Erasto Khalfani, a twenty-nine-year-old Somali ex-fisherman, was now plying the more lucrative trade of piracy. As his small craft approached the freighter, Erasto surveyed the deck with his binoculars. There was the usual skeleton crew wandering about the deck, paying little attention to the waters below. He paused when he came upon some vehicles sitting on the deck: a powerful-looking black pickup truck and what looked like some kind of ambulance. Odd for them to be in the open air rather than in the hold, but that was irrelevant.
The boarding was accomplished seamlessly. Eighteen men, armed with assault rifles and small arms, scrambled up the side of the hulking vessel and were quickly on board. In general, this was when panic ensued. Instead the crew were completely relaxed as they quietly raised their hands and placed them on the backs of their heads. The looks on their faces betrayed neither fear nor anger, but almost a bemused aspect that one might have after hearing something only mildly amusing. Still, they were cooperative, and Erasto watched as his men went through what now was an almost routine process, asking the captives for their belongings, and if necessary patting them down to find the “forgotten” valuables.
“Where are the keys to these vehicles?” asked Erasto.
“You don’t want to mess with those,” said the black man. “Pretty on the outside, junk under the hood. That thing is dangerous. You get my meaning?”
“I think I will be the judge of that, thank you,” replied Erasto. He reached for the door of the pickup and began to open it. The door was wrenched from his hand and slammed shut again. Erasto took a step back, his weapon now up and ready to fire. “Whoever is in there, come out immediately or I will fire!”
“With pleasure,” responded a voice from within.
The truck began to move. Not forward or reverse like a truck should, but rather every aspect of it was in motion. Parts folded and flipped in upon themselves, creating a completely new image in front of his eyes. Within seconds a towering figure loomed over Erasto. It rose up on two legs, one arm pointing directly at him, no more than a foot from his face. Erasto had stared into the barrel of various weapons during his life, and he knew that he was currently looking directly into the maw of the largest cannon he had ever seen. His AK-47 dropped harmlessly to his feet as he gawked in sheer terror at the being in front of him.
And then it spoke.
Transformers: The Veiled Threat is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Del Rey Mass Market Original
Copyright © 2009 by Hasbro
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
TRANSFORMERS and the distinctive logo thereof are trademarks of Hasbro, used with persmission.
DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
ISBN 978-0-345-51592-6
eBook ISBN: 978-0-8041-8051-1
www.delreybooks.com
www.hasbro.com
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Dedication
Other Books by This Author
PROLOGUE
The most inhospitable place on Earth is not the middle of the Sahara, with its searing heat and parched landscape. Nor is it the top of Everest, with its lack of oxygen and freezing, howling winds. That title is reserved for the Abyssopelagic Zone of the world’s oceans, eighteen thousand feet below the surface of the sea. Here, in the impenetrable dark, frigid waters, the pressure exceeds five tons per square inch. The sun has never brought its cheerful glow to these valleys, and what few creatures live here look like monsters from a child’s nightmare.
One of these deep-sea horrors crept along the floor of the Laurentian Abyss, an albino sea spider with legs nearly a foot long. It was on the hunt, using senses barely comprehensible to science to find its prey. Even if it had eyes, it would not have been able to see anything in the perfect dark. But its other senses were suddenly on alert, the fight-or-flee instinct growing rapidly within it. Something was ahead in the dark, something not of this Earth. Flee won the day, and the sea spider backed away, content to resume its hunt in a safer area of its midnight world.
Had it continued, it would have come to a zone from which most life had deliberately fled. Less than a hundred yards ahead, a hulking mass lay on the ocean floor. This colossus had fallen from the surface above, dumped by the surface dwellers who wanted no part of it. Dropped in the hopes that with its sinking, a great fear and danger would be eradicated from the universe. Nonetheless, an invisible web of submarines and underwater surveillance devices kept constant vigil. The colossus, after all, had allies.
Four miles above his resting place, the waves of the North Atlantic rolled peacefully over the ruin of Megatron.
The Pearl of India freighter, over a thousand feet long and displacing thirteen thousand tons, had an official top speed of twelve knots. But with a following sea and clear weather, she was currently making better than twelve and a half through the Gulf of Aden. Even so, she would be no match for Erasto Khalfani’s small fleet of twenty-two-foot powerboats. Each carried a crew of nine and could make twenty-five knots with ease. Erasto lowered his binoculars and gave the order; he found that early-morning attacks were always the most successful.
Erasto Khalfani, a twenty-nine-year-old Somali ex-fisherman, was now plying the more lucrative trade of piracy. It was riskier than fishing, to be sure, but then the rewards were greater than he could realize in a lifetime of hauling nets. He had made himself and his men wealthy, and they trusted his leadership.
