Hail Warning: Hail, #2

By Brett Arquette

Having just stunned those in Washington with Operation Hail Storm, Marshall Hail and his crew move forward with their next mission, using assets from two ships, the Hail Nucleus and the Hail Proton. His team has been provided the latest intelligence for a new operation that seems impossible, but then, Hail has a knack for doing the impossible. Welcome to another techno-thriller filled with more espionage, twists and turns, drones, weapons, and terrorism than you can shoot a railgun at. Will Hail and Kara finally hook up? What happened to the crazy jet pilot? Will Hail kill Kornev? Who is the next unfortunate terrorist on the list? It's all inside … now get reading before the third book, Hail Strike, hits the bookshelves!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brett Arquette
• Release date: Nov 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386787129

Brett Arquette

Dubbed, "the father of the drone thriller," by his fans, the middle child of five, Brett Duncan Arquette was born in 1960 in Florida.  Brett was anointed with his mother’s pen name “Duncan”, given to him by Mystery Writer's of America Grand Master award winner, author Lois Duncan. During her career, his mother Lois has written over 32 best selling young adult books, some of which have been made into movies, including the movie “I Know What You Did Last Summer" and "Hotel for Dogs".  Brett was raised in New Mexico and moved to Florida on his 30th birthday. Arquette spent most his career working as the Chief Technology Officer for one of the largest Circuit Court Systems in Florida. In 2002, Computerworld Magazine selected Arquette as one of the “Premier 100 IT Leaders” in the world, describing him as a “visionary” in reference to the cutting-edge technology. His books are peppered with technology acquired from his vast experience in advanced computers and audio/video systems. Arquette is also the Editor in Chief of the Court Technology Forum, Contributing Editor for eWeek Magazine, columnist for ComputerWorld and SmartComputing magazines, all of which has helped to create a loyal fan base and lots of traffic on his website. Writing on the weekends, Arquette’s first book, "Deadly Perversions", was published in 2002. His additional titles are "Seeing Red", "Tweaked", "The Pandemic Diary"  and "Soundman for a B-Band".  He is proofing his new adventure into Young Adult writing with a series of "HAIL" books with the first one called "Operation Hail Storm".  Mr. Arquette's primary aspirations are to quit the 9 to 5 grind and become a best-selling author, following in his famous mother’s footsteps. Mr. Arquette currently resides in the Sunshine State with his wife and three children.  

Book preview

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THREE REASONS WHY YOU SHOULD READ HAIL STORM FIRST

1) The Hail series is a technothriller series, with a big emphasis on TECH. For this story to believable, I thoroughly vetted the technology behind the workings of the complicated command application and how the drones were flown using remote pilots. I went into thorough detail because I wanted everyone to understand the technology behind Hail Industries. While most readers loved this attention to detail, some readers experienced tech overload; therefore, in the books following Hail Storm, I’m not going to regurgitate the technical aspects of the drones or the nuclear aspects of his traveling wave reactors. If you would like more information on how the drones are flown remotely, what makes them go BOOM, please read the first book of the series, Operation: Hail Storm. If you need a refresher, see What You Missed here: on my website: http:/brett.arquette.us or specifically on this page: http://brett873.wixsite.com/brettarquette/what-you-missed

2) In the same vein of the technology, I fleshed out the backstories of the leading characters on the Hail Nucleus and the players within the Washington, D.C. area. Although it may appear I enjoy writing lots of descriptions of technology and backstories of characters, (because I did so much of it in the first book), what really makes my fingers fly is moving the plot forward. My passion and goals are to keep the book’s momentum speeding along, (like an F-35), until it culminates in a novel that readers will have difficulty putting down. In this book, I do provide readers the truncated backstory of the lead characters. Like the drones, if you want to know what makes the characters tick, fly, but (hopefully) NOT go boom, I refer you to read Hail Storm.

3) With the rise of e-books, the challenges of becoming a bestselling author is not about writing a bestselling book. Tucked away in the corners of Amazon’s Kindle Store, I assume, are thousands of unknown and potentially bestselling novels. Countless books are submitted to Amazon Digital Services but without a literary agent getting the book read by tens of thousands of wonderful readers like you is challenging. This is one the reason authors beg you to leave reviews. It expands our audience base. We write to entertain. That is our mission. But we also enjoy it when writing can sustain us – instead of being an expensive hobby.

