Hail Warning

by Brett Arquette

  Hail perked up and smiled.

  “I like opportunities. Are they good opportunities?”

  “There you go again,” Trevor said, exasperated. “You will just have to judge for yourself. Like our fathers always told us, “You don’t get nothing for free.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Hail commented. “I like free stuff.”

  “Yeah, doesn’t everyone?” Trevor chuckled.

  “Could you do me a solid and charge up the drones so I can meet with the president tomorrow morning?”

  “Do you a solid?” Trevor asked. “I didn’t know you were a fourteen-year-old and rode a skateboard around your ship. Where did you pick up lingo like that?”

  Hail laughed and said, “I’m surrounded by a bunch of young people, and I guess their coolness just rubs off on me.” Trevor smiled and shook his head.

  Hail asked, “So, how about charging the drones for tomorrow’s meeting?”

  “Not necessary,” Trevor said. “The president’s secretary will send you an encrypted e-mail tomorrow with information on how to connect to the White House’s secured video conferencing system in the Situation Room.”

  “That’s not as much fun as flying my drones in for the meeting, but I guess it will work.”

  “Yeah, about that flying in unannounced drone thing you did. The president didn’t feel all that warm and fuzzy about that visit. I think you scared her.”

  “She should be scared,” Hail replied. “If I can fly a video drone in, it wouldn’t take much for a terrorist to fly in a drone with a gun or a bomb attached to it.”

  “I think that’s why you scared her,” Trevor said in a more serious tone. “She reportedly read her White House security team the riot act. And the problem is, other than draping the White House Rose Garden and lawn with a tarp, they don’t know how to keep drones like yours from entering the property.”

  “I understand,” Hail said. “Unfortunately, I don’t have those answers. I play better offense than I do defense.”

  Both men were quiet for a moment, as each of them decided if there was anything else left to be said.

  Trevor had never married and didn’t have a family. Hail had been married twice and had twin daughters with his second wife. All three of Hail’s family members had been killed in The Five. So that didn’t leave much family life to talk about. Hail’s work, building and installing new traveling wave reactors in different countries was boring to Trevor. And talking about cases the FBI was working on was out of the question. Tomorrow, they would be discussing Marshall Hail’s new hobby, eliminating terrorists on the FBI’s Top Ten Terrorists list, so there was no need to talk about that now. So, what did that leave?

  “Pepper e-mailed me and asked that his agent, Kara Ramey, be present at the meeting on your end of the video call,” Trevor informed Marshall.

  Hail didn’t say anything, but he looked irritated by the request. Rodgers knew that Pepper and Hail didn’t like one another, so just about any request from Pepper would be met with disdain by Marshall.

  “That CIA agent currently aboard your ship is very attractive,” Trevor probed.

  Hail brightened a little.

  “Yes, she is,” he said.

  “Yep, pretty and single, and she is on your ship.”

  “Affirmative,” Hail said coyly.

  “So, is there anything, or should I say, do you have any—”

  Hail interrupted.

  “If you are asking if we are interested in each other, I think the answer would be yes,” Hail stated.

  “So, you haven’t—ah—”

  “The answer would be no,” Hail said. “Are there any other personal things you would like to ask me?”

  “I didn’t mean to pry,” Trevor responded, sounding a little hurt. “I just want you to be happy. And I don’t know Kara Ramey very well, but I think she is looking for happiness as well. I just get that vibe.”

  “Oh, and you are the expert on vibes, Mr. I can’t find a woman who will put up with me Rodgers.”

  “Ouch!” Trevor said. “Man, going for the jugular on that one.”

  Hail either looked, or acted, embarrassed.

  He said, “Sorry, I just don’t want to rush into anything. For some reason, it seems like if I went down that path, I would somehow be abandoning the memory of my family.”

  Trevor nodded and said, “I don’t have a family, but I can understand that. Still, you have to move on at some point.”

  Hail nodded back, bunching up his lips.

  “I’m sure I will eventually, but not today and probably not tomorrow.”

