Hail Warning

Two Years Ago Caribbean Sea — On the Jetty Near Caracas, Venezuela

Instead of waiting five minutes before he needed to act, Afua decided to leave himself a little wiggle room. At 9:50 a.m., he set down his fishing pole, leaving the fishing line in the water. He made his way over to the driver’s seat and, without sitting down, he pulled out the dead man’s switch. Below his boat, he heard the muted sound of the mechanical latch disengaging. He assumed that the center hull of the boat had disconnected and was now resting on the rocks beneath his feet. Leaving on his tennis shoes, Afua climbed over the edge of the boat to retrieve the case. Afua had expected to end up in waist-high water. To his surprise, he dropped like a stone. His entire body was completely submerged. A moment later, he reemerged, truly stunned that the craggy rocks dropped off so quickly from the shore. He had expected to climb out of the boat, push it a few feet to one side and reach down to pick up the case below. But now, as he dog-paddled in place, unable to touch the bottom, he didn’t know how he was going to pull this off. He was wasting valuable time. To retrieve the container holding the missile and launcher, he was going to have to dive.

Afua took in a deep breath and dove underwater. His eyes stung from the saltwater and drifting silt. It was murky, and the boat was casting a dark shadow, making it much more difficult to make out shapes. Afua’s first attempt was more of a reconnaissance mission. He simply wanted to find the container and see how deep it was. But, on his first attempt, he couldn’t see anything. Afua popped out of the water like a new cork and raised his arm to his face to check the time on his waterproof watch. Three minutes had ticked by.

His second attempt to locate the case went a little better. Maybe fifteen feet under the little boat, the container had wedged itself between two huge boulders. Afua swam down to the case, gave it a hard tug, and the container broke loose from the rocks. The weight of the object was enough to hold Afua pinned to the bottom of the jetty. Underwater, with the case in his arms, he walked a few steps to the side of the boat, and one step up towards the bank, and before he ran out of air; he had to release the case. He popped back up to the surface, gasping for air. This time he didn’t check his watch. He hyperventilated for about ten seconds before diving back down. His eyes had somewhat adjusted to the saltwater, and he was able to make it quickly back down to where he had discarded the case. Knowing it might take at least one more dive to bring the package to the surface,

Afua wasted little time in picking it up, scrambling along the rocks and heading up toward the surface. With less than five feet to go, Afua ran out of air again. His lungs were burning by the time he resurfaced. He was so out of breath that he didn’t noticed a medium-sized boat that had pulled up behind his boat.

Before Afua could dive down for the third, hopefully last time, a man on the boat called out to him.

“You are not allowed to be here,” the man said in Spanish.

Completely caught off-guard, still dog-paddling, Afua turned toward the voice and saw a small Venezuelan Coast Guard boat sitting behind his even smaller launch. At first, Afua didn’t know what to say. He treaded water, until the man repeated, “Do you understand? You are not allowed to be in this location. This area is restricted.”

Afua nodded his head that he understood, and he reached up for the edge of his boat. Afua pulled half of his body out of the water and left the other half in while he clung to the side.

Still in Spanish, the Coast Guard officer asked him, “Why are you here? Why are you still in the water?” Afua shook his head and said some words in his native language of Ibibio, a dialect that he prayed the officer did not understand.

The officer was dressed in a white uniform and looked upset. Perspiration discolored the material around the man’s neck and underarms. He said in English, “You go,” and he pointed toward the open ocean.

Afua pulled himself out of the water and climbed up and over the side of his boat. He rolled into his tiny watercraft and sat in the driver’s seat. He started his boat’s outboard engine.

This time Afua repeated the words, “I go,” and he pointed out at the ocean as well.

The officer in the Coast Guard boat appeared satisfied that they had gotten their point across, and their vessel began to pull away from the jihadi’s boat. Afua watched as their boat rounded the end of the jetty and pulled out into the open water. A moment later it had disappeared behind the wall of rocks.

The second the other vessel was out of sight, Afua killed the engine and dove overboard. He wasted very little time in bringing the case to the water’s surface. It took five big steps on five big rocks, and his boat’s fake middle hull broke the surface of the water. With its ballast tanks still full of water, the case weighed about seventy pounds. Afua grunted as he heaved it up and over the bow of the boat. He allowed the case to tumble onto the floor of his boat before hefting himself back into the boat.

Moving quickly, not bothering to check his watch, Afua grabbed a screwdriver out of the glovebox and opened the latches that sealed the watertight case. He looked up to make sure that the Coast Guard ship was not coming back to check on him. Remembering everything the Russian arms dealer had taught him, Afua took out the launcher and prepped it to receive the missile. Afua’s hands were wet, and the missile was heavy. As he carefully fed the projectile into the launch tube, he was extra careful not to drop it. In his mind, Afua worked through all the settings that needed to be made to fire the weapon. He understood that he would only get one chance to make this work. If the mission was successful, his life would change forever. However, if he failed, his life would change forever — just not in a good way.

Now, with the weapon loaded and ready to fire, Afua walked between the split windshield of his boat up to the bow that was tied off to the rocks. Placing the heavy weapon on his shoulder, the jihadi stepped out onto the driest rock he could find, leaving the boat. With great care, Afua stepped from rock to rock, and he ascended toward the narrow road above him. Just before leaving the safety of the rocks, he stuck his head up for a quick look around. The road was empty. Realizing he was running out of time, Afua climbed up the remaining five feet and walked out onto the open and level surface.

Only then did he check his watch. It read 10:02 a.m.

He was still within the operational window in which he had been told to fire the weapon. He turned toward the airport across the bay. It was less than a mile away with only a blue strip of water separating him from the outbound flights. Afua steadied the weapon on his shoulder and put the metal sight up to his eye. A strong breeze was coming in off the water, and Afua wondered if the wind would have any bearing on the missile’s trajectory. Realizing it was too late to worry about such matters, Afua stood there patiently and waited.

Less than thirty seconds later, a large commercial jet left the runway. It was going to fly directly over Afua’s position on the jetty. He tracked the plane, placing the sight on the plane’s soft shiny underbelly.

He thought he should say something before pulling the trigger, something meaningful. He knew that his Boko Haram brothers would say something like Allah Akbar, which meant God is Great, but all that came out of Afua’s mouth were two English words, “Don’t miss.”