The e-mail from Jang Song Hae was direct and to the point. It was written in English, since his North Korean client understood that Kornev was not proficient in Korean.
“What are you prepared to do about the loss of the ICBMs?”
The single sentence was provocative to the point it made Kornev flinch and cause his stomach to churn. Recently, there had been a few exchanges between Kornev and the North Koreans. All three missiles they’d ordered from him blew up minutes after arriving in a North Korean warehouse. What made Kornev look like he was involved with the destruction was his hasty departure and escaping the explosion. All the guards, in addition to the North Korean general overseeing the delivery, vaporized with the warehouse and its contents. Kornev had made it out, but he wouldn’t have escaped if it hadn’t been for a phone call he had received minutes prior to the blast. The anonymous, Spanish-sounding female, warned him Hellfire missiles were inbound. Since no one knew he was at the warehouse, Kornev had taken the warning seriously and fled in a Jeep. While making his escape, a flying weapon had given chase. It had flown just above and behind his Jeep shooting controlled bursts of automatic weapon fire down on him. One of the bullets had clipped his right hand, and he felt death was a certainty. There was no place to hide in a ragtop Jeep. Then the strangest thing had happened. The pursuing aircraft
exploded no more than twenty meters behind his Jeep. Kornev had been immensely filled with relief, believing from then on it would be smooth sailing. But then when he reached the sanctuary of the Dongmyong Hotel in Pongch’un-dong, the entire hotel had blown up. The explosion sent a shockwave causing him to lose control of his Jeep. At a speed of 40 kilometers per hour, he lost control, veered off the road and rocketed straight into a ditch. That incident was responsible for the many injuries he had suffered.
The latest e-mail from the North Koreans didn’t necessarily blame him for the sabotage, but they expected, at the very least, for him to provide them more ICBMs. Either that or they wanted him to return the diamonds. The last time he had seen that bag of diamonds they were being removed from a floor safe in the warehouse. He recalled seeing the general hold them up, offering them in payment for Kornev’s services. Instead of accepting the diamonds as payment for his services, he had run from the building.
The problem Kornev faced was the time it took to procure the ICBMs. It had taken him over a year to orchestrate the successful collection and delivery of the ICBMs (that had been destroyed) to the North Koreans—it had not been an easy process. There were different companies in Russia who had built different parts of the decommissioned missile. One company was responsible for the guidance system. Another built the structural components. And yet others built the thousands of other electronic and propulsion components that allowed the missile to tick, fly, and go boom. Since the missile was no longer in production, Kornev had to track down the manufacturers of each component to purchase their retired parts.
The companies were more than happy to clear their warehouse of parts that would never again be used; they purposely didn’t ask any questions. After all, it wasn’t as if they were selling a missile. They were simply selling a guidance computer or a cylindrical stage that someone was going to repurpose—maybe to create a very deep pond in their backyard. There was nothing more glitchy than having a section of a Russian ICBM in your backyard to impress your friends. But all that research, deal making, and front-end compensation took time. It was a logistics nightmare that had exhausted Kornev. Currently, he just didn’t have the strength or willpower to go through the process yet again. There was lower-hanging fruit on the tree to pick. He had many clients who needed smaller weapons, simple to transport, while still profitable for Kornev. For the time being, Kornev decided to ignore the North Koreans, hoping they didn’t send an agent to kill him. Of course, they would first have to find him.
As Kornev glanced back down at his e-mail screen, he noticed one other unread e-mail message waiting for him.
He clicked on it and read:
We need two of the 9K333 Verba shoulder-fired missiles in the next 30 days. Same price as before. Same type of payment. Diambu
That’s the type of sale Kornev needed. It was a small-quantity order yielding big dollars without him having to do much work. He knew a guy in Russia who had fifty of the shoulder-fired, surface-to-air missile systems. And the customer who had left the message was known to him.
Kornev hit REPLY and typed:
No problem. Just let me know where you want them and when. I might be able to get them to you sooner.