  “Well, today is over in my part of the world, and your tomorrow is already here.”

  Hail laughed. “Well, you better get some sleep if you want to be chipper for our meeting,” Marshall suggested.

  “Yep, tomorrow will be a very interesting day.”

  “Interesting, how?” Marshall asked.

  “Goodnight, Marshall,” Trevor said. He pressed END.

  TWO YEARS AGO

  CARIBBEAN SEA—ABOARD THE NIGERIAN PRINCESS

  C rossing the vastness of the South Atlantic Ocean had been relatively uneventful. The weather had been good, and except for the incident with the pirates trying to assume control over their vessel, the Nigerian Princess and its three passengers were all in good shape.

  Afua had learned quite a lot about boats, or ships, or whatever classification this luxury yacht fell into. Isaac had taught him how to use the electronic navigation system, and how best to monitor the ship’s various systems and alarms. He had demonstrated how the Doppler weather radar worked and showed Afua how to negotiate large weather systems. But there were more than thirty-two critical ship functions and systems—way too many to teach his first mate in such a short amount of time.

  In exchange for the nautical brain dump, Afua had taught Isaac how to shoot, but not the handguns or the AK-47s. Both men assumed that anyone could shoot a fully automatic AK. Just spray and pray was good enough for any situation they may encounter. Nothing to it. It always helped to keep your head down as well. But shooting the Barrett sniper rifle was a whole other situation. Shooting a long gun was hard enough from a stable platform, but being on a rocking ship made it a real challenge. Nevertheless, when they had reached their destination in the Caribbean Sea, they had thrown in the anchor and had taken out the Barrett.

  Isaac was already proficient with guns. In the past, he had shot every model of gun they had on board, except for the Barrett. Now, up on deck with the big gun and lots of ammo, Afua showed Isaac how to hold the weapon in a prone position. He showed him how to aim at the thick red buoy they had set adrift. Most importantly, he taught him how to breathe. It was critical to regulate his body muscle control so he was as relaxed as possible before delicately pulling the trigger. Isaac soon discovered the smallest unaccountable twitch could cause a round that was headed downrange to go askew and miss the target, by not just inches, but by feet. All in all, Isaac was doing well. He was consistently hitting the buoy at 300 meters, which impressed Afua, considering they were on an unstable platform. The buoy had dozens of holes in it and was starting to take on water.

  The men were considering putting another buoy in the water when they saw a large white ship on the horizon headed in their direction. For a moment, there was a measure of indecision of action to take. After all, the sniper gun was already

  sitting there in place and ready to fire. But the size of the approaching ship made Isaac reconsider the option of using the weapon. A high conning tower could be seen on the gray vessel, as well as several flags that were hard to make out from this distance.

  Isaac dropped down on his belly, put his eye up to the scope of the rifle, focusing the scope until the ship came into sharp view.

  “I think it is the Venezuelan Coast Patrol,” Isaac reported. “It’s a big ship. Hard to tell what type since it is coming straight at us. Maybe the Guaicamacuto-class or Point-class vessel.”

  Before they
had ever left Lagos, Isaac had studied all the ships in the small Venezuelan fleet. He tried to be prepared for any contingency in life, and the preparation for this unsavory trip had been no different.

  Afua quickly made his way toward the back of the Nigerian Princess. He awkwardly jumped from the ship and into the small white boat hanging over the water. The little boat swayed a little on the cables suspending it from the yacht’s winch. Without giving it a second thought, Afua pulled out the dead man’s switch from the dashboard. There was a pinging sound of metal underneath his boat, and then the center hull of the boat fell into the water below.

  Afua looked over the side in time to see the long section of his boat disappear under the blue water headed for its resting place on the bottom of the sea. With that task completed, Afua plugged the cord back in. He quickly jumped out of the boat, hustling back toward the yacht’s bow. Isaac met him in the middle of the ship. He was carrying the Barrett and the ammo can.

