“No,” Dallas responded. “Little towns in the middle of nowhere like this don’t keep electronic records. Other than having someone knock on the door, there is no way to tell us who owns the place.”
“Is there any intelligence on friends, business partners or safe houses that Kornev may have in Termez?” Hail asked.
“If there are, only Kara would have that information. We have not been given access to any CIA databases or made privy to a detailed dossier on Kornev. The home he stopped at is about a half-mile from his own residence in Termez.”
“Keep an eye on them,” Hail told Stone.
“Will do, Marshall,” the young man assured him. “We have U2 sitting on the house’s roof. We will see them when they leave, and we will continue to track them.”
Hail pressed an icon on his laptop screen, and the video feed with the Hail Nucleus had ended. He turned his attention to the map of the Boko Haram’s compound on Snake Island that filled his laptop screen.
Hail asked his friend, “Gage, please get the lab people from the Hail Proton on a video conference so we can discuss the interdiction at Diambu’s compound.”
Renner used the controls on his iPad to pair the Bluetooth to the plane’s communications system. It only took about five minutes before the faces of Tabitha Parker, John Lang and Captain Mitch Nichols appeared on separate monitors inside the plane. Parker and Lang worked for Hail Industries Labs. Parker specialized in chemicals. Lang worked with drone manufacturing, retrofitting and fabrication. Like Hail Nucleus, the crew on the Hail Proton had its own lab and drone fabrication shops. Both ships had the facilities to build and modify a drone that could carry any type of explosive, gun, assault rifle, grenade launcher or missile launcher. The trick to the science was marrying those deadly payloads with drones that had the lifting capabilities to carry the weapons. This involved another pesky algorithm related to how far the aircraft could carry the payload and for how long. Those last two factors were mission critical, and it was very difficult to determine due to a variety of factors. If the drone did nothing but hover in place with its payload, it took less battery power than if it was flying forward and forced to contend with wind and other environmental factors.
The lab specialists on the video conference built the drones and made them explode, on purpose. Tabitha Parker was a black woman in her early thirties, and John Lang was an Asian man in his late forties. Both wore white lab coats, even though Hail gave them complete autonomy over their choice of clothing. He guessed their white coats were functional to them in some manner he did not understand. They must serve some purpose other than to make one look geeky.
“Hi, Tabitha and John,” Hail greeted them. “You know Gage Renner, but we have a new member on our team, Lt. Commander Foster Nolan from the Navy.”
There was an exchange of pleasantries before Hail continued.
“We have all had time to look over the video Seagulls shot of the Snake Island compound. By the way, that was some great video. That is a wonderful drone you guys built.”
Parker and Lang thanked Hail.
Hail continued, “I was hoping that you had some ideas on not only egress, but also how to get to Diambu without leaving any trace that we were there.”
Tabitha Parker was the first to respond. Her black hair was tied into a tight bun on top of her head, and she looked excited.
“Well, this might sound kind of crazy, but if you guys could pull up the image we labeled turtle1.jpg, we would like to show you something.” Parker had lived most of her life in the UK and had a pleasant English accent.
Renner searched their NAS for the file Parker referenced. He clicked on it and a sharp image of the beach in front of the Diambu compound appeared on the screen. It was an aerial shot looking directly down on the long wide strip of white sand that led from the water up to where a layer of green foliage began.
Renner, Hail and Nolan studied the screen intently. On their video conference monitors, Captain Nichols, Parker and Lang watched Hail Nucleus’ crew intently, apparently waiting for them to discover something that Hail Proton’s crew had already found in the image.
After about a minute, Hail stated, with a degree of frustration, “I don’t see anything. How about you, Gage?”
Renner commented, “Nothing but sand and the narrow sandy trail that leads up to the house.”
Nolan remained quiet, so Hail assumed that nothing jumped out at him either.
“OK,” Hail said to the crew on board the Hail Proton. “We give up. What do you have?”
Lang smiled and said, “Do you see the marks in the sand that lead up from the water?”
