Hail Warning

Two Years Ago Atlantic Ocean — Aboard the Nigerian Princess

Days turned into weeks as the Nigerian Princess slowly made its way across the Atlantic. As time passed, Obano became less preoccupied with the notion that Afua was going to kill them, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was less paranoid. Something was different with this crossing.

During the trip from Nigeria to Venezuela, the jihadi had not been particularly talkative or congenial, but he had been semi-social. Afua had taken his meals with the Obanos in the main dining room, and he had made a minimal degree of small talk. But now, per Afua’s request, Mrs. Obano was instructed to deliver his meals to his stateroom. Hours later, Essie would see the empty tray sitting outside Afua’s door on the floor, normally only half-eaten. And as the days trickled by, the tall Nigerian became even more withdrawn and laconic.

The lack of conversation, unto itself, wasn’t necessarily a telltale sign letting them know the nature of the man’s psyche. It wasn’t as if the Obanos had a great deal to discuss with a terrorist. There weren’t many topics for civilians to discuss with a person who had killed, raped and pillaged for a living. Individuals so pent up with rage and venom that were preoccupied with thoughts about killing other people usually didn’t spend their “free time” attending sports events, watch television, and most certainly didn’t go to movies. This limited conversational dialogue. Discussion with Afua, prior to completing the mission focused on mission elements that needed to be discussed. But now that the mission was over, brief discussions were unnecessary. Isaac had never told Essie why Afua was on the boat, but she had been with her husband long enough to understand that many of his business practices were shady, to say the least. She knew her best course of action was to look the other way and keep her nose out of Isaac’s business.

As the yacht closed in on the coast of Nigeria, Isaac Obano noted that Afua had begun sitting on the bow of the Nigerian Princess cradling the huge Barrett sniper rifle. Isaac surmised Afua was waiting for a reappearance of the pirates they had encountered on the first crossing. He would sit there for hours, at times all day, with nothing but the rifle and a large bottle of water. He would stare off into the distance.

So far, no pirates had attempted to take over the yacht. The trip across the Atlantic had gone off without a hitch. The weather had been divine and they experienced nothing but calm seas and warm sunshine. In stark contrast, dark and menacing cold fronts filled the interior of the yacht for the entirety of their return

trip. Isaac Obano was still suffering nightmares and had trouble sleeping. His mood was noticeably gloomier than it had been on the initial voyage. He had to make a concerted effort to act upbeat when he talked with his wife. There was no sense in drawing her into his own little mental hell. Did she know they had been accomplices in the downing of the airplane? Obano didn’t believe so. If she knew, she pretended they had done nothing except enjoy a wonderful vacation aboard a luxury yacht. Her demeanor was still upbeat and vivacious.

When the Nigerian Princess finally pulled into the harbor in Lagos, several of Afua’s men were at the dock waiting for him to arrive.

Before his mission had begun, it had been determined that there would be no electronic communications between Afua and his Boko Haram sect because it was too easy for communications to be intercepted. That would have jeopardized the mission. But a day before arriving back in Lagos, Afua had called ahead for his men to pick him up.

Other than that brief phone call — Afua’s first time he contacted his men — he remained silent and stoic. He looked at the men on the dock and showed no emotion. In the mass of the Nigerians, there was a white man also waiting. It was the big Russian, Kornev. Whereas Afua’s men wore jungle fatigues, Kornev wore a polo shirt and shorts. He couldn’t have stood out more if he had been wearing Alaskan clothing.

Afua threw ropes down to his men, and Obano began operating the winch to lower the gangway. Once the ship had been tied off, its engines silenced and the stairs set in place, Afua disembarked he walked into the center of his men. They greeted him with celebratory pats on his back, shaking his hand. When the accolades died down, Afua greeted Kornev, who had been patiently waiting for him.

They shook hands, and the Russian began talking. “Welcome home. I assume everything operated correctly, and there were no problems?”

“No problems,” Afua said flatly.

The jihadi looked around and asked, “Where is Iniabasi? I was sure he would be here to greet me.”

Afua scanned his men, looking for his leader.

“About that,” Kornev told him in a voice that was tainted with remorse. “Mohammad Mboso died while you were on your mission.”

“What?” Afua asked.

“He got sick while you were gone and was admitted to the hospital, but there was nothing they could do for him. While he was in the hospital, he died of a heart attack.”

Kornev, who had spent very little time with Afua, thought he looked upset. But he was very hard to read.

Afua’s men were still clustered around the pier. Kornev knew that most of the men understood some English. Therefore, those within earshot understood what he had just told Afua.

Afua appeared to be stunned into silence.

Kornev spoke again.

“That would make you the senior Boko Haram soldier, making you next in line in terms of succession. Now you are their new leader.”

His men began clapping, hooting and jumping around on the dock.

Afua didn’t join them in the celebration. Instead, he inquired, “Where was Iniabasi buried?”