Hail Warning

by Brett Arquette

  Kara looked down at her iPad and read some notes she had made.

  “Reconnaissance photos show there is only one small bridge that accesses the property across the swamp to the mainland right here,” she said, directing the laser on a tiny black line that ran over the top of the brown swamp. “Both sides of the bridge are guarded always by Boko Haram, who are equipped with assault rifles, and there is probably something more formidable hidden from view.”

  “Damn.” It was all Hail could think to say.

  “That’s not all,” Kara added. “You see these two boats in the intracoastal waterway, the creek, in front of the compound?” She highlighted the boats with her pointer. “Those are Diambu’s boats that patrol the waters in front of his house, day and night. They only come ashore once a day to refuel and change crews. Both boats are heavily armed, and each one has five or more men.”

  Renner repeated Hail’s last words. “Damn.”

  “That’s not all,” Kara warned. “See right here on the beach,” she highlighted what appeared to be white sun umbrellas on the beach. The umbrellas had been planted in the area where sand turned into green jungle.

  Kara continued, “I know those look like umbrellas, but they aren’t. They are the tops of round cement bunkers. We were able to do a flyby in an innocent- looking Cessna to snap some photos from the beach.”

  She asked Hail, “Could you pull up the photos that say Cessna on them?” Hail found the files Ramey was referring to. He clicked on the first one.

  The photo showed both bunkers from about 300 yards and taken from a plane flying low to the water.

  “Zoom in, please,” Kara requested.

  Hail zoomed. Sticking out of the wide slot in the bunker was the business end of what appeared to be a .50 caliber machine gun. In the same long slot, next to it was the barrel of something wider. It looked like a grenade launcher or the mouth of a mortar tube.

  Nolan said, “Damn.”

  “In addition to everything I showed you, Diambu has armed men that patrol the beach on foot and by Jeep on the perimeter of the property. See these little four-wheeler trails on the sides of the property? These paths are patrolled by men in four-wheelers, and the guards are armed to the teeth.

  Hail said, “Looks like Diambu is one paranoid individual.”

  “I don’t think he wants what happened to his predecessor to happen to him,” Kara suggested.

  “And what was that?” Renner asked.

  “Apparently, Mohammad Mboso is not alive any longer,” Kara stated.

  Hail laughed.

  Renner asked the obvious, “Do you know what happened to him?”

  Kara said, “No, not exactly. One day, he was no longer making the jihadi propaganda videos he had been making during the last decade. The new videos that were being posted to the Boko Haram Dark Net sites had Diambu as the star. For all we know, Mohammad Mboso could have possibly died by natural causes. But that would be a rare occurrence. Most of these leaders don’t tend to live that long. Many of their deaths occur by spontaneous lead poisoning, if you know what I mean?”

  “Or Diambu could have killed him,” Hail suggested.

  “No telling,” Kara replied. “There is no honor amongst thieves.”

  “Or jihadis,” Nolan added.

  Hail took in a deep breath and let it out in a big puff, letting his lips flap together.

  “That looks like one tough nut to crack,” Hail stated.

  There was a moment of silence as the group pondered the challenges that had been laid out before them.

  “Is there any more intel that could be of any use to us?” Hail asked Kara. “Like, does Diambu go into town or visit anyone or have any type of schedule he keeps?”

  “There is only one thing that we can focus on,” Kara replied with a note of optimism in her voice. “Marshall, can you please bring up the photo named Sat-Aerial-21?”

  Hail searched for the file and clicked on it.

  It showed the compound taken from a CIA satellite. Unlike any of the previous photos, this image showed several black dots on the strip of the beach in front of the compound.

  Kara told them, “Every morning, Diambu goes for a swim in the intracoastal waterway in front of his house. You see that man there on the trail leading from the compound to the beach?”

  She placed the laser on the spot. “That’s Diambu walking towards the water.”

  “I also see guards both behind and in front of with what I assume are guns,” Renner commented.