I hope you enjoy reading Hail Warning as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please leave a review and be sure to check back for the third book in the series, Hail Strike, due in 2018. In addition, you might want to also check out some of the books I wrote while I was first learning my craft. Most are not edited well and are quite strange, but then, so is life! I think my favorite of these first novels is Tweaked.

Best,

Brett Arquette

PROLOGUE

TEN YEARS AGO

SAMBISA FOREST, NIGERIA

The captives’ screams were nothing new to Mohammed Mboso. More than 200 girls—really, women—were releasing guttural screams of terror. Explosions and automatic weapons fire was coming from every direction in their secluded camp. Previously, it had been a peaceful evening in the forest—then all hell broke loose.

Mohammed Mboso grabbed his AK-47 from its spot next to his tent’s flap. His woman, one of the girls they had kidnapped long ago from the Government Secondary School in the town of Chibok, showed less emotion than the others. Over the many years in captivity the small malnourished girl had become emotionally withdrawn. Her eyes looked dead. Mohammed thought she might not be quite right in her head. He had seen this same condition develop in several of the others. They had withdrawn from reality and now resembled zombies rather than living, breathing people.

As he raced out of camp, Mohammed thumbed off his weapon’s safety. This was not the first time that some do-gooder group had tried to rescue the women. Most of the previous skirmishes had either not been sufficiently funded or planned. Thus, any attempt to save the women did not last long because the Boko Haram had built well-fortified camps.

Mohammed ran to the outskirts of the camp where two of his men were hunkered down behind a pile of strategically placed sandbags. Mohammed Mboso hit the ground next to them, calling out, How many?

One of the young black jihadis fired three quick rounds resulting in muzzle flashes that winked on and off in the forest like nuclear fireflies.

Many, was his succinct answer. More than any other time before.

The locations of the large Boko Haram’s camps were well known. In fact, the camps could even be seen on Google Earth if anyone cared to look. However, there were few who desired to engage a highly motivated and lethal band of religious zealots. What made them especially deadly was the value they placed on the women they had captured. To most of the world, the plight of the women, the Boko Haram and Nigeria were of little concern. It was a case of out of sight, out of mind.

Mboso rested the barrel of his rifle on a sandbag and began returning fire. He went through two full 30-round magazines of 7.62 x 39 ammo in less than a minute, but the flashes in the dense forest were only getting closer and brighter.

You need to move the women, the young man reminded Mboso.

Mohammed knew he was right, but he hated to leave the fight. He had been killing nonbelievers for so long he had grown to enjoy it. Fighting and killing was the best part of being a jihadi. The recruitment, scavenging for food and weapons, kidnappings, and negotiating and bargaining for human lives Mboso found excruciatingly boring. Fighting for his beliefs and ridding the world of infidels was exciting; however, Mboso knew his comrade-in-arms was correct. Their leader, Abu Musab al-Barnawi, had made the women Mohammed’s responsibility. It was a great honor and a noble obligation, because the women elevated Boko Haram, providing them prestige, power, control and influence. The kidnapped women’s lives were more important to Boko Haram than food or weapons because the women were worth their weight in gold. Many foreign agencies and sympathetic governments would pay a great deal to have them released, and then the Nigerian jihadis would have nothing left of value.

Mboso found a pile of preloaded magazines resting on a sandbag. He slapped a magazine into his gun and racked in a fresh shell. He turned to look back to make sure the camp’s perimeter was still intact. Mohammed stood and ran in a zigzag pattern to the center of camp.

Most of the panicked women had run from their tents and congregated in the middle of the camp around the fire. A hundred women huddled en masse, screaming and crying. Mboso walked over to the women, insisting they quiet down and follow him. He pointed his weapon into the night sky releasing a burst of gunfire from the muzzle of his gun to punctuate his order with a degree of intimidation. Several other Boko Haram fighters surrounded the women, corralling them into a ragged line. Mboso assumed the lead and quickly ushered them deeper into the jungle. He occasionally looked back to make sure they were still following.

On the outskirts of the camp, Mboso found the tunnel’s hidden entrance by removing a thin camouflaged tarp. Followed by the women, he began walking down a muddy earthen ramp in pitch darkness. They were traversing a wide ditch that was dug using a small excavator. Sticks, branches and piles of dead jungle foliage had been placed above them serving as the tunnel’s roof. It effectively camouflaged the passageway. This method of construction was faster than digging a true underground tunnel. And the Boko Haram demanded expediency. Their entire existence relied on mobility. Taking time to build fixed and hardened structures was counterproductive.

