Chapter One
On a moonless, tropical night, Vanel Kulcyanov sat motionless on the deck of a battered, thirty-five-foot fishing trawler, doing the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life—waiting.
If not for what he was about to do, he would have been mesmerized by the endless South China Sea around him. Until five days ago, he had never been more than ten miles from home. But the valley of the Keldara in Georgia, in the Caucasus Mountains of Eastern Europe, was thousands of miles away. Now he was on the other side of the world, where palm trees grew everywhere, rain fell every day, and to even think about moving was to sweat.
The eighteen-year-old thought his training had been hard. He thought the endless PT, weapons training, live-fire exercises had been hard. He thought the particular nightmare of specialized underwater operations training had been very, very hard. But all that was nothing compared to right now, awaiting the order to begin tonight’s mission. The American song is right, he thought. Waiting really is the hardest part.
Vanel was entering real combat for the first time tonight, and the anticipation was rattling his normally calm nerves. It wasn’t that he was afraid—well, a small part of him was, for only an utter fool or madman did not fear battle. But he had made his peace with it, and whatever fear was in him now resided in a far-off corner of his mind.
An even greater fear was spurring him on now—the fear of not measuring up to his people’s expectations. The blood of countless Keldara generations flowed through his veins, stretching back to his people’s Varangian roots. Over the centuries, that had been blended with the very best warriors the Keldara could find to lead them. The idea of not carrying their proud warrior culture into the 21st century was inconceivable, and Vanel was going to make sure that he did not fail the rest of his team, his family, or the Kildar.
Unlike many of the Keldara, who weren’t comfortable around large bodies of water, Vanel felt as home in or on it as he did on dry land. The qualifications needed to be accepted into Yosif’s team were among the highest of all the Keldara units, and again he felt a swell of pride at being accepted into the elite of the elite.
He stared out over the glass-smooth waters at their target, a small cluster of lights five hundred meters away. He itched to be there already. To be doing what he’d been trained to do, what he had been born to do—his part to guarantee that his team’s role in the op would be executed flawlessly, so that the next stage could be achieved. But they had not received the go order yet. So, Vanel and the rest of his team sat. And they waited.
The problem was that the only thing to do while waiting was to think. Vanel could go over the plan again, but he already knew it like the back of his hand. Every part, every task that the men beside him would execute to reach and take their objective was burned into his brain. And once that had been committed to memory, all that was left was to think about the many things that could go wrong.
To prevent that, he checked his gear one last time. Weapons, first and always—the sleek, matte-black HK416C rifle slung across his chest, the .40 caliber Sig Sauer P229 with integral silencer on his right hip, and his Gerber Mark II double-edged combat knife in a horizontal belt sheath at the small of his back.
The compact HK416C was practically brand-new—Vanel had only received it three weeks ago. He’d fired about 2,000 rounds through it and trained enough to fieldstrip, clean, and reassemble it blindfolded before the trip. The Keldara version of a SEAL team had been using the HK MP5A2, but the Kildar hadn’t been happy with the 9mm’s range and knockdown power. After evaluating the variant 5.56mm carbine rifles available, he’d grudgingly settled on the 416C as their replacement instead of the M4A1. It had several advantages over the Colt carbine, including a more durable barrel, a rotatable butt plate on the retractable stock, an ergonomic handgrip on the forestock, and a folding front sight.
The two most important differences were the improved range and penetration of the 5.56mm round. Along with the best rifle, Mike had gone with the best ammunition he could find. Every team member carried Mk 262 bullets with a 77-grain Sierra MatchKing round. The bullets were manufactured by Black Hills Ammunition, and designed for long-range engagements of up to 700 meters. While it would be unlikely that the swim-ops team would engage an enemy at that range, it was definitely better to have the option and not need it than the reverse. The bullet also demonstrated consistent improved yaw characteristics at up to 300 meters, increasing the possibility of target takedown.
All this came in a German-designed and built fire selective assault carbine that could be shortened to just over 22 inches long. The screw-on suppressor at the end of the barrel added another 8 inches. Last but not least, it could be fired without completely clearing the barrel of water—which the team would most likely end up doing at some point. The Kildar wasn’t thrilled about using two different ammunitions for their primary and secondary weapons, but as he had also said more than once, if any member had to draw their pistol in combat, they were already in deep shit.
