“On the other hand,” the exec continued, “I’ve seen pirates do some pretty stupid things over the years.”

“So have I,” Glockauer admitted. “But I’ve never seen any of them do anything this stupid.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, Skip,” Engelmann said diffidently, “and I wonder if it’s actually so much a case of their being stupid or of someone else’s having been sneaky.”

“How?”

“Well, every merchant line knows that if one of its ships is taken, whoever grabbed her will want to pull the wool over the eyes of any Navy ships they run into. But most navies have at least their own national shipping list in memory—complete with transponder codes matched to emissions signatures. So pirates also know there’s at least some risk an alert plotting and com team will cross check and notice some little flaw any time they use a false transponder code.” The exec shrugged. “That’s why pirates tend to go on using the original code until they get a prize safely tucked away somewhere, rather than generating a fresh, false one.”

“Of course it is,” Glockauer said as his second-in-command paused. His comment could have sounded impatient, since Engelmann was busy saying something both of them already knew perfectly well. But he recognized that tone of voice. Binyan was onto something, and Glockauer was willing to give him time to lay out the groundwork for whatever it was.

“The thing I’m wondering, Skipper,” the korvetten kapitän said, “is whether or not someone at Reichenbach figured out a way to take advantage of that tendency. Suppose they set up the beacon software to tag the transponder with a Seventeen-Alpha if the ship was taken? If they did, then they could also have rigged the rest of their software to strip the tag off when it plays the transponder code back to the bridge crew.”

“You’re suggesting that someone in the command crew activated a booby trap in the transponder programming when he realized his ship was about to be taken?”

“I’m suggesting that that might be what happened,” Engelmann agreed. “Think about it. There’s no way a normal merchie can hope to stand off a pirate. They’re not armed, and the only thing trying to resist boarding parties would accomplish would be to absolutely assure a massacre once they actually got aboard. So if the command crew figured they might be able to pull off something like I’m suggesting may have happened here, it would have to be pretty tempting.”

“Um.” Glockauer rubbed his upper lip thoughtfully. “You’re right about that,” he said after moment. “Especially if the pirates decided to keep the original crew alive and force them to work the ship for them. Their best chance of being rescued—their only chance, really—would be for the people who grabbed them to stumble across a warship which somehow managed to realize they’d been taken.”

He rubbed his lip some more while he considered the scenario he and Engelmann were discussing. Code Seventeen was a standard, universal merchant ship transponder code, although it was used far more often in bad adventure fiction than in reality. The code’s actual meaning was “I am being boarded by pirates,” but there wasn’t really any point in squawking the code unless there happened to be a friendly warship practically in the merchie’s lap when the pirates turned up. In very rare instances, a pirate might break off an attack in the face of a Code Seventeen if he thought there was a warship in range to pick up the signal and intervene. But that happened so seldom that a great many merchant skippers preferred not to squawk Code Seventeen under any circumstances. Pirates had been known to wreak particularly gruesome revenge on merchant spacers who’d attempted to resist… or to summon help.