Once he reached the bottom of the ramp, Mohammad Mboso removed a flashlight from his dirty vest, pointing it into the darkness. Mud, water and dead things squished beneath his boots. The stench inside the tunnel was ghastly, but no one noticed. The gunfire back at camp seemed to be getting louder. Mboso considered this time the Special Forces had been sent to free the women. There was the possibility they had penetrated the perimeter’s defenses. Mboso was not worried because the tunnel ran for more than 200 meters through the dense jungle. It emerged a half-kilometer from the river, and in less than five minutes—after Mboso made a call on his Sat phone—a powered river barge would arrive to take Mboso, his fighters, and their captives to another camp downriver. That is unless the Nigerian Special Forces had men stationed at the river.

After getting settled, the process of bargaining for the women with the new Nigerian president would resume. But this time, the prices would be much higher because their government would pay dearly for the lives of every jihadi killed in battle. Mboso had no idea if his leader was still alive, but he would soon find out. Mboso’s one and only job was to get the women safely out of camp and transported to another camp.

But now it was time for the younger jihadis to do the hard-core fighting. Mboso had already earned his badge of courage. Ever since he was a teenager, he could not recall a time when an assault rifle wasn’t within arm’s reach. He had fought in so many battles he could not remember them. Now, ten years later, he was high enough on the Boko Haram food chain to avoid being the last man out. These days, he found his ass seated in a chair more often than diving into a foxhole. He was as close to management as one could get in an organization focused on raining death and terror on the infidels. Only their current leader, Abu Musab al-Barnawi, had served more time as the Islamic caliphate of Nigeria.

Ahead, Mboso’s flashlight found the earth slanting upward toward the forest. Now that there was a considerable amount of distance between the attacking forces and his group, the women were beginning to quiet down. Mboso held up his hand, stopped, signaling the line behind him to follow suit. One of the Boko Haram fighters pushed his way to the front of the line and met up with Mboso.

Mboso told the young man, Keep everyone here and keep them quiet. I will go to make sure the coast is clear.

The younger man nodded in understanding, and Mboso continued walking up the incline.

As he neared the top of the muddy ramp, the jihadi stuck his head out of the tunnel to take a quick look around. Off in the distance the sounds of gunfire had died down. The forest around him was very still. It seemed every living creature had been scared into silence. Except for the sound of the rushing river in the distance, the forest swallowed the usual nocturnal noises of insects, birds, breaking of deadfall, and animals walking along paths through thick underbrush to forage. The immensity of the silence was unnerving and eerily unnatural.

Cautiously, Mboso emerged from the tunnel into a clearing. The area had been trampled by a modern machine that had excavated dirt from the trench. He was hesitant to use his flashlight. Instead, he stood quietly in the darkness, listening and looking for others that meant him harm.

Nothing. No light. No sounds. Even the racket from the gun battle had now died down to an occasional muted pop.

Mboso heard a voice behind him. It was that of his leader, Abu Musab al-Barnawi. Behind him dozens of the Boko Haram fighters had caught up with his group. The men exited the tunnel and quickly drew up beside Mboso forming a tight defensive line with their guns pointed at unseen threats.

Abu Musab al-Barnawi asked Mohammad, Is it safe to leave from here? His leader was breathing hard. Sweat on his dark skin gleamed in the moonlight, and it looked like he was made from finely polished onyx.

Mboso had only begun to assess the security of the current location, but remaining standing out in the open was clearly not an option. As if he sensed the same predicament, even before Mboso could answer, al-Barnawi ordered, Let’s move out.

Several of the younger jihadis went out on point, followed by al-Barnawi and then Mboso with the women trailing along behind him. They had walked almost the full half-kilometer toward the river when Mboso suddenly stopped. Since leaving the tunnel and entering the strangely quiet forest, he had heard the first sounds the forest had to offer. Yet the sound was neither insect nor animal. This noise was manmade. It started out as a whisper, as if someone was delicately tearing paper. The noise became increasingly louder, finally cutting through the thick night air with an unholy screech. Once Mohammad identified what was making the sound, he panicked. He turned toward the women yelling, Go back. Go back!

The women did not have to be told twice. They began running to the safety the tunnels provided. The low-flying jet may have no intention other than innocently flying over them, but Mboso was taking no chances tonight.

Far back in the woods, Mboso watched as the trees lit up—it looked like Allah was throwing streams of hellfire down to earth. Long lines of red, blue and orange death dropped from the heavens. A million suns had descended upon him

The skin on the back of his neck, arms and hands began forming blisters. His greasy black hair rolled into tiny curls, burned off and then fluttered away in singed clumps. Prior to passing out, Mohammed realized in disbelief what the dropped substance was—it was napalm.

