Sarah waited for Turtles’ communication float to reach the surface of the water. Once she saw a signal stream appear on her monitor, she would take control of the drone and check its vitals. The drone was built like a tank—literally—so no one expected any damage when the drone hit the water at 75 miles per hour. The drone was weighted; therefore, it should have settled, on its tracks, at the bottom of Badagry Creek. If, for some reason, the drone had landed on its back, the crew would have to determine how best to turn Turtles back on its tracks. To say they were flying by the seat of their pants was an understatement, because they were literally in uncharted waters.
Two of Sarah’s 24-inch monitors showed the words: No Signal. Sarah and the crew waited patiently for the float to unreel and for COMMS to come online.
“Back at altitude and the radar is clear,” Wilson announced to everyone. “I’m headed home.”
“Good job. Keep it low and slow,” Captain Nichols instructed Wilson. He turned his attention to his monitor. It currently mirrored Sarah’s monitor. The captain had two monitors. One monitor was bolted to each of the armrests of his captain’s chair. Using the ship’s mission center application, he could monitor the parameters of any drone after he assigned it to one of his monitors.
The words No Signal were still present. He was preparing to say something when the monitors all flashed and came to life. They were replaced by a plethora of gauges, indicator lights and virtual controls.
Sarah smiled and said, “Turtles is online and five by five.”
She immediately focused her attention on a sensor which would indicate whether saltwater had breached the inside of the drone. She was happy to see that the light was not lit. Saltwater could take out circuitry faster than you could say the words dead drone.
The tank-like drone, Turtles, was manipulated using two joysticks. One stick controlled the right track on the drone, and the other controlled the left. If the left joystick was pushed forward, the drone pivoted right. Likewise, if the right joystick was pushed forward, the drone turned left. For the drone to move forward in a straight line, both sticks were pushed forward. The compass reading indicated she needed to turn 90 degrees to point the drone toward the beach. Sarah made the necessary corrections and then pushed both joysticks forward. To conserve battery life, she didn’t activate the camera located in Turtles’ head. It was night, and her drone was ten feet under water; therefore, there was nothing to see until she hit the beach.
“Wow, this thing moves like a tank,” she joked, trying to cut the tension in the room.
“At least it’s moving,” Captain Nichols replied.
“Yeah, that’s a good thing,” Sarah agreed.
The turtle had a depth gauge and a sensor on its back to indicate when it emerged from the water. Ten feet down, the drone dug into the sand using its tracks, impregnated with the turtle claws, scratching and clawing at the sand, leaving clouds of floating debris in its wake.
“I’m at five feet,” Sarah reported.
“What’s the power consumption?” Nichols asked.
“We’re looking good. Still above 90% of its battery reserves.”
Batteries, ball bearing and the dense explosives were heavy. All that load had been calculated to within fifty yards of the target. If they were not within a fifty-yard threshold of their target, Turtles would run out of power before they got it in place. And there it would sit in the middle of the beach until it was eventually discovered by one of Diambu’s guards. That was a failure that none of the crew were willing to accept.
“Almost out,” Sarah said. She pressed an icon on the screen. Underwater, the head of Turtles began peeking out from under its shell. Its eyes were small cameras sending them a streamed video signal via leased time on the Russian Express AM4 satellite floating in space above the island.
There was still nothing but murky blackness on the video. A moment later, as Turtles emerged from the gentle surf, a blurry light source came into view.
“Looks like we are out of the water,” Sarah told everyone. “I’m reeling in the communications tether.” She pressed a virtual button on her screen labeled, COMMS RETRACT.
As the last few drops of water dripped from the head of Turtles, and the camera lens cleared, they would be able to autofocus at the looming and well-lit white compound ahead. Turtles had landed right on its mark and was clawing its way out of the wet sand. Directly ahead was its designated nesting zone.
“Dang, James. You nailed that drop,” Sarah commented.
“Still flying Foghat back to the Hail Proton,” Wilson responded with a cocky tone, “It’s just what I do.”
“I think you’ve only done it once,” Sarah responded, trying to take her fellow pilot down a notch.
“I’ve only done one drop, so that would make me one for one, or a 100 percent total career accuracy.”
Sarah laughed. Captain Nichols reminded his young crew, “Let’s concentrate on the mission, folks. We’ll have time for all this jibing later.”
Sarah composed herself and reported, “Twenty feet from the water, and we are starting to hit some deep sand.” She rolled a wheel under her thumb to elevate Turtles’ head to compensate for the deep sand.
“It’s a little sluggish in this deep stuff, but not bad,” Sarah said. She kept both of her joysticks pressed forward and watched as the building in front of them grew larger in the video frame. From this vantage point, the white compound appeared to be three to four stories high—if the sundeck atop the structure was considered a story. Many of the rooms appeared to have a light on, and dozens of exterior flood lights illuminated the property surrounding the building.
Using a toggle atop her right joystick, Sarah pressed it to the left using her thumb. Turtles’ head craned to the left. From the available ambient light, she could see quite a distance down the beach. There didn’t appear to be any guards patrolling the beach in that direction. She did see a few other dark bumps on the beach that looked as if they were either large wads of seaweed or possibly other turtles. She pressed the toggle to the right and Turtles’ head shifted likewise. There were two significant objects that immediately came into view.
