Hail Warning

by Brett Arquette

From further back in the ship, a wood door opened, and an attractive black woman in her 30s entered the room. She was holding a stack of folded clothes; atop the clothes were new brown sandals.

  “Ah, there she is,” Obano said with a smile.

  “Honey, this is our new passenger,” Obano said, gesturing toward Afua. “And his name is—”

  Obano looked at Afua, raising his eyebrows, waiting for Afua to fill in the information.

  “Jesus,” Afua offered, blurting out the first name that popped into his head. Diambu hadn’t considered that his contact, Obano, would not know his name. But then, when he thought about it, it was best his real name wasn’t known. The less information they knew about him the better.

  “Your name is Jesus?” the pretty lady asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Afua responded softly.

  “And what is your last name?” she asked.

  Afua almost said Christ but quickly modified that to the name Savage.

  “Jesus Savage,” the woman said, as if she were trying the name on for size. “Those two names don’t really fit together, if you know what I mean.”

  Afua just smiled, deciding that he had talked enough about his fictitious name.

  Obano said, “Well, Jesus, this is my wife, Essie.”

  Instead of a handshake, Essie handed Afua the clothes she had been holding.

  “Why don’t you follow me, Jesus, and I will take you to your quarters. You can change there. I’m sure you can’t wait to get out of… of… whatever you are wearing there.”

  Afua looked down at his dirty tan cargo pants and black T-shirt. He didn’t often give much consideration to how he was dressed. Most of the time, he was in the jungle with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. The long pants were good for protecting his legs from all the creepy-crawlies that inhabited Nigeria and the northern desert. There were some wasps as big as his hand that hunted and killed tarantulas. Sometimes, if Afua was going deep into the jungle and would be in the thick of it for days, he would wear a long-sleeved shirt or a light coat. But most of the time, it was simply too hot for additional clothing.

  Instead of going out the same door in which she had entered, Essie Obano began to descend a narrow stairway to the right of the door.

  Afua followed, allowing his eyes to wander, drinking in the opulence of the yacht. He didn’t know if the yacht belonged to the Obanos. It had been rented in Lagos from a high-end dealership that catered to those who had made their riches by serving either by the blood diamond trade or feared the Boko Haram. Both situations were equally as compelling.

  Isaac Obano was a prosperous realtor and worked almost exclusively for both clienteles. The blood diamond industry was still big business, and Isaac sold multimillion-dollar villas to those who were at the top of the diamond heap. They were those individuals who bought, sold and smuggled diamonds out of Africa. He also purchased land, warehouses, homes, apartments, farms and islands for members of the Boko Haram. It had taken him from the rank of a low-level realtor, who peddled ramshackle dwellings to those who could barely afford them, to a rich and powerful businessman. And once he had hooked up with diamond smugglers and terrorists, his bank account bulged as did his zest for life.

  Isaac Obano had been approached a month ago by a man named Victor Kornev. The big Russian informed him the Boko Haram would like him to go on an all-expense-paid Caribbean trip. The only thing he had to do was take along a stowaway. The extra person would help pilot the vessel and with chores. Initially,

  Obano had declined. But a day later, Obano met a man who walked into his Lagos office. He introduced himself simply as Iniabasi, who had brought several of his soldiers with him. As he explained what he wanted Obano to do, his soldiers stood quietly around the room pointing their automatic weapons at him. Iniabasi didn’t have to talk very much or for very long before Obano agreed to take the proffered trip. Isaac had been assured that no harm would come to he or his wife. But, if he didn’t go on the trip, Iniabasi could not guarantee that the length of Obano’s life would be as long as he would like. Neither could he guarantee the lifestyle he had become accustomed to would continue.

  Taking a boat trip didn’t bother Isaac Obano in the least. He was an experienced navigator and captain, owning a much smaller yacht in addition to a large sailboat. He understood the complex systems embedded and threaded through the Nigerian Princess like human veins. He was also competent with the complex navigation instrumentation. This trip would not be complicated. It was pretty much a straight shot across the Atlantic Ocean, staying directly parallel to the equator. And that was a big old fat line to follow on any navigation system.