Hail looked closely at the image and said, “Yeah, I think so. Are you talking about these narrow prints that look like they were made by some type of animal?”
“Yes,” Parker said eagerly. “They were made by turtles. It’s mating season for turtles. Each night they emerge from the water. They make their way up to the deep sand to lay their eggs and bury them. If you look closely, you can see dozens of turtles in the sand near the compound. They are a natural occurrence, and nobody pays attention to them.”
Hail and Renner were starting to get the picture, but Nolan was still confused.
Nolan asked, “What do the turtles have to do with killing Diambu?”
On the other end of the video connection, Lang said, “This.”
Lying on the table was what appeared to be a turtle. It was the size of a dinner plate, patterned in dark hues simulating a turtle shell.
“Very nice,” Hail commented.
“Cool,” Renner said.
Nolan shook his head, but he said nothing.
Lang held up the turtle, lifting it a few inches off the table. As he talked, he began to turn the turtle one way and then the other.
Lang explained, “Total weight with the C-4 explosive and ball bearings is less than five pounds. Battery life, including the crawl out of the ocean, is about twenty-four hours. It has both a communication chip and a camera located where the turtle’s head would pop out.”
Parker stated, “It’s fully submersible. We installed tracks underneath the shell, so it will have no problem transitioning from the ocean to the hard sand, and then to the thick and softer sand up near the compound.”
“It can’t leave tank tracks on the sand,” Hail said, finding the first issue with the turtle drone.
Lang fielded Hail’s concern and said, “Check this out.” He turned the turtle over so its bottom tracks faced the camera. Hail Nucleus’ crew leaned in closer to their monitor to get a better look.
Lang explained, “The turtle has tracks, but we welded these claws to the tracks every two inches. When the turtle travels across the sand, instead of leaving tank tracks, it will leave little turtle scrapings that look just like all the other turtle tracks coming out of the water.”
“Ingenious,” Hail told the lab staff aboard the Hail Proton. “You guys thought of everything. How big of a bang will it make?”
Since Parker oversaw the explosives, she fielded the question.
“You mentioned that there were a lot of land mines protecting the property. The explosion will be about the same yield as your typical land mine, but this explosion will travel out, rather than up. The ball bearings will hit anything within twenty yards with a lethal effect.”
Nolan couldn’t keep quiet any longer. He asked, “What? So, I guess I’m not really following? How is this turtle thing going to work?”
Renner responded.
“We will use one of the Hail Proton’s long-range drones to do a night drop of Turtles into the water near Snake Island’s shoreline.”
Renner asked the lab staff, “I’m assuming this has a communication tether float, right?”
“Right,” Parker and Lang said in unison.
Renner continued, “When the turtle is dropped into the water, a tiny communication wire is reeled out. On the end of the wire is a tiny float. The wire
is an antenna, so we can commu
nicate with the drone while it’s submerged. Before the sun rises, we will take control of the turtle and drive it out of the water, up to the compound. We then park it next to the trail and wait for Diambu to come out for his morning swim. When he passes the turtle, we press the button, both Turtles and Diambu will go BOOM. End of story.”
Nolan understood the plan, but he still thought it was audacious. It was the antithesis of everything he had trained for, which was blowing stuff up from the sky.
Marshall took over to further refine Renner’s explanation.
“The tracks of the drone have been modified to look like those made by the real reptiles. So, in the morning, when the guards are walking the perimeter of the compound, they won’t see anything out of the normal. They’ll just see the same turtle tracks they do every morning.”
“I get it,” Nolan said. “It’s just so— so—”
“So crazy?” Hail offered.
“It’s not crazy,” Nolan said, “I just can’t think of the word.”
“Radical?” Renner suggested.
“Yeah, I can go with radical,” Nolan said.
Hail asked Parker, Lang and their captain, Mitch, “Do you have a code name for the drone?”
Captain Nichols answered, “It’s not very imaginative, but we named it The Turtles after a 1965 rock band.”