A guard was about fifteen yards away and walking directly towards Turtles. The other object, less than two yards away from her drone, was another turtle clawing its way through the deep sand.
Sarah immediately released the joysticks which brought her drone to a complete stop. If the approaching guard did nothing more than glance at the two turtles making their way toward their nests, he probably wouldn’t give them a second look. Very little could be done by Hail Proton’s drone engineers to mask the mechanical sounds Turtles made as its tracks ratcheted on hard gears being driven by loud electric motors. There was not enough room within the drone to include foam or other noise-dampening material. It wasn’t as if it made a huge racket when its tracks were moving, but it sure the hell didn’t sound like any other turtle in the world.
Hail Proton’s crew watched as the turtle next to them continued its way down the beach. The Nigerian guard was dressed in dark fatigues and had an assault rifle slung over his shoulder.
Everyone held their breath as the solider walked directly toward their immobile turtle. And, just as it appeared he was going to step over the shell, the man purposely stepped directly on Turtles’ back. It was a quick decisive action. It was clearly not an accident. Diambu’s guard purposely stepped on it, as if it were a rock in the middle of a stream. Then he continued down the beach.
“I guess that guy most be pretty bored?” Captain Nichols suggested.
“I know I would be bored if my job was to walk up and down a beach all night,” Sarah agreed.
Once the guard was safely twenty yards down the beach, Sarah pushed both control sticks forward until Turtles came to life, and she moved it toward the compound.
It wasn’t difficult to find the path leading up to the main building. The compound’s exterior flood lights illuminated enough for Sarah to easily locate
the mouth of the little path. It took less than three minutes for Turtles to move ten yards towards the main house. Sarah Starling released the left joystick, and Turtles turned left. It turned off the path and drove into extremely deep sand and tangles of low brush. Her instructions were to move three yards off the path, and turn the drone 180 degrees, so the cameras within Turtles’ head would face the trail. A minute later, Sarah had performed the maneuver after which she released both joysticks.
“How much power do we have left?” Nichols asked.
Sarah looked at the monitor that showed Turtles’ vitals and reported, “About 50% battery reserve power.”
“That should be enough if Diambu goes for a swim every morning,” Mitch commented. He checked some information on one of his monitors and then told
Sarah, “Put Turtles to sleep to conserve power. I will notify Hail everything is in place.”
Sarah pressed a button labeled SLEEP MODE and Turtles’ head retracted and its systems powered down, except for one chip that monitored the signal. This chip was responsible for either making the drone WAKE UP and for ordering it to explode with the order BOOM.
TWO YEARS AGO
CARIBBEAN SEA—PORT OF SPAIN, TRINIDAD
C hristopher Columbus had renamed the island from Iëre (Land of the Hummingbird) to La Isla de la Trinidad (The Island of the Trinity). This fulfilled a vow he had made before setting out on his third voyage of exploration.
Isaac Obano had no intentions of waiting for the jihadi to convalesce in the Porlamar, Venezuelan hospital. Once the realtor returned to the Nigerian Princess, he had told his wife to put on a bikini, and he then cast off from the dock. Obano had looked at the map and decided that Trinidad would be a great place to kill some time, during which time Afua’s health either got better or he died. Either course was just fine with him.
Isaac Obano’s life had not been all that wonderful up until this point. He had seen a lot of nasty things done to people undeserving of those acts—all in the name of the Boko Haram attempting to move up the food chain and improve the cards they had been dealt. Those who saw the atrocities either supported the warlords in control of a section of dense and meaningless jungle, or you were the people the warlords preyed upon as they ascended their ladders.
Obano found it was more profitable to stay on the good side of warlords once he had factored in longevity, health and happiness. As a realtor, Isaac held the keys to dozens of properties currently either vacant or those soon available. Those homes, apartments and trailers represented a commodity the warlords needed and would pay handsomely for the property’s use. Thus, Obano could provide safe houses to those able to pay for such extravagances. Hell, it didn’t cost Obano a dime to allow someone to stay for a few nights in a dwelling currently unoccupied. His contract specified his clients permitted him to manage and sell their properties, exclusively. That reduced the possibility of another realtor walking in on a sect of mean-looking men in the living room holding three hostages strapped to chairs with genitalia wired to car batteries. That reduced the resale value in a heartbeat.
Did he condone the activities that occurred behind closed doors on the properties he managed? No, not particularly. Would it be better if he could simply work as a realtor and avoid the reprehensible goings-on taking place? Sure, but that’s like saying it would be nice to breathe oxygen on the moon. He worked within a bubble of revulsion. Horror had become such an integral part of his life that now very little fazed him. But Afua shooting down that commercial jet weighed on his conscience.
On that morning, Obano, from the deck of the Nigerian Princess had been watching the planes’ departures from the airport. He had known what Afua’s mission was, but deep down inside, he hoped that Afua couldn’t pull it off. He silently wished that something would go wrong with the missile, or it would miss its target. Any scenario, other than taking down the airplane, would have been fine with Isaac.
