by John Ringo
“It’s not very large—perhaps twenty to twenty-five feet long. It is moving at approximately forty miles per hour on a heading of zero one five degrees. Open ocean that way. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“The Kildar will not be pleased that someone managed to escape the perimeter.” Vanner hit his transmit button. “Mal, this is . . . Simon . . .”
* * *
“—of course I want the cigarette brought around . . . no, Badger and I will handle this one personally . . . Roger that,” Mike said.
Still tracking the various Keldara teams’ progress, Adams turned to find Mike wearing a shit-eating grin.
“Feel like doing a bit of boating tonight?” the Kildar asked.
The master chief raised an eyebrow in unspoken query.
“Apparently some pirate with more guts than brains is trying to leave our op still breathing.”
Adams’ other eyebrow raised as he slowly shook his head. “You were just dying for a chance to take that sucker out, weren’t you?”
Mike shrugged. “I’m not going to deny it. I had been looking forward to seeing what the riceburners could do out here, but damned if we could find any. Ah well . . .”
Five minutes later, Mike was at the helm of a ’97 38-foot Fountain Fever named Red Hot, with the rare twin Merc 525 SC engines and a new Hardin exhaust. He’d picked it up cheap through the same liquidator in the Philippines who’d supplied the trawler and the training freighter. After a thorough search to make sure there were no drugs hidden onboard, they had been using it as a pleasure craft on the typically glass-smooth ocean.
Now he was cruising at sixty miles an hour through the clear but dark night while Adams navigated their intercept course. The FLIRs eliminated the issue of vision, other than adjusting to maintain a constant on the horizon. They had two Keldara aboard, Vil Mahona and Danes Devlich, both of whom had also gone along on the Florida op, and could handle the boat in a pinch. The only real problem was that Mike was motoring through waters that were charted, but not known to him personally. Running aground on a reef out here could be not just embarrassing, but fatal. The sharks here were both belligerent and numerous, the apex of a vicious food chain that wouldn’t mind chowing on humans if they got the chance.
Mike had left cleanup of the island to the Keldara teams already ashore. He had also notified Vanner to get the yacht in gear and follow them. However, it wouldn’t arrive on scene for another hour at least, and they were going to catch up with the pirates well before then.
At least the boat rode like a dream, slicing through the calm water and responding deftly to the wheel. After the pounding he’d taken on the Atlantic during the Florida mission, Mike had almost forgotten the sensation of running calm water with the wind in his hair.
“Mal, this is Simon.”
“Go, Simon.”
“You are approximately seven hundred meters away from the target. We grabbed a UAV shot of the boat, and they have some interesting-looking cargo on board. These guys probably unassed with the really good stuff.”
“Are you suggesting we should take them alive if possible?”
“The thought had come up, especially if they can give us any information on where that box came from or how they got it.”
“Works. Will let you know how it turns out.” Mike turned to Adams. “Our runners are trying to leave with something interesting. Try to take at least one alive.”
“Roger that. They should be visible near the horizon due north,” Adams shouted.
Even as he said that, Mike spotted movement on the horizon and opened up the throttle, making the cigarette boat surge forward.
“Got ’em. I am a leaf on the wind . . .”
“Wrong character, dude.”
* * *
Yeung Tony pounded the arm of his chair as he watched his island hideout shrink toward the horizon behind him. Everything gone, all in a few minutes!
The worst part was that he didn’t even know who had done this to him—but he was damn sure gonna find out. No one destroyed his operation and sent him running into the night without paying for it!
The whore was piloting the boat while Tony and his lieutenant scanned for signs of pursuit. She had indicated that she could handle it when he’d asked with his pistol, leaving him and his man free to watch the surrounding ocean.
