There was a huge explosion, as the jet fuel inside the wing erupted. Afua watched as the wing of the Boeing 737 was torn from the remainder of the plane. Still looking directly overhead through the launch tube’s iron sights, he watched as the plane flipped over onto its back, snapped in half and began falling from the sky. Afua lowered the launcher, taking a moment to admire his handiwork. Two emotions surged through him so like one another, it might as well have been a single stream of thought. The first emotion was relief. He had accomplished his mission. His life would certainly now change for the better, as it had ever since
he had joined the Boko Haram. But the other idea that came to him a split-second later was that the parts blown from the plane were going to land directly on top of him. A few of the larger pieces of the plane, like the front half of the fuselage had continued traveling forward. Inertia and aerodynamics caused the nose section to fall downward like a lawn dart. But larger sections were blown free from the jet, and they were beginning to fall straight down.
The shockwave of the explosion hit Afua a second later, and it nearly dropped him to his knees. During this time, pieces of the aircraft tumbled through the air, freefalling straight down, headed directly toward him.
Afua quit watching and began running away from the narrow road, toward the jetty’s barrier rocks. Bags of something Afua couldn’t make out began to land all around him with thick thuds. Each impact sounded like 100-pound wads of pizza dough being thrown onto a marble countertop. Afua clung to the cumbersome missile launcher, not wanting to leave it behind. Lack of evidence gave authorities very little to investigate. One of the bags landed right in front of him. However, it wasn’t a bag - it was a human being. It was a fat Spanish-looking man dressed in a dark business suit. Afua didn’t take time to look the man over. Instead, he just skirted to one side of him and ran for the rocks. He heard a thunderous crash behind him. His best guess was that one of the mammoth wings of the jet had slammed down onto the narrow road. The hard earth compressed the remaining fuel inside the wing, creating a massive explosion that shook the ground of the manmade jetty.
Afua was within fifteen feet of the rocks when a fireball welled around him, singeing the back of his head and neck. Two more bodies fell next to Afua, and something went flying past him close to the ground. It took a second for Afua to realize that he was falling face-first onto the jetty’s rocks. He abandoned his grip on the launch tube, and it went sailing from his hands, flying towards his boat. Afua put his hands out in front of him to break his fall. His eyes blurred as he toppled forward. He could smell burnt flesh, fried jet fuel and toasted hair. As he tumbled over the rocks, they afforded him nothing but pain. Afua had his hands free, but they did little to deflect his body from absorbing the stones’ jagged blows. He tried to save his face by tucking his chin into his body. His left shoulder was the first thing to hit the rocks, but Afua didn’t feel the pain. For some reason, his right ankle hurt more than any other part of his body. Afua rolled down the rocks, quickly at first, and then slowing as he neared his boat. The bodies just kept falling around him, thudding down on the road and smashing onto the rocks next to him. They made more of a snapping noise, rather than the original plopping noise. Afua looked up from his crumpled position on the rocks. He saw bodies falling into the water behind his boat. Each impact sounded like the world’s biggest belly flop. Somewhere behind him, off in the distance, Afua heard another explosion, and the rest of the plane fell to earth.
Afua’s fall had dazed him. He was incapacitated for a moment. He could do nothing except lie still and wait for his senses to return. There were lumps forming on his head where his skull had hit the rocks. His ankle was killing him, yet he couldn’t figure out why. He didn’t feel as if he had broken anything, but the pain in his leg was now more than a mild throb. Afua still feared for the potential threat of plane debris or bodies falling on him. He also found himself in the detrimental state between unconsciousness and developing concussive symptoms. One side of his brain was telling him to close his eyes. The other side was screaming at him to get to his feet. He wasn’t sure how long he laid between the rocks while his brain fought an internal civil war. Eventually, he began to come around. When he looked up into the sky again, he saw nothing. No plane, no smoke and no falling bodies.