SEA OF JAPAN

Lt. Commander Foster Nolan was crazy. As he floated on his tiny life raft in the middle of the dark ocean, he realized anyone in his line of work had to be crazy. No sane person would volunteer to climb into a lightning-fast jet venturing into foreign lands with very little chance of coming out unscathed—either physically or emotionally. Yet he volunteered to jump into a jet and had flown a single sortie over the mainland of North Korea. That pegged the frickin’ needle on the crazy meter, and he understood how lucky he was to be alive. If he had pulled the ejection handle on his F-35 just one second later, he would be floating in the Sea of Japan in the form of shark chum.

Moments after his aircraft had been blown from the sky by one of the North Korean pilots flying the Chengdu J-20 jet fighters, the lieutenant commander initially was surprised to be alive. There were so many things that could have gone wrong when he yanked the ejection handle going 1200 miles per hour.

In flight school, Nolan had learned that deploying the ejection seat in a modern jet operates in a two-stage system. First, the canopy is blown away, then the seat is launched. When the ejection handle under the seat is pulled, the ejection process is activated. Once the clear canopy was blown away, the pilot’s seat was ejected from the fuselage. Nolan had escaped the first deadly problem that could have occurred. The canopy might not have released properly and shot him directly through the tough acrylic dome which would have broken his neck, instantly. Thankfully, all had gone well, and Foster Nolan had found himself clear of the aircraft. Under his seat a series of little white tubes with nozzle ends ignited. The solid rocket fuel burned in one quick, ferocious burst, lasting less than a second, propelling both himself and his chair an additional 100 feet away from the aircraft. After the burn sequence had taken place, a tiny drogue parachute popped out from the top of Nolan’s pilot seat.

Initially, the chute stabilized his seat and prevented it from tumbling out of control. Since the lieutenant commander had ejected under 10,000 feet, the drogue chute had yanked out his larger main parachute. The instant the main chute deployed, Nolan felt his pilot chair release from beneath his butt. He looked down to watch the chair tumble toward the black water below. Nolan found himself hanging under his main chute as he slowly descended toward the unknown. He looked down to verify his survival kit—or ditch bag—as referred to by pilot was hanging ten feet below him. He was glad to see it had had not been severed from its tether and lost at sea. When a pilot ejects over a body of water, the versatile ditch bag is the pilot’s lifeline. It contains essential items to sustain life until rescued: a small life raft, water, food rations, medical supplies, in addition to signal and communication devices.

Lt. Commander Nolan understood the statistics of survival rates when a pilot ejected from a jet. Only eight percent of ejections were fatal, and most of those occurred when the pilot waited too long to pull the handle. But that didn’t mean that a pilot could expect to walk away scot-free. About one in three pilots who ejected at full speed could expect to have some type of spinal fracture, typically caused by the force of the ejection. When Nolan had pulled the handle, he had experienced a gravitational force of fourteen to sixteen times normal gravity at 20G/second. During primary training with the Training Air Wing FIVE at NAS Whiting Field in Florida, he had watched videos of the very first ejection seats while they were being tested. The extreme blast of air could whip one’s arms behind the seat and snap bones like twigs. The same thing could also occur to a pilot’s legs. The new ejection seats were more sophisticated, and most of the injuries now centered around the neck and spinal areas.

After his successful ejection and main chute deployment, the Lt. Commander’s world transitioned from chaos to serenity. After he had descended one thousand feet, he watched his ditch bag splash into the saltwater. Other than the sound of a lonely seagull, he heard only the loud hiss when the saltwater sensor activated a valve releasing air from a small tank which inflated his life rate.

The water had been surprisingly warm. It had taken him less than a minute of dogpaddling around the Sea of Japan to reel in the cord that connected him to his life raft. The ten feet of paracord seemed more like a hundred feet. Floating in the dark ocean, suddenly susceptible to predators swimming under him, was more terrifying than the ejection itself. After what had seemed like an eternity, but in fact, was more like ninety seconds, he touched the edge of the tiny life raft, and he rolled himself into the middle of the orange ring.

He was relieved to find himself in pretty good shape. His back and neck were a little sore, but his arms and legs were still attached and working. Things could have been a lot worse.