Tony’s gaze returned to the olive-green box on the floor of the twenty-five-foot boat, which he had anchored among the huge mangroves that grew on the island’s north side, perfectly camouflaging it. They’d carried the box along a hidden trail he had carved out himself, narrowly missing another team that had been coming in from the west side, lead by a giant, masked man dressed in black with a huge fucking gun in his hands. Seeing him had let Tony know that whoever had come for him and his crew definitely wasn’t local, which puzzled him. Who the fuck are those guys? Private ship security out for payback? Mercenaries hired by the Indonesian government?
“Pemimpin!” Yeung’s man, who had also been watching the island through a pair of night-vision binoculars, pointed due south. “Kami yang diikuti!”
Grabbing the glasses from the other man, Tony scanned the waters to the south and saw a larger boat rapidly approaching. “Taik!” He tossed the binoculars back and grabbed his AK-47. “Faster!”
Their boat leaped ahead, but it was obvious that they weren’t going to outrun their pursuers. No matter, Tony thought as he knelt at the rear of the crew compartment and waited for their enemy to come within range. Time to make the fuckers that destroyed my life pay!
* * *
“Got movement on the target.” Adams had his M4 aimed at the boat about three hundred meters away. “I think they’ve spotted us.”
“In that case.” Mike throttled back a bit and readied the one million candlepower spotlight. “Vil, disable their engines.”
The Keldara sighted on the stern of the boat with his M4 and squeezed the trigger. Three rounds smacked into it, and the engines immediately began to miss, then died a few seconds later.
Shouting and automatic weapons fire began coming from the pirates’ boat, but Mike quickly swung them out of range of the AKs. “We don’t really need another boat right now, I suppose.”
“Especially one without a working engine,” Adams replied.
“Anyone here speak Chinese?” Mike shrugged when they all shook their heads. “Didn’t think so. I don’t even think Anastasia does. Simon?”
“Yes, Mal?”
“Give me a short, phonetic command to surrender in Chinese and Korean.”
There was a brief pause before Vanner relayed the commands in both languages. Mike picked up a megaphone.
“Drop your weapons and surrender, or we will open fire!” He repeated it in Korean, and got another volley in their general direction as the only reply.
“Now they’re pissing me off.” Mike grabbed his M4. “Master Chief, Vil, Danes, let’s see what we all can do to persuade the good folks over there to surrender. Remember, try to take at least one of them alive.”
“With pleasure,” Adams replied as he sighted in on the other boat. “Purple doo-rag.” He squeezed the trigger, and three hundred yards away, the man with his head covered by a purple kerchief dropped. “Only wounded. Swear.”
“Okay, you wanna play?” Mike said as he took aim. “Receiver of the AK held by the man next to him.” He held the M4 steady, exhaled, and fired. The loud cursing drifted over the water to them as the man found himself holding a useless hunk of metal and wood.
Over the next few minutes, the four shooters carefully and precisely wounded the opposition while taking exactly no successful return rounds. They followed this up by putting several holes into the boat’s hull. This was more difficult than it appeared, as it took a few rounds to insure that the hull was penetrated at the correct angle to let water in. The boat was listing to port when the two bloodied men and what looked like a young woman held up their hands and allowed the Kildar’s boat to pull alongside.
&n
bsp; The three pirates were brought aboard, thoroughly frisked, and their hands and feet secured with zip-ties. Mike had the two Keldara haul the mysterious green box aboard as well, and left the damaged boat to sink into the vast depths of the Pacific Ocean.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Now this is interesting.”
Mike was clustered with Adams, Vanner, Greznya, Vil and Danes around the strange green box.
“Anybody seen anything like it before?”
“It’s a green rugged conditions shipping case,” Adams said. “Seen a million of them in my time.”
“Well, duh,” Mike replied. “What I don’t get is why there’s no markings on it at all. That should mean it’s not military, since they stamp things every which way. But it screams high-level military hardware of some kind.” Mike bent over, examining a pair of odd, round holes, one on the upper left and one in the upper right corner of the front of the case. He was pretty sure those were the lock mechanisms, but there was no identifying name or any real way to get an idea of what they were up against. “I don’t remember any keys. Adams?”
