“Do you like it?” Hail asked his friend, still talking to Rodgers via the drone sitting at the other end of the coffee table.
Rodgers didn’t know what to say, but he decided on, “Yeah, it’s a nice big bird.”
After all, what was one to say when given a massive falcon?
“Go open your balcony doors, and I’ll show you something very cool,” Marshall said.
“Hmm,” Rodgers hummed in the back of his throat and asked, “What I think is cool is likely very different than what you determine is cool.”
Hail laughed, “Really; this will amaze you.”
Marshall’s voice was so upbeat that it reminded Trevor of when they were young boys, and Marshall had built some sort of contraption that compacted trash or walked the dog. Or when he built an electric skateboard, and when he rewired his room to a central control panel nearly burning down his home in Guam. Marshall thought those were cool too, but Trevor never really shared the same enthusiasm for his projects. Somehow, Trevor had always been sucked up into
Marshall’s excitement and had found himself hooking up the dog for walking or collecting trash that needed compacting. Trevor Rodgers stood and walked over to the sliding glass doors that led to his sixth-story balcony. He unlatched the door and slid it opened on its track.
With a hum of propellers, the drone that Hail was using to communicate with Rodgers came to life and lifted off the coffee table. Rodgers watched as the drone flew toward him. With the LED screen still unfurled, Rodgers could still see Hail’s face displayed on the front of the machine.
“Excuse me,” Hail said, and Rodgers stepped out of the way. Hail flew past him and out to the balcony.
The balcony was not very deep. It was just wide enough to hold a square white table that had been placed between two thick plastic chairs. The furniture was perfect for either a morning coffee for two or a couple of beers after work. There certainly wouldn’t be any parties being held on Rodger’s terrace. The view wasn’t all that spectacular. It was a well-kept neighborhood, continually upgraded over the years, but Rodgers’ balcony looked across the street at a plain brick condominium.
Hail landed his black drone on the plastic table, making sure the screen was facing out toward the street so he could see Rodgers and vice versa.
Rodgers was halfway through the balcony door when Hail asked him, “Can you grab the bird and bring it out here?”
Rodgers reversed course returning into his apartment. He gently grasped the falcon. His fingers were pressed into the drone’s wings. The thumb of his right hand touched some sort of protrusion poking out from the bird’s chest, and he cautiously moved his thumb up a little higher to avoid it. He was amazed how little the bird weighed. Rodgers guessed it weighed less than two pounds. He was certain a real falcon of this size would have weighed more than three pounds.
Holding the bird out in front of him like a Ming vase, Rodgers returned to his balcony.
Hail told him, “Set it on the railing, and hold it there for a moment.”
Rodgers looked down at the bird’s metal feet and lined them with the top of the black aluminum railing. He realized if he let the bird go, it would simply fall off the balcony. It would either land on the cement floor of the balcony or on the narrow strip of grass outside.
The falcon’s movement startled Rodgers. He felt the bird come to life, and he heard something like a small electric motor whirl inside the bird. He saw the bird’s feet ratchet open and the claws begin to extend. The thick back toes of the falcon
curled underneath the railing, while its front claws slid over the leading edge of the railing. Then both sets of toes pulled in tight.
“OK,” Hail said. “You can let go now. It’s got a good grip on the railing. Please stand back.”
Rodgers let go of the bird slowly as if he had just finished balancing a basketball on the end of a broom handle. He kept his hand extended in case the bird started to fall from the railing, but it made no such movement. Rodgers lowered his hands and stepped back until his back was against the glass doors.
“What now?” Rodgers asked Hail.
“This,” Hail said.
Rodgers saw a hot stream of fire shoot out from under the bird’s tail. The flare was followed by a loud hiss of a small rocket engine. Its metal feet let go of the railing, and the falcon shot up into the air at an 80-degree angle. It happened so fast Rodgers’ hands flew to his face to cover his eyes and the bird vanished into thin air.
The FBI director slowly lowered his hands from his face, and everything had returned to normal. There had been no rocket exhaust, loud noises and now there was no falcon. It had cleared the tallest of the buildings on Q Street and disappeared into the city landscape. It took Rodgers a moment to realize what had just happened.
Angrily, he asked Hail, “What in the hell was that all about? Why didn’t you warn me?”
“That was the surprise I told you about. I mean, would you have set the bird on the railing if you knew that it was powered by a rocket engine and was going to take off?”
“No, probably not.”
“I didn’t think so, but it was important to get that bird airborne. If not, I didn’t think I would have an opportunity to meet with the president this morning.”
“I really don’t understand anything you just said,” Rodgers told Hail. “What does launching a rocket-powered falcon have to do with meeting the president?”
“I tell you what,” Hail said. “I’m kind of in a crunch for time right now, but I will give you a full update when I return.”
“When do you get back?” Rodgers questioned. “Where are you going?”
“I told you; I have to meet with the president,” Hail said.
Rodgers watched helplessly as the video drone Hail was on began to hum, lifting from the table. The black drone hovered over the railing and turned back toward Rodgers.
Hail smiled at his friend.
“Thanks again, Trev. I owe you one,” Hail said sincerely.
The thin flexible video screen began rolling back onto the stick supporting it, and even before the stick began to rotate into its flight position, Hail was already flying toward the White House.
As Rodgers watched the drone disappear over the tops of the neighboring condominiums, no less than three FBI security men broke down his front door and burst into his living room with guns drawn, apparently having heard the commotion.
Two Years Ago
Boat Ramp at Tarkwa Bay — Lagos, Nigeria
The next point of contact for Afua Diambu was anchored three miles out in the Gulf of Guinea. The young jihadi saw the boat long before he pulled up behind it.
After a big breakfast at McDonald’s in Lagos, Victor Kornev had driven Afua and his new small tri-hull boat to a small boat ramp in Tarkwa Bay. The bay was a good point to launch a boat because it opened directly into the Gulf of Guinea. No larger than a small fishing boat, Victor Kornev had concerns about the small boat making it that far out to sea, especially in bad weather. But the hot day offered very little wind and the ocean’s waters were calm.
Afua had waved to Kornev as the small boat pulled off the trailer, but the Russian had not returned the wave. Instead, the arms dealer simply stood there, waiting to hear the boat’s engine catch before getting back into the banged-up Peugeot. Kornev pulled the car forward to drag the trailer out of the water.
As Afua guided the boat into the deep water of Tarkwa Bay, he looked back to notice that Kornev had stopped his car. The arms dealer was watching Afua from his car’s side mirror. Afua waved again; it was met with no reaction from the Russian. Kornev drove off into the dense trees and disappeared.
Tarkwa Bay was 1000 meters of glassy water before it merged with the Gulf of Guinea. Kornev had informed Afua that the boat awaiting his arrival was very large and painted blue over white. He had indicated Afua should have no problems seeing the yacht anchored a mile from shore. The name of the boat was the Nigerian Princess. As with most luxury vessels, its name was written in English on the stern of the ship.