Afua looked back down and discovered that the knife had stuck in the duct tape, wedged tightly in between the mess of blood, skin and bone. He did his best to put the pain aside. He grabbed the handle of the blade. Moving slowly, he slid the knife under the remnants of the duct tape. In one quick motion, Afua cut the tape free. Even as the wad of gray tape fell to the floor of the boat, he could feel a rush of blood course back into his dead foot. At first it felt great, but then it didn’t. A sensation of pins and needles stabbed his foot so intensely it was almost as bad as the initial pain itself. Afua laid back on the couch and let the rain pour down on him as he screamed. The screaming felt good. It was not only a wail of pain, but also his frustration. After all, how could things get any worse? He was stuck in an itty-bitty boat in the middle of the Caribbean Sea in the middle of a torrential downpour losing massive amounts of blood. Compounding those problems was his hope of being rescued waned by the minute; thus, Afua felt his screams were warranted.
Red blood mixed with clear water dripped from his leg, as if someone had taken a machete to a watermelon. Afua knew he couldn’t allow the cut to bleed much longer, but he wanted to make sure that his foot didn’t die, making amputation his only option. He tried moving his toes, and he was happy to see that they were all working. That was a good sign. He had seen several injuries in the field like his and, at least half of the time, the men hadn’t had any success wiggling
their toes. Except for one man, all the others had lost their legs; a few had lost their lives.
The waves were becoming huge crests, but Afua didn’t sense they had the size or power to capsize his small boat. For sure, it was going to be a rough ride until the storm blew over. There was always the possibility of a larger rogue wave coming out of nowhere and tipping him over. However, there had always been a high probability of dying in his occupation. He had grown accustomed to living dangerously.
Beginning to feel more dizzy and nauseous, Afua decided it was time to close his wound. He couldn’t afford to lose any more blood. He pulled out the duct tape from the cubby and began to bind his leg. The blood-saturated ACE bandage was still in place and would serve as a barrier between the tape and his open wound. This time he attempted to wrap the wound, but not as tight this time. Short of a blood transfusion, it would take weeks for his body to replenish his natural blood supply, so it was a delicate balancing act.
The sky lit up again and, for a fraction of a second, it was daytime. During that time, no longer than a camera flash, Afua saw a ship approaching his position. He couldn’t be certain what type of vessel it was, but it was roughly the same size of both the Nigerian Princess and the Venezuelan Coast Guard ship. It no longer mattered to Afua which ship rescued him. Other than the handgun he had stowed in his boat’s cubby, he would appear to be nothing more than a fisherman caught in the storm.
Afua tried to stand up on his one good leg, but instead he stumbled forward, falling on the couch. He reached into the cubby and felt around for a gun-shaped object. Fumbling through an assortment of nautical articles, Afua’s hand found and withdrew a fat flare gun. He checked that the gun was loaded and the safety was off. Without a second thought, he pointed the gun into the dark sky and pulled the trigger.
A red streak left the muzzle of the flare gun and ripped through the storm. At the pinnacle of its trajectory, a small parachute popped out, and the flare began to glow brightly in the gloom. The flare gave off enough light for Afua to get a clear visual on the ship heading toward him. He recognized the outline of the bow of the ship. It was the Nigerian Princess.
Afua fell back into the corner of the seat where the couch met the windshield of his boat. He was exhausted and wanted to sleep. But he was suddenly hungry and aware of an intense thirst. Afua was positive he could drink an ocean of pure water. He felt immensely relieved to see the yacht. Afua was satisfied everything he had worked for would now become reality.
He leaned back and closed his eyes and waited for the Nigerian Princess to pull up alongside his boat. Thoughts of being back home with his happy family filled his mind, blotting out the rain, thunder and pain. He smiled and opened his mouth to let the raindrops hit his parched tongue. Some would say that water has no taste but, at that moment, the rain tasted almost as good to him as Fanta orange soda.
Rond Point Port — Aboard the Hail Proton
The official code name of the drone was A Flock of Seagulls, following the naming convention of drones after rock bands. But the name was so long the mission crews aboard both the Hail Nucleus and the Hail Proton began referring to it as Seagulls.
On the second deck of the Hail Proton, an electromagnetic launch ramp was inspected and ready for action. The large drone, code named Foreigner, was sitting on its back. The small birdlike drone, Seagulls, had been compacted within a plastic mesh and latched into place on Foreigner’s belly. Nylon webbing had been wrapped around the bird to prevent its wings from becoming damaged during flight. When it was time for the Hail Nucleus’ pilot to release the bird, the nylon would be cut via the quick slash of an integrated blade. Once released from Foreigner, as the bird began to freefall, its wings would extend, and the aircraft would become a glider. To gain altitude, a rocket pellet would be ignited inside the bird’s rocket engine. When the rocket burn had concluded, depending on thermals, Seagulls could glide for up to an hour before needing to repeat the burn process. The birdlike drone had enough pellets to keep it aloft for 48 hours.
Captain Nichols and his two lab workers, Lang and Parker, were responsible for ensuring the drones were charged, fueled, and readied for the mission. They were also responsible for checking the drones’ launch configurations were correct.
Lang walked down one side of Foreigner, while Parker walked down the other side, making their final inspections. Satisfied everything was ready to go, Parker spoke into a cellphone she held in her right hand.
“The package is ready to fly,” she told the remote pilot in the Hail Proton’s mission room. It was understood that the Hail Proton’s flight crew would launch Foreigner and, once it was at flight altitude, the pilots aboard the Hail Nucleus would assume the controls.
The captain of the Hail Proton was awaiting patiently for the OK to launch the drone.
“Charge the grid, Captain,” Parker requested.
Mounted to the wall was a small control panel that had two visible controls. There was one big red switch and hidden under a security cover there was a big red button. Captain Nichols flipped up the big red switch, and a low hum filled the room as the catapult’s capacitors became energized. The crew waited for the hum
to subside which indicated the contraption was fully charged and ready to launch. Captain Nichols already had slid his finger under the protective cover, and it rested on the big red button. When the hum finally died down, and the room became quiet, Parker spoke into the phone, loud enough for the captain to hear.
“We are going to launch in five, four, three, two, one, LAUNCH!”
From under the protective cover, Mitch pressed the red button.
A loud crack of electricity was released into the magnetic grid. It snapped loudly through the room like a thunderclap. Faster than a buttered bullet, Foreigner and its little bird passenger, were slung up and out of the Hail Proton’s hangar into the dark night.