Kornev yelled back, “Don’t make any sudden movements. Slowly get back into the car and stay quiet.”
Kornev was relieved to make it to the Hummer without being shot again. He cautiously opened the door and took a seat inside.
“What happened to your hand?” Tonya asked.
“Just another gunshot,” Kornev said with almost no expression in his voice.
Reaching awkwardly with his left hand, Kornev started the SUV. He put the Hummer into gear and turned the wheel as far it would go to the left. The vehicle made a wide arc out into the desert before getting back on the road that headed into town. Kornev watched the drones trail along behind them in his rear-view mirror.
Kara stuck her head out the window to watch as the mechanical flying machines slowed and then came to a stop. The drones were now hovering in place on the road, still kicking up dust.
“What are those things, and who was that man?”
“Work related,” Kornev said.
“Your job sucks,” Tonya stated adamantly.
“Who knows? I might get a new job soon,” Kornev said, placing his bleeding hand between his legs, applying pressure with his knees.
Hail stood up from the table and walked over to the soft edge of the dirt road. In the distance, he saw Lt. Commander Nolan reveal himself. The jet pilot was holding a long sniper rifle and dressed head-to-toe in desert camouflage fatigues. He began walking toward Hail, trudging through the deep sand, allowing the gun to sag in his arms. From 200 yards out, it took Nolan several minutes to close the distance.
When Nolan finally arrived, Hail said, “I think that went pretty well.”
“You are in one piece, and I didn’t have to put a hole through your friend, so I guess it went OK,” Nolan said, using the rifle’s thick strap to shoulder the weapon.
“He’s no friend of mine,” Hail commented, looking back at the drones that were now flying towards them.
“Those are some badass drones you got there,” Nolan said, admiring Hail’s engineers’ handiwork.
Hail nodded, “Badass programmers that wrote the code for them, too. But I must agree with you. The mechanical part is killer as well — pun intended.”
The drones arrived with a buzz and whirl, trailing a dust cloud that billowed out behind them before being dispersed by a gentle breeze.
Their carbon fiber legs began to telescope out from under their bases, extending from one to three feet in length; the drones gently touched down. The electric motors switched off, and the desert became very quiet. Somewhere in the distance, they could still hear Kornev’s Hummer driving back to civilization.
Hail turned toward the drones and said, “You guys did a good job. Good flying.”
Alex Knox’s voice emanated from one of the drone’s speakers. For this mission, he was stationed safely back in the Hail Nucleus’ mission center.
“Thanks, Marshall, but it was really nothing. These small drones are easy to fly. I bet you could do it.”
Hail absorbed the good-natured jab from his young crew member and laughed. “No, I think I’m too old to bend a joystick from one side to the other.”
Alex laughed through the drone’s speaker at Hail’s joke.
He told the drone, “Alex, go ahead and contact the helicopter to have them pick us up.
Hail turned toward the other drone and said, “Taylor, I want you to shadow Kornev. Make sure you keep the drone high enough in the sky so there is little chance he will see it. I want to know where he goes. I want to have eyes on that Russian dirtball 24/7 until we get Kara back. Is that clear?”
“Roger that,” she said through the other drone’s speakers.
Taylor’s drone spun up and took off in the direction of the Hummer.
Two Years Ago
Caribbean Sea — On the Jetty Near Caracas, Venezuela
It had been hours since Afua had made his way to the spot where the Nigerian Princess should have been anchored. He had tried to stay awake to monitor the radio when Obano contacted him. The lack of blood caused the Nigerian terrorist to pass out once again.
The short fall from the vinyl couch to the fiberglass deck awakened him. He looked up with the expectation of a bright sun glaring in his eyes, but he was taken aback when he realized it was nighttime. He sat up, experienced a massive head rush, and he almost passed out from the pain radiating from his swollen and bleeding ankle. He took a moment to assess his condition. Killer headache — check; monster thirst — check; feelings of fatigue and grogginess — double check; feeling in his right foot — checkmate. He couldn’t feel his foot, and that was a big problem.
The Nigerian looked down at his phantom foot and tried to wiggle his toes. It was dark, but in the moonlight, he saw his big toe move a little. Taking a quick assessment of the lack of sensation in his foot, he knew he had to cut loose the tape to allow blood to circulate back into his extremity; otherwise, he could lose his foot for good. That was a no-win situation. Cutting loose the tape would cause more blood loss, and considering how much blood he had already lost, there was a very good chance that he would pass out, bleed out, and die. But for someone in his profession, losing his foot was paramount to death. The Boko Haram had no need or use for a cripple within its organization. He wouldn’t be able to traverse the thick Nigerian jungle by foot, which was their main mode of travel on those narrow trails. The loss of his foot would be the loss of his entire future — a life that had taken him a decade to build for himself and his family. Dying would be better than losing his foot.
A large wave hit the boat and caused Afua to slam into the side of the elevated couch seat. The motion jostled his leg, and another spasm of pain ripped through him. He carefully pulled himself up on the couch. He looked around to see if he could spot the Nigerian Princess in the darkness. As his senses became sharper, a new and disturbing problem reared its ugly head. It was not nighttime at all. Massive thunderclouds had moved in, and day had become night. The wind had picked up, and the tranquil Caribbean waves had transformed into white caps.
Trying to keep his leg as immobile as possible, Afua turned his head 180 degrees. He saw no other boats or ships. With the wind kicking up ocean spray, he
could barely make out the shoreline. Realizing he had not bothered to drop an anchor, Afua was concerned that he may have drifted far from the coordinates where he was supposed to rendezvous with the Nigerian Princess.
Afua looked down at his foot. For a black man, he thought that his foot looked a lot lighter in color than it had in the past. White? Not hardly, but it sure the hell wasn’t black either. It certainly didn’t look healthy. Maybe charcoal gray? He reached into a cubby next to him, fumbled around in the fishing gear and withdrew the gutting knife.
The waves were kicking the little boat around like a toy boat in a bathtub, and Afua had to be very careful with the razor-sharp blade. He set the back end of the steel on his skin, just above the duct tape. Very slowly, he eased the tip of the knife under the makeshift bandage. He expected to feel more pain, and he was not disappointed. The closer the knife neared the gash, the more pain was routed into every nerve of his body. Another four-foot wave hit the side of the boat, and the wet knife slipped from his hands. Afua grabbed for the side of the boat to steady himself. The wave crashed over the edge and soaked Afua. A dazzling bolt of lightning flashed across the sky and momentarily blinded him. A roar of thunder erupted. A second later, it was if the lightning had cut a hole in the sky which had previously held back the rain. But with that hole now opened, angry sheets of rain cascaded from the heavens like a tumultuous waterfall.