Ten minutes after hitting the water, Foster Nolan focused his attention on a little green light steadily blinking on his saltwater emergency beacon. His location was silently transmitting his coordinates. The lieutenant commander had very little interest in being found by most of the people who may be paying any attention to the blip. He had a satellite phone in his kit, but he already knew that it would not be used. His commander on the Gerald R. Ford aircraft carrier, less than fifteen minutes away, knew he was down. He was docked at the Fleet Activities Chinhae Navy Base in Busan, South Korea. But Lt. Commander Nolan had not scrubbed a mission as ordered, crashing the $337 million-dollar jet fighter. Thus, he wasn’t sure if the big man was willing to take the risk of picking Nolan up.

The night was quiet and still. A full moon was blasting out white light like a mini-sun. The lieutenant commander felt isolated and naked. Isolated in distance to any vessel that could save him, yet naked, like a man sitting in a tiny bathtub in the center of a public fountain. There was no place to hide if hostiles came looking for him. To make matters worse, he was also stuck in a sitting position—not an optimal position to defend oneself. But he had no other choice. The life raft would not support his weight when he attempted to stand. He sat, feeling helpless, sitting in two inches of saltwater that had collected inside the raft.

He heard the helicopter before he saw it. Nolan surmised it was two miles out and quickly closing in on his position. He looked in the direction of the sound but saw nothing, probably because the helicopter was flying without navigational lights. That nuance told him two things. First, whoever was flying toward him didn’t want to be seen by anyone else who might come to his rescue. Second, the only countries who fell into that category were either North Korea or the United States. If the chopper belonged to the United States (fat chance due to insubordination) it would fly in stealthily, doing its best to evade detection by the surrounding Asian countries’ radar. Otherwise, his mission into North Korea would be exposed to the world. If the helicopter closing in on his position belonged to the North Koreans, they also would fly in under the cover of darkness, pick him up and whisk him back to their country to secretly torture him for information. He would consider himself lucky if a Chinese or Japanese chopper pulled him out of the water. At least they didn’t have any pending agenda with him or his mission. They might even do him a solid, return him to the United States, and not make a big stink about it. That would be cool.

The whoop, whoop, whoop sound was getting closer. The lieutenant commander estimated the aircraft was now about a mile out and closing at a conservative speed of 30 miles per hour. The helicopter’s tracking scope would alert them of his life raft’s location, and they would be reducing their speed so they didn’t overshoot his position.

Rummaging around in his bag, Nolan located a flare gun. He stuffed it into one of the front pockets of his flight suit. He also withdrew a standard-issue Beretta 9mm handgun. He popped out the clip to ensure the pistol was loaded, stuck the clip back in the gun and racked the slide to chamber a round. He verified the weapon’s safety was off.

The blade wash intensified and Nolan felt the helicopter almost on top of him. Pulling the flare gun from his chest rig, he held it in one hand and the Beretta in the other hand. In a purposeful manner, he gently placed the muzzle to the side of his head, and he pointed the flare gun into the air. Being careful to avoid pulling the wrong trigger, he fired the flare gun into the moonlit sky.

The night burned bright red, and the helicopter came into sharp view. It was about fifty yards away with its broadside facing him. The chopper looked like a Sikorsky Seahawk. Nolan recalled that the Seahawk was used by the United States, South Korea, Japan and Taiwan. Neither North Korea nor the Chinese use that medium-lift helicopter. But this was no reason to celebrate. However, Nolan thought it may be a good omen. The chopper was painted a light color, maybe white, but it was hard to tell since the red flare had made everything appear red. Visually, he could not detect any sort of weaponry affixed to the Seahawk’s pylons. Typically, a helicopter sent out to do bad things might have an assortment of missiles, torpedoes or guns mounted to those tactical surfaces. Through the red hue of smoke and the water vapor being kicked up by the choppers’ large blades, Nolan could make out the words Hail Industries stenciled on the passenger door of the Seahawk.

Hail Industries, Nolan thought to himself. He knew of Hail Industries in the same manner he knew of Johnson & Johnson, DuPont and Ford. If he recalled correctly, Hail Industries was involved with some sort of nuclear power startup. But why the hell would one of their helicopters be sent out here to pick him up? Nolan kept the muzzle of the gun pressed tightly to the side of his head with his finger resting lightly on the Beretta’s trigger. He dropped the spent flare gun into the raft and wiped saltwater out of his eyes. If this turned out to be a trick, and the chopper was full of North Koreans or any other nationality intending to do him harm, he would squeeze the trigger immediately, thus terminating his problems.