Next was equipment. First, Vanel checked his waterproofed radio and transceiver. Then came the gray and black Evolution closed-circuit rebreather system with its Vision electronics package to maximize breathing mix and scrubber efficiency. Other equipment included his fins, full-face mask, including the MUM-14 submersible night vision monocular, depth gauge, bulletproof vest, weight belt, and buoyancy vest. Everything was in order and positioned for maximum accessibility, no rattle, no clank. Optimized to ensure that the mission would go smoothly and by the numbers. But all of the specialized gear wouldn’t have mattered. If the Kildar had ordered him to strip, put his knife in his teeth, and swim to their target naked, Vanel would have dived overboard in a second.
Of course, that was assuming that the mission would actually begin sometime— Vanel took a deep breath and began running over the specs of the target vessel in his head. Noticing his team leader, Yosif Shaynav, watching him, Vanel nodded curtly.
“Sir?”
“How are you doing, Vanel?”
“I am ready, Leader.” He rubbed his chin, which was just beginning to sprout a few hairs. While he had the same white-blond hair and clear blue eyes like the rest of his siblings, Vanel had not inherited the typical massive Kulcyanov build. He was a few centimeters shorter and although well-muscled, he was also much leaner than his brothers. But the All Father had seen fit to bless him with seemingly endless stamina—he could run or swim for hours without tiring. “I would very much like for the mission to start.”
“Good, good. Soon enough,” Yosif said with a nod.
“Leader?”
“Yes?”
Vanel hesitated, hoping the others wouldn’t tease him for what he was about to say.
“About our call sign—”
“Thank the All Father—I thought I would have to be the first one to ask,” Edvin Devlich, Yosif’s second-in-command, said.
“Oh, All Father,” Yosif answered with a sigh then shook his head.
“I understand it is from some TV show, but…” Vanel continued tentatively.
“I asked Martya same question when we received new call sign. I still don’t get it because I haven’t seen the show.”
“Yes, thank you, Leader— It’s just…”
“We’re named after a whore…” Edvin said.
He was interrupted by the radio.
“Firefly to Team Inara, report.”
“A whore…” Edvin repeated, shaking his head ruefully.
“Inara One,” Yosif replied, clearly trying not to sigh. “Go… I think all the good names were taken.”
“Even Oleg’s team is named after a girl,” Devlich said. “Jayne. A girl’s name, yes? Inara two, go.”
“Vil?” Dima Mahona said. “Zoe is a girl’s name, yes? Inara Three, go.”
“And why Washing and Book or whatever?” Devlich said. “These make no sense!”
“Inara Four, ready,” Vanel said.
“I am looking this up,” Dima said, pulling out his combat pad. “There’s an app for that…”
“You are not looking this up,” Yosif said. “We are in the middle of a mission.”
“And the mission name? Eh? I mean, Operation Goat-Fucker was both a tribute to Father Ferani and about capturing a haji goat fucker. That I could understand. But…”
The last member of the team checked in, then Vanel heard the order he’d been waiting for all his life.
“Team Inara, commence Operation Joss-Whedon-Is-A-God.”
“Affirmative.” Yosif replied with a sigh. The Kildar had been insufferable ever since finding some failed American TV show. He kept promising to “hunt down some Fox exec and show him the meaning of pain.”
Yosif signaled the first man to slip into the water. The next man followed after a five-second delay to let the first one clear the insertion area.
When his time came, Vanel felt his mask to ensure the seal was tight all around and his oxygen mix was flowing. He checked his rebreather computer to ensure that all systems were green and checked his fins to ensure they wouldn’t catch or slip. Then he slid over the gunwale into the blood-warm waters of the ocean.
He sank down, achieving neutral buoyancy at thirty feet below the surface. As his sweat was washed away by the ocean water, Vanel saw the other members of his team through the glowing green of the night vision monocular. The view was a little disorienting, but he adjusted as best as he could.
When the team was assembled, Yosif led them on their one-klick swim to the target, compensating for the ocean currents to insure that they reached their target on time.
A suitable warm-up for tonight, Vanel thought. His blood sang in his veins as he kicked forward, matching his teammates’ pace perfectly as they headed out into the tropical night.
* * *
“Team Yosif is away. More New Meat heading into the grinder.” Bullet-headed ex-SEAL Master Chief Charles Adams watched the tramp freighter the Keldara team was heading for through infra-red binoculars.