  What bothered Isaac Obano was the man who joined him on the trip across the ocean—the man who called himself Jesus. From all outward appearances, the tall lanky Nigerian did not appear to be dangerous. He was not boisterous or overly talkative—that he could detect. He appeared soft-spoken and courteous, but he was aboard the yacht for a reason. And if Jesus Savage was part of the Boko Haram, that reason probably meant that someone would die. All Obano could do was hope, other than getting Jesus to Venezuela, he and his wife did not factor into their plans. The flipside was Isaac knew for sure they would both die at the hands of the Boko Haram if they didn’t agree to make the trip. People like Isaac were a dime a dozen to the jihadis. But if he did their bidding, Isaac was worth saving, or at least not worth killing. It was as simple as making a deal with the devil. But, in this case, the devil’s name was Jesus.

  THE WHITE HOUSE ROSE GARDEN—WASHINGTON, D.C.

  I t was a beautiful summer morning in the capital city. The president of the United States, Joanna Weston, decided that she would hold all her meetings outside in the Rose Garden today, including her luncheon with the newly elected president of the Maldives, Mohamed Yameen.

  She had just finished up a short meeting about Operation Hail Storm with General Ford, Jarret Pepper, Eric Spearman and Trevor Rodgers.

  The meeting was more of a disaster diversion session than anything else.

  The United States had lost a pilot and a very expensive jet fighter in the sortie flown over North Korea. The president was informed by her advisors the pilot had bailed out. He was rescued by Marshall Hail. Currently, the Lt. Commander was aboard the Hail Nucleus.

  Marshall Hail had been discussed many times over the last week. Before that time, there had never been any mention of the man. Now, a week later, it appears every conversation she had with the FBI, CIA and NIA was about him.

  On one hand, the president was intrigued with Marshall Hail and the offensive drones he had built. But, on the other hand, she was somewhat scared of his drones’ effectiveness. A gun was only as dangerous as the person pointing it, and the same could be said for Hail and his throng of robotic soldiers.

  A rose garden has a natural attraction to insects and even birds. During this time of year, hearing a hummingbird flutter around the garden was a common occurrence. Occasionally, two hummingbirds could be seen darting in and out of the colorful blooms. But Joanna Weston had never heard a swarm of hummingbirds like those that appeared to be closing in from behind her. The sound of wind over wings was so loud that she looked up at the birds.

  Instead of a bird, contrasted against the organic shapes of flowers, leaves, stems and bushes, she saw an alien-looking contraption. Before she could move, get up or call out for assistance, a flying saucer that had a stick hanging under it flew up onto her table. The president gasped as three appendages, which looked like tiny legs, popped out from under the stick. The glasses got bumped, turned on their sides and rolled across the table. They fell onto the bricks with a crash.

  The president pushed back in her chair as the aircraft landed on its thin tripod legs. The stick attached to the legs began to separate vertically. One half of the

  stick formed a 90-degree angle and made a cross with the other half. It gave the appearance of an easel or the mast of a ship. The two halves snapped into place with a click. The president began to get u
p, preparing to run when a familiar voice instructed her to wait. There was a commanding tone coming out of the alien thing-a-ma-bob, and for some reason, the voice calmed her. Instead of running, the president paused for a second and watched a thin sheet of paper unroll from the mast-looking thing. Before it even reached its full length, she recognized the face of Marshall Hail on the flexible LED screen.

  A million thoughts went through her head. Had she pissed off Marshall Hail to the extent that he had come to kill her? She thought not, but stranger things had happened in this new and strange computerized world.

  She recalled the words she had just spoken to the men at the table. “I am ‘anyone’.”

  It was very clear to Weston that Marshall Hail could indeed get to anyone, anytime, anywhere—so why run?

