An Act of Treason Read online

  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.”

  * * *

  “S IR ! I T 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.

  * * *

  N OT 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.

  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.

  * * *

  A BOARD THE A SAD, G HEDI 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.

  * * *

  S IR J EFF 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.

  * * *

  I N THE DISTANCE , G HEDI 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

  J AVON A NTHONY 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 wetness splattered on his forehead.

  The truck slowed and came to a stop. Anthony heard the mutter and clatter of an approaching crowd as people came to the vehicle and looked into the back, a sea of hostile faces. The kid stood up and pointed at the bound soldiers. “Hallo!” he blurted out, using the only English word he knew. The phrase rippled back until the whole mob was chanting in unison as if giving a football cheer. Hallo… Hallo… Hallo! They understood that the word meant the Americans had arrived. A few men reached in and punched Anthony. The truck began rocking on its tired springs, and a few rocks sailed into the bed and rattled against the metal.

  The tailgate dropped with a clatter, and hands grabbed Anthony’s ankles and pulled him out of the truck, hurling him to the hard dirt and knocking the wind from him. Anthony gasped, trying to suck in some air while being mauled. He thought his life was about to end in being torn apart by a screaming mob, but more guards arrived and pushed the civilians away. They stood him up on wobbly legs. A moment later, both he and Jake Henderson were hauled away by the guards. They were dragged up a slight incline for about a hundred yards, then propelled through a large door and into a small mud-walled building with a dirt floor. The door slammed shut and was locked. Outside, down the hill, the mob howled in derision, “Hallo!”

  * * *

  T HE NAME OF M UHAMMED Waleed was known far beyond his mountain camp in Waziristan. He had spent his entire life battling the enemies of Pakistan and Islam. Now in his fifties, he had ascended from being a naive but extremely bright product of the madrasah, or religious school, in his hometown to being an outstanding college student in France and then to fighting his bloody way upward to take over leadership of the Taliban. Though it had been on the verge of extinction after the American-led coalition threw it out of Afghanistan, Waleed had created a safe haven in the mountains of Pakistan and reorganized the force, unit by unit, and brought it back to strength, ready to fight again, and no longer just in Afghanistan. It seemed that his fierce eyes could see everywhere.

  Waleed had learned of the arrival of the two American prisoners almost as soon as the trucks had thre
aded through the rugged border from Afghanistan and entered the long valley that emptied into Pakistan’s tribal areas, the desolate Waziristan. When the trip terminated at the village of Gilgot, they were still out on the high plain, about eight miles from the border and the same distance from the major town of Wana. That was only fifty miles from his stronghold. Waleed had given advance approval of the raid and the murder of the American solider, but the kidnapping of the other two took him by surprise. Bringing the Americans back into Pakistan represented a threat to his overall plans. They should have been killed in Afghanistan, where open conflict raged.

  The United States could be counted on to apply immense pressure for the government in Islamabad to rescue and retrieve those soldiers. Waleed summoned his advisers, the council of longtime comrades he called the Wise Ones, and asked, “What should we do about this situation in Gilgot?”

  “Once more, the instigator was Fariq, nephew of Mustafa Khan, the village headman,” replied one senior counselor. “He led the attack team into Afghanistan and helped capture the Americans. For unknown reasons, he decided to keep them alive and bring them home. His proud uncle now plans to honor him with a celebration.”

  “Fariq is an ambitious boy,” observed Waleed.

  “Very ambitious,” agreed the counselor. “Perhaps too much so.”

  “I believe those American prisoners will not survive long in Gilgot. That will certainly draw more attention to this area by the Americans and the other Crusader countries. The prisoners could be of better value to us in the future.”

  “Yes, Leader. On your word, we can go and take them. It would be no trouble.”

  Waleed crossed his arms and lowered his head until his bushy beard pressed against his chest while he thought things through. “We need to keep Mustafa Kahn happy, too. He safeguards the area well for us. Please let him know that I send him congratulations and the blessings of Allah, the most merciful, for having such a brave young fighter in his family. Offer him twenty-five thousand American dollars for the soldiers.”