“Is that concern I hear in your voice, Ass-boy?” Mike Harmon, Adam’s boss, another retired SEAL, leader of the Keldara Mountain Tigers Special Operations Group, didn’t lower his infrared binoculars either. Shorter than Adams by a few inches, he had short brown hair, direct brown eyes, and a broad-shouldered, solid physique. “After Florida, we agreed that Yosif’s team could use some real field training, and I can’t think of any place better than here.”
“Here” was off Pulau Mangkai, an island near Malaysia in the Anambas Archipelago. It was near the infamous Strait of Malacca, which separated the Malay Peninsula from Sumatra. The strait has been one of the world’s busiest shipping passages since the 7th century, when the Srivijaya Empire, based at Palembang, Sumatra, expanded its influence to Java and the Malay Peninsula. It controlled the strait for the next seven centuries, benefiting from highly profitable trade with Chinese, Indian, and Arab merchants.
When Srivijaya declined in the mid-15th century, the Malacca Sultanate rose to power, aided by taking control of the strait. It was vanquished by the Portugese nobleman and naval tactician Afonso de Albuquerque in 1511. Portugal ruled the area for a strife-filled one hundred and thirty years, until the Dutch conquered Malacca in 1641. The Anglo-Dutch Treaty of 1824 saw Malacca become a vassal of the British Empire. This lasted until 1957, when Malacca joined other Malay states to form Malaya and together with Sarawak, Sabah and Singapore, formed the nation of Malaysia in 1963.
Throughout it all, the strait saw ships carrying everything from glassware, camphor, cotton goods and textiles, ivory, sandalwood, perfumes and gemstones back in the day to oil, coffee, cheap Chinese toys and expensive electronics today. And all the older stuff as well.
When pirate activity surged early in the 21st century, the Malaysian, Indonesian, and Singaporean navies stepped up their patrols of the strait, cutting hijacking in half over the last few years. The pirates didn’t stop working, they just moved their operations elsewhere. Like off Mangkai Island. All of this made them the perfect training targets for Yosif’s underwater operations team.
“Hell, no,” Adams said. “Every man among them can chew thunder and shit lightning. They will take the objective and reduce it to a bag of smashed asshole if so ordered. I am still a bit puzzled, however, why you didn’t rate Vanel higher after my recommendation.”
Mike and Adams were “team buddies,” a bond far far stronger than family, from their SEAL days. After a short stint on the teams Mike had switched to being an instructor for most of his SEAL career. When he did go back to the teams there had been an “issue” which saw him out on civvie street with sixteen years of training to be the deadliest human being on earth and not many other skills. Adams, on the other hand, had taken the usual route of promotion through the teams rising, eventually, to Master Chief. They’d reconnected a few years later, when Adams and his SEAL team had gone into Syria to rescue Mike. He had gotten seriously wounded while executing a one-man holding action against an entire commando battalion to rescue forty-nine kidnapped American women.
When Mike had settled in the valley of the Keldara a few years later, he’d called up Adams—by then retired and looking to escape four ex-wives—to help train the local “militia” in small arms combat and tactics. Adams had come over, loved the place almost as much as Mike did—the landscape, women and beer were all spectacular—and had been living there ever since. He had Mike’s back every second, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t afraid to question “The Kildar’s” orders when he felt it was appropriate.
“It’s not for lack of talent. The kid swims like he’s got gills instead of lungs, you put him through BUDS yourself, and with a bit more practice, he might be almost be as sneaky as me someday.”
“So where’s that ‘but’ I’m waiting for?”
“Well, I don’t call you Ass-boy for nothing. Vanel will earn his stripes soon enough. I instructed Yosif to put him on point tonight.”
“Works,” Adams grunted.
“Once he gets through this, we’ll know where he goes from there. And you know the best way to get blooded—”
“—is to get bloody. Hoo-yeh.”
“Hoo-yah,” Mike responded. There was an accent difference between east and west coast SEAL team “battle-cries.” Hoo-yeh or hoo-yay was east coast, the more laid back “cooler” “hoo-yah” was west coast.
“Surfer Dude.”
“Ass-boy.”
They might have been BUDS buddies but once a SEAL always a SEAL. Whichever coast.
Adams kept his eyes on the small freighter the Keldara team was approaching. Every so often, however, he’d move the field glasses just enough to check his boss out of the corner of his eye.