“I’m getting old but not that old,” the former SEAL said. “No keys.”
“Where’s Creata?” Vanner asked Greznya.
“Off-watch.”
“I think we’re going to need her expertise.” Creata, also known as Mouse, was one of the smallest Keldara women. Out of all of Vanner’s intel girls, she was the best at figuring out any sort of lock or device, mechanical or otherwise. She was also a very efficient killer when necessary. Mike had found that out during the Albanian op, when he’d found her standing over a thug she had sliced in half with the laser drill she had been using. Creata had blown his head off, then gone back to popping the safe door without missing a beat.
“I will get her.” Greznya disappeared below deck.
Mike radioed Yosif. “Inara Leader, this is Kildar, what’s your sitrep, over?”
“Inara Leader to Kildar, perimeter is secure. We have captured eighteen tangos, with forty-four KIA. Three wounded, none killed on our side. Team Jayne is sweeping the rest of the island for anyone hiding, over.”
“Roger that, good work. Police all weapons and collect anything recoverable, then set charges for complete demo and standby for further orders.”
“Roger, Mal.”
By the time Mike had finished his conversation, Creata was kneeling in front of the box, with a miniature borescope in hand. She threaded the end into one of the holes and nodded.
“The box is secured with two disk tumbler locks. They are most likely Abloys, or, considering where we are, possibly Solexes.”
“What’re those?” Adams asked.
Creata straightened up, took the position of “parade rest,” cleared her throat and looked into the distance.
“A disc tumbler lock or Abloy Disklock is a lock composed of slotted rotating detainer discs,” Creata stated, didactically. “Instead of pins that are manipulated by a key, these contain a series of small metal disks in a row. Each disk is cut in a distinct pattern so that part of it, anywhere from ninety to as much as two hundred seventy degrees, is missing. When the proper key, which is cut on two different axes, is inserted and turned, it rotates the disks like the tumblers of a safe, lining them up correctly and opening the lock. Because there are no springs, the lock cannot be bumped. It also cannot be picked by normal means, as there is no way to access and manipulate the disks without a special tool.”
“Which you have, I trust?” Mike asked, trying not to grin. Nielson had been cracking down on the military etiquette lately and all the Keldara were going around like brand new jarhead nuggets. Mike figured it kept the colonel happy and didn’t seem to be interfering in operations.
Creata cocked her head as she regarded the Kildar.
“It would not do much good at home, now would it?”
Mike grinned. “Absolutely not.”
“I have not had opportunity to work live on one of these yet. I’ve had the class but that is different. What I do know is that they take a long time. Best to bring it downstairs, where I can work undisturbed.”
“Vil, Danes, you heard the lady. Move it out,” Mike said. “When you’re done, start going over your AARs with the master chief.”
“And what will you be doing in the meantime?” Adams asked.
Mike’s lips peeled back in a wolfish grin. “I’m going to go have a chat with those pirates to find out what they know about what they stole. Vanner, I’ll need translation capability.”
The intel chief hefted his Toughbook laptop. “I figured you would.”
* * *
On the rear deck, Mike studied the three prisoners. Each had been secured to chairs, their hands and feet zip-tied to the metal arms and legs. Some kind soul had even treated their wounds.
“Let’s see . . .” He pointed at the woman. “Prostitute, I’m guessing.” He switched to the halting Chinese Vanner had prepped for him. “Speak English?”
Shaking her head, the woman let loose a stream of rapid-fire Cantonese; at least, Vanner assured him that’s what she was speaking. His laptop recorded her words and parsed them into cohesive, if a little disjointed, English that Vanner fed to him.
“Working near Pemangkat . . . hired to work on island for a few days . . . attacked by base . . . wait a minute, base was attacked by gunmen. He—” She nodded at the man in the purple doo-rag, who scowled and looked away, “—made me go with him,” Vanner reported.
