“I know. I know,” Kornev said apologetically. “I plan to change. I really do, but I need to complete a business transaction. It’s important. There are some important people who are depending on me.”
The doctor mumbled something under his breath and, without standing, he pulled out a surgical kit from a drawer from the end table next to him. He opened the black box and took out a suture and some surgical thread that was self-dissolving. He used this absorbable suture so the stitches did not have to be removed. After a few weeks, they would simply be gone.
“I’ve got some news for you, my friend,” Sokolov said. “There are no important people in the world. The sooner you realize that, the happier you will be.”
Kornev said nothing. He arose from the couch, walked around the coffee table and used it as a chair. He held his hand up in front of Sokolov. The doctor slowly removed the towel from around Kornev’s hand.
“Do you need another drink before we get started?” the doctor asked.
“No, my friend. Just sew me up. I promise we will stop for a longer visit when we get back into town.”
The doctor stuck the surgical suture into Kornev’s right hand and began to sew up the same spot he did less than two weeks ago.
A phone with an old-fashioned dial rang in the kitchenette. It rang several times, and the old man ignored it. On the third ring, he told Tonya and Victor, “The machine will get it.”
Kornev’s face twitched as the needle plunged back into the webbing between his index finger and thumb.
Kornev turned toward Tonya and told her, “The doctor hasn’t answered his own phone in — in — How long has it been, Nikita?”
“I don’t know, but if Ms. Merkalov here was to give me a call, I promise I would answer it.” The doctor looked up at her, smiling.
Kara thought his smile looked a little maniacal.
The answering machine’s little tape wheels began to turn and the doctor’s prerecorded voice was short and direct to the point, asking the caller, “What do you want?”
The caller left the message, “I have the package you requested. I will drop it off tomorrow between 9:00 and 10:00 a.m.” A click could be heard, and the phone machine stopped recording.
The message the phone machine recorded was equally as brusque as the doctor’s prerecorded salutation. The doctor gave Tonya and Victor a devious smile, as if he had the world’s biggest secret, and he finished sewing up Kornev’s wound.
Termez, Uzbekistan
The Hail Industries G650 Gulfstream sat gleaming inside a small hangar at the Termez Airport. Hail, Renner and Nolan were sitting comfortably around a table inside the aircraft. The interior of the jet was designed for comfort. At the front of the aircraft were several huge white leather seats that could be used during takeoffs and landings, or they could be spun around in different configurations, depending on the need and circumstance. The seats were currently being used as conference room chairs. A dark mahogany table had been pulled out from its storage compartment in the wall, and it was now evenly separating the white leather chairs.
Hail had a laptop on the table. Renner had an iPad set into a case with a kickstand. Nolan was watching a college football game on ESPN on one of the dozen screens that seemed to be infused into every spare wall and nook of the aircraft.
On another screen was the face of Dallas Stone, currently conferenced in from the security center of the Hail Nucleus. Dallas was monitoring the video feed of Hail’s pilot, Taylor, who was flying the drone U2. This was the drone that Hail had ordered to keep track of Kara Ramey and Victor Kornev.
“Can you please give me an update?” Hail asked Dallas over the high-def connection.
The young man looked to the side to confirm information with someone offscreen. He then informed Hail, “Kara and Kornev have stopped off at a little home in the middle of Termez. They walked up to the door about ten minutes ago and have not yet come out. We will continue to monitor the situation and keep you updated with their movements.”
Hail asked, “Do we know who owns the home?”
“No,” Dallas responded. “Little towns in the middle of nowhere like this don’t keep electronic records. Other than having someone knock on the door, there is no way to tell us who owns the place.”
“Is there any intelligence on friends, business partners or safe houses that Kornev may have in Termez?” Hail asked.
“If there are, only Kara would have that information. We have not been given access to any CIA databases or made privy to a detailed dossier on Kornev. The home he stopped at is about a half-mile from his own residence in Termez.”
“Keep an eye on them,” Hail told Stone.
“Will do, Marshall,” the young man assured him. “We have U2 sitting on the house’s roof. We will see them when they leave, and we will continue to track them.”
Hail pressed an icon on his laptop screen, and the video feed with the Hail Nucleus had ended. He turned his attention to the map of the Boko Haram’s compound on Snake Island that filled his laptop screen.
Hail asked his friend, “Gage, please get the lab people from the Hail Proton on a video conference so we can discuss the interdiction at Diambu’s compound.”
Renner used the controls on his iPad to pair the Bluetooth to the plane’s communications system. It only took about five minutes before the faces of Tabitha Parker, John Lang and Captain Mitch Nichols appeared on separate monitors inside the plane. Parker and Lang worked for Hail Industries Labs. Parker specialized in chemicals. Lang worked with drone manufacturing, retrofitting and fabrication. Like Hail Nucleus, the crew on the Hail Proton had its own lab and drone fabrication shops. Both ships had the facilities to build and modify a drone that could carry any type of explosive, gun, assault rifle, grenade launcher or missile launcher. The trick to the science was marrying those deadly payloads with drones that had the lifting capabilities to carry the weapons. This involved another pesky algorithm related to how far the aircraft could carry the payload and for how long. Those last two factors were mission critical, and it was very difficult to determine due to a variety of factors. If the drone did nothing but hover in place with its payload, it took less battery power than if it was flying forward and forced to contend with wind and other environmental factors.
The lab specialists on the video conference built the drones and made them explode, on purpose. Tabitha Parker was a black woman in her early thirties, and John Lang was an Asian man in his late forties. Both wore white lab coats, even though Hail gave them complete autonomy over their choice of clothing. He guessed their white coats were functional to them in some manner he did not understand. They must serve some purpose other than to make one look geeky.
“Hi, Tabitha and John,” Hail greeted them. “You know Gage Renner, but we have a new member on our team, Lt. Commander Foster Nolan from the Navy.”
There was an exchange of pleasantries before Hail continued.
“We have all had time to look over the video Seagulls shot of the Snake Island compound. By the way, that was some great video. That is a wonderful drone you guys built.”
Parker and Lang thanked Hail.
Hail continued, “I was hoping that you had some ideas on not only egress, but also how to get to Diambu without leaving any trace that we were there.”