Mike had gone through hell and back in the last couple of months. Their last mission near home, involving a missing scientist and enough WMDs to wipe out most of Europe, had gotten FUBAR fast. In the end, the Keldara been forced to pull a 300 and eradicate about four thousand Chechens with only a hundred of their own in the shit. The enemy force had been stopped, no doubt. But the price the Keldara had paid was high, both in blood and a lot more.
The casualties had been high—Sawn, Padrek, Kiril, Father Ferani, and many others—
—Gretchen—
That one Adams knew Mike was still coming to terms with, although he was much better than he had been immediately afterward. His love, Gretchen Mahona, had been killed during the fighting, and her loss had put him out of action for weeks. Even the threat of a whole cargo container of VX nerve gas shipped Stateside by Al-Qaida terrorists hadn’t been enough to rouse him. The Keldara team sent to Florida, led by Adams and their intel chief, Patrick Vanner, had been caught in an ambush meant for Mike. Adams had taken five rounds in the chest and Vanner had been in a coma for a week. That’s when Mike had come back to his old self. And he had come back with a vengeance, dismantling the terrorist operation with a precision and lethalness that was fucking scary, even for the Kildar.
Afterward, Mike had returned to his normal self, more or less. Adams, however, had resolved to keep a close eye on him for, well, as long as it took for him to be assured that Mike was truly back to his hell-bent for leather ways.
The master chief wasn’t concerned that Mike wasn’t up to the task of planning or running the op. It had taken a lot of persuasion to convince Mike not to lead the underwater team, and Adams still wasn’t sure the Kildar wasn’t about to gear up and go after the assault force. No, the Master Sergeant was more concerned about his boss’s mental state. His concern wasn’t that Mike was crazy—it helped to be a little crazy, especially if you were a SEAL. Not crazy in the get-you-bounced-out-of-the-service-by-failing-a-psych-eval. No, Mike was crazy in the sense of doing whatever it took to complete the mission; like tucking himself into the wheel well of a jet plane and flying across the ocean to Syria, for example. That sort of crazy was the good kind.
The kind of crazy that, when presented with the opportunity to buy a rural Georgian village and assume the mantle of Kildar, essentially ruling a bunch of farmers descended from the ancient Varangian Guard, made Mike ask, “Where do I sign?” He had immediately set about transforming the pre-Industrial Revolution village, turning it into a modern agrarian farming community that also brewed one hell of a beer. He had also turned the local boys into the hardest-fighting militia the likes of which Europe—or perhaps the world—hadn’t seen since World War II. That sort of crazy was the really good kind.
No, the mental state Adams was concerned about was that of a commanding officer sending men into battle again. Mike, Adams, Vanner, and the one hundred had certainly vanquished the Chechens, although at a high cost. Hell, Adams hadn’t seen such a crop of barely bearded Keldara warriors since he’d first signed on. The question in his mind—which he’d had to ponder long and hard before he’d even admit to thinking about it—was had the Kildar finally exorcised those demons that had hounded him ever since Gretchen and Florida?
It was a simple truth; as the Kildar, his responsibility extended to everyone in the valley, all the families, every man, woman, and child. Each one would gladly lay down his life for Mike, Adams, or any of his brethren in a heartbeat. And Mike was the sole person accountable for giving them the orders that would put them in harm’s way. Never mind that to the Keldara, combat was like breathing to them, or that they were the very best Adams had ever seen. The point was that Mike was the one who was ordering them to go and possibly get their asses shot off. Adams knew he tried to maximize their chances with the best training, intel, and equipment they could get, but sometimes, things went wrong.
But that won’t happen tonight, he thought, sneaking another peek at Mike. Everything was running shipshape. The team was away, the first objective was about to be taken, all was in order—
“I suggest that you spend more time observing your team and less time eyeballing me.” The Kildar still hadn’t lowered his binoculars.
“Affirmative. You could have let them use the torps to get there, you know.”
“Oh my god—when did my Master Chief turn into such a pussy? Next you’ll want to carry each one there on your back. This is advanced, live fire training. If the Yosifs prove they can handle this, they might be able to catch a ride next time out.”
Adams returned to monitoring the freighter. A one-kilometer swim in calm water, even adjusting for the ocean currents, should take the team roughly fourteen minutes in full gear. Adams kept his eyes glued on the freighter that served as the enemy’s perimeter guard, waiting for the signal that they’d arrived.
