Target Lock

by James H. Cobb

  Half an hour after the departure of the pirate force, the first broken porthole dipped beneath the ocean’s surface. Seven minutes later, the INDASAT Starcatcher capsized and sank, disappearing from the ken of man.

  Palau Piri Island, Indonesia

  Off the Northwestern Tip of Bali

  0131 Hours, Zone Time: July 9, 2008

  A classic Indonesian rijsttafel had been held at House Harconan for the new U.S. ambassador to Indonesia, honoring his first visit to Bali. Ambassador Randolph Goodyard and his wife had been introduced to the savory and exotic pleasures of the Indonesian “rice table” and to a select cadre of Indonesian movers and shakers, both courtesy of Makara Harconan.

  Several hours of good conversation and excellent brandy had followed on the broad beachfront lanai of the sprawling single-story mansion. Eventually, however, group by small group, the guests had departed, borne back through the night to the Bali mainland. The majority was transported by a small flotilla of expensive motor yachts standing by at the estate pier, a select handful by the helicopters spotted on the commodious private helipad. Finally only the guests of honor and the host lingered.

  Ambassador Goodyard lifted his glass in a final salute. “Mr. Harconan, my wife and I would like to thank you for a most entertaining evening, If this is the kind of hospitality l can look forward to, my tour here in the Far East will be most pleasantly memorable.”

  Harconan tilted his head in mild self-effacement. “It was my pleasure having you honor my home, Mr. Ambassador. I hope your time with us will be both enjoyable for you and productive for your nation and mine.”

  Although an Indonesian citizen, Makara Harconan was a man of many worlds. The multimillionaire trader and commodities broker was tall, with the tapering broad-shouldered solidity of his Dutch father. Yet, his dark and angular handsome features held the exotic kiss of his Asian mother’s blood as well. Born in Jakarta, he had chosen the island of Bali as a suitable base of operations for the growing business empire of a twenty-first-century taipan.

  Harconan was a formidable individual and potentially both a valuable ally and a resource worth cultivating. Goodyard, a canny yet internationally inexperienced former governor from Nebraska, recognized this fact full well and had taken the opportunity to pump the trader on the local political and economic environment. Harconan in turn had been both forthcoming and helpful with his replies.

  Now, at the tag end of the evening, there was one final question.

  “Mr. Harconan, in your opinion, if one word could be used to sum up what I could expect from this part of the world, what would it be?”

  Harconan frowned and lightly stroked his pencil-line moustache, a long-standing habit when he was in thought. For a long moment he considered the answer.

  “Contrasts, Mr. Ambassador,” he replied finally. “In dealing with Indonesia, one must expect remarkable contrasts at all times.”

  Rising from his rattan chair, he gestured westward toward the looming mountains and scattered coastal lights beyond the Bali strait. “There you have Java, the island with the highest population density on the planet. Yet, a comparatively few sea or air miles from here, you will find other islands where not a soul dwells and where one can still find ground that no other human foot has ever rested upon.

  “Jakarta, the city where you have your embassy, is one of the most modern and sophisticated cosmopolitan areas in the world. Yet at the other end of the archipelago, you have lrian Jaya—New Guinea, as you would know it—where the Stone Age is still very much a going concern.

  “To the northeast you have the oil sultanate of Brunei, possibly the richest nation on the face of the earth. Yet crushing poverty is also common. There are more followers of Islam in Indonesia than there are in all of the Mideast. Yet here also dwells the largest body of Hindus outside of India, while other islands have almost entirely been converted to the Christian faith. And over all, ancient tribal sorcery and animist beliefs linger on.

  “Indonesia has the world’s fourth-largest population. Yet it is a population broken down into over three hundred separate and distinct cultures, speaking over two hundred and fifty different languages, rendering any kind of true single national identity a dream held only in Jakarta.

  “You will find piercing beauty everywhere, yet also great ugliness. Kindness and joy abound, as do anger and hatred. Here is diversity beyond anything you have ever imagined, Mr. Ambassador, and always in vivid contrasts.”

  Goodyard frowned, his expression indicating his sudden surge of homesickness for the simplicity of Lincoln. “It’s going to be a challenge,” he said, setting down his glass.

  Harconan gave a minute nod to the Nung Chinese security man standing unobtrusively back in the shadows of the lanai. In turn, the guard whispered a few words into the lip mike of his radiolink. The cranking wail of a turbine engine came from the direction of the seaplane ramp as the pilots of Harconan’s corporate aircraft readied it for departure.