Kornev’s cellphone chimed. He picked it up from the desk where he was sitting and read the text message:
I will be arriving tomorrow on Uzbekistan Air Flight 201. Could you think of a more obscure place to meet? I hope there is fun places to party around there? See you tomorrow! xxxooo Tonya.
Kornev didn’t know what xxxooo meant, but he assumed that it was more female silliness. He took a moment to compose a message in his head before he typed:
I can’t wait to see you. I promise that we will have lots of fun! Yours, Victor.
He leaned back in his chair, very content, feeling his bad luck was behind him. He was starting to feel better physically; he was rich, had a new order from a well-paying client, and the beautiful Tonya would soon be in his bed. Truly, life couldn’t get much better.
TWO YEARS AGO
CARIBBEAN SEA—ON THE JETTY NEAR CARACAS, VENEZUELA
I t could have been a mirage when Afua saw the Coast Guard ship materialize from behind the Nigerian Princess. He was aware he had lost a lot of blood, and under those circumstances, strange visions or hallucinations were not out of the realm of possibility. He hesitated to fully trust what his eyes showed him. As his little boat bounced over the waves, his vision doubled and blurred. He suddenly felt very tired, like he needed to take a nap – and right now. His eyes closed for a moment, and his brain shut down. Afua’s hand went slack on the wheel, and the boat began to turn. A few seconds later, it smacked into a jarring wave, portside, snapping Afua back to consciousness. He shook the cobwebs out of his head, and he slapped his face hard.
Off in the distance, he did his best to focus on the Coast Guard ship that was pulling away from the Nigerian Princess. It appeared to be real and not a hallucination. Unfortunately for Afua, the real Venezuelan vessel was currently headed toward him. He turned the wheel to the left and aimed his boat toward the shoreline about a mile to his portside. He suspected it was the Coast Guard Cutter - the same one that had boarded the Nigerian Princess days ago, and it could clearly see his boat from such a short distance. They might see it as nothing but another small pleasure or fishing boat littering the Venezuelan coast. Afua watched the Coast Guard Cutter maintain its course yet it was not making any attempt to pursue Afua.
It took only a few minutes to arrive at the rocky jetty of Playa los Niños. Instead of getting out and tying his vessel up to the rocks, Afua crawled to the back of his boat, pulled out the anchor and dumped it into the water behind him. He then quickly grabbed a fishing pole and cast the line into the shallow water. With that task done, he stuck the fishing pole into a holder located on the lip of his boat. Located next to the anchor storage bin was the vessel’s First Aid Kit. Afua withdrew the metal box and laid it on the floor next to him. He opened the single metal latch securing the lid. He flipped open the white box.
The contents of the kit were not well suited to suture the three-inch wide cut on the side of his ankle. Specifically, there was no suture needle and thread in the survival kit. Afua winced in pain as he first removed the bungee cord and then the towel from around his leg. He dropped the towel onto the wet floor of the boat. He gave his wound a thorough inspection. Afua didn’t need a degree in medicine to know a muscle had been lacerated. On either side of the gash, two knobbed
balls had puffed out from under his skin. Afua guessed that whatever muscle had been severed had retracted and created the pair of bulges. Blood continued to heavily seep fr
om the wound. Afua looked over the contents of the medical kit. There were no huge sticky bandages, but there was an ACE bandage used for wrapping up sprains. Afua used the bloody towel to dab away as much blood as possible, which was of little help. As soon as he had cleared the wound, more blood flowed back from the cut. Brief glimpses of stark-white and glistening bone showed through the deep rivulets of blood. Afua used the towel to remove as much blood as possible, wary to get any on his clothes. The last thing he needed was to be interdicted by the Coast Guard while covered in blood. That would be hard to explain. Using the ACE bandage, Afua wrapped his leg tightly, but not so tight to completely restrict blood flow or his limb would die. It was a fine balancing act. He needed just enough blood to keep his leg alive but not enough to bleed out. He only had to slow down the blood loss long enough for the Coast Guard ship to clear the area. He then could return to the Nigerian Princess; hopefully, one of the Obanos would have the necessary items and skill to sew up his wound.