Moving slowly, he extricated himself from the rocks, careful not to further damage any part of him not already injured. He was able to get to his feet, and he stood still, for a moment, perched on the largest boulder. He was still dizzy, doing his best not to fall again. He looked down at his ankle and discovered that it was bleeding badly from a large gash on the outside of his right ankle. The gash was so deep that when he bent to the side to get a better look, he saw white bone under his dark skin. Blood was pouring from the cut. Afua looked for the missile launcher, which was the only thing he absolutely had to retrieve before he could climb back into his boat. Less than three feet in front of the boat’s bow, it lay where it had landed after he had taken his fall. Afua didn’t much believe in divine intervention, but he thought this appeared a very good omen, considering all the other places it could have landed. Careful to avoid putting much weight on his ankle, Afua stepped down the remaining rocks. He bent to pick up the missile launcher and tossed it into the bow of the boat. Afua rolled himself over the boat, landing on the floor with a painful groan. He suspected his ribs had been broken from the fall, but he had no idea what had cut his ankle. He guessed it was a flying piece of the wing that during the explosion had clipped his leg. Now, safely on board his boat, he lifted one of the padded seats, reached inside and pulled out a small white towel. Not bothering to cut or tear the towel into smaller pieces, Afua quickly tied the towel around his ankle. Instead of walking, Afua crawled from the bow, between the split windshield over to the driver’s seat, dragging the launcher behind him. Burning through his waning strength, he pulled himself onto the seat. He chastised himself, as he realized he hadn’t pulled in the line tying his boat, securing it to the rocks. Mumbling curse words in Ibibio, Afua reached into the boat’s glove compartment and removed a fish gutting knife. Choosing to crawl again, using just touch and feel, Afua reached his arm over the top of the bow until he felt the knife connect with the thick rope. It took a few sawing motions
before the boat was free of the line, and it began drifting backwards. After crawling, he hoisted himself into his seat, and he turned the ignition key.
If Afua could make a list of the most unfortunate things that could occur, the first item on that list would be engine trouble. The second misfortune would be for the Coast Guard boat to round the craggy rocks and reenter the bay. He didn’t know how far the small Coast Guard boat had traveled from his current position, but one thing he knew for sure was they would be on their way back to the bay. As soon as they had seen the plane go down, and he was sure they had seen the plane go down, they would have turned around and began heading back to where the first parts of the plane had landed.
Luck was with Afua. The little engine caught and began to purr. He was also relieved that, up to this point, the Coast Guard boat was nowhere to be seen.
Moving the throttle lever backwards, Afua snapped the engine into reverse and gave it some gas. Looking behind him and into the bay, Afua saw nothing of concern. There were no small boats of any type on the water, probably because the Coast Guard continually warned off day-trippers who ventured into the restricted area.
The little boat shot backwards and abruptly changed direction when Afua pressed the throttle forward. The bow of the boat jutted upwards, causing Afua to glance out the side to make sure he was far enough away from the rocks. The bow came down as the boat accelerated and began to plane across the calm water. As Afua reached the tip of the jetty and began to move out into open water, he was certain the Coast Guard boat would be rounding the corner of the jetty. To his right, in the direction in which it had exited the bay, Afua didn’t see the Nigerian Princess. He scanned the surface of the water more closely a
second time, and he did indeed discern the familiar outline of the vessel. But it was far away, several kilometers down the coast. By the time the boat made it to Afua’s current position, Afua would already be safely back aboard the Nigerian Princess.
Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Afua reached with his other hand to pick up the launcher. Not giving it a second thought, he dropped it over the side of the boat. If he was stopped, there would be no evidence connecting him to the downed plane. Just when he thought he was home free, he noticed the fake middle hull of the boat - the case that had held the missile and launcher resting on the floor in the back of his boat. Afua groaned to himself, knowing that he was going to have to get rid of it. Removing a bungee cord stored in a niche under the dashboard, the Nigerian strapped the steering wheel to a stainless-steel cleat on the side of the boat. He kept the engine wide open as he fell out of the chair and rolled back onto his knees. It was only four excruciating meters to the stern of his boat, but each meter felt as if he were crawling over a bed of nails. The waves were not
exceptionally high, but the boat was moving fast and bouncing around a little. Each bump drove Afua’s legs into the floor of the boat. Each bounce jostled his bad leg sending waves of agony to his brain. He made it to the empty case and took in a few deep breaths. Using all his reserve strength, he lifted one end of the case up and onto the lip of the boat’s stern. Afua maneuvered himself to the front of the case, and still lying on his back, he pressed the case up over his head as though he were a weightlifter. The case began to slide along the railing, and with one additional push, the case disappeared. The engine was so loud that Afua didn’t hear the case hit the water and really didn’t care. He knew it was heavy and would sink to the bottom in seconds. As quickly as he could move, Afua moved toward the driver’s seat. Using his good leg, Afua jacked himself back into the chair.
Afua glanced down at the towel tied around his leg. There was very little white remaining on the towel. Most of it was bright red. Afua could feel himself getting weaker as the adrenaline in his system began to wear off. He felt lightheaded, like he was high, dehydrated or maybe a little drunk. But he was none of those. The high he had been feeling earlier had been pure adrenaline. And now, as the chemical was purged from his system, he was experiencing the flip side. It was no different than a heroin junkie going through withdrawals. Afua’s withdrawal had been much more condensed. He had gone from being high to being stone-cold exhausted and lightheaded in less than ten minutes. Afua had been shot before and had lost a significant amount of blood. Thus, he was familiar with the sensations he was feeling. He had also seen many of his comrades die due to blood loss. At one time, Iniabasi had explained to him that if a person lost fifteen percent of one’s blood, there was little change in their vital signs. If you lost thirty percent of your blood volume, then you would start feeling cold and your heart would start racing. If you were unfortunate enough to lose forty percent of your blood, you were in big trouble. With this much blood loss, a person would experience low blood pressure and begin to lose mental faculties. At that point, you were majorly screwed. Organs began to shut down, and then death was only minutes away. But, Afua didn’t intend for any of that to happen to him.
He pulled another bungee cord from the plastic cubby under the dash and wrapped it tightly around his damaged leg. Starting just above the gooey-red towel, he gave it three good wraps, before connecting it together with thick hooks below the cut. He knew he couldn’t leave his leg wrapped like this for long, but he didn’t need much time. He could already see the Nigerian Princess dead ahead, less than a mile away. He looked around for threats. There were no vessels moving with purpose in his direction. He just had to ensure he didn’t pass out, and he’d have it made. That’s when he saw the Coast Guard Cutter pull out from behind the Nigerian Princess.
SULU SEA—ABOARD THE HAIL NUCLEUS
I nstead of using the complicated video system in Hail’s conference room, Kara opted to use her cellphone to contact her boss, Jarret Pepper. Since arriving on board, Ramey had suspected that one of Hail’s engineers had tampered with her phone, allowing Hail and his team to listen in on her calls. Once she had convinced herself that this intrusion had taken place, she began talking to her boss in a language that she called Zub-a-dub. She had made it up as a child, and the CIA had developed a smart phone application that Pepper could use to decipher her words. Before he responded in English, the reply was translated back into Zub-a-dub. It worked well. However, this call would not require that level of security. What Ramey had to tell Pepper was information she had already discussed with Hail and his crew.
The other reason why she didn’t want to use the video system was to avoid seeing Pepper’s face. There was something about the man that rubbed her the wrong way. He had an air of superiority she disliked. Just because she was beautiful, she felt Pepper disregarded her other assets. He didn’t focus on her intellect, only on her beauty and how it could be weaponized. She realized that being beautiful got her close to some very dangerous men. But wasn’t that the way it always worked whether you were in the CIA or not? Beauty attracted all sorts of men with agendas, and typically the number one agenda was not to discuss politics or the world economy. It didn’t help Pepper was newly divorced. Rumor had it his wife had taken practically everything. She felt that Pepper was predisposed to dislike women, in general. As Kara waited for the phone to make the long-distance connection, she thought of a joke she had read online. “Why is a wife like a hurricane? Because it comes in sucking and blowing, and when it leaves it takes the house and cars.” She smiled to herself.