  Harconan bowed over the hand of the ambassador’s wife, then extended his own to the ambassador. “Mr. Goodyard, I am at your disposal at any time. If I may be of assistance to you or your government, you need but call.”

  “I’ll remember that, Mr. Harconan. And I thank you again. In a world where anti-Americanism sometimes seems rampant, your offer of friend ship is a comfort.”

  From the lanai, Harconan watched as his Canadair CL215 Turbo drew a silvery streak of spray across the waveless surface of the strait before lifting into the sky. Angling away to the northwest, it bore the ambassador and his wife back to Jakarta. The running lights of the big twin-engine amphibian were soon lost amid the starblaze of the tropic midnight.

  Settling his dinner jacket, the taipan turned and passed through the set of sliding glass doors that led to his commodious den/office.

  Stepping forward from the shadows, the Chinese security man silently took up his station in the center of the lanai, facing outward to the sea and standing at a relaxed parade rest. A whisper of a breeze tugged the tail of his light linen sports coat aside, momentarily revealing the butt of a military caliber Beretta automatic pistol.

  He was not alone. Beyond the muted circle of illumination cast by the house lights, the outer perimeter guards prowled quietly through the shadows, Steyr assault rifles slung over camouflage-clad shoulders.

  Within the office, the airy batik wall hangings and expensive golden rattan furnishings effectively set off the polished teak of the massive centralized desk. Mr. Lan Lo, Makara Limited’s senior business manager and Makara Harconan’s personal aide-de-camp, stood respectfully beside the desk, hands clasped behind his back at a near parade rest, awaiting his employer. The stark white hair of the spare and venerable Chinese contrasted with the dark, well-tailored fabric of his conservatively cut suit.

  “The dinner went very well indeed, Bapak,” Harconan replied, using the Bahasa Indonesian “father” honorific. “Ambassador Goodyard is a pleasant enough sort. Intelligent, albeit inexperienced. I think we will be able to do good work with him.”

  Harconan crossed the office, giving the bow tie of his evening wear a loosening tug. “How do the openings look on the London and Paris exchanges?”

  “Favorable, sir. Nickel, tin, and petroleum are stable. Mild upward trends continue for vanilla and pepper.”

  “Excellent. And the Von Falken contract?”

  “I have been in communication with our agents in Hamburg and the situation appears to be developing positively. The vote by the board of directors will not be taken until Friday; however, our preliminary polling indicates that the Harconan Lines bid will be accepted over that of PELNI for their regional container service between Singapore and Bali.”

  The faintest ghost of a disapproving expression crossed La’s face. “Unfortunately, our agents also indicated it required an additional eighty-four thousand Euros in gifting beyond our projected budget to ensure the acquisition of the contract.”

  Harconan laughed and tugged the tie from aroun
d his neck. “German businessmen are like their automobiles: expensive to buy, but the performance is worth it. Don’t worry, Bapak, we’ll get our money back and more. And now, the satellite operation?”

  “Proceeding nominally, sir. The acquisition is complete and the spacecraft is under tow. Intelligence Division indicates no distress calls or alert notifications on the international distress frequencies and no unusual activity by Australian naval forces. Our operations group is proceeding on course to the holding site.”

  “Very good indeed. It seems to be a successful night on all fronts.”

  “So it would appear, sir.”

  Arafura Sea

  97 Miles North-Northwest of Cape Wessel

  0540 Hours, Zone Time: July 9, 2008

  When their recovery ship failed to meet its third scheduled radio call, the INDASAT agency in Darwin notified the Australian coast guard that a potential emergency existed. The response was rapid. An RAAF Orion maritime patrol plane was scrambled from its base at Cooktown, arriving over the last known location of the INDASAT Starcatcher just at first light. To the consternation of all involved, no trace of the vessel was found. The Starcatcher had vanished completely, without even a trace of wreckage or an oil slick left behind.

  As the confusion grew and the search widened, a trio of Bugis pinisi reached the tangled straits of the Indonesian archipelago. There they, too, disappeared from the ken of man.

  Operations Center, United States Navy

  Special Forces Command

  Pearl Harbor Fleet Base, Oahu, Hawaii

  0455 Hours, Zone Time: July 24, 2008

  Lieutenant Commander Christine Rendino wheeled the yellow Chevrolet Electrostar cabriolet into her reserved slot in the Intelligence Section parking lot. Squinting blearily into the sunrise that flamed over Diamond Head, she switched the solar-cell array of the little electric commuter car to “recharge” before dismounting from the vehicle. Slinging the strap of her uniform handbag over one shoulder and lugging the burden of her laptop case, she trudged across to the operations-center entrance.