*_*_*

The chopper flew over the top of his position and transitioned into a hover. Nolan looked up and saw the large side door of the aircraft slide open. A light inside the chopper blinked on and a boom arm was swung out through the open door. A shiny hook was hanging from a cable which was threaded through the boom arm and coiled up onto a winch. Someone’s head poked out from inside the chopper, and a face encircled by a black helmet with a thick chin strap appeared alongside the boom arm.

Nolan thought that the face looked young—like real young. He guessed she was between the ages of twelve and fourteen. Between the light of the fading flare, and the interior light of the helicopter, he could discern that the eyes of the youngster operating the boom were not Asian. This meant his rescuers were not North Koreans. In waters surrounded by Asian countries, he had expected the first responders would be Asian. Nolan eased his finger off the trigger of the semi-automatic pistol but didn’t remove it from his ear. The young Anglo female screamed something down at him he could not hear over the engine noise. Then the girl’s arm reappeared outside the aircraft, clipping a yellow sling to the J-hook to the end of the cable. The winch came to life and began to unroll a thin metal cable. Nolan watched as the sling began to descend toward his life raft.

With his free hand, Nolan again wiped saltwater from his eyes. Having given the situation ample consideration, he lowered the gun from his head, clicked on the safety and stuffed the weapon into his chest rig. He waited patiently for the sling to make its way down the 100 feet that separated the helicopter from his life raft. The lieutenant commander scanned the ocean in all directions, verifying if other vessels or aircraft were closing in on his position. Seeing nothing, and having no other options, he grabbed the yellow sling when it came within his reach. He did his best to get off his butt and onto his knees. He pulled the ring over his head and then wiggled his upper torso through the sling, letting the rubber-coated cable rest under his armpits. Nolan looked up at the young girl, and he gave his rescuer a thumbs-up. There was nothing to do but wait.

The winch began to take in line and the sling tightened around his chest. Nolan looked down as he was lifted out of the small life raft. The wind from the helicopter’s blades blasted the orange raft, and a second later, Nolan watched as the raft was blown into the air and sailed away in the darkness.

Who in the hell is this? he mumbled to himself.

Even before he was pulled into the chopper, the aircraft tilted forward and began picking up speed. Once he had been reeled in, the winch stopped, and the boom arm, with the lieutenant commander still attached swung back inside the cabin. The door was drawn shut, and the chaos of sound immediately reduced to a tolerable racket.

Nolan found himself sitting on his butt on the floor of the chopper, still hooked into the cable. He looked up at the girl standing over him. She said nothing. Instead of talking, she reached down and grabbed the bottom of the sling and began to pull up on it. The lieutenant commander lifted his arms and allowed himself to be separated from the lifeline. The girl unclipped the sling from the boom arm and it fell onto the floor. She swung the heavy boom up against the wall of the helicopter, securing it with a thick metal latch that held it tightly against the frame of the chopper.

Are you hurt? the girl yelled over the noise of the engines.

A little sore, but I’m OK. I was lucky, he replied.

You still are lucky, the girl said, handing him a thick blanket.

I’m not cold, the pilot told her.

Wrap yourself in it. You could be in shock.

I would know if I was in shock or not, Nolan argued, but his words had no impact on his young rescuer. She took the blanket out of his hands, shook it out and draped it over his shoulders.

That’s what people say who are in shock, the young woman insisted.

Instead of saying thanks, he asked, Who are you?

Initially, the young woman ignored him. Instead of answering his question, she located the yellow sling that had been discarded on the floor and picked it up.

She replied, My name is Paige.

Nolan looked frustrated and responded, No, I mean who do you work for—the CIA?

The woman stowed the yellow sling in a compartment fused to the wall of the chopper and shut off the interior cabin light.

I work for Marshall Hail, she responded. You sit tight. We’ll board the Hail Nucleus in a few minutes.

The Hail Nucleus? Nolan responded. What is the Hail Nucleus?

By the time the words had left his mouth, the girl had already moved forward and plopped herself down into the copilot’s seat.

The lieutenant commander could only see the back of the pilot’s black helmet. Nolan didn’t know if the person piloting the Seahawk was a man or a woman.

Thus, he had no idea that the person flying the twenty-eight million-dollar 17,000-pound Sikorsky was a sixteen-year-old boy.