“You know, I probably could have guessed that,” Hail laughed. “Turtles it is.”
Hail looked over the drone as Lang continued to rotate it, exposing every angle of the machine on the off-chance any of Hail Nucleus’ crew saw something they wanted to discuss.
Hail said, “I guess all we have to do is determine a time when you guys want to drop it in theater.”
Captain Nichols suggested, “Is tomorrow night good for you guys? If you don’t have any issues with it, my team will drop the drone and get it into position. Then we will turn over the operation to your crew and let you push the button.”
Hail contemplated for a moment and said, “Yeah, that works for me.”
Hail added, “I’d like someone to check the weather to make sure that it won’t be raining on the morning of the mission. I’m sure Diambu won’t be swimming if it’s storming outside.”
Renner said, “I’ll have Pierce check the weather and provide us a report.”
The room on the Hail Proton and inside the Gulfstream fell silent while Hail ran through his mental checklist.
Believing he had covered everything, Hail finally said, “Well, OK. Let’s shoot for a drop at 3:30 a.m., Nigerian time. Thank you, Tabitha, John and Mitch. You really did a fantastic job. We will be back in touch with you at the time of the mission.”
Hail clicked off the video connection, smiled and he gave Nolan and Renner two thumbs-up.
TWO YEARS AGO
CARIBBEAN SEA—ABOARD THE NIGERIAN PRINCESS
T he storm made retrieving Afua and his boat very difficult for Obano. With Afua mostly out of commission, it was all Afua could do to throw Obano a line. Now, it was solely up to Obano to determine how to get the boat over the stern of the Nigerian Princess.
After tossing Obano the line, the world began to grow distant for Afua. A dark haze enveloped his vision, actions and thoughts. It was as if he was inside a mechanized suit of armor, but the damn controls were rusty. The machine was difficult to control. After throwing a second line up to Obano that was tied to the back of the little boat, the shield on the helmet of Afua’s suit of armor closed. Darkness cloaked the jihadi, and his mission was over.
Obano fought against the waves. One moment they pulled Afua’s boat away from the yacht, but a moment later they would slam the vessel up against the hull of the big ship. He finally got the lines tied off the best he could, stabilizing the back and front of the boat with Afua still inside. Struggling to keep his balance, Obano clumsily clipped in the cables to the Nigerian Princess’ winch. He was no longer concerned that he would lose the little boat. Only a tidal wave could break the cables that were reeling up the boat, lifting it slowly out of the angry saltwater.
Lightning lit up the entire Caribbean Sea, and the clap of thunder that followed was so loud he inadvertently ducked his head. The realtor understood the lightning was beyond his control, but getting the Boko Haram terrorist back aboard was something very much within his control. Obano manned the winch until the boat had been tugged into its secure spot on deck. Using some orange tie-downs, he strapped the boat to the yacht’s stainless-steel cleats. The little boat’s rocking became one with the rocking of the Nigerian Princess. He stood back to catch his breath.
Water poured off the bill of his baseball cap, and the rain had soaked though his white polo shirt. Combined with the wind, Obano was surprised how cold he had become. He had never considered he feel cold in the middle of the Caribbean.
He took in another deep breath and caught a glimpse of his wife looking out the thick sliding glass door at him. She looked concerned, and he figured she had a right to be concerned. With Afua out of commission, if Obano went flying over the side of the boat, there would be no one left to pilot the huge yacht. He figured his wife could probably learn how to operate the radio to send a request for help.
She may even be able to start the engines to make it ashore. But it would be best for all concerned if none of those actions were necessary.
With the little boat secured, Obano climbed over the gunwale of the ship and saw an unconscious Diambu lying on his back on the floor of the boat. One of Afua’s legs was wrapped in duct tape. The color of the water that sloshed around was bright red. He performed a quick assessment of the situation and determined he had two clear choices. He could either save the Nigerian soldier or not.
Option A: Roll him over the edge of the boat and onto the deck of the Nigerian Princess.
Option B: Roll him over the other side of the little boat and into the angry sea.
