Instead of breaking out the missile, Afua took out a fishing pole. As part of his mission prep, he had already tied a brightly colored chrome and orange spinner to the end of the line. He went to the back of the boat and sat down in the seat that faced the dock. With a flip of his wrist, he cast the line out into the deep water. He allowed the spinner time to sink. Afua then began to slowly reel it in, hoping he didn’t catch anything. He was focused on what needed to be done, and being distracted by a fish was not part of his agenda. A little nervous, he checked his watch again. After confirming only two minutes had transpired, he checked the water and then glanced behind to check that the rocks and road were still clear. So far so good. The spinner emerged from the water, and Afua reeled it in until it wiggled and danced on the end of the pole. Afua cast out the glittering lure again and waited.
PHILIPPINE SEA—ABOARD THE HAIL NUCLEUS
T hree of the four flight simulators on the Hail Nucleus were currently in use. Lt. Commander Foster Nolan was in one of them. Hail’s top pilot, Alex Knox, was in another. Taylor Dart from his ship’s security unit was flying the third simulated F-35 Lightning.
Kara, Hail and Gage Renner were standing on the flight deck floor where the four massive simulators had been welded onto the iron deck of the Hail Nucleus. At the base of each simulator, they could watch the pilots on large video screens mounted underneath each mammoth machine. Inside their simulators, the two young adults and the seasoned jet fighter pilot twisted their controls wildly this way and that. On a second set of screens, the three observers oscillated between watching the pilots’ panicked expressions and watching the monitors that showed what the pilots saw. Currently, the F-35s that were being flown by Taylor and Alex were being pursued by the experienced Navy pilot. Unlike the two teens’ faces, which were pinched and twisted with determination and frustration, Foster Nolan was smiling as he yanked his control yoke, staying right behind Alex and Taylor. The speakers on the video monitors played not only the sounds of the jets, but also mixed into that cacophony of jet engines you could hear the voices of the pilots themselves.
Kara, Hail and Gage heard Foster yell, “I’m gonna getcha,” and then he laughed in a maniacal fashion.
“No, not this time,” Alex yelled back. All three of the simulators tilted nose down on gyroscopic mounts, as Taylor and Alex went into a vertical dive to avoid Foster getting a weapons lock on them. The three simulators rolled crazily, once, then twice, before leveling back into horizontal flight. The sharp sound of a weapons lock sounded, and Foster called out, “Gotcha,” as he squeezed the trigger on his stick.
Down below, the audience watched a simulated LOCO rocket leave the wing of Foster’s F-35, and a moment later, it sheered the wing off Taylor’s F-35. She let out a scream of frustration. Her simulator screens went black, and the hydraulic lift supporting her machine began to lower toward the deck below. But Alex was still in the fight. Or to be precise, at that precise moment, he was in the process of fleeing. He was running balls-out on full afterburner from the experienced pilot.
Alex pulled back on his control yoke and shot towards the blinding sun, trying his best to lose Nolan. The physical orientation of his simulator changed, and he
was now pointing straight up with the full weight of his body pressed back into his seat. The simulated sun was so bright on the monitors that the observers who were watching below had to look away and back toward the physical machines, as they mimicked their real-life F-35 counterparts.
Now, the lieutenant commander was lying back in his seat, his simulator pointed skyward. The back end of Alex’s jet was in plain view. Even though they were going straight up, the airspeed indicators were still climbing. Their altitude gauges were spinning up like possessed digital clocks, but Alex still refused to pull out of the vertical climb.
“Where are you going?” Foster called out. “To the moon?” he asked, laughing.