TWO YEARS AGO

LAGOS, NIGERIA

The first time the Nigerian terrorist, Afua Diambu, saw the Russian 9K333 Verba man-portable infrared homing surface-to-air missile was in a warehouse. It was in an old building, hardly even a warehouse by Western terms. It looked more like a dilapidated wooden box with a few weathered wooden doors and a leaky roof. The few windows the building had were barred on the outside with rusty rebar. The windowpanes contained glass broken in several areas cheaply repaired with recycled Plexiglas now a milky-white due to weather, sun and time. In between the windows facing the alley behind them were two wooden garage doors. They did not slide on tracks. Instead, the two heavy doors swung open on hinges. Currently, both doors were closed and secured with a thick metal bar which slid between twin iron brackets. Inside the room, and nearer the windows, were a few large work tables hastily constructed using a few sheets of aging plywood and recycled two-by-fours. A dozen rotting mismatched chairs were scattered about the room.

Afua Diambu had been driven to the port city of Lagos, Nigeria by his leader, Mohammed Mboso. This was his point of embarkation for his long boat ride to Caracas, Venezuela. The missile retrieved from its hiding place had been packed in a case which previously had belonged to an expensive upright bass instrument sold for a fraction of its value to a street vendor. The case itself had been kept and molded to hold the large launch tube and its projectile.

I didn’t think it would be this big, Afua Diambu told his leader, Mboso, who was carefully removing the weapon from its new case.

Using both arms, he held up the 5.5-foot launch tube for Diambu to admire.

Mboso looked toward the muzzle end of the tube and scanned the weapon with his eyes, taking in every inch of the dark metal object, as if it had fallen from heaven.

Is it heavy? Diambu asked.

Eighteen kilograms, Mboso answered absentmindedly, still admiring the weapon.

Diambu didn’t think the older man could hold up a 40-pound object for much longer. The jihadi stepped forward and handed the missile system to

Diambu, who accepted the gift, bouncing it a few times in his arms, testing its weight and confirming its authenticity from nothing more than its existence.

Is it armed? he asked, certain it wasn’t. But it never hurt to ask.

Of course not, Mboso said curtly. But it will be armed very soon. You need to know how to operate it. You will arm and disarm the device many times before your voyage. We only have one missile, so there will be no test firings. The first time you pull the trigger, you will be pulling it for Allah.

It was Diambu’s understanding that his voyage would begin the following day, which meant his training would begin very soon.

Mboso nodded to one of his two armed soldiers keeping loose guard on the interior of the room. One guard was looking out the dirty front window. The other was standing with his back to the garage doors watching the two men with the missile. The guard by the door was dressed in jungle fatigues. He turned and pulled the bar from its anchors on the door, opening one of the doors wide enough to allow a person to enter. A tall, stocky white man with blond hair entered the dank room. He walked over to Mboso and Diambu and stood quietly, awaiting his introduction.

This man’s name is Kornev, Mboso told Diambu in English. He is an expert in using this weapon. He will teach you everything you need to know to fulfill Allah’s divine will.

Kornev held out his hand and said in Ibibio, Nice to meet you.

Diambu was impressed that the white man spoke his native language so fluently and answered in Ibibio as well, The pleasure is all mine, and he added, As-salamu alaykum.

The white man responded with the customary, Alaykum As-Salaam.

With pleasantries out of the way, Mboso said, I will leave you to your work. My men will get you anything you need. Just let them know.

Addressing Kornev, Mboso added, Please make sure that my man, Afua, understands all the workings of this weapon before you leave.

It is very simple to operate, Kornev assured him. Of course, I will explain everything, as I always do.

Mboso nodded and then exited the warehouse from the door Kornev had entered. The guard closed the door and sealed it with the bar.

Kornev turned to look at Diambu. The African was still holding the missile launcher in both hands which had sunk down to his waist level.

Have you ever fired one of these? Kornev asked the lanky man with skin black as coal.

No, said Diambu without further elaboration.

Do you have experience killing people? the arms dealer asked.

Diambu was shocked by the bluntness of the question. He wondered what significance it made if he had or hadn’t killed someone.

Of course, Afua responded.

Good. Because with one squeeze of this trigger you will kill hundreds. Make sure you have your mind in the right place.

Diambu didn’t understand what the white man was talking about. As far back as he could recall, he had been killing people. His mind had never been in the right place. Did a place such as this even exist?

