted at sea. Confident that he could get to the little boat’s controls very quickly, he did a visual inspection to make sure the detachable middle hull was securely attached and would not be noticed during a search of the Nigerian Princess. The Russian had told him to check the third hull for gaps between it and the boat. Inspectors would look for anything that made the third hull look like it was not part of the boat’s manufacturing process. Afua looked at the third hull fr
om different angles. If he didn’t know it could detach, he would have assumed that it was fused into the fiberglass.
Obano had been standing next to Afua waiting for the tall jihadi to finish his inspection of the tender.
Afua finally turned toward Obano, and the realtor motioned toward the glass doors that led into the main cabin of the yacht.
Obano took the lead and slid open the doors, and both men went inside.
The first thing Afua noticed was not the handcrafted teak wood that paneled what looked like a large living room. Instead, he noticed the temperature. It was so cool inside the core of the yacht, and it was even a little cold for him. Over the years, as Afua had climbed the ladder in the Boko Haram terrorist cell, he had been collecting more money and the spoils of their operations. And with that money came better living quarters for he and his large extended family. They had moved from something that resembled a wooden hut in Batagarawa to the city of Kano, where he had rented a small apartment that lacked air conditioning. After a few more years, marked by more kidnappings, stealing and murdering, he and his family had moved once again. He moved them to the city of Abuja, but just a month ago, Afua and his family moved to the city of Lagos where he rented what was considered a large air-conditioned apartment. Yet, Afua was still fully acclimated to Nigerian daytime temperatures of 100°F. Thus, he found air conditioning to be uncomfortably cold.
Inside the yacht, with the temperature hovering around 72°F (22°C), he was downright cold. The sweat on his body quickly cooled, and the drop in his core temperature registered in his brain.
“It’s cold in here,” he told Obano.
Obano walked over to thermostat and said, “No. It’s only 72°F.”
“That’s cold to me,” Afua replied.
Obano shrugged and adjusted thermostat until it was set to 77°F.
Hail Warning Page 7
