Kornev climbed the ladder’s rungs, stepped into the boat, and he halted at the steering wheel and driver’s seat. Afua joined him. Kornev pointed down at the controls, his finger centering on the dead man’s switch. A measure of cord was secured to a pin that was stuck into a hole in the dashboard. Typically, a dead man’s switch was worn by the driver of the boat. Its springy cord would be attached via Velcro around the driver’s wrist. If, for some reason, the driver was thrown from the boat, the pin would be pulled from its electrical connection, and the engine would be shut off. It was a safety measure to ensure the boat didn’t continue without its driver.
“You might think you know what that cord is for, but it isn’t what you think it is.”
Afua didn’t have a clue what the cord was used for, so he simply nodded his head in agreement. The arms dealer continued.
“If you pull this cord, the hull in the middle of the boat will fall out.”
Kornev grabbed onto the cord and gave it a light tug. The pin zinged out of the hole, and they heard a loud metallic clang from underneath the boat. Kornev went to the back of the boat and climbed back out. Afua followed.
The big blond man shimmied under the boat a few feet, until he could grab the tail end of the middle hull that was now resting on the concrete floor. After a grunt or two, Kornev slid back out and got back to his knees. Cradling the hull section in his arms, he handed it to Afua who was standing next to him. Once Kornev made it back to his feet, he took the hull section from Afua and carried it over to a wooden table. The table was about eight feet long. The hull stuck out over one end of the table an additional foot.
The Russian took out a pocket knife, and he pulled out a blade that was a screwdriver. Making sure he had Afua’s undivided attention, he used the screwdriver to remove an access plate. The plate had at least a dozen screws and ran almost the entire length of the V-shaped aluminum section. Afua heard a sucking sound when Kornev used his screwdriver to pry the plate out of its airtight seal.
“Now, there are several things I must show you about this device,” Kornev said. “First, this is the case that will hold both the missile and the missile launcher.” The case had come from a bass player, who upon selling the bass on the streets, no longer had any need for the instrument’s case. Kornev repurposed it for this mission.
The bass case was sitting on a wooden table adjacent to the one they were working on. Kornev stepped over to the table where he opened and removed the missile launch tube. Very carefully, he removed the missile from its hiding place in the bass case and walked to the table where the launcher was waiting. Slowly and cautiously, Kornev slid the missile into the front end of the launcher. He lifted the nose of the launcher and allowed gravity to do its thing. Afua and Kornev heard a
light chink as it found its home. The Russian held the fully loaded missile system in front of Afua.
“Did you see how I did that? The missile goes into the front of the launch tube,” Kornev said, pointing at the muzzle of the launcher. “Then the entire launcher, with the missile inside, gets hidden in the hull section.”
Kornev demonstrated, placing the large weapon into a foam cutout that was carved inside the hull section. He pressed the weapon system into the foam rubber; it fit perfectly. It had taken Kornev less than twenty seconds to stash the entire missile launcher into the aluminum hull section.
“I want you to try,” Kornev told Afua, pulling the launcher back out. Kornev located a missile release button, tilted the nose of the launcher down, and caught the projectile as it slid back out the front of the tube. He then set the two pieces on the table and moved out of the way.
Copying the arms dealer, move for move, Afua slowly slid the missile into the launcher. He pointed the nose of the launcher toward the ceiling and heard the metallic clank. He then carefully placed the launcher into the hull section.
“Good,” the Russian said. “Now look at this,” he said, pointing to a metal cap on the hull section. The cap was connected to a metal tank that ran down the inside of the hull section. “Water goes in here,” Kornev explained.
Kornev walked over to the wall and grabbed a black hose jumbled loosely on the floor. He bent the end of the hose so it was pinched closed before turning on the spigot. The hose came to life like a snake that had been electrocuted, flopping and wriggling on the floor. Kornev released the kink in the hose to allow the pent-up pressure which sprayed the wall. He placed the end of the hose inside the mouth of the tank and watched as it filled with water.
“See these?” Kornev said, pointing at three black boxes mounted inside the hull section next to the tank. “Those are the batteries. You do not want to get those wet, so be careful when you fill this up. Hopefully, you won’t have to mess around with any of this. But if you do, then you need to know how to set it all back up.”
As soon as the tank was full, Kornev quickly yanked the hose away from the opening. He dropped the hose, letting the water splash onto the floor. He asked one of the guards to turn off the water. He picked up the metal cap and screwed it back on the hull’s water tank.
“The batteries have enough charge to blow the ballast tank at least three or four times, so you shouldn’t have to worry about charging them. Each time you blow the ballast, you have to refill this tank.”
Afua shook his head. “Ballast tank?” he asked.
“Yeah, you see—” Kornev stopped talking, realizing that the Boko Haram jihadi was a dumbass. He didn’t understand a damn thing he was talking about. If the terrorist didn’t understand what the middle of the hull of the boat was for, he sure as hell didn’t know how it worked, or what he was supposed to do with it.
“OK, let’s start from the top,” Kornev said, anticipating a very long night.
Sea of Japan — Aboard the Hail Nucleus
Prior to the meal, Foster Nolan been escorted to a locker room. He was liberated of his combat vest and flight suit, and given a pair of thin gray sweat pants and a blue Polo shirt with the Hail Industries logo embroidered on the front pocket. A table for four had been set at the ship’s Italian restaurant. Gage Renner, Kara Ramey, Lt. Commander Foster Nolan and Marshall Hail filled the seats.
“Wow,” was the only thing he’d said since they entered the restaurant five minutes ago. He appeared hypnotized by the full-length windows. The windows were 82-inch LCD monitors that ran the entire length of one wall of the restaurant. Playing on the windows was a video taken from the inside of an Italian restaurant looking onto a city sidewalk and the passersby. Foster Nolan watched a man stroll by walking three dogs. A thick wooden vertical beam separated each of the massive display screens, so as the Italian man left one screen, he momentarily disappeared behind the wooden pillar and then reemerged in the next window. Nolan watched the man walk all the way to the end of the block before turning at the corner, or the end of the restaurant, until he was lost to sight.
“Wow,” the jet pilot said. “Who dreamt up this place, and why?”
Hail answered, “I have a lot of people aboard who don’t get a chance to leave the ship very often, so I spent a little extra Moola to make the restaurants on board special.”
“Restaurants?” Nolan asked. “You have more than one?”
The smaller man to Hail’s left, Gage Renner, responded, “There are five restaurants on board, as well as a few bars.”
“And they are all like this with the special fake windows and all?” the jet pilot asked.
The woman, Kara, if Nolan remembered her name correctly answered, “Yes, they are. Of course, if you are eating in the Asian restaurant, the videos playing on those windows are of China or Japan.”