Afua used three little silver binding clips to secure the bandage. He was somewhat disturbed to see the amount of blood that had already soaked the tan bandage. Afua looked in the boat’s cubbies for something that could help hide his injury. Scooting around on his bottom, he found a roll of duct tape. He immediately began wrapping it around his wounded ankle, until the sticky tape had covered the ACE bandage with its blood stain. He was happy with the temporary patch job. Afua threw the bloody towel into the water. He stowed away the First Aid Kit and the remainder of duct tape. Using what was left of his waning strength, Afua hoisted himself up on the couch seat in the back of the boat. He scooted over to position himself near his fishing pole.
Shielding his eyes from the sun, Afua looked back towards the Nigerian Princess. The Coast Guard ship had pulled up to another large yacht anchored near the Nigerian Princess. Afua thought it best, for the time being, to remain where he was anchored. The sun was hot and Afua was very tired. There was a large plastic bottle of water in a cubby near his seat. He took it out and drained the entire bottle in less than a minute, like a man who had been stranded in the desert. He needed to sleep. Only one of his eyes remained open. Although the air was warm, his teeth began to chatter. That small involuntary symptom sent a wave of anxiety through him, like prickles of fear. He had seen many men die from blood loss and watched their teeth chatter. Not long after that symptom, their bodies had succumbed to shock. Following that, organs began to shut down and then they died.
Half conscious, the jihadi heard a noise off to his left. He noted his fishing line was bouncing around on the water. The last thing he remembered before he passed out was, “Hey, I think I have a bite.”
SULU SEA—ABOARD THE HAIL NUCLEUS
H ail knocked on Kara Ramey’s stateroom door. She answered wearing a tight sleeveless T-shirt and yoga pants. In her right hand, she held the latest Dean Koontz novel.
“Reading a little?” Hail asked.
“Yeah,” Kara said. For some weird reason, she felt guilty.
“I didn’t know people read anymore. At least the kids on the ship would rather have a sharp needle stuck into their eyes before they read a book.”
“That’s weird, isn’t it?” Kara asked not knowing much about teenagers.
Hail chuckled and said, “It’s either, I’ll wait for the movie, or Is there an audiobook? I can’t tell you the last time I saw anyone under the age of twenty actually reading a book—in print or electronic form.”
“I like reading,” Kara said, allowing Hail to remain standing awkwardly in her doorway.
“Did you want to come in?” she asked.
“No, I wanted you to come up on the deck so I can show you something.”
Kara cocked her head to the side and asked, “Is it something cool or something stupid. Because if it is something stupid, then I’d just as soon go back to reading.”
“I think it’s cool,” Hail responded, sounding as if she had hurt his feelings.
“Yeah, but sometimes you think something is cool, and I think it is stupid.”
“Name one thing,” Hail said defensively.
Kara didn’t hesitate for even a second before saying, “Remember when you interrupted me and Nolan during my mixed martial arts training to drag me down to the galley just to show me that the ICEE machine had overflowed onto the floor?”
“Are you kidding me?” Hail shot back incredulously. “It had run for more than eighteen hours and dumped like three inches of grape ICEE all over the floor. Now that was interesting.”
Kara put her hand up to her mouth to cover a fake yawn.
Hail stood and waited for Kara’s rebuttal.
Instead, she said, “This better be good.”
“It’s cool, really,” Hail assured her.
Kara turned and walked back into her stateroom, looking for some quick footwear to wear.
“I’ll be the judge of whether it’s cool or not,” Kara said.
A minute later, Kara emerged from her bedroom with her red hair combed, and she had donned sandals. Hail wished he felt as fresh as she looked. Instead, he always felt worn out and a little depressed.