Hijacking a freighter under full steam on the open sea was no mean feat. The main deck of the Pearl of India rose thirty-five feet off the surface of the water. To board from a small craft like theirs, the pirates would literally have to scale the side of the moving vessel with grappling hooks and sheer skill. Not a task for the faint of heart. And yet this very band had been successful several times in commandeering vessels of similar size, and under even worse conditions. No, the Pearl of India was ripe for the picking; the prize was his.
As his small craft approached the freighter, Erasto surveyed the deck with his binoculars. There was the usual skeleton crew wandering about the deck, paying little attention to the waters below. Erasto knew that the continuous throb of the ship’s great engines would mask his outboard motors until they were quite close. By then it would be too late for the freighter to take any countermeasures.
In his heart Erasto was a peaceful man. Unlike the pirates of the Straits of Malacca, he had no interest in violence. He found that the show of force was generally more than sufficient to cow the crew of most commercial vessels. Certainly from time to time one found a would-be hero who had to be dealt with, but even then a well-placed blow from the butt of his AK-47 was more than sufficient to remind the gallant man that he was not made of steel.
Erasto took one last sweep of the deck with the glasses; they’d be throwing the boarding lines within the next few minutes. He paused
when he came upon some vehicles sitting on the deck: a powerful-looking black pickup truck and what looked like some kind of ambulance. Odd for them to be in the open air rather than in the hold, but that was irrelevant. The ambulance would no doubt provide valuable medical supplies for his village, and the truck, well, that was the perfect ride for the leader of a pirate band. Erasto would ensure that both vehicles were part of his take when they negotiated with the owners for the release of the Pearl and her crew.
The boarding was accomplished seamlessly. Erasto, as usual, was proud of his men. Three remained on board each of the small craft, to pilot around the freighter and, if necessary, provide backup fire. Eighteen men, armed with assault rifles and small arms, scrambled up the side of the hulking vessel and were quickly on board.
In general, this was when panic ensued. The crew, realizing they’d been boarded, ran to fight, or hide, or beg for mercy. The first ten minutes were the most dangerous to pirate and crew alike. If a “hero” was going to emerge and start trouble, this was the time. But this crew did not behave this way, and years later Erasto would look back and realize that this was his first warning.
Instead the crew were completely relaxed as they quietly raised their hands and placed them on the backs of their heads. The looks on their faces betrayed neither fear nor anger, but almost a bemused aspect that one might have after hearing something only mildly amusing. Still, they were cooperative, and Erasto ordered his men to begin the process of evaluating the total take. This started with stripping the crew of their personal valuables, and moved on from there to the cargo.
“Gentlemen,” began Erasto, “there is an easy way and a hard way to do this. My men and I prefer the easy way. Think of us as simple entrepreneurs, and you will be our guests for the next several days. The wealthy owners of this vessel will parlay for your lives, and you will go home none the worse for wear. Resist, and things may not go so smoothly for you. My men will now come among you and relieve you of your wallets and other personal effects. Your cooperation is most appreciated.”
Erasto watched as his men went through what now was an almost routine process, asking the captives for their belongings, and if necessary patting them down to find the “forgotten” valuables.
He himself walked over to the black pickup. It was impossible not to admire the design. It was, very simply, one badass truck. Two of the captives stood together near the vehicles on deck; the pirates’ arrival had clearly disrupted their card game. Both looked like they could take care of themselves, and Erasto decided to take no chances. Placing his AK at chest level, he addressed the man of color first.
“Your valuables, sir, please surrender them.”
“Back pocket.” The man was incredibly relaxed given that an assault rifle was pointed a few inches from his heart.
“Which pocket?” Erasto continued.
“Left cheek.” The man sighed.
At this point the other man, Western European, or maybe even American, entered the conversation. “You and your ‘left cheek.’ Man, when are you going to learn that sitting on that thing is going to give you back problems later in life?”
“Given our jobs, I try not to think too much about ‘later in life.’ Besides, we don’t get much chance to sit down anyway.”
“I hear that. Still, I don’t know why you carry that thing around anyway. Not much use for a wallet in the places we end up.”
Erasto was not pleased with this at all. He understood fear: he used it to keep things peaceful. This casual banter was entirely out of place in the situation. Given the accents, he now knew both of these men were Americans. What were they doing here?
He addressed the white guy. “You do not carry a wallet? This is unfortunate. However, that ring on your left hand is no doubt of some value. You will give it to me.”
“This ring does not, I repeat, does not come off.”
“If need be, your finger certainly will come off. Must we go that route? So messy. Let us come back to it. Where are the keys to these vehicles?”
“You don’t want to mess with those,” said the black man. “Pretty on the outside, junk under the hood. That thing is dangerous. You get my meaning?”
“I think I will be the judge of that, thank you,” replied Erasto. He was impatient with this conversation now. He was certain he would have to pummel one of these two before it was over. He reached for the door of the pickup and began to open it. The door was wrenched from his hand and slammed shut again. Erasto took a step back, his weapon now up and ready to fire. “Whoever is in there, come out immediately or I will fire!”