“Why were you piloting the boat?” Mike asked.
“He say he shoot me if I do not.”
“Okay.” Mike drew his pistol and pointed it at her face. “What do you think I’ll do to you if you don’t tell me what I want to know?” He sighed, lowered the pistol and looked at Vanner as there didn’t seem to be a translation. “Hello?”
“Working on it,” Vanner said just as the laptop spit out a string of Cantonese. “Oops.”
“What?” Mike snapped.
“I think it just said, ‘Your dog is a fruit.’ Hang on . . .” There was another stream of Cantonese and he nodded. “There. Got it. Gah. I hate Chinese. ‘Of the moment are considerations of future actions of a negative form.’ Seriously?”
The girl looked away from the .45’s muzzle, which must have seemed huge, and spoke even faster.
“I swear . . . that is all I know.”
“Don’t have a huge amount of street cred in Southeast Asia.” He holstered his sidearm and walked over to the shot caller. “Guess we’ll have to improvise.” A part of him regretted the necessity, another, darker part him did not.
“You have no idea who I am, do you?” he asked the pirate leader.
The guy spat a strange language back at him.
“What’s he saying?”
“Just a moment.” Vanner tapped keys. “Looks like he’s Malaysian. He’s said, ‘I don’t know what you are talking about . . . you Americans . . . This is illegal . . . You cannot do this to me . . . ’ Pretty much repeating variations of the same stuff.”
“Yeah, too bad no one here gives a shit about what I’m going to do to you in the next few minutes.” Mike walked over to a toolbox and took out a claw hammer, tucking it into the back of his shorts. Hauling a small, study metal table with him, he went back to the man and set the table down next to his chair. Flipping out his lock blade, Mike cut the pirate’s right hand free. He slammed it down on the table, then pressed the blade of the knife to the man’s wrist, holding it diagonally, so if the guy moved he would slash his veins open. “I know you can’t understand me, but I’m sure you can grasp the concept of holding your arm really still. Vanner, give me, ‘where did you get the green box?’”
The only answer he received was the man spitting in his face.
Mike tore off the man’s shirt with his free hand and wiped his cheek. Dropping the filthy shirt, he drew the hammer and smashed it down on the pirate’s pinky finger. The pirate screamed in agony and whipped his hand out from under the blade, scraping skin and
opening a long slash as he cradled it to his chest.
“One down, nine to go,” Mike said. “Translate that.”
* * *
Breaking the rest of the fingers on the leader’s hand elicited no new information. It had, however, put him into shock by the time Mike started working on his palm. It did have the desired effect on their other male captive. He was now leaning over to get as far away as he could from his maimed leader and the crazy American working him over. For now, Mike was content to let the poor bastard sit there and think about what would happen to him when it was his turn.
The woman was more of a mystery. She sat with her head down, eyes closed. Mike had let her be for now; he knew she could hear what was going on.
He tossed the bloody hammer onto the small table. “This guy’s done for now. Get a medic out here to treat him and clean this up. Make sure he stays alive.”
“Hey, Kildar, check this out.” Vanner was sitting behind his laptop with the monitor facing away from the other two prisoners.
Mike walked over. “What you got?”
Vanner kept his voice low as he replied. “While you were busy, I put my tweaked voice stress lie-detector program through both of the conversations you just had. The meat there—” He waved at the slumped pirate. “—he’s telling the truth, he doesn’t know shit about shit. The girl, on the other hand, I’ve gotten several hits off her that tell me she’s hiding something.”
“No shit?”
“I’m not sure what it is, but there’s definitely more to her than she’s telling.”
“Two mysteries in one night? And here I thought our little training cruise was going to be fairly straightforward.” Mike straightened to regard the Chinese woman. “She looks like she might even clean up well. I’d rather not leave any marks on someone who may be sticking around, yet I want to know what she knows.” He tapped his cheek as he pondered, then snapped his fingers. “Water, water, everywhere; nor any drop to drink.”