But, as luck would have it, Afua had been successful in his mission. When United 9257 had been shot down, Obano felt sick to his stomach. It had been a clear day and the jet had been very close in proximity. He watched the streak of the missile racing skyward. The jet blew up, broke apart and, Obano watched in horror as two large pieces tumbled back to the earth. At the time, he hadn’t understood why it had affected him so deeply. After all, he had seen women and children shot and tortured. He had seen the worst men could do to one another.
But, maybe it had something more to do with the pure insanity of the act. Back home, when a warlord went on the warpath, there was a tangible reward at the end. Maybe the reward was more power, influence, land, money or property. But he could not comprehend what reward was gained by shooting down a plane occupied by a group of random and innocent people. On the contrary, according to Obano’s thinking, there was nothing on the “pro” column; instead, everything landed on the “con” ledger. Those carrying out this heinous act would be marked men for the rest of their potentially very short lives. Wouldn’t their accomplices, as well? If Afua Diambu claimed to be a terrorist, then this was an act of pure unadulterated terror, because the act served no altruistic purpose.
Watching the plane fall from the sky, had a profound impact on Isaac’s psyche as well. Shortly after the incident, he began to suffer from nightmares, awakening in spasms during the middle of the night, unable to return to slumber. Initially, he reasoned it was a predatory reaction to having had Afua on-board. For all Obano knew, killing he and his wife might be the final phase of the Boko Haram’s plan. Even with Afua 120 miles away—fighting for his life in a hospital—Obano still continued having the nightmares—specifically falling nightmares. It was like watching himself fall from the plane, experiencing the jet falling out of the sky to his death. The fall from the sky took forever—all night long—until he was incapable of sleep.
If there were a God up there, and He had seen the direct hand Afua had in the evil terrorist act of downing the airplane, that had taken place, Obano thought perhaps The Almighty almost took Afua’s life in retribution. Then Isaac began to wonder if this same God had him in His sights as well. Maybe it would take some time for God to circle back to squash Obano and his wife into the ground like ants for being accomplices in Afua’s wicked deed. If that were the case, Obano thought he better start having a good time—immediately. Hence, he left Afua at the hospital; he and his wife made a beeline toward paradise.
They were enjoying a wonderful massage at the Magdalena Grand Beach & Golf Resort. They had left the Nigerian Princess in the care of the dockmaster who was giving the boat a good cleaning and a rigorous servicing before they began their trip back across the Atlantic Ocean. The Obanos had been at the resort for more than a week, relaxing with drinks that had little umbrellas that were brought to them while they lounged on reclining chairs set in straight rows on the pristine beach. His wife had her hair braided in Bo Derek style, and she was beautiful. She was happy and looked radiant. The couple had enjoyed five-star meals and $500 bottles of wine. They had the best sex, and more sex, than at any time in their lives during the entirety of their marriage. Everything was perfect—at least everything should have been perfect. If it weren’t for the damned plane and that goddamned jihadi who was the cause for his horrible nightmares.
Obano’s phone rang. He looked at it for a moment, considering ignoring the incoming call. He contemplated forgetting his past life and remaining in Trinidad. There was probably some type of significant real estate property being exchanged on the island. He was confident he could make a quick transition to island life and chisel out a good living.
He sighed and answered his phone.
“This is Afua, and I’m ready to get out of the hospital. Come pick me up.” The line disconnected. Obano let it fall onto his bare chest.
His wife asked, “Do we have to go?”
Obano didn’t know what to tell her, because he hadn’t yet determined his plan of action.
TERMEZ, UZBEKISTAN
K ara thought the Russi
an would place high priority on having sex, but as they emerged from the tunnel and entered his home, Kornev appeared highly distracted. She was relieved sex was not on the arms dealer’s mind. Initially, she thought the pain in his hand was the reason for his lack of libido. But that was not the case. Once inside, Kornev told Tonya to make herself comfortable while he packed, and he let her know she was welcome to make herself a drink.
“Where are you going?” she asked, foregoing the drink. Instead, she began walking around the room, taking it all in.
Kornev had disappeared into a room she assumed was his bedroom.
He called out, “The better question is where are we going?”
Kara looked around the room and saw nothing of any personal significance. He had no pictures hanging on the walls. No tchotchkes, books, framed photos or anything to indicate a human lived here. The living room was a good size and appeared to have comfortable leather furniture. The floor was a black slate material that was too masculine for her tastes. A thick sliding glass door opened to overlook a courtyard that had colorful bushes and flowers. A few wooden Adirondack chairs bookended a small matching table on the balcony. An open kitchen with modern appliances was in plain view. A few unlit hallways led to other rooms, but the doors were closed.
Kornev was not gone for long. Just minutes later, he reemerged from his bedroom dragging a small suitcase on its wheels. He stood his black bag next to the door leading to the tunnel.
The Russian looked around the room momentarily—the type of look one gave when leaving for a prolonged period.
“Where are we going?” Kara asked with more bluntness.
“It’s someplace wonderful, I promise you. In a few hours, we will have our toes in the sand at a very private resort home.”
Hail Warning Page 29