  “Quickly,” Isaac said, handing the gun and ammo to Afua. “Take all this down below and stow it in the trunk. There is no law that says that we can’t have weapons on board to defend ourselves, but I want it to look as if it is the furthest thing from our minds. Remember, my wife and I are on vacation. You are our deck hand, and you don’t speak any language they use.”

  Afua simply nodded his head in understanding and took the weapon below. Once the jihadi had made it to the lowest deck, he flipped on the light and located the weapon’s trunk. He stowed the Barrett in the trunk and tucked the box of ammo next to it. He closed the lid and latched it, pausing for a moment. Without giving it a second thought, Afua reopened the trunk. He located a small 9mm Berretta handgun, slipping it into the back waistband of his shorts. He left the small room, making sure he turned off the light before heading up.

  By the time the Venezuelan Coast Guard ship had drawn alongside the Nigerian Princess, Afua was in the ship’s wheelhouse. He had donned a skipper’s cap and a white polo shirt. Isaac and his wife were sunning in chairs on the aft deck. Essie

  was dressed in a tiny yellow bikini and looked like the rich Nigerian wife of a successful businessman. Isaac had removed his shirt and was wearing a baggy blue swimsuit. The Obanos held drinks as they lay on the sundeck. Getting up from his chair, Isaac offered a gracious wave as one of the men on the Coast Guard ship tossed him a rope. Isaac tied off the line to one of the Nigerian Princess’ chrome-plated cleats, and the ships became one.

  On board the Coast Guard ship, a contingent of men had already begun the boarding process. Several of their men scampered over the rail of the Nigerian Princess. One of the men had a clipboard, and Isaac assumed he was the captain or officer-in-charge. In total, Isaac counted six men had boarded his ship. Two of them were carrying assault rifles at the ready. Those men eyed Afua with great interest. Each officer was in possession of a sidearm, secured in black holsters, including the officer headed toward Isaac.

  “Welcome aboard,” Isaac said graciously, shaking the officer’s hand.

  The officer was dark skinned—not black like Isaac—but very dark nonetheless. The officer spoke in English with a thick Spanish accent.

  “What is your name?” the officer asked in a brusque tone.

  “My name is Isaac, and that is my wife, Essie,” he said, pointing toward his wife. She appeared to be sleeping in her lounge chair about fifty feet away.

  “What is the nature of your visit to these waters?” the officer asked, writing something on his clipboard.

  Isaac held out his arms and looked up to the sky.

  “Look how beautiful it is today,” he said. “We are here on vacation.”

  The officer appeared hot in his uniform. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. He looked over at Isaac’s wife, who still hadn’t moved from her chair.

  “Who is the owner of this vessel?” the man asked.

  “We lease it once every year to come float around in the Caribbean to have a little fun,” replied Isaac.

  “From where did you depart?”

  “Lagos, Nigeria,” Isaac told him truthfully.

  The officer raised an eyebrow and looked closely at Isaac. He shook his head once, as if he didn’t like that answer.

  “And what is your ultimate destination?” the officer asked, making notes on his clipboard.

  “Here,” Isaac said, holding out his arms again. “However, we may go over to Aruba and spend some time on the beach there or head into Caracas to do a little dancing and shopping. But, for the most part, we have arrived.”

  “How many passengers are on board?”

  “Just my wife, myself and our first mate up there in the wheelhouse.”

  The officer looked up, and Afua gave him a friendly wave through the glass.

  “And, when will you be leaving these waters?” asked the officer.

  Isaac pretended to think about this question for a moment before responding, “Well, we have leased the boat for three months, and we are just at the end of our first month, so—” He let the officer fill in the blank.

  The officer jotted down more notes on his clipboard.

  “Do you have any weapons or contraband of any type?”

  Isaac appeared to be surprised by the question, but quickly responded, “Yes, we have a cache of weapons below for self-protection. And other than some fine Russian caviar, we do not have anything I believe would be considered contraband.”

  Up to this point, the officer had not smiled, and that nuance was beginning to worry Isaac. He knew these men could search his ship and find nothing incriminating, yet he was still apprehensive about his ship being searched. The darker side of his thoughts ran down the lines of these men planting some sort of drugs on his boat. Then they could seize the vessel and throw himself, his wife and Afua in jail.

