Kalashnikovs. That meant his men had control of the target ship.
Lemat threw a grapple, the line to which was also connected to a rope ladder. Crewmen already aboard the target freighter hauled the line up and pulled the rope ladder with it. Wijeya used this to ascend, planting his feet on the deck of his prize. His attack crews were already rounding up the enemy sailors. A cluster of prisoners stood on the deck. Mhusa, with his AK-47, glowered at them. A nearby pile of captured rifles showed that most were bolt-action Mausers. There were a few ancient Russian rifles mixed in, and one or two M-1 carbines. A few clips of ammunition were scattered among the pile. The poor sailors had not had much with which to work. They had been no match for Wijeya’s men.
Mhusa separated an older man from the group of prisoners and shoved him forward. “This is their captain,” he said. “His name is Gable.”
“Take your hands off me!” said Captain Gable. “This is a violation of maritime law!”
Wijeya stood in front of Captain Gable. He reached behind his back and withdrew the machete from its scabbard. “There is no law here,” he said. “There is only strength.” He motioned to Mhusa, who forced Gable to kneel. To the Liberian, Wijeya said, “Lean him forward. I want a clear shot at his neck.”
“What?” Gable protested. “You can’t be serious.”
“Kill the others,” Wijeya ordered. There was a sudden thunderous report as two of Wijeya’s men opened up with their automatic Kalashnikovs, murdering the survivors among Gable’s crew. The dead prisoners fell to the deck on top of one another. The spreading pool of blood quickly reached Wijeya’s boots.
“Wait,” Gable said. “Wait!”
Wijeya raised the machete. “No survivors,” he repeated.
“There’s no need for that!” pleaded Gable. “You don’t…I mean, we can work something out! Ransom, yes? My company would probably pay a ransom. You don’t have to—”
“Yes,” said Wijeya. “I do.”
The razor-sharp blade of the machete sang downward.
CHAPTER ONE
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Barbara Price, Stony Man Farm’s mission controller, pushed a lock of honey-blond hair from her eyes as she climbed out from under the briefing-room conference table. Examining her tight slacks for dust, she brushed her hands across her thighs and looked to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman. Kurtzman was sitting in his wheelchair, looking at her expectantly.
“Well?” he said.
“Let ’er rip,” Price stated.
Kurtzman nodded and pressed a button on the control box in the surface of the table. He had spent the past few days wiring up new, higher-resolution, flat-screen monitors for the walls of the briefing room. Tasks such as these were among the hundreds of behind-the-scenes undertakings that Kurtzman and his cybernetics team fulfilled in support of the Farm’s missions. While Kurtzman’s upper body was massive and he could easily have pulled himself under the table to make the necessary connections, Price had offered to do it for him, if only to save him time.
At Kurtzman’s touch, the wall screens switched on, displaying a test pattern.
“Well, that looks good,” said Price. “We should be ready when Hal calls for the briefing.”
“Yeah,” Kurtzman agreed. “I just want to—” He stopped. One by one, the wall screens switched from the test pattern to the image of a rounded, purple cartoon monster eating a lollipop. As Price watched, amazed, the monster began to find its way through a series of mazes bearing math problems. At the end of each passageway, it devoured another piece of candy.
“What in the world?” Price asked.
“Gadgets.” Kurtzman spit the name as if cursing.
“Gadgets?” Price asked. “What does he have to do with it?” Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz was the technical expert on Able Team, one of the Farm’s two counterterror teams. He was as skilled with electronics and hardware as Kurtzman, the Farm’s computer expert and support team leader, was with software.
“Our network runs in several shells,” said Kurtzman. “I keep the loosest security on the outer shell, the one that runs the office hardware. Encryption for our transmissions is handled on a deeper level of the network. But the outer layer, the one that handles just general connectivity among the hardware, can be adjusted internally.”
“I don’t follow,” said Price. “What’s the connection?” She pointed at the cartoon monster. “What is that, Bear?”
“That,” Kurtzman explained, “is Candy Monster Maze Farm online, one of the most popular smartphone apps on the market. It’s one of those addictive puzzle games. I keep deleting it from the outer network shell. Gadgets keeps hacking his way in to put it back on, no matter how many times I revoke his admin privileges.”
Price hid her mouth behind her hand so Kurtzman would not see her smile. Schwarz was a notorious practical joker whose antics often helped the Farm’s personnel blow off steam. Given the extreme stress under which they all operated, Price was secretly grateful for Schwarz’s effect on morale. It might explain why, even though Able Team’s leader, Carl Lyons, was an irascible grump, unit cohesion in Able Team was as high as it had ever been.
That was also true of Phoenix Force, Stony Man’s other counterterror team. Before David McCarter had become the leader of Phoenix Force, he was noted for his sharp tongue and glib nature. Yet the Briton had been awfully serious in the years since assuming leadership of the team, following the death of veteran Farm commando Yakov Katzenelenbogen.
It was true what they said about the mantle of leadership. Price spent all her time worrying about the personnel of both teams, not to mention the support personnel who held them all together and made their missions possible.
Kurtzman had produced a wireless compact keyboard and was now typing furiously at it. The purple, spherical monster was replaced on the wall screens with lines of code. As the monitors returned to the test pattern and then to a live feed of Hal Brognola sitting at his desk, a voice shouted from the corridor outside the briefing room.
“No!” said Schwarz as he walked through the doorway. He was holding his secure satellite smartphone and watching the screen as he walked, tapping away with both thumbs. “I was almost to level ten. Now I’m going to forfeit my bonus lollipops.”
“Gadgets—” Kurtzman snarled.
“Uh,” Brognola interrupted from the wall screen. “If we could begin? I have an appropriations committee meeting in half an hour.” Brognola was speaking from his office on the Potomac. As Director of the Sensitive Operations Group and one of the few men alive who understood the extent and scope of the Stony Man Farm Operation, Brognola had his fingers in a lot of pies in Washington.
Not for the first time, Price looked at the big Fed, wondering about his health. Over the years Brognola had cut back on a number of bad habits as stress, work load and time had conspired against him. How he managed on a day-to-day basis was a testament to his mental and physical strength. Nobody was shooting at Hal—although, over the years, that had