*-*-*

Afua Diambu was unlucky enough to be born on a Friday. Afua means Friday-born child in his native tongue. He was born in Katsina State of Nigeria in a dirty little town named Batagarawa. Luck didn’t come easy to those born in the northern part of Nigeria. Whereas, most of the country was covered by a thick mass of green vegetation, Batagarawa and the Katsina areas were located on the outskirts of the Sahara Desert. The State of Katsina, located in north central Nigeria had the highest poverty rate among all States within that region.

Little could be grown in the arid climate and lifeless sand, and, therefore the sensation of hunger was something Afua had grown up knowing. Thus, as a child, his friends and family had gone hungry. That wasn’t to say he enjoyed having an empty belly.

At the age of twelve, Afua Diambu began making trips into southern Nigeria. He walked to the Kano-Kankia-Katsina road, where he would catch a ride on any truck or vehicle that would stop for him. He was always amazed to see the land change as each mile clicked by. At first, there would be a green bush here and a healthy green tree there. But the further they distanced themselves from the harsh Sahara, the greener vegetation became more abundant. Afua always knew this was the best time to get off the truck. He waited until everything around him was green to disembark at the next town to seek work.

Green was Diambu’s favorite color. It was the color of sustenance; it was the color of life. Green meant people could plant seeds in the ground and eat whatever wonderful edible crops sprouted from the rich soil. Green symbolized to Afua a full belly and work for those who didn’t mind helping the farmers rid the ground of all those tasty plants. He would work and steal until he had enough food to provide for his family in Batagarawa. That cycle continued for years and had become Afua’s way of life. That is until his nineteenth year when he met Mohammed Mboso, better known as Iniabasi.

Afua had been young and naive, but still old and wise enough to know right from wrong. Although his family had been very poor, his mother had taught Afua and his siblings the difference between right and wrong. It is wrong to steal, she had told them. And Afua thought that made sense, unless you were starving to death. Since his family was always on the verge of starvation, stealing became a way of life. Food could be acquired through work, begging or thievery. But thievery was always easiest, and it certainly was the fastest. Begging took less energy than stealing, and when one lacked food, it took more energy. Then stealing trumped begging. At first, Afua didn’t steal huge amounts, just an apple or a potato. But when he was harvesting the farmer’s crops, Afua would hide food in the jungle. He would then return at night to fill his sacks and drag them to the road headed north. He never told his mother that he had stolen the food. He told her he had worked for it and he had. Just not all of it. A little white lie. Who could it hurt?

He could still remember the day he had met Mohammed Mboso. Afua had been stealing food at the time. He had worked his way to the end of a large cassava field. Afua would periodically look up to see if he was being watched by the farmer or any of the other workers. When the farmer was far enough away, the Nigerian took his huge bag of cassava and emptied it a few steps into the thick jungle. As he was admiring his haul, he was startled by several guns racking shells into their chambers. He looked up to see a group of men brandishing AK-47s. The black guns were all pointed at him. The men were dressed in clothing the color of the jungle, and their faces were obscured by scarves tied behind their heads.

The only man that did not have a gun or a mask smiled at him. Afua did not know what to do so he nervously smiled back at the man.

Do not be afraid, he told Afua in his native Ibibio language. We are not here to hurt you. We are here to help you.

But the man Afua was looking at was scary looking, and Afua was afraid. He knew about the group known as the Boko Haram. He had never known anyone who belonged to the organization. Considering the number of guns pointed at him, he immediately assumed the man smiling at him was the leader. After all, they certainly wouldn’t have sent this number of officers to arrest him for stealing food. My name is Mohammed Mboso, the large man told him, but everyone calls me Iniabasi.

Afua nodded his head, smiling graciously back at the dangerous-looking man. In his native Ibibio language, Afua knew the name Iniabasi meant in God's time.

Iniabasi was older and his skin was marbled with large white and pink patches. The man’s hair grew in patches as well. There were crusted areas of curly gray hair that sprouted like tortured weeds from atop his scarred head. Afua had seen black skin badly burnt before, and this man was covered with it. Afua thought he looked like a monster.

The burned man took a moment to look over the pile of cassava Afua had harvested. He looked back up at Afua and asked, Do you believe in God?

It was a simple question, but for some reason, Afua felt any answer he offered would be the wrong one, so he said nothing. His mother had raised him as a Christian although most of their neighbors in northern Nigeria were Muslims. Little known fact, but sixty percent of all Nigerians are Christian. But religion didn’t take a front seat to starvation, and religion was not the center of his family’s universe. God had never showed up to their dinner table to bring them a chicken, goat or even a large bag of cassava.

The Boko Haram’s leader didn’t press Afua for an answer