Then warning sounds began beeping in Alex’s F-35. Foster pulled out of the climb, flipped over and went into a steep dive. At first, Alex didn’t know what was happening. He checked the warnings and realized that his right engine had flamed out. He didn’t know why, and as he considered going through the engine restart routine, his other engine coughed, shuddered and died as well. The busy altimeter gauge came to a dead stop before it began rolling backwards, and Alex’s F-35 fell from the sky. Around and around his simulator rolled, as the electric motors and hydraulics simulated a jet in a flat fall from 60,000 feet. Alex tried going through the complex restart procedures, but the tumbling was too disorienting for him to operate his controls. Instead of trying to save his aircraft, and vomiting in the process, he reached down and pulled the ejection handle under his seat. Instantly, the simulated sound of wind, the computerized rolling of his aircraft, and the insistent blaring of fake alarms, came to a stop. His simulator leveled off and the thick hydraulic cylinders lowered his pod slowly to the ground.
Foster Nolan found a button that was not part of the F-35 flight controls labeled END SIMULATION and pressed it. His simulator capsule came to a stop and lowered to the ground. All three combatants unhooked their five-point harnesses, got out of their form-fitting flight chairs and left through the back door of their simulator capsules.
Foster was all smiles in direct contrast to the teens’ pouts. The young pilots were dressed in thin black flight suits, or coveralls, without the air bladders and pneumatics that real flight suits had. Those special features were designed to compress the pilot’s lower extremities to push blood back up to the brain. Other than flipping this way and that, there were no g forces induced in the simulator; hence, there was no need for g-force suits.
As the trio walked toward the group standing on the deck, Foster was yammering at Alex, “You have to watch your gauges and know the limitations of
your aircraft. Over 50,000 feet, and on full afterburner, there is not enough air at that altitude for your engines to breathe. That’s why they flamed out.”
Alex said nothing, but he looked equally pissed as he appeared embarrassed.
Hail gave the three pilots a fatherly smile as they came to a stop in front of him.
“So, how is it going up there in the clouds?” Hail asked.
Alex huffed, “Not so good. Flying an F-35 in a dogfight against the lieutenant commander is a lot different than flying against the computer or each other.”
“Hey, don’t feel bad,” Nolan told him. “I had years of training in flight tactics. Just a couple of days in the simulator and watching Top Gun a dozen times won’t make you a fighter pilot. But you guys have great skills. You’ll get there.”
“See,” Hail said. “the lieutenant commander will turn you into Navy pilots in no time. Then, I guess you’ll be off to join the Navy, right?” Hail asked.
Alex and Taylor knew that their boss was just messing with them, and Alex answered, “I think I will stick to drones. The downside of flying drones is there is no downside. And when I mean down—I mean a long way down—if you know what I mean?”
“Understood,” Hail laughed.
The two teens turned and began walking back toward the simulators.
Hail called out after the young pilots, “Are you going to fly jets some more?”
“Naa,” Alex said without looking back. “Taylor and I are going to play Call of Duty. It’s a lot more fun playing 3D in the simulator than in the game room.”
Alex turned and looked back at Hail. “Don’t forget, Skipper. We have a quarterly committee meeting today at 3:00 p.m.”
“I’ve got it on my calendar,” he told Knox.
Hail turned toward Nolan.
“Can I get a little of your time, Foster?” Hail asked. “We’ve been given a mission—no, make that two missions, and we would like you to be part of the planning team.”
“Sure,” the lieutenant commander smiled, grateful to be part of the team.
Renner, Ramey, Hail and Nolan began walking toward the thick metal door that led to the hallway o
utside the simulator room. As they walked toward the conference room, Hail began to fill Nolan in on the details.
“How this works with Washington is my crew doesn’t have the intelligence assets to track down the terrorists on the FBI’s Top Ten Terrorists list. Thus, the
CIA supplies my team with information, like the location of people that are not only on their list, but also have a considerable bounty on their heads.”
The Hail Team arrived at a stairwell leading to the upper decks. In single file, they began ascending the stairs to the deck above.
“Why doesn’t the CIA simply take out these bad apples?” Nolan asked, speaking loudly, so he could be heard over feet pounding on metal stairs.