  Joanna Weston remained in her chair, tense and unmoving.

  She must have looked a sight to Marshall Hail, because he smiled a disarming and no harm, no foul smile before he spoke.

  “I’m sorry, Madam President. I didn’t mean to startle you, but we need to talk.”

  The president tried to compose herself; instead, she found herself yelling at the flying contraption.

  “Mr. Hail, this is highly irregular. You have some nerve, barging in on my day without any notice whatsoever.”

  “Well, you did tell me to contact you at my convenience, and this is, well, you know, convenient for me.”

  “Too bad I can’t say the same,” the president shot back.

  Hail said contritely, “As I already mentioned, I apologize for meeting with you at such short notice, but we have some items we need to discuss.”

  The president scooched her chair in closer to the table and began to breathe normally. She looked at the image of Marshall Hail streamed to the screen in front of her. Then something occurred to her.

  She questioned, “How were you able to fly in like this and land on my table? From what I understand, White House security has all signals jammed within the confines of the White House property, except for those used by the Secret Service.”

  On the screen, Marshall Hail smiled and said, “Yes, you do. But you don’t have light jammed.”

  “Light?” the president responded, shaking her head, doing her best to understand Marshall Hail. “What are you talking about?”

  “Lasers,” Hail responded. His hand came into view on the screen and he pointed his index finger upwards. “Up there. Do you see the falcon flying above us?”

  The president looked up and shielded her eyes, trying her best to focus on the sky. “I see a very large bird flying above us. I don’t know what kind of bird it is.”

  “It’s a falcon,” Hail told her. “But it’s not really a falcon. It’s a drone shaped like a falcon.”

  “I’m not following,” the president said with a touch of irritation in her tone.

  “Well, you are right about jamming all the radio signals on the property, but the falcon above us is communicating with this drone I’m on right now using lasers. My video is being transmitted via a laser that is shooting down from the falcon and being received by this drone in front of you. The drones are virtually locked together with a laser. The falcon above us is—well—out of the range of your signal jammers, and unless you cover the entire Rose Garden with a tarp, you can’t block light, which means that you can’t block my laser.”

  The president looked back up into the sky with renewed interest. She watched the falcon—the drone—fly lazy circles above them. She didn’t see any lasers zinging between the two drones, but she understood that lasers could operate at frequencies and hues invisible to the human eye. The president was being bombarded by several conflicting emotions, and she appeared in no hurry to express any of them to Marshall Hail. The paramount emotion she was experiencing was anger. She was mad that Hail had barged in on her privacy in the Rose Garden, unannounced, and had done so piloting a drone. Compounding that indiscretion, Hail had purposely circumvented the White House’s tight security protocols with his pair of interconnected drones. She felt Hail was purposefully flaunting the advanced skillsets of those he employed.

  But another emotion that competed and somewhat tempered her anger was that of amazement. After all, Hail had completely circumvented the White House’s advanced jamming system, flying a drone right up to her and landing it on the table. She was both amazed and alarmed. All her senses told her she was not safe. It didn’t take a military expert to point out if Hail could pull this off, anyone with deep pockets and skewed agendas could not only fly a drone on the White House grounds, but also could easily attach a weapon to the contraption. The president thought about that for a moment. Did the future include placing the entire White House and surrounding grounds under a massive bulletproof glass dome? She wondered how much that would cost the taxpayers. It was possible that she might be the last president able to enjoy the Rose Garden. After Jack Kennedy had been assassinated, that put an end to presidents being transported in open convertible limousines. She could see a future when presidents were no longer allowed to walk outside at all, and what a sad time that would be for the nation.

  The president viewed the screen in front of her. Hail was waiting patiently for her to absorb all the information.

  The president flashed a fake smile, and ignoring the technology flying above their heads, she asked, “What is so important, Mr. Hail, that you felt the need to put all this together?” She waved her hands up in the air and then folded her hands in front of her, setting them on the table.