  Kara said, “Yes, those are guns. That is the only schedule that Diambu keeps. Other than that, there is no set time when he comes and goes. And whenever he does leave the compound, he has decoy cars that leave at the same time. He can also fly in by helicopter and leave by boat. Trying to get to this guy is a logistics nightmare. But, the swim in the creek is a constant. Every morning around 8:00 a.m., Nigerian time.”

  Using the aerial shot that was looking directly down at the compound, the group studied the terrain surrounding it.

  Renner asked, “Is that as close as we can get?”

  Hail tried to zoom in, but the photo pixelated, becoming even less defined.

  “That’s it,” Hail said. “That’s as good as it gets.”

  The members of Hail’s team looked at what they had and remained quiet, each lost in their own thoughts.

  A few minutes later, Nolan asked, “What are all those little clearings right there?” Nolan used his own laser to highlight spots on the image. His laser made little circles near the side of the house and near the trail that led to the water.

  Nolan added, “It’s hard to tell, but it’s as if the brush has been cut back a few feet. The outskirts of the property are pockmarked with these little clearings. Why would they do that? What could it be?”

  “Cameras?” Renner suggested.

  “No,” Kara said. “There is no pole or anything in the ground. They certainly wouldn’t mount a camera in the sand. They would have it on a pole.”

  They inspected the small clearings that Nolan had pointed out.

  “I don’t know,” Hail finally said.

  Another minute passed.

  “I think I do,” Renner said. “I think they are land mines.”

  “You mean like explosive mines, like Claymore mines,” Nolan asked.

  “Yeah, like that,” Renner said softly.

  No one said anything.

  “Look at the spacing,” Renner said. “I can’t think of what else that would be. And it would kind of fit, you know? Considering all the lethal surprises that Diambu has set up for anyone that is out to get him, I wouldn’t put it past him to plant dozens of land mines around his property. They probably keep those areas cleared just so they know where they are located.”

  “Check this out,” Marshall said, pointing at some large pitted areas around the property. “Do these look like pits that exploded land mines could have made?”

  Hail began to count all the pits he could see.

  “Looks like maybe five of these deep pits in this vicinity.”

  “That would make sense,” said Nolan. “It’s not uncommon for wild animals to trigger land mines. It happened all the time to the Navy SEALs. They would be sitting out there in the jungle and BOOM; some poor monkey had bought it. The animals are just as susceptible to being blown up as a human stepping on one. I wouldn’t be surprised if they hear a land mine go off in the middle of the night every so often. I don’t know what type of animals they have on the island, but it doesn’t take much to set them off.”

  Hail asked, “Can one land mine set off another one like a chain reaction?”

  “Not if they are spaced correctly,” Nolan said. “But if those are land mines on the photo, they have them planted pretty close to one another.”

  “Um,” Hail said, still trying to put a plan together in his mind.

  Renner commented, “I wish we could see more. You know, get closer. It’s the details that make something like this work.”
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  Hail asked Kara, “Is it possible to get closer shots from your satellites?”

  “It would take some doing,” Kara responded. “How much time do you have?”

  Hail waved off his request and said, “We could probably do it faster.”

  Hail asked Renner, “Gage, do we have any assets near Lagos?”

  Renner thought about it for a minute. “Don’t we have the Hail Proton delivering railroad ties and steel in Lomé, Togo?”

  Hail replied, “Yeah, I think we do. How far away is Nigeria from Togo?”

  “Not far,” said Renner.

  Kara was already Googling it.

  “It’s 275 kilometers,” Kara said.

  “Beautiful,” Hail said.

  “Why is that beautiful?” Nolan asked.

  “It’s beautiful because they have just completed work on a new project in their drone lab. The Hail Proton’s captain, Mitch Nichols, e-mailed me about it the other day. He wanted me to fly over to look at the project,” Hail said.

  “And what would that be?” Nolan inquired.

  “Just a seagull,” Marshall said, with a note of deviousness in his voice.