* * *
The concept behind the closed-circuit rebreather system goes back almost four hundred years to 1620. That is the year Dutch inventor Cornelius Drebbel first heated potassium nitrate to release oxygen for the crew of his oar-powered submarine. The heat also turned the potassium nitrate into potassium oxide, which absorbs carbon dioxide. Drebbel had inadvertently created a working rebreather system more than two centuries before a single person system was invented.
The first practical rebreather, designed for escaping submarines, was produced around 1900. The Dragër rebreathers were mass-produced and used by Germany in World War II. The U.S. Navy had it’s own expert in Dr. Christian J. Lambertsen, called “the father of the frogmen,” and who ran the first rebreather class for the Office of Strategic Services at the Naval Academy in 1943.
Although a variety of modern closed-circuit rebreathers (CCR) have been developed since, they all operate on the same basic principle: a gas-tight loop, consisting of sealed components, providing a breathable mix of oxygen and a diluting gas, such as nitrogen, to the diver. The mouthpiece—or in the case of Team Yosif, their full face masks—is connected to tubes conveying inhaled gas to and removing exhaled gas from the diver and a counterlung, or breathing bag, which holds the expelled gas. The loop also contains a scrubber containing sodium hydroxide to remove the exhaled CO2, as well as a valve that allows the injection of gases, including oxygen and perhaps a diluting gas, from a separate tank into the loop, and another valve permitting the venting of gas from the loop if necessary.
Although early models required the diver to keep track of and adjust his own oxygen mix, 21st century models use solid-state sensors to monitor the oxygen-nitrogen mix. It sent this information to a microprocessor that controls the oxygen-delivery system, ensuring the optimum mix is delivered to the diver with every breath they take.
The advantages of the closed circuit rebreather system are longer dive time (up to three hours), lighter equipment (since the bulk of the gas is pure oxygen that is mixed with nitrogen as needed, instead of the heavier oxygen-nitrogen mix), less decompression time (since inhaled nitrogen is kept to a minimum) and, most importantly for Team Yosif, no telltale trails of exhalation bubbles to mark their progress. The main disadvantage of standard rebreathers was that the diver couldn’t go much deeper than forty feet below the surface. Since the oxygen in the tanks was unpressurized, it would be affected in the same way that a human would as they descended. It would compress under the pressure, making it more difficult to draw a breath. Tonight, however, that wasn’t an issue for the infiltration team.
Vanel, Yosif, Edvin, and the rest of the team reached their objective in eleven minutes, thirty-nine seconds. The target vessel was a nondescript small coastal freighter, about 170 feet long and anywhere from forty to sixty years old. Its once-maroon hull was covered with a mix of barnacles and large patches of orange rust that were slowly spreading toward the deck. The railing on the port side was bent in two places, with an entire section missing at the stern. Its exhaust stack was pitted and bent, and thermal scans had revealed that the engine was barely functioning, probably just enough to keep the batteries charged. Its anchor chains were also covered in rust and algae. But since it was the lookout post for the largest group of pirates in the area, it didn’t have to go anywhere.
The team had trained on a matched vessel for the past two days, until they knew it inside and out. After the boat piloting issues the Keldara had run into in the Florida Keys, they’d also spent some time learning how the engine worked and how to pilot the damn thing—just in case they needed to get it running.
The team had received up-to-the-minute intel on the boat guards’ slipshod patrols. They knew that, despite facing the direction an enemy would typically approach from, the rear port quarter stood unguarded a minimum of twenty minutes out of every hour. They had reached the boat seven minutes after the most recent guard had flicked his cigarette over the side and ambled back into the crew quarters.
Yosif’s head popped out of the water, followed by Vanel’s. The two men listened for any noise from above for a few seconds, then Yosif nodded to his teammate. Readying his neoprene-clad grappling hook, Vanel propelled himself half out of the water with his fins. At the height of his lunge, he tossed the small hook up at the railing. It caught the lower horizontal rail with a barely audible clunk and snugged tight. Vanel tugged on it, then put his full weight on it and nodded.
Receiving the go sign from his team leader, Vanel wrapped the line under his shoulders to secure himself, then removed and secured his rebreather and fins. Switching his mask over to breathe outside air, he began climbing hand-over-hand toward the deck. He was less than a meter away from the railing when he heard a hatch undogging and creaking open. Vanel froze on the line, listening to the approaching footsteps getting louder as someone approached his position.
