A valley somewhere in Eastern Europe, the camp of the Modova Independence Army.
Zeto Va**—the terrorist who called himself "Sonar"—was sitting in the headquarters tent, puffing on a cigar as the female newscaster on the old television screen before him showed off his accomplishments for what had to be the umpteenth time.
"The entire country has currently ground to a halt because of the terrorist known as Sonar," she said gravely. "Statistics indicate that Friday's bombing in Metropolis caused twenty-three deaths and dozens of injuries. Classified intelligence advises citizens to avoid gatherings and warns that Va**'s bombs are powered by increasingly intense collective sound energy, such as speech, laughter, and cellphone ringtones. Va** has stated that unless the United Nations promptly convenes to discuss the disputed territorial sovereignty of the European nation of Modova, more attacks will follow."
At that, Va** could not help baring his teeth in a grin and laughing, like a child seeing his prank succeed. Another senior member of the Independent Army happened to enter the tent just then, stooping beneath the flap. He unloaded his heavy ammunition clips and rifle onto the table, then sat beside Va**.
Va** offered him a cigar. "Want one?"
"No, thanks."
Va** shrugged and tapped his ash onto the gray-black ground beside the sofa. "You should try one, Daka. Those bastards may be assholes, but their cigars are really good."
The man named Daka watched the screen with him for a moment before asking, "Your plan seems to be working well."
"The results are remarkable," Va** said confidently. "This is all they know how to do. Meetings and discussions—that's what those petty bureaucrats do best. Empty slogans and posturing won't win back anything. What belongs to us has to be fought for with strength. That is the only law by