  *-*-*

  Unlike Marshall Hail, Mitch Nichols was the real captain of the Hail Proton. Many of Marshall Hail’s crew referred to Hail as captain, but Hail did not pilot the Hail Nucleus. Their ship did have a real captain. He remained in the wheelhouse much of the time, unless he requested to be relieved by one of his other officers on board.

  It had taken the group in the conference room less than five minutes to get Captain Mitch Nichols connected to a video conference. On the screen, Captain Nichols of the Hail Proton even looked like a captain. He wore a white button-up uniform that had the Hail logo embroidered onto the breast pocket. On his head was a white captain’s hat. A golden rope rested on the black shiny brim. Golden leaves were stitched into the visor, and the Hail insignia was stitched into the front of the hat.

  When the Hail Proton’s captain appeared on the screen, Hail greeted him, “Hi, Mitch.”

  The captain responded, “Hi, Marshall, Gage and Kara.” He didn’t address the person he did not know.

  Hail said, “This is Lt. Commander Foster Nolan. He’s a Navy jet pilot on loan to us from Gen. Ford.”

  “Nice to have big friends in high places,” Captain Nichols said.

  As was Hail’s way, he got right to the point.

  “I know that your lab was working on a prototype of the reconnaissance drone, Seagulls?”

  “Yes,” the captain said.

  “Have you tested the drone? Is it prime time?”

  “From what I understand, we had some problems with the lift, because Seagulls’ wings are smaller than Eagles’ and the falcon’s wings. But I think, between your engineers on the Hail Nucleus and ours on the Hail Proton, they figured it all out. It’s my understanding that the drone is ready to fly.”

  “That’s great news,” Hail remarked.

  Mitch looked at the group on the Hail Nucleus for a moment and then asked, “Do you want us to deploy the bird somewhere?”

  “Yeah, I think we do,” Hail said. “How much flight time does the bird have?”

  “Continually on station, not as long as drones Bad Company or Eagles. My best guess would be about twenty-four hours.”

  Hail looked at the team assembled around the table in his conference room. It was an inquisitive look.

  Renner nodded his head and said, “That should be enough.”

  Hail, still talking among his own people, made a statement that could be interpreted as a question, “Then it’s just a question of when and how?”

  Renner asked Captain Nichols, “What do you have that is ready to fly that can drop Seagulls near Snake Island in Lagos, Nigeria? It’s about 200 miles from your current location.”

  The captain of the Hail Proton thought about it for a moment before responding, “We’ve got Foghat. It has the range and is submersible. It could also wait on station and retrieve Seagulls when the mission is over.”

  Hail knew exactly what type of drone he was talking about. They had two identical drones on the Hail Nucleus, with the code names Prince and Queen. Both drones had performed flawlessly in their previous mission—the task the CIA had dubbed Operation Hail Storm. Since those drones were already battle-tested, there was no reason to assume that Foghat would have any problem completing the mission.

  “How soon can you get both drones airborne?” Hail asked.

  “When do you need them airborne?” Nichols responded.

  Hail looked at his crew and said, “I’m thinking we drop Foghat at night, maybe an hour or two before the sun comes up. That would give us the entire day to shoot video with Seagulls, before it runs out of rocket pellets. Does that sound reasonable to everyone?”

  Renner reminded the group, “There’s a seven-hour difference between Lagos, Nigeria, where it would be 5:00 a.m. and it would be 12:00 p.m. at our current location.”

  Hail readdressed Captain Nichols over the video link. “Mitch, once you get Foghat in the air with Seagulls attached to its belly, can you hand off both drones to my crew in the mission center on the Hail Nucleus?”

  The captain looked disappointed, but said, “Yes, no problem.”

  “OK, let’s shoot for tomorrow morning. I would like to have Foghat in the air no later than 3:30 a.m., your time, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Understood,” Captain Nichols said. “Just keep in mind that one of these days, my crew would like to get into the mix as well. I have a lot of young pilots that are itching to fly these drones.”

  Hail smiled and felt a wave a guilt.

  “Yeah, I know you guys work hard, and your staff built some amazing drones. Your pilots will get a chance to fly them, I promise.”