  A battered silver Porsche Targa sat parked in the lot’s first rank. A tall, square-set man in razor-creased tropic whites stood beside it, the stars of a Navy flag officer glinting on his shoulder boards. An amused smile cut across his leathery, tanned features as the blond intel approached.

  “Good morning, Commander,” he said, returning the younger officer’s salute. “It looks like the beginning of a beautiful day.”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny that rumor at this time, sir. I’ll require additional input for verification.”

  Admiral Elliot “Eddie Mac” MacIntyre, Commander in Chief, U.S. Naval Special Forces, laughed and collected his briefcase from the Porsche’s passenger seat. “I believe Captain Garrett did mention some thing about you not being a morning person.”

  Christine gave another hitch to her purse strap. “Try me at about eleven-thirty, Admiral. That’s still morning and I’m usually pretty good by then.”

  “Today, we’re keeping Washington time. Stand on, Commander. Our lords and masters await within.”

  “Isn’t it traditional for us to get a tumbrel, sir?”

  The intel and the admiral cleared the multiple layers of security at the opcenter entrance. Proceeding through the white cinderblock corridors to the communications center at the core of the sprawling, single-level complex, Christine, as usual, found herself half-trotting to keep pace with MacIntyre’s decisive, rangy stride.

  At communications, a small, stark conference room awaited them. After tossing their uniform hats atop the gray metal government-standard coatrack, they settled in behind the central table. MacIntyre flipped open his briefcase while Christine deployed her laptop, jacking into the table’s access and power points.

  Set into the conference room wall across from them was the two meter-wide flatscreen of a videoconferencing system, its camera lens staring down glassily from over the top of the frame.

  “Set, Chris?” MacIntyre inquired.

  “Anytime, sir.” She flipped open her pair of close-work glasses and settled them over her nose.

  MacIntyre nodded and lifted the receiver from the table’s phone deck. “Communications, this is the C in C. Authenticator, Ironfist-November-zero-two-one. We’re ready for that conference link with the State Department.”

  The red “active” light over the video receptor winked on. The wall display filled for an instant with a State Department screen logo and then broke to the image of a conference room far plusher than the utilitarian Navy facility.

  Two men faced out from the monitor. One—tall, spare, and instinctively dignified—wore a gray suit cut with a Savile Row flair. The other individual, shorter, broader, and scowling, was clad in a conservative banker’s pinstripe.

  MacIntyre took the lead. “Good morning, Harry,” he said, nodding to the man in gray. “It’s good to see you again. How’s Elaine doing?”

  Given the nature of the coming confrontation, it would be good to remind certain individuals that both he and NAVSPECFORCE as a whole had friends in high places.

  Secretary of State Harrison Van Lynden returned a smile at the gambit. “Good morning, Eddie Mac. She’s doing fine and she’ll be expecting you to come by for spaghetti next time you’re in town. Good morning to you as well, Commander Rendino. I’d like you both to meet Senator Walter Donovan. Senator, this is Admiral Elliot MacIntyre, the commanding officer of U.S. Naval Special Forces, and one of his intelligence officers, Lieutenant Commander Christine Rendino.”

  The senator responded with the briefest of nods. Intel and admiral alike could read the leashed truculence in his demeanor.

  Van Lynden continued smoothly. “It seems that interests within the senator’s constituency have a strong involvement in the INDASAT program. They have requested that he approach the State Department concerning the incident that occurred off Australia earlier this month. As NAVSPECFORCE has become the lead agency involved in the investigation, I thought that a direct conference would be the best way to respond to these inquiries.”

  “Understood, Mr. Secretary,” MacIntyre replied. “Commander Rendino has been in charge of the intelligence task force we’ve created to work the problem, and they’ve completed their preliminary investigation. We’re ready to respond to any question for which we have an answer.”

  Senator Donovan cut in abruptly. “I hope you have plenty of them, Admiral. There were a dozen American citizens on that ship. And not just your average men off the street, either, but some of our best scientists and technicians. This above and beyond the billions invested in this project by both the government and American industry. All I’ve gotten from the State Department and the Pentagon up to this point is a lot of runaround! Now I want some straight talk on how, why, and who!”

  The secretary of state lifted a hand. “You’ll get it, Senator, you have my word on that. But for now I suggest we allow the admiral and Commander Rendino to bring us up to speed on this matter in their own way. Proceed, Eddie Mac.”

  MacIntyