Hail Warning

by Brett Arquette

  The jihadi watched as the round drifted a little to the right and hit the shoulder of the pirate behind the man holding the RPG. The impact was catastrophic. Half the pirate’s shoulder broke loose. It flew into the ocean along with his AK-47. The pirate looked momentarily stunned as if he had been hit by a bolt of lightning, then he followed the trajectory of his shoulder overboard, disappearing. The other pirates looked confused by the strange incident, but they

  didn’t put two and two together. The noise the boat’s engines were making, in addition to the roiling waves threatened to toss any careless pirate into the drink. They must have surmised their mate simply lost his balance and fell overboard. Afua thought after the incident they increased their speed, but less weight often equated to increased speed.

  The semi-automatic Barrett automatically racked another round into its chamber. In Afua’s skilled hands, the big weapon sat at the ready, waiting to throw another volley of steel downrange. Its 750-grain bullet traveled at 3000 feet per second. At the current distance between the boats, it took less than a second for the bullet to reach the pirates. Afua adjusted the scope a few degrees to the left, and he reacquired the man holding the RPG. The man known as Jesus, rested his finger gently against the trigger, adjusted his breathing, regulated his heart rate, and did his best to relax. He softly eased his finger onto the trigger. The Barrett boomed and bucked.

  The bullet hit the business end of the launch tube, expanded, and had ripped the RPG out of the pirate’s hands. The weapon had flown over the top of the pirates’ heads and was now lost to the sea. It all happened in the blink of an eye. The pirate who had been holding the weapon confronted the rest of the men in the boat, holding out his hands. It appeared he was trying to show the men he was not holding the weapon. He fully understood they were now in range of the big yacht, and the only other targets left on their boat were soft squishy pirates who could offer very little resistance to .50 caliber rounds. The driver of the pirate boat got the message, and he quickly spun the wheel, and the pirate boat veered off.

  Afua tracked the boat until he was sure they would not double back. Confident the pirates were headed for easier pickings, he removed his eye from the scope, released the Barrett and sat up on the deck. The wind felt nice against his dark skin. The sun was bright and hot, but the wind kept the heat at bay. He felt a sense of freedom he had never experienced. It was hard for him to put a finger on what was different. Afua, after the gunfight with the pilots, felt as if he were doing the right thing—like he was the good guy in a movie wearing the white hat. He was the hero that the children cheered for and woman thought was macho.

  Isaac increased speed, and the Nigerian Princess lifted off the waves and crashed into new ones. The wind became violent—no longer a cooling breeze. Rather, it had become an adversary. He could feel the wind pressing against him, trying to force him backward. In that short amount of time, he realized that he was still the same old Afua—the guy wearing the black hat. There were no good or bad guys in his world. There were only people who survived, and those who would soon be dead.

  THE WHITE HOUSE OVAL OFFICE—WASHINGTON, D.C.

  F rom his apartment on Q Street, it had taken Trevor Rodgers about fifteen minutes to drive to the White House. He hadn’t planned on visiting the White House this morning, but he had received a call that the president had called an impromptu meeting with the head of the CIA, NSA and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Of course, Rodgers would be representing the FBI. It was not uncommon for this group to meet. In fact, they did so quite often. What was uncommon was the sense of urgency for this meeting to convene if for no other reason that almost every minute of the president’s day or week for that matter was orchestrated ahead of time. Any deviation in her busy schedule meant someone would be let down. It could be something as simple as skipping a luncheon with the president of Tuvalu, rescheduling a roundtable of educators to discuss raising high school performance, postponing business leaders who wanted to discuss increasing American competitiveness, or having to send someone in her place to extend her appreciation to volunteers who had responded to tornadoes in Kansas. If POTUS had changed her schedule for this meeting, it must be of utmost importance.

  Rodgers couldn’t help but think it had something to do with his friend, Marshall Hail. Could it merely be a coincidence? Any type of coincidence was nothing he would gamble on, because coincidences rarely took place. Unless North Korea just dropped a nuclear bomb on South Korea, Rodgers suspected this meeting had something to do with his friend’s recent uninvited visit to the White House.

  There had been some prior history between the president and Marshall Hail. Rodgers wouldn’t characterize their relationship as hostile. Rather they were defiantly codependent. Hail absolutely needed the help of the president to continue tracking down and eliminating all the terrorists on the FBI’s Top Ten Terrorists list. And, the president needed Hail for several reasons not as nearly straightforward. For example, if Hail wanted to knock off a jihadi kingpin and collect the reward offered by the United States, it was essential the president and her intelligence agencies knew the who, where, and when. This information was vital because the CIA might already be working a covert angle to take out the same actor. Sharing information should prevent the debacle that occurred in Hail’s sanctioned mission, dubbed Operation Hail Storm.

  Measures had been taken to bomb the warehouse housing ICBM missiles, in case Hail’s team was unable to successfully complete their mission. Hail’s

  newest pilot and recruit, Foster Nolan, was an unintended consequence of miscommunication between the CIA and Marshall Hail. If the director of the CIA, Jarret Pepper, and Marshall Hail had been on the same page, the loss of a 337 million-dollar aircraft could have been avoided. And the future of one of their best pilots would not have been terminated. If they had trusted one another enough to compare notes, the plane would never have left the aircraft carrier.

  The second reason the president needed Hail was the superiority of the technology he possessed. It was far better than anything the United States could get their hands on. The president was not a technical person, but her advisors had told her that Hail’s technology was lightyears ahead of what was being produced at DARPA (Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency). DARPA was created by President Eisenhower in 1958—a direct response to the Soviets launching Sputnik 1 in 1957. Its mission was to ensure that the U.S. military would be more sophisticated than that of the nation’s potential enemies. But, there was no indication that DARPA was more sophisticated than those who the United States considered an ally. And, at least for the time being, Marshall Hail was still on that list. Rodgers shuddered when he considered what would happen if Hail made his way onto the other list—that list containing the names of those people Hail was trying to exterminate.

  Nevertheless, there were some extremely brilliant engineers in DARPA creating some real science-fiction contraptions. But the amount of red tape involved with getting a weapon from a workable prototype to a weapon that could be utilized in the field took years. The full deployment of the Predator drone was delayed for years by bureaucratic infighting among the various military branches. The Air Force insisted only full-fledged pilots—or “real” pilots should be allowed to fly drone aircraft. It may take several years and $10 million to produce a combat-ready jet fighter pilot. In contrast, a Predator drone operator could be combat-ready within several months, and at a fraction of the cost of the jet pilot. With those types of bureaucratic roadblocks in place, by the time the Predator drone had made it from the DARPA laboratory to purgatory, ten times as much money and time was spent as was needed for Hail to create a more advanced model. It was simply the nature of the beast.

  If the military required an eraser for a pencil, the different branches of the military would argue among themselves. One branch would insist it also erase pen marks; one would argue over the length of the eraser; another would demand it be able to operate at ten fathoms underwater. By the time a
ll branches hammered out the specifications of the one-fits-all eraser, billions of dollars would have been spent in design. It would arrive five years later than build specs had outlined. And by that time, people were now only using electronic tablets—not pencils or pens.

  The third reason the president needed Marshall Hail and his little circus was because she needed the cloak of plausible deniability. When these jihadis were killed or captured on foreign soils, she wanted―no—needed to assign blame on someone else. If Hail, with his drones, executed the kill shot, blame rested with him, not the United States. They could claim Marshall was a rogue civilian, thus an unsanctioned operation. Although, he had a CIA operative, and had now assimilated one of their best jet fighter pilots, onto his ship. The only significant point was that all military branches and offices within America had deniability. Their hands were clean.

  Rodgers had cleared White House security and headed to the Oval Office. He saw no one in the corridor outside, so he walked into the big oval room. Four people looked in his direction, and he realized that he was the last to arrive.

  The president said sarcastically, “Thank you for coming so quickly, Trevor.” She motioned for Rodgers to take a seat on the couch. The president was sitting in one of two pinkish, high-back chairs which sat at the end of the thick coffee table.

  Sitting on the couch next to Trevor was Quentin Ford, a four-star general and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He was a large and imposing man. Today the general was not in full military dress, but instead he was wearing his ACUs (Army Combat Uniform). Rodgers couldn’t comprehend why the highest-ranking military officer in the United States Armed Forces was dressed for the battlefield. Tiny specks of perspiration rested on Ford’s face. The general appeared quite wired, like he had one too many espressos. Or, maybe the general was going to have a heart attack. He was certainly at the age where those pesky ailments made unsolicited visits. The general’s thick cheeks sagged like a big old tired hound dog.

  Seated on the couch, across the coffee table from the general, was the Director of National Intelligence, Eric Spearman. He had been sworn in four years earlier by the previous administration. Spearman wore glasses. He was a mild-mannered, bald and short man—the antithesis of the general sitting across from him. He seemed to wear a continual frown. Spearman was typically reserved, and Rodgers had great respect for him. The only time he talked was when it was necessary. Then whatever he said was so solid, compelling and logical, it either resolved an issue, or he introduced a new avenue to consider. Spearman looked smart. If instructed to choose five of the smartest men in a room, Eric probably would be chosen as one of the top five. They both were wearing similar dark blue suits, but Rodgers hoped he wore his suit better than Eric. His sad-looking face was buried in his iPad.

  The director of the Central Intelligence Agency, Jarret Pepper, sat on the couch next to Spearman. Pepper’s gray hair always appeared unruly. Pepper could comb his hair; within ten seconds it would have returned to its naturally unkempt state. Pepper was wearing a gray suit, as per usual. Rodgers was as likely to ask the reason from Pepper why he only wore gray suits as he would ask the general why he had chosen to wear his ACUs.

  The president, Joanna Weston, was relatively new to the job. She had just burned off less than one-eighth of her four-year term. She was wearing a blue pantsuit with a little golden American flag pinned to her breast pocket. Weston came from three generations of politicians. She was outspoken and didn’t really care if she hurt anyone’s feelings; however, she didn’t go out of her way to be insensitive. Weston allowed her military advisors to guide her. But, when she made her decision, the topic was closed to further discussion. The president’s most iconic feature was the shock of gray hair that sprang directly from the middle of her forehead and ran down the center of her head. The streaks of gray got thinner, until thick brown hair gobbled it up near the back of her head. Initially, Rodgers found this anomaly disconcerting when talking to her, but over time, he had become accustomed to the strange sight. Now, he thought it was even kind of cool.

  The president began the meeting. “I’m sure all of you are wondering why I asked you here at such short notice.” She gave Trevor Rodgers a knowing glance and continued, “Some of you might be surprised to know that I had an unexpected visitor in the Rose Garden yesterday.”

  She let the suspense build for a moment before adding, “It was a drone sent by Mr. Marshall Hail.”

  All the men looked at one another curiously for a moment. Rodgers pretended to look equally as perplexed.

  “Yes, Mr. Hail landed what I can only describe as a video screen directly across from me on the table in the Rose Garden.”

  The president stopped talking and looked inquisitively at the men in the room until the general broke the silence.

  “How is that possible?” he said. “White House security has every radio frequency jammed in and around the White House for just that reason. I mean, we can’t have private drones flying in and out of the property.”

  The president smiled like she had a secret.

  “Well, Mr. Hail pointed out to me that he had another drone flying high above the White House. That drone was sending a signal to the drone on the table via a laser. He explained that you cannot jam light.”

  The general began to say something but thought better of it. It was evident that Hail had, yet again, thought of something none of them had, or would have, ever considered.

  “With that said,” the president continued, “Mr. Hail is interested in having us provide him with information that will lead to the demise of another valued target on our Top Ten Terrorists list.”

  Pepper considered the request from his agency’s perspective. Even though he had recently negotiated the presence of his operative, Kara Ramey, aboard the Hail Nucleus, deep down he hated the entire professional relationship he was forced to endure with Marshall Hail. It was the CIA’s job to bring terrorists to justice – not private citizens with money and time to spend. Pepper viewed Hail and his organization as nothing more than zealot vigilantes on the verge of being out of control. He knew if Hail could continue his quest for vengeance, eventually he would implode. Pepper’s biggest fear was the CIA would become entangled in Hail’s debris field. He had known Hail would resurface to request another target, so Pepper had taken time to consider Hail’s next assignment. Pepper smiled inside, knowing that this new task would be much more difficult for Hail to pull off. It required more skill than simply blowing up someone or a warehouse. There was a level of finesse to this operation. Pepper doubted Hail possessed the patience to see this operation through successfully.

  No one currently wanted to take control of the conversation, so Pepper shared his idea. “I would like Hail to turn Victor Kornev for us,” Pepper told the group.

  The president considered the magnitude of his proposal. To clarify, she asked, “You mean to turn him from what he is now…a notorious international arms dealer…into a spy for the United States?”

  “Yes, exactly,” Pepper said offering no further elaboration.

  General Ford inquired, “And just how is he supposed to do that?”

  Pepper threw his arms in the air and responded, “How is Hail supposed to do anything? But he always seems to have the answers. So, I don’t see how this should be any different.”

  A hush fell over the room and Pepper added, “We have two choices when it comes to Victor Kornev. We either have to kill him or turn him.”

  “What about capturing him?” Trevor Rodgers pointed out a third option.

  “What good does that do us?” Pepper inquired. “All that does is cost the taxpayers money feeding him and then trying him for his crimes. Then after that, we end up executing him just the same.”

  Pepper looked around the room and saw expressions of doubt. Mildly frustrated that no one seemed to understand his vision, he continued, “You see, if we kill Victor Kornev, someone else will just pop up in his place. They will start

 
selling arms to nations that don’t need them. We won’t know who the dealer(s) are or the nations being supplied, the arms being shipped or the quantities. But if we turn Kornev to work for us, we have all that intelligence at our fingertips.”

  The president asked, “So you are suggesting that Kornev continues to sell arms while he is working as our spy?”

  “There are ways around that,” Pepper countered. “He could still sell small weapons and make commitments for big ones, like surface-to-air missiles. But for one reason or another, the sale of the big stuff never takes place. There are a million reasons for deals to go bad. The real trick is to keep Kornev in place as long as possible, and then we can collect information about his clients, allowing us to shut down operations.”

  The general said, “I kind of like that idea.”

  Spearman, who rarely said anything, chimed in, “I think it’s a long shot, but I believe it’s worth taking.”

  Trevor Rodgers asked, “How do you think Hail would be able to pull that off?”

  “That’s Hail’s problem,” Pepper said. “If he wants to get into the nitty-gritty of this espionage game, then let him figure it out. I think we should use the assignment as a bargaining chip. If he can turn Kornev, then we will give him the whereabouts of another terrorist he can eliminate.”

  “Do we know the whereabouts of another terrorist?” the president asked.

  “Yes, we do,” Pepper responded smugly as if he alone owned the keys to the kingdom. “The person I have in mind is a very hard target, but we know where he is at this very moment.”