“With pleasure,” responded a voice from within.
“Damn, man, I warned you. You’re in for it now, Captain Hook.” The two men had backed away from both Erasto and the truck.
Erasto Khalfani had seen much in his twenty-nine years, and he felt he was prepared for virtually all of life’s surprises. But his world of experiences could not have prepared him for what was occurring before his eyes at this moment.
The truck began to move. Not forward or reverse like a truck should, but rather every aspect of it was in motion. Parts folded and flipped in upon themselves, creating a completely new image in front of his eyes. Within seconds a towering figure loomed over Erasto. It rose up on two legs, one arm pointing directly at him, no more than a foot from his face. Erasto had stared into the barrel of various weapons during his life, and he knew that he was currently looking directly into the maw of the largest cannon he had ever seen. His AK-47 dropped harmlessly to his feet as he gawked in sheer terror at the being in front of him.
And then it spoke.
“I believe it is time for you to, how do you say? ‘Walk the plank.’ ”
Erasto took two steps backward, stumbled, turned, and ran. His men had followed a similar course when they saw the beast rise from the decks, and several had preceded him into the water below. Erasto knew it would hurt a bit from that height, but anything to get away from this nightmare. He jumped, and was quickly picked up by his crew. In moments they were speeding away: fleeing for their lives.
Epps turned from the view and looked up at Ironhide, a broad smile on his face. “ ‘Walk the plank’? Where’d you pick that one up from?”
“I have been perusing your military literature at some length, looking for insights into your history of combat. It is a phrase that seemed appropriate to the moment.”
“Appropriate to the moment. Right. You loved every minute of it.”
“I must admit,” replied Ironhide, “the look on his face was indeed a great pleasure to me.”
“What do you think, Captain? Think those guys will be pirating again anytime soon?” asked Epps.
“I have a feeling they may be in for a change of career,” laughed Lennox. “We’ve got enough NEST personnel on board to have mopped the decks with those jokers, but what would have been the fun in that?”
“Let’s get back to our game,” said Epps. “Still thirty hours until we reach Diego Garcia. Ironhide, Ratchet, you guys want in?”
Captain Lennox was in fact correct: Erasto Khalfani never plied the waves in search of booty again. Eventually, when the shock had worn off, he went back to fishing. He already had enough money to live comfortably, and if things got tight he figured he could always write a book. Had to be easier than piracy. To the end of his days, though, his friends noticed his strange habit of crossing the street every time he saw a pickup truck.
Kaminari Ishihara loved the sea. Although the lagoon itself could be murky in places, the waters surrounding the Indian Ocean islands of Diego Garcia where NEST had its headquarters were virtually transparent: even clearer than those cold Pacific swirls that lapped the shore near her hometown north of Tokyo. They were also much warmer. Back home she would never have gone into the ocean wearing only the bikini that presently covered only a small portion of her curvaceous yet well-toned form.
“A healthy mind in a healthy body,” her grandmother had always told her, “so you can t
ell those grabby guys on the train what you think of them even as you kick their butts.”
But here in the relative privacy of the atoll, she did not have to worry much about prying eyes. And her dossier, she knew, afforded her a level of respect among the base personnel that transcended the normal interaction between men and women. Over years of study, both scholarly and martial, she had turned her mind and body not only into a machine but into a weapon as well. She walked with the confidence of a person who knows where she belongs, and she belonged right here, right now.
An expert in robotics specializing in cybernetic motivation, Kami was well aware of the role for which she had been chosen. People in high places whose task it was to evaluate such things had read and admired her precocious doctoral dissertation, “Subatomic Transitions in Cybernetic Mnemonics,” and had quietly recruited her. It was the chance to work directly with the famous but still mysterious mechanical alien lifeforms that had brought her from northeast coastal Honshu to the tropics. She knew that working within the secretive NEST would give her ample opportunity to utilize her specialized knowledge. She had also been warned there could be occasions when she might be asked to fight.
Her own experimental weapon lay back in her room. There was no need to have it close by as she swam in the warm, shallow water. Only small, harmless sharks like whitetips ventured into the lagoon. In any case, Longarm could all by himself have made sushi out of anything up to and including a great white.
The Autobot relished the chance to spend time in his normal, natural shape outside the subterranean confines of NEST. Though everyone at the secret operations center was familiar with and quite comfortable when working in the presence of primary Autobot configurations, it had been decided that for security reasons it was better if they spent the majority of their time while outdoors in the individual guises they had chosen to enable them to blend in among less knowing humans. It was also, a serious Optimus Prime had pointed out to his cohorts, good practice. Known among his companions as an especially hard worker, Longarm had chosen to move about in the guise of a tow truck.