  The officer looked up at the wheelhouse again and instructed Isaac, “Have your man come down here.”

  Isaac turned and waved his arm for Afua to come down. It didn’t take more than a minute for him to make his way down to the men on deck.

  “What is your name?”

  Afua pretended that he didn’t understand.

  Isaac spoke up, “I’m sorry, but he does not speak English.”

  “Does he speak Spanish?” the officer asked.

  “No, all he speaks is his native tongue of the area he came from. I don’t suppose you know Ibibio?”

  The officer smiled for the first time, but it was more a smile of contempt.

  “Do you really think I would know Ibibio? It sounds like a made-up language,” he said skeptically.

  Isaac said something to Afua in Ibibio, and Afua shook his head. He said something back to Isaac, and Isaac repeated it in English, “He says that Ibibio is a very popular language in Nigeria.” Afua had told Isaac he wanted to put a bullet into the officer’s head.

  The officer studied Afua suspiciously for a moment. Droplets of sweat fell from the officer’s face and onto his clipboard.

  “Search the ship,” he told his men. “And have this man show you where their weapons are stored,” he added, pointing at Afua with his clipboard.

  Isaac repeated the officer’s instructions to Afua in Ibibio.

  Two of the uniformed men fell into line behind Afua. Only one was carrying an assault rifle. The group began walking towards the yacht’s main stairwell. Isaac did nothing but watch, as the other men fanned out around the yacht to begin their search.

  It took less than a minute for Afua, and the men following him, to reach the lowest level of the Nigerian Princess.

  Afua walked the two soldiers over to the trunk full of weapons and motioned at it with his left hand.

  The man that was not carrying the rifle said, “Open it.”

  Afua pretended he didn’t understand, and instead of repeating the instruction, the soldier slid the metal latch to one side and lifted the lid. Considering how much weaponry was within the trunk, Afua was surprised that the men seemed to be interested in only the Barrett sniper rifle.


  The man who had opened the trunk removed the heavy Barrett, held it in front of Afua.

  “What do you use this for?” he asked the Nigerian.

  Again, Afua feigned ignorance. Instead of answering, Afua held his hands wide apart, the gesture denoting a great distance. Then Afua pantomimed that he was behind the gun, pointing it and firing it.

  The soldier didn’t say anything. Instead, he shook his head disapprovingly and placed the gun back in the trunk. Closing the lid, not bothering to latch it, the two Venezuelans began searching the room in earnest. The man with the assault rifle poked things with it, including hard coils of rope and soft tarps. The man without the rifle liked to open cabinets and glance in. They spent the better part of five minutes searching the lower deck and engine room before moving to the deck above.

  Afua was not worried about them finding anything. He was more worried about them planting something on the ship and then seizing the vessel under some

  made-up pretense. Trust in authority figures had not been instilled in Afua, going all the way back to his childhood. He was born in a country where just about every official he had ever known had been on the take; therefore, he assumed that the officers and soldiers from Venezuela were probably not much different.

  Reaching behind his back, Afua touched the gun in his waistband to make sure it was still in place. He watched the men leave deck number two and climb back up the stairs leading to the top deck. If these men found items that they considered contraband, and the consequence was impounding the ship, Afua would have no choice but to kill them. He understood that his chances of pulling this off were not very good. He would not only have to kill the men who were searching the yacht, but he would be forced to kill every man on the Coast Guard Cutter as well. Afua realized that he would probably die in the process, but that would be better than being jailed on trumped-up charges. He wasn’t wired that way. He had never spent a day in jail, and today would not be any different.

  Everyone had returned to the top deck. Two men were searching the little boat that hung from the launch cables on the stern of the Nigerian Princess. They flipped over cushions and checked for false compartments. While Afua had been down on the lower decks, a dog had been brought aboard. The shepherd was sniffing around the ship, its handler allowing the animal to go where its nose led it.