“Holy shit,” exclaimed the lawyer.
“If it weren’t for those helicopters, we’d be dead or captured,” said Westmoreland.
“Was Dalmar on board?” Bettencourt asked.
“How should I know? We don’t even know what he looks like. But if he was, there’s a good chance we got him. The pirates may have scored a victory, but it cost them.”
“He probably wasn’t onboard,” said the lawyer. Westmoreland turned toward him and glared. “No really — think about it. When was the last time we had a confirmed report he was a part of one of these raids? My intel guys think he’s directing from landside.”
“Your intel guys,” chuckled Westmoreland sarcastically.
“Yes, my intel guys,” the lawyer said, chin jutting out in defiance. “With respect, most generals don’t serve on the front lines, Colonel. Why would Dalmar risk it?”
Westmoreland turned his back on the lawyer and resumed the video.The three men watched as the mercenaries charged up the stairway through a hail of bullets, fighting their way to the bridge. The two lead men threw grenades through the doorway. The bridge exploded, glass shattering and tumbling onto the deck. The last wounded man tumbled through the door to the bridge, collapsing at the base of a navigational terminal, blood pooling around his feet and ankles. Behind them, more pirates poured from below, materializing like ghosts, capturing the deck where they’d been moments before.
“We had to turn the bridge into an unassailable position,” said Westmoreland, narrating the video as it continued. “Once the last man was in the bridge, we torched the exterior stairway with thermite.”
Westmoreland’s video turned back to the bridge, a scene of perfect chaos. Wounded men struggled, attended to by their comrades while others shoved the crumpled bodies of hostages into the corner. Helicopters strafed the decks below.
Three pirates burst through the door to the interior stairwell, catching the mercenaries by surprise. Westmoreland was first to return fire, but the pirates vanished before any were hit. The pirates hung back, probing the weaknesses of the impromptu fortress, never staying long enough to give the mercenaries a clear shot. They’d learned to fear the fixed guns of the helicopters, but at such close range the heavy weapons couldn’t be brought to bear without wiping out the mercenaries as well. Every bullet expended brought more pirates, peeking, crouching, whistling to each other as they advanced. Westmoreland was losing.
Fuck it, said a voice over the video. The green flash of an unpinned grenade flew through the air and down the stairwell. With a concussion too loud for the video to capture, the weapon detonated with a blinding flash, collapsing part of the interior staircase.
And then an AK-47-wielding boy stepped into view of the helmet-cam. Charles instantly recognized him as the colonel’s prisoner. In the video, Westmoreland dove to the floor, reached into the compartment below and dragged the boy out by his collar, punched him squarely in the face, ripped the rifle from his grasp, hooded and zip tied him within seconds. Bettencourt felt genuine amazement at the speed of the capture. From the boy’s perspective, he may have well been abducted by aliens, a single hand reaching down from above and dragging him upwards and away.
The men pushed their way up a ladder and onto the roof of the ship, kicking and breaking off radio antennas and radar units, trying to make enough room for their escape. The first of the helicopters flew in for a dangerous one-skid landing, allowing Westmoreland’s men to pile aboard. Westmoreland practically threw the prisoner into the chopper, then dove in after him. The helicopter took off, rejoining formation while a second repeated the rescue.
The two lead helicopters broke formation, backing away for an attack run, then strafed the entirety of the ship, firing countless rounds into the waterline of the ship. The transport started to list almost immediately, taking on water into every below-deck compartment.
Bettencourt didn’t know if any crew survived the encounter this far, but he knew none of them would live for long. The Russian transport heeled over but refused to sink. Above the bridge, the last of the shot-up mercenaries were loaded. The helicopter accelerated, gaining speed as it escaped the wounded ship, chased by three long-tailed rocket-propelled grenades — the pirates fired one final salvo, one last attempt to inflict damage.
Two missed, but the third impacted the rearmost chopper, halfway back to the tail rotor. The craft spun, losing control, but the expert pilot righted her, re-gaining trim and putting her back into formation. The last clip of the video showed the fleeing helicopters moving away as the Russian transport, burning, rocked in the lapping waves.
“We have to strike back,” said Westmoreland, yanking the memory card out of the computer. “At this moment, Anconia Island is on war footing.”
Bettencourt frowned, the offshore bankers, software developers, data miners and other denizens of Anconia wouldn’t like that kind of talk. They weren’t soldiers. Before he could formulate his response, his lawyer interrupted.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said. “But I think I found our prisoner’s Facebook page.”
The lawyer synced his phone into the nearest terminal. Sure enough, the young prisoner’s image flashed into view, maybe a year younger, proudly wearing a Batman T-shirt and holding an RPG.
“Cute kid,” said Bettencourt.
“Holy shit, I think Dalmar has a page, too,” said the lawyer, bringing up the pirate’s stark rifle-crossed emblem.
“I hope you’re not using your personal account.”
“No, I’m using corporate. What should I do?”
Westmoreland simply crossed his arms, not approving but knowing too little about the process to actually protest.
“Hell, I don’t know,” said Bettencourt. “Friend him. The Public Relations department will throw a shit fit when they find out, but do it anyway.”
The lawyer pressed a few keys, all three men waiting for a moment.
“I sent the request.”
“War footing,” said Westmoreland, intending to return the discussion to a subject with which he was eminently more familiar.
“Um, sorry to interrupt,” said the lawyer. “But he just friended me back.”
“Already? The fucker must live on Facebook.”
“He just might,” mused the lawyer. “He actually has more followers than our corporate site… hold on… now we’re getting a video chat request from him.”
“Seriously?” Bettencort said.
“Agree to it,” said Colonel Westmoreland. “We have a prisoner. That’s something worth talking about. Can we trace the source? I want to know exactly where that fucker is holed up.”
“Trace it? Are you kidding me?” said the lawyer. “This is Facebook we’re talking about.”
“Despite your shitty attitude,” said the colonel, “I still don’t know if that’s a yes or no.”
“Let me put it this way, do you want some pedophile tracing your kids?” said the lawyer, shaking his head. “No, you can’t trace somebody using Facebook.”
“Well, stop fucking around and start the feed,” said the colonel.
“Put it on the main screen,” Bettencourt directed.
The lawyer swept the page up onto the server farm’s main screen. and with a jab of his index figure, accepted the video chat request. A few seconds later, an image formed on the big screen and Dalmar Abdi filled the display, a dark, intense, handsome face staring directly into the camera. Bettencourt found himself wishing they’d picked a smaller screen; Dalmar dominated the room like the Wizard of Oz, while the room’s fisheye camera rendered him and Westmoreland as small, slight figures.