There were advantages and disadvantages to both.
He understood Afua had successfully completed his mission, and he would be celebrated by the Boko Haram. That meant Obano would get more business from the jihadi sect. But, Afua was also dangerous and a huge liability. If Afua left any evidence behind that could lead authorities to the Nigerian Princess, Afua would present a big problem. If Afua was found on Obano’s yacht, both he and his wife would never see the outside of a prison cell for the remainder of their lives.
If he chose option B, it would not require an exhaustive explanation from them when they returned to Nigeria. Afua had left their ship to perform his mission, but he had never returned. Simple as that. If that happened, then Obano would have had no other choice but to return to Nigeria empty-handed.
The flipside of option B: Obano felt Afua might be of value to him. After all, the current leader of the Boko Haram was getting old, and someone would succeed him. With Afua’s newfound fame, he was relatively certain Diambu would become their next leader. Having the Boko Haram indebted to you was as good as gold. Having a powerful ally was always better than having a weak friend. Everything and everyone was against you in modern Nigeria due to a combination of several factors: a corrupt government, angry warlords and people pushed to the edge by poverty and crime. These factors culminated to create a society where everyone was out for themselves.
Bending down, Obano stuffed one hand under each of Afua’s armpits, and he began to lift him over the railing of his little boat. Over one railing, Afua would fall to the sea. Over the other railing, Afua would land safely on the deck of the Nigerian Princess.
Obano hoisted Afua up over the railing of his little boat. He let him go.
TERMEZ, UZBEKISTAN
T hey left the Russian doctor’s home less than an hour after they had arrived. Kara felt the impact from the three shots of liquor they had consumed. She was feeling a little dizzy and giddy. If Kornev was buzzed, she couldn’t tell. His injury in his hand wasn’t a hole. Technically, the bullet grazed him, disintegrating more skin between his thumb and index finger. The doctor did little more t
han suture closed the webbing of the skin that had remained intact. Kara surmised Kornev would have difficulties fully spreading out his hand, until the wound had healed. But over time, she assumed the skin would stretch out, and he would regain full motion. The doctor had applied some antibiotic self-dissolving glue to the incision. He told Kornev the glue would act as a bacterial barrier while the wound healed. Thus, there was no need for Kornev to wear a bandage.
*_*_*
Back aboard the Hail Nucleus, inside the security center, Taylor reported to the crew, “Kornev and Ramey have just come out of the home and are getting back into the Hummer.” As the Hummer pulled out onto a small and narrow dirt street, Taylor turned her drone Foreigner so it pointed in the same direction.
Dallas Stone typed out Taylor’s report, making a timestamped entry in a surveillance log. When Hail called, he could provide him an accurate report. This was procedure.
It took less than ten minutes for the Hummer to wind its way through the maze of Termez streets before arriving at Kornev’s compound. Instead of pulling up in front of the compound, Kornev’s Hummer pulled into a two-car garage in a home adjacent to the main compound.
Taylor reported the information, and Stone logged the information.
*-*-*
Kara jumped out of the big vehicle. It was a long way down to the ground. She walked around the front of the Hummer. Kornev was already standing there waiting for her. Next to them were some wooden stairs that reminded Kara of a set of stairs that led to her family’s basement.
Without saying a word, Kornev began descending the stairs. Kara followed. At the bottom of the stairs, Kara discovered that they were not in a basement. Instead, they were at the base of a long underground tunnel. The walls were made of cinderblock, and the ceiling appeared to be made from some sort of cement that had been applied and smoothed over.
“Where does this lead to, Mexico?” she joked.
Kornev didn’t laugh at her joke. Instead he said, “This is an entrance to my home.” His voice sounded distant, as if he was on guard and not in the mood to joke around. This didn’t set off any alarm bells with Kara. If she was an international arms dealer, she would probably have some trepidation when she left or entered her home. She was certain that Kornev never knew who would be waiting to ambush him in either circumstance.
Hail Warning Page 27