Hail started to respond, but Kara jumped in and said, “There are advantages to having Marshall and his crew taking out these targets. For example, if something goes wrong, it’s not a United States military op discovered on foreign soil, conducting unsanctioned operations in countries it shouldn’t be in. It is Mr. Hail and his organization that gets busted.”
They reached the top of the stairs, turned right and began walking down a long white hallway.
Hail thought that Kara’s explanation required some refinement and added, “But when we go in, we do it without any feet on the ground. We use drones. And when we leave, we leave nothing behind that can be traced back to me or my organization.”
Nolan asked, “And the U.S. military can’t do the same thing?”
Renner responded, “It still comes back to a measure of deniability. The president and her staff would like to see these bad people disappear, but they also want to deny having anything to do with it. There is no paper trail because no U.S. funds are being spent to have these terrorists terminated.”
Nolan asked, “I thought you mentioned getting the bounties that are offered for these terrorists. Isn’t that a paper trail?”
Hail said, “There would be if I ever cashed the checks I was given. Currently, it is best to avoid leaving a paper trail, so I have not cashed the checks. Maybe in the future—once this is all over—I can give the money to charity. After all, it’s not as if I need the money.”
The group reached the conference room door, identical to all other doors on the ship. It was unlocked; Hail swung it open and his planning team followed him inside.
Nolan remembered this room. It was where they had first brought him when they had pulled him out of the ocean.
The meeting members pulled up rolling chairs to the large metal table and got comfortable.
Hail told Nolan, “This is an initial planning process for the mission. I’d like you to sit in on it so you know what we do—and get your feet wet. However, if
you notice something we are missing, have an idea or spot an error of any type, please let us know. Don’t be bashful.”
“I understand,” Nolan said, sounding impartial.
Hail pulled up some information from his laptop, and he gestured toward a large monitor on the wall.
Still photos from surveillance of a black man appeared on the screen. The man was sitting in a chair near a pool and appeared to be watching something in front of him. He was wearing nothing but a swimsuit. The setting looked casual, as if the man might be a father swimming in the pool with his family. However, the man was not smiling.
Kara began the meeting. “This is Afua Diambu. He is the new leader of the Boko Haram terrorist cell in Africa. He is also rumored to be the triggerman that downed the Boeing 737 in Caracas, Venezuela, killing 205 people.”
Hail pressed a key on the laptop and the image of Diambu changed. It was the same angle, but the camera had zoomed in closer to the jihadi’s face.
Kara continued, “These photos were taken at the Federal Palace Hotel in Lagos, Nigeria several months ago. Diambu’s entire family was staying at this hotel. At least we think it was his entire family, and we were extremely fortunate to have our undercover operative take a few photos of Diambu from his room on the second floor. These are the only known photos of him.”
“The head of the Boko Haram was the trigger man?” Nolan inquired. “I would think that they would use a soldier to do that dirty work.”
Kara responded, “He was a soldier at the time. Well, our intelligence indicates that he was a lieutenant, having been in the Boko Haram for more than a decade before given the assignment to take out United 1045, one of the elements of The Five.”
Nolan looked as though he understood, so Kara continued, “Since that time, Mohammad Mboso, the former leader died, and Diambu became the new leader of the terrorist cell.”
Renner said, “This makes him high on our list of targets, because he was not only just the trigger man, but also he is now their leader as well. Two great reasons to take this guy out.”
“Sounds good to me,” Nolan said.
Nolan was somewhat disappointed that this was not the man who had shot down the plane that his brother had been on, but he supposed that both Kara and Hail felt the same way. It didn’t change the fact that Diambu was still a rabid animal and needed to be put down.
Hail began clicking through photos of the same chair, same guy, different expressions, none smiling. Some showed him talking to someone out of frame. Then the photos began to change as the camera zoomed on different parts of Diambu’s body. All the photos were being shot of jihadi’s right side. There were several pockmarks on his face. It was a result of acne that had healed, but it had left damage in the way of pits. There was a closeup photo of Diambu’s right arm. There was nothing unique—it could have been anyone’s arm. But the next photo was compelling. It was a closeup of Diambu’s right ankle which showed a deep and viscous scar that hadn’t healed well and it ran horizontally across his lower calf muscle.