* * *
“Sitrep on Yosif?” Mike asked, still scanning the ocean like the binoculars were surgically attached to his head.
“The team has begun their insertion—shit, there’s a pirate on the rear quarter. Four’s dangling with his balls in the wind about a meter below the tango. Yosif has the ball.” Adams watched for a few seconds to see how Yosif would call it. Their primary goal was to preserve stealth for as long as possible while taking the ship. So far, so good. “Wouldn’t even know he’d almost gone down on the last op.”
Yosif had been part of the team that had accompanied the Kildar to recover the VX gas. Unfortunately, he and had been exposed to it when one of the boats they’d been chasing had run aground and broken up. Yosif and Sergei had injected themselves with the counteragents, atropine and pralidoxime. The secondary effects of both were bad, but much better than the slow, painful death promised by the nerve agent.
Yosif had run though the entire gamut, according to their doctor: “hot as a hare, blind as a bat, dry as a bone, red as a beet, and mad as a hatter.” He’d suffered through a fever, flushed skin, photophobia, decreased sweating, dry mouth, dehydration and hallucinations. Although he had gutted it out and finished the mission, he also had been on restricted duty for two weeks. Their medic had cleared him for return just before they had left for the South China Sea. This was his first time back in the field since Florida.
“I expected nothing less from him,” Mike said. “But confirm Lasko is on top of the situation.”
“With pleasure.”
* * *
Five hundred yards east-northeast of the old trawler, Lasko Ferani sat in the lap of luxury. The two-hundred-foot yacht he was on was almost as stable as being on land. Well, not quite, but certainly close enough for what he was about to do.
“Firefly to Blue Hand, over.”
“Blue Hand.”
“Confirm target.”
Lasko didn’t move from the reticle of the ATN 4-12X80 Day/Night scope mounted on the Barrett .50 caliber semi-automatic rifle he was using for tonight’s operation. After extensive target shooting, this was the first field use of the switchable scope, and so far, he was impressed. It had a 1000-yard bullet drop compensator (he still figured his sightings on the fly, and so far the scope had matched him ten-for-ten) with interchangeable cams for six calibers—including the .50—a 1000-meter rangefinder, and an illuminated reticle with 11 light settings.
What Lasko liked best was that he could convert it from daylight shooting to night vision in less than fifteen seconds with a simple swap of the eyepiece. There was no change in eye relief, and he could keep the scope zeroed at all times. It was just about perfect.
“Target is confirmed.”
“Hold visual, and do not fire until ordered.”
“Affirmative.” Steadying his breathing, Lasko settled his reticle on the man leaning on the railing more than one thousand meters away. This wasn’t nearly as difficult as other shots he had made. Certainly nothing like shooting the engines of a cigarette boat traveling at sixty miles per hour from a chase helicopter, just taking one example.
With each exhalation, calm enveloped him, until there was nothing but the ready shot and his finger ready to squeeze the trigger. The slight movement of the ship he was on, the slight movement of the ship his target was on, the negligible wind, round drop, his breathing, his heartbeat; all were calculated and factored into his bead on the target.
In the next few seconds, the man would be dead, one way or another.
* * *
Vanel clung to the line as a match flared above him. A moment later, he smelled harsh local tobacco burning above him. A shadow fell over him, and he saw a man leaning against the railing and looking out to sea—right above his head. A droplet of sweat fell off the pirate’s hand onto Vanel’s facemask. If the guy glanced down or noticed the small grapple against the railing, the mission would be blown before it had even started.
Not if Vanel had anything to say about it. He clicked his tongue in the back of his throat once, querying his superior officer as to what he should do. The answer came back immediately.
“Hold position. Terminate only if sighted.”
Great. Nominal for the mission but not his preference. Keeping a firm grip on the line with his left hand, Vanel slowly, very slowly, reached for his suppressed Sig. Undoing the snap in time with a wave slapping the ship’s hull, he drew it just as slowly. He kept his feet planted on the rusting hull, careful not to scrape any flakes of metal off. He raised the pistol, aiming just under the target’s chin. A hit there would ensure that the subsonic bullet would do the most damage, and more importantly, prevent the pirate from crying out.
Vanel held his shooter’s position, waiting until he heard the order to fire. Five seconds…ten seconds…fifteen seconds. But until he got the word, he aimed and waited as the unsuspecting man smoked his cigarette above him.