  The captain looked less than thrilled with Hail’s words. Nonetheless, he was a team player, and he understood that he had little choice in the matter.

  “Sounds good,” he said.

  Hail asked his own group, “Am I missing anything, or are we good to go?”

  Kara, Gage and Foster looked at one another and shrugged.

  “OK, then,” Hail said. “Thanks again, Mitch. We’ll talk tomorrow. As soon as you guys get Seagulls back on board, dump the video and get it uploaded to my NAS as soon as possible.”

  Hail used the words as soon as possible instead of ASAP, because he thought that sounded crass.

  “Roger that,” Captain Nichols responded.

  “Good luck,” Hail said, and he ended the video connection.

  TWO YEARS AGO

  CARIBBEAN SEA—ON THE JETTY NEAR CARACAS, VENEZUELA

  I nstead of waiting five minutes before he needed to act, Afua decided to leave himself a little wiggle room. At 9:50 a.m., he set down his fishing pole, leaving the fishing line in the water. He made his way over to the driver’s seat and, without sitting down, he pulled out the dead man’s switch. Below his boat, he heard the muted sound of the mechanical latch disengaging. He assumed that the center hull of the boat had disconnected and was now resting on the rocks beneath his feet. Leaving on his tennis shoes, Afua climbed over the edge of the boat to retrieve the case. Afua had expected to end up in waist-high water. To his surprise, he dropped like a stone. His entire body was completely submerged. A moment later, he reemerged, truly stunned that the craggy rocks dropped off so quickly from the shore. He had expected to climb out of the boat, push it a few feet to one side and reach down to pick up the case below. But now, as he dog-paddled in place, unable to touch the bottom, he didn’t know how he was going to pull this off. He was wasting valuable time. To retrieve the container holding the missile and launcher, he was going to have to dive.

  Afua took in a deep breath and dove underwater. His eyes stung from the saltwater and drifting silt. It was murky, and the boat was casting a dark shadow, making it much more difficult to make out shapes. Afua’s first attempt was more of a reconnaissance mission. He simply wanted to find the container and s
ee how deep it was. But, on his first attempt, he couldn’t see anything. Afua popped out of the water like a new cork and raised his arm to his face to check the time on his waterproof watch. Three minutes had ticked by.

  His second attempt to locate the case went a little better. Maybe fifteen feet under the little boat, the container had wedged itself between two huge boulders. Afua swam down to the case, gave it a hard tug, and the container broke loose from the rocks. The weight of the object was enough to hold Afua pinned to the bottom of the jetty. Underwater, with the case in his arms, he walked a few steps to the side of the boat, and one step up towards the bank, and before he ran out of air; he had to release the case. He popped back up to the surface, gasping for air. This time he didn’t check his watch. He hyperventilated for about ten seconds before diving back down. His eyes had somewhat adjusted to the saltwater, and he was able to make it quickly back down to where he had discarded the case. Knowing it might take at least one more dive to bring the package to the surface,

  Afua wasted little time in picking it up, scrambling along the rocks and heading up toward the surface. With less than five feet to go, Afua ran out of air again. His lungs were burning by the time he resurfaced. He was so out of breath that he didn’t noticed a medium-sized boat that had pulled up behind his boat.

  Before Afua could dive down for the third, hopefully last time, a man on the boat called out to him.

  “You are not allowed to be here,” the man said in Spanish.

  Completely caught off-guard, still dog-paddling, Afua turned toward the voice and saw a small Venezuelan Coast Guard boat sitting behind his even smaller launch. At first, Afua didn’t know what to say. He treaded water, until the man repeated, “Do you understand? You are not allowed to be in this location. This area is restricted.”

  Afua nodded his head that he understood, and he reached up for the edge of his boat. Afua pulled half of his body out of the water and left the other half in while he clung to the side.

  Still in Spanish, the Coast Guard officer asked him, “Why are you here? Why are you still in the water?” Afua shook his head and said some words in his native language of Ibibio, a dialect that he prayed the officer did not understand.