Two Years Ago
Caribbean Sea — On the Jetty Near Caracas, Venezuela
The plane was lined up and positioned dead center in the surface-to-air missile’s sights. The launcher was resting comfortably on Afua’s shoulder. The plane was getting increasingly closer to him, and he hadn’t counted on this strange, yet fortunate, situation. He was positioned on the other side of the bay and directly in line with the runway. However, the plane was rapidly gaining altitude. It was getting closer to him. That nuance caused Afua to hesitate on pulling the trigger. “Wasn’t closer better?” he thought to himself. The jihadi waited until the plane was almost directly overhead. This was the closest the plane was ever going to get. Afua arched backward until his position was uncomfortable. He then mumbled two words under his breath, “Don’t miss,” and he pulled the trigger.
There was a hiss behind his right ear that sounded like a piece of red-hot metal being thrown into a bucket of cold water. That sound was followed by a violent whooshing sound of the missile igniting and leaving the launch tube. Afua held very still, as if he were a tree and the launch tube had been screwed into his limbs. A moment later, he watched the missile climb toward the aircraft. Now that the missile was on its way, it didn’t matter what he did with the launcher. The missile’s computer and code would guide the projectile to its target. The projectile would automatically seek the plane’s hot exhaust fumes, making automatic flight corrections until it found its mark. Nevertheless, Afua diligently tracked the plane inside the launcher’s iron sites, willing the rocket to fly toward the jet.
It happened surprisingly fast. The missile flew at Mach 2.4, which was about 2000 miles per hour. With the plane less than a mile above Afua’s head, in real time, it took the missile less than one second to make a small arc and impact the left engine of the plane.
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.