“What’s that?” Kara asked.
“A scar,” Hail replied.
“I know that; I mean that’s ugly. That’s not a gunshot scar. It’s like a laceration of some type.”
Renner said, “It looks even worse. The scar is wide and ragged, as if something tore open his leg, not simply cut it.”
Hail clicked to the next photo which showed his foot. More photos flashed on the monitor that showed Diambu’s hands and other body parts, but there was nothing of significance. He went back to the initial shot of Diambu’s face.
“OK, what type of bio do you have on this guy?” Hail asked Kara.
Kara flipped through some screens on her iPad and reported, “Afua Diambu. Born in the Katsina, Nigeria area in the town of Batagarawa. Joined the Boko Haram when he was nineteen. He doesn’t have a wife or kids, and his mother his deceased. His father is unknown. He currently supports his brothers and sisters. We don’t know how many and have very little information about his siblings. We do know that a few of his brothers and sisters have children, and Diambu supports all of them. I would encourage you all to read the entire dossier on Diambu when we’re done here.”
Kara paused while she changed screens.
“As was already stated, these photos were taken at the Federal Palace Hotel in Lagos, but Diambu lives in a heavily guarded compound on Snake Island, which is on the outskirts of Lagos. His compound faces the Badagry Creek, which sounds small, but it is the intracoastal waterway of the Gulf of Guinea.”
She asked Hail, “Can you pull up the shots of the compound?”
Hail moved his mouse around and clicked the cursor a few times. An aerial shot of a building, surrounded by what looked like thick walls, appeared on the screen. He zoomed back a little, so the entire building appeared in the frame.
“Damn, you weren’t kidding when you said it was a well-guarded compound,” Nolan said. “It looks like a prison.”
“It looks more imposing directly above than it does from a side view,” Kara assured the lieutenant commander. She continued, “But to begin with, let’s go ahead and analyze what we are seeing from above. Marshall, can you zoom out a little more so we can see the entire island?”
Hail did as Kara requested.
�
�As you can see, Snake Island is called an island because Badagry Creek encircles the entire landmass. Snake Island is 14 kilometers long by 1.5-kilometers wide. It is located opposite the Tin Can Island Port located in the city of Apapa. Surprisingly, for an island of this size, there is only one small bridge that connects it to the mainland. There are many people who live on the island, and the Niger dock is right here,” Kara said, flashing a laser pointer on the screen, “as well as a small airfield here.” She moved her pointer to what looked like a runway. “And this airstrip gives Diambu the ability to come and go as he pleases.”
Hail zoomed in on the southern part of the island where Kara had been focusing her pointer. Kara added, “Snake Island is the perfect place of operations for Diambu. He controls the dock; therefore, he can smuggle just about anything in and out of Nigeria.”
“Are you thinking of making an ingress via those docks?” Nolan asked.
Renner fielded the question. “Well, at this point, we really don’t know how we want to get to him. Let’s let Kara finish with what she knows so we have all the facts.”
“Sounds good,” Nolan agreed.
Everyone in the room studied the port, airfield and surrounding buildings. Once Kara was certain they had been briefed on the pertinent details she asked Hail, “Marshall, can we focus back on a wide aerial of the main house?”
He made the adjustment until they could see the dense white compound in addition to a kilometer of jungle surrounding the residence.
Kara continued.
“As you can see, the compound itself is formidable. Solid concrete and rebar outer walls. And it would appear the building itself is made from the same materials. But even more important is what surrounds the compound.”
Kara focused her pen on a dark spot behind the building.
“This is all swampland. In front we have the creek. It is a deceiving term because it is easily deep and wide enough to allow mooring or passage of container ships and barges— it is 165-feet deep and 10.5-feet wide.”
Hail Warning Page 17