“This is Pepper,” he said.
“This is Ramey,” she replied. If Pepper wanted to answer his phone in such a curt manner, Kara would respond likewise.
“What’s up, Kara?”
“We have put together a plan to make a play for Kornev,” she told him. “We are also in the intelligence gathering phase in relation to making a move on Afua Diambu.”
“Wow, you guys have been busy,” Pepper said.
Kara thought he sounded sincere.
Pepper asked, “Do you have a timetable in place?”
“Not for the Diambu operation, but we do for the Kornev op. I need to fly into Termez, Uzbekistan as soon as possible, but on a commercial flight.”
“It would be faster on a charter or a private jet,” Pepper suggested.
“No, I don’t want Kornev to feel that he’s worth all that expense. I want it to be as low-key as possible.”
“Where are you now?” Pepper asked.
“We are in the middle of the Sulu Sea.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“We are near Zamboanga.”
“Where the hell is that?” Pepper repeated.
Kara considered telling Pepper, “Hey, you are the head of the CIA. Maybe you should break out an atlas and learn your damn job.”
Instead, she let out a huff of exasperation and said, “The southernmost part of the Philippines. Hail is going to chopper me to the Zamboanga International Airport. From there I’m going to catch like a million connecting flights that will eventually get me to the Termez International Airport. I should arrive the day after tomorrow. Hail will be there with me.”
“You mean he is arriving in Termez on the same plane with you?” Pepper asked, concern in his voice.
“No. He’s flying in on his own Gulfstream the day before so he can get things set up.”
“How is this going to go down?” Pepper questioned.
“It’s a little too involved to go into over the phone, and it may not be a one-time meeting to get Kornev to play ball. Big, dense and rich guys like Kornev need more convincing than small, smart and rich guys.”
There was a moment of silence on the phone while Pepper mulled the situation over.
After a moment, Pepper asked, “What does Hail need from the CIA?”
Kara replied, “Nothing. He asked me to make sure that there isn’t a back-up plan o
r any other operation the CIA or US government has planned for either of these targets.”
Pepper huffed and sounded upset. The back-up plan he had set in motion during the previous operation had cost lives and equipment. It had also jeopardized Hail and his crew. According to Hail, it was a logical question.
“Tell Hail that we don’t have any back-up plans in place. But make sure he knows that if he screws up either mission, then the intelligence faucet will get shut off. No more info. for him on the whereabouts of further terrorists.”
Kara said nothing.
“Did you hear me?” Pepper said.
“Sorry,” Kara lied. “You were breaking up there for a moment.”
“I said—” Pepper began, but Kara disconnected the call.
“It is so hard to get good reception in the middle of the Sulu Sea—wherever the hell that is,” Kara thought to herself with a smile.
TERMEZ, UZBEKISTAN
T he Darknet’s lesser known cousin, the Black Net, was one criminal level down from the Darknet, which had become so familiar to the common public. Thus, it was not the elicit marketplace it once it had been. The TOR Browser had become the Rip Browser.
Kornev brought up his Rip Browser and entered the world of drug dealers, exotic animal suppliers, military secret peddlers, identity document experts, credit card number brokers, as well as hitmen and human slave dealers and, of course what Kornev sold, weapons. With a few clicks of the mouse, Kornev brought up an encrypted e-mail service he used to communicate with his customers, who were scattered all over the world.
The first e-mail he saw was from the new secretary of the North Korea’s Worker’s Party, Jang Song Hae. Following the recent missile debacle, there had been a major purge of power by the esteemed leader, who had sent most of the Worker’s Party cabinet to what he called an ideological re-education to work in the uranium mines at Pyongsan. The only education they would receive is how to work themselves to death—the true point of the reassignment.
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