An Act of Treason

Kyle Swanson was at the rail on the port side of the main deck, his hands lightly holding their first creation, the Excalibur sniper rifle. A weapon of extraordinary accuracy with a scope of pure magic, it already was raising the standards for precision combat. He felt a slight tingle of pre-battle nerves, and hoped that he would get a couple of shots at the pirates. He no longer needed medicine; he needed some action.

* * *

ABOARD THE A SAD, GHEDI Sayid gave the signal that began the second phase of his operation, and the fishing fleet broke loose from its normal cluster around the mother ship and fanned into a long line across the projected path of the oncoming yacht. The white vessel was unaware of any threat and was maintaining a straight course. Sayid knew that when the approaching speedboat was spotted, the yacht’s captain would finally recognize the danger and go to full speed to run away from the immediate threat. That would lead him directly toward the line of fishing boats.

Sayid was a pirate, a seaman, a terrorist, and a technology geek who allowed the computers and electronics to help him predict what was going to happen. He believed in the old Somali saying Aqoon la’aani waa iftiin la’aan-Being without knowledge is to be without light. That was why he had remained so successful in such a risky business.

“Put our boats in the water,” Sayid commanded. A crane on the deck whined into life, and within five minutes two inflatable Zodiacs were pulled from the hold, with Yamaha F250B outboard motors already attached. When they were lowered, a squad of six pirates scrambled into each boat but did not cast off. Only when the yacht made its fateful turn toward the fishing fleet would the Zodiacs tear out of their hiding place behind the Asad and close in from the sides. The yacht, surrounded, would either surrender or be sunk.

It was just a matter of waiting a few more minutes now. Sayid went back to the computer and the radar. Nothing had changed.

* * *

SIR JEFF TAPPED HIS fingers and stared at the video being transmitted back to the Vagabond in real time from the circling Bird, the lightweight spy vehicle that was no bigger than a seagull. The pictures showed men with guns and rocket-propelled grenades crouched forward in the speedboat. No doubt about it. “Light them up, Mr. Styles.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Styles pressed a button that signaled the Bird to activate its laser beam and lock onto the heat of the straining outboard engines. “Laser on.”

“Feed it to the Snake.”

“Aye, sir. Snake confirms.”

On deck, Kyle Swanson had the Excalibur out of its protective sheath and resting on a stack of folded pads as he lay sprawled in the prone position, locked and loaded, eye to the scope. He could clearly see the small boat churning through the dark waters. Still too far for a shot.

The Snake had been wiggling into position since leaving the Vagabond, trailing a hair-thin aerial that picked up the signals from the circling Bird. When it reached a point directly ahead of the oncoming pirate boat, it slowed its little battery-powered motor to a minimum speed, adjusted for buoyancy, and hovered almost motionless just beneath the surface of the water. Two small compartments on its back opened, and a pair of round canisters floated up. Then the Snake powered up again and swam away to a safe distance. The canisters popped up just as the boat roared overhead.

There was a brilliant flash of white light and a series of thudding explosions, and the speedboat was suddenly covered with a thick veil of smoke. The cloud turned a brilliant orange, and a sticky mist fell over the men and the vessel, accompanied by a horrible stench that made the pirates double over, coughing, trying to draw fresh air into their lungs. The man piloting the boat swerved erratically to get free from the stinking fog and slowed his power, not knowing what had happened. One man had jumped overboard in fright and was screaming for help.

“Ha!” yelped Sir Jeff. “Finish it now, Mister Syles!”

“Aye, sir.”

The Snake went on the hunt again, slithering fast and silent until it came directly beneath the now-stationary target. Another canister popped free and erupted into a fireworks show worthy of a Chinese New Year celebration, and the remaining pirates thought they were being swept into the spirit world as sparkles, machine-gun-fast detonations, and blinks of flame rose from the water around them. The Snake itself then rammed into the spinning propeller, tangled into it, and self-destructed with a small charge.

Through his sniper scope, Swanson saw the back of the boat rise out of the water when it was blown off. Then the craft flipped over and the rest of the men were hurled into the water.

“Bridge. We are done. Let’s go home.” Sir Jeff rolled from his control panel to a broad window and watched with pleasure as the pirates flailed in the water and their destroyed attack boat sank. The Vagabond accelerated into a high-speed turn, went to full speed, and departed the area the way it had come, with its proud, sharp bow cutting through the waves, almost as if mocking the pirates being left behind.

* * *

IN THE DISTANCE, GHEDI Sayid wiped sweat from his brow, his eyes wide in disbelief. His entire plan had evaporated in an instant. He’d thought he had all the knowledge that he needed, but realized that he had greatly underestimated his opponent. Now a new set of questions arose to bedevil him. Could he outrun that Italian frigate that was sure to return and investigate the disturbance? Could he beat the approaching storm? Would his men trust him anymore, or would he be dead tomorrow, with some other captain stepping forward to capitalize on his failure? He barked a string of orders to get things in motion, then sat down hard in his chair, with no idea what had just happened.

3

GILGOT

PAKISTAN

JAVON ANTHONY COULD SEE the dim dawn sky. His wrists and ankles were tied with tape, and his arms were stretched and bound behind him, but he was neither blindfolded nor gagged. He lay in the open bed of a Toyota pickup truck, his breath ragged and raspy, as the vehicle jolted along a rutted track. Anthony groaned and shifted position to get more comfortable. Jake Henderson lay beside him. A bearded man sitting on the edge of the truck bed noticed the sergeant was awake and kicked Anthony in the head and on the shoulders. The kicks were vicious but without much power, since the man wore leather sandals and not boots. Sergeant Anthony moaned and rolled with the impact and decided to at least pretend to be unconscious again. He wanted water. That could wait. He heard the guard laugh as he delivered a final kick.

The stutter of gunfire and joyful yells shook him fully awake an hour later. The guard was standing now, shooting his AK-47 into the empty sky. Other rifles and pistols joined the shooting, and the cheering grew. Anthony could not sit up but could see the edges of some buildings. The guard reached down and, with a call of delight, swept up a young boy who had stretched out his hand. The kid landed nimbly in the truck. He was about ten years old, and his eyes opened wide when he saw the sprawled forms of Anthony and Henderson. “Hallo?” he asked with a grin, poking Anthony in the thigh with a finger. “Hallo?” Then the boy spat in the sergeant’s face. The glob of