It was as if he was climbing a steep hill. If only he could make it over the top, everything would be all right. But after he reached each plateau or accomplishment, he felt euphoric for a few days. But then it was back to the climb. Again, he felt blue and defeated. Life was for the living. There were many things he was not, but living happened to be one of those things. If he still consumed air, water and food, he might do something he considered positive.
Hail walked into the hall, and Kara closed the door to her stateroom behind her.
“What’s this cool thing you want to show me?” she asked. “No, no, let me guess—one of the nuclear containment vessels broke open on the deck. Now the seagulls are green AND they can lift the ship’s anchor.”
“Wait until we get on deck,” Hail said. “And they are not green, just greenish.”
“Really, you want to play that game?” she said with a groan. “You stole me away from Dean Koontz. Just think how Dean would feel.”
“It’s worth the time and the walk,” Hail told her. “I promise you.”
They walked towards the stairway that led to the upper decks. While they were walking, Kara asked, “Are you ready for tomorrow?”
“Yep,” Hail said without elaboration.
“Did you and your lab engineers get the drones programmed, charged and ready to fly?”
“Yep,” Hail said again.
“Do you have the card table and the two chairs?”
“Yes, and I even have a cowboy hat. I thought it would add a little panache to the meeting.”
“How are you getting the gear on site?” Kara asked.
“Flying it in on a Hail cargo plane, and then I will chopper it to the location.”
“Do you have business assets in that region?”
“I’ve got Batman.”
“Batman?” Kara asked. “Wow, you do have a high opinion of yourself.”
Now they were climbing stairs and Hail was getting winded.
Hail laughed and panted, telling Kara, “Batman, as in a city in Turkey.”
Kara laughed, “You have got to be kidding me. There is a city in Turkey named Batman?”
“Of course, it’s right above the city of Robin. It’s in the Gotham district.”
Kara laughed. “Now I know you’re lying.”
“Ah, well just a little, but there really is a city named Batman and it’s pretty big. Close to a half-million people. It also has an airport and a long runway. We’re installing a traveling wave reactor in the city of Batman, so flights in and out by my company planes are not uncommon.”
“Do you have any concerns flying that far over that many radical countries?”
“Not really. We’ll fly over Armenia and Azerbaijan and then the Caspian Sea. The longest country is Turkmenistan, but it’s not like they have radar installations to protect their country. Hell, there is hard
ly anything in Turkmenistan that requires protection. Most of it is covered by the Karakum Desert. It should be clear flying all the way to Termez. There are no hostiles anticipated.”
Hail opened a thick bulkhead door that led onto the deck of the Hail Nucleus. The day was free of clouds. Both Kara and Hail squinted their eyes from the sun reflecting off the white surfaces of the nuclear containment vessels, stacked like massive logs on the deck. Hailed walked over to the starboard railing. Kara followed, putting her hand up to her forehead like a salute, using it as an improvised visor.
Hail stopped at the railing and waited for Kara to walk beside him.
“So, what do you think?” he asked, pointing out into the far distance. Still shielding her eyes with her hand, Kara looked in the direction Hail was pointing. About a quarter mile away was an island. It was pleasant to look at, as islands go. It had a wide expanse of beach that fronted thick green vegetation.
“OK, it’s an island,” Kara said.
“It’s my island,” Hail told her like a proud father.
“Check this out,” Hail said, leaving her at the railing. He began walking toward the portside of the ship, threading his way between a row that divided the shipping containers. Kara followed.
On the other side of the ship, Hail again pointed out at the water. Even before Kara had reached the railing, she saw another island.
“That’s mine, too,” Hail said with a big smile on his face. “They are known as the Golod Islands. Of course, I will officially change the name.”
“Don’t tell me—let me guess,” Kara said. “Hail Islands, right?”
“Nope, wrong. Well, they will be known as the Hail Islands because they belong to me. But one island, the smaller one is Tabitha Island. The other one is Courtney Island.”
Hail Warning Page 22
