An Act of Treason

seen was fishermen, fishing, as they had done in these waters for centuries, so the warship steamed away due south. The Asad, the Somali word for “lion,” was the mother ship that coordinated the boats and stowed the catch. The blip that represented the Italian frigate was no longer even on his screen, which meant that it was now beyond the one-hundred-mile range of the Kelvin Hughes radar. Too far to help.

Meanwhile, his target, the catch for the day, was cruising ever closer. There was too much haze to see it, but radar did not lie. A heavy sweat stained Sayid’s lightweight shirt, which stuck to him like a hot rag when he leaned back in the chair on the bridge. The sun was directly overhead, cooking the shimmering air off the coast of Somalia’s northeastern Puntland region. Members of the crew silently went about their jobs, waiting for their leader to make a decision.

The radar did not lie, but neither did the weather report. Ghedi Sayid recognized that the blistering heat was just too still and that the dark line hanging low on the horizon was the first skirmishing thundercloud of a major storm. The barometer was falling, and the satellites were showing the clouds gathering in a circular pattern. A monsoon was coming. The fishermen had been calling on the radio about heading in, but he had resisted, denying permission. That meant they would have to race for port in heavy seas if this operation was not carried out soon, and some of the smaller boats might be lost because their sides were so low to the water.

The leather-skinned Somali sighed, but no one detected it. He had been planning to take such a prize for a long time. After the international navies increased their presence off the Somali coast to prevent the hijackings for ransoms of cargo-carrying ships, Sayid gave up those attacks. All battlefields evolve, even small ones on open water, and he believed that he had come up with an answer that would change things and make the overall effort worthwhile.

A luxury yacht, a large and coddled ship that would have people aboard who were so rich that they would probably be carrying a million dollars just in spending money, was coming his way, almost asking to be stolen. He could kidnap a few of the big names off such a yacht and hide them deep in Somalia, and the ransoms would be astronomical. He was confident in his meticulous planning. All he had to do was beat the storm, outwit the naval vessels of several countries, boldly board and capture or kill everybody on the yacht, then sink the boat. It would change the paradigm of the way business was done in the hijacking trade. Ghedi Sayid would set the bloody example that luxury yachts were no longer off-limits.

He scrolled and clicked, and the picture of a handsome white yacht flashed onto his screen. British flag and owned by a billionaire industrialist. The man would either be aboard himself or would quickly pay to save his crewmen and any guests who were captured. Sayid bit his lip in anticipation. He dialed a number on his cell phone, which sent a coded message to a six-man crew standing by on the coast near the city of Eyl. The men there scrambled into a speedboat, fired up a big Mercury outboard engine, and raced off toward a designated intercept position.

Taking the Zeiss binoculars from a cushioned case, Sayid stepped to the wing of the bridge, careful not to touch the scalding metal with his bare skin. He focused along the axis where the yacht should soon appear. Speaking quietly, he said, “Well, Vagabond. Welcome to Pirate’s Alley.”

* * *

“SIR! IT LOOKS LIKE we have a bite.” The calm, clipped voice of the young man seated before an array of screens in the command center of the Vagabond drew the immediate attention of the yacht’s owner, Sir Geoffrey Cornwell.

“Put it on screen two, if you please.” Cornwell activated a lever at his right hand to propel his wheelchair around for better viewing. The image of a small fast boat trailing a V of white wakes came into view. “Range?”

“Twenty-five miles, sir. Speed of thirty knots. It has been on a straight intercept course since leaving Eyl.”

“Very well,” Sir Jeff said. “Mr. Styles. Please drop the Bird in closer to confirm who and what is aboard. Is there anything else around?”

The technician worked a toggle, and a few miles away, a tiny aircraft not much larger than a toy swooped into a low circle to allow its onboard television camera to zoom in on the pirate speedboat. “Nothing else in that threat area, sir. A fishing fleet lies off to the east. The nearest warship is the Italian frigate Espero, which is departing the zone.”

Sir Jeff smiled broadly. “Then we shall now launch the Snake, if you please.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Are you sure this thing is going to work?” Kyle Swanson leaned onto the back of Jeff’s wheelchair.

“I have no doubt of it, Gunnery Sergeant. Our Bird and Snake shall not fail.”

Swanson felt a slight ka-chunk beneath his deck shoes as somewhere below the waterline of the Vagabond a pair of doors slid apart and a flexible black object ten feet in length slithered out of the hull and swam away. “Just in case, I’m going to get a long rifle. We don’t want them closing to within RPG range.”

“Confusion to our enemies!” Jeff was in an almost playful mood.

Swanson left the amidships inner sanctum that was Sir Jeff’s electronic playground. He had not seen the old man so animated for two months. Although still unable to walk, Jeff was hollering naval orders like Nelson or Hornblower or Lucky Jack Aubrey as he orchestrated the first field test of their revolutionary laser-guided torpedo.

* * *

NOT LONG AGO, THE Vagabond had been more of a floating hospital ward, with Swanson and Cornwell as its only patients. Sir Jeff had been badly wounded when terrorists blew apart his castle in Scotland as part of a plan to overthrow the government of Saudi Arabia and steal its nuclear weapons. Swanson was wounded while tracking down the mastermind behind the attacks. The two old friends had spent weeks in recovery and painful physical therapy. Kyle was feeling back to normal, but Jeff had a long way yet to go.

Sir Jeff had retired as a colonel from the elite British Special Air Service Regiment and had gone into private business, where he discovered an unexpected ability to sniff out opportunity, then extraordinary success. He was already wealthy by the time he met Kyle Swanson, the top sniper in the U.S. Marine Corps, years ago. The quiet, solid young Marine had been loaned to him by the Pentagon as a technical adviser to help create a world-class sniper rifle they called Excalibur, the same as King Arthur’s mythical sword. The weapon proved so revolutionary that Sir Jeff was now regarded as a visionary leader in designing military technology and new weapons.

With Kyle’s real-world advice from today’s battlefields, he and Jeff were able to think ahead to what would be needed for victory in the future. The SAS colonel had named his entire holding company Excalibur Enterprises Ltd., had become a billionaire with many financial interests, and along the way had made Swanson a major shareholder with a blind trust. The Pentagon, which was their biggest customer, blessed the deal, although Kyle could not control the funds or touch the money while still on active duty.

It was nice knowing that he was a millionaire, but the money did not matter to Kyle as much as how the professional rapport, working relationship, and mutual respect had led to a strong friendship with Sir Jeff and his wife, Lady Patricia Cornwell. He considered them to be the parents he never really had. Wherever they were became Kyle’s home.

In idle times, Swanson and Cornwell always spent hours brainstorming ideas for new weapons. They agreed that this was a new age for one of the oldest and most specialized military professions, the sniper, in all his forms. The ability to take out single targets with great precision had overcome the need to obliterate entire armies with massive attacks. During their recuperation from the Saudi business, they spent hours throwing ideas around, and from that stew had emerged the concept of the Bird and Snake. The overhead drone had locked onto the pirate boat and was steering the laser-guided torpedo that was now swimming in the water.

The Vagabond had been changed during the process from being virtually a floating hospital into a unique command-and-control vessel with Sir Jeff, in his wheelchair, being the spider at the center of an inconspicuous web. Normally, the yacht could be a playground, but it was no stranger to being used to facilitate American and British special operations. The placid face of the yacht never changed, just its guts and capabilities.