  “Didn’t your director of the FBI tell you I thought we should talk?”

  “Yes, I believe Trevor Rodgers mentioned something about it.”

  “Don’t you think we should talk, Joanna, considering everything that went down during this last mission?” Hail asked.

  The president appeared perplexed and said, “I don’t think I’m the right person to speak to about the mission.”

  “Oh,” Hail said, sounding dejected. “But, I thought you were the commander-in-chief.”

  The president allowed Hail’s jab to resonate for a moment before responding, “I would like our conversations to be held in the company of the CIA, NSA, FBI and General Ford. I’m sure you understand that unannounced and undocumented meetings with you are not good for my career. After all, Mr. Hail, you are far off the range when it comes to your operations. I need a defined amount of space from you, and I need deniability. And that means you and I cannot have private conversations such as this.”

  The president looked nervously around the Rose Garden.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Hail. “I mean, it’s not like there are reporters hiding in the bushes.”

  Joanna Weston didn’t even realize what she had been doing, and Hail bringing attention to her foolishness made her resent his presence even more.

  “Well, Mr. Hail, if you are sitting on my table, it makes me wonder what other drones are hidden in the rose bushes. I’m sure you can understand my curiosity, right?”

  “I thought we agreed, during our first meeting, that you would call me Marshall, and I would call you Joanna. Remember, you told me that ‘Madam President’ made you feel old?”

  “Today I am feeling more agitated than old, Marshall.” She pronounced his name with a degree of condescension.

  Hail tried to sound upbeat and said, “I’d like to start over, if we could.”

  “I’d like you to get off my table and go fly away,” the president responded flatly.

  “We have your pilot,” Hail told her.

  The change in the direction of their back-and-forth exchange caught Weston off-guard. Giving it little thought, she responded, “What do you mean? Are you telling me that you are holding him captive?”

  “No, of course not. But the lieutenant commander indicated he would like to stay with us.”

  “With you?” the president repeated. “And where would that be, Marshall?”

  Hail hesitated, trying to decide how much he wanted to share with the Uni
ted States’ top official, which would be the same as sharing it will all the United States’ agencies.

  The president let him off the hook by saying, “We already know that Kara Ramey is aboard your cargo ship, the Hail Nucleus. So, I’m assuming our lieutenant commander is on that ship as well.”

  Hail decided there was no sense in hiding something that was already known, so he responded, “Yes, he’s on my ship. He has, however, indicated that he wants to stay aboard.”

  “And why would that be?” the president asked.

  “I think we all understand the lieutenant commander has nothing to go back to if he returns to duty. Well, maybe three hot meals and a cot in the brig, but that really is not living. I think you would agree.”

  The president didn’t respond.

  A flock of birds flew over the White House. The president watched the birds. She had observed the clear signal being transmitted from the falcon to the drone on the table had pixelated as the birds intermittently blocked the laser signal. The signal stabilized, and Marshall Hail spoke again.

  “I’d like to know if it’s OK for Nolan to stay aboard with us?” Hail asked. “All he is to you and your general is a problem. But to me, he’s a solution. He has a lot

  of avionic and tactical skills that neither I, nor my staff, has. I’ll be sure to slap him around a little if it would make your general happy.”

  Joanna Weston smiled at Hail’s contempt for her military.

  “I’m sure our general would appreciate that, but I don’t believe it’s necessary. I think the pilot living around you is punishment enough.”

  The president smiled graciously at Hail on the screen in front of her.

  Hail absorbed her zing with a smile.

  “Well, with that piece of business out of the way, I would like to talk about our next target.”

  “Our next target?” the president asked, pronouncing the word OUR with an exaggerated punch.

  “Sure,” Hail responded. “All of the cockroaches on your terrorist list are OUR enemies. I mean, it was your agencies that put them on the list to begin with. I’m not sure why this comes as a shock to you. We agreed, when we first met, that I would assist in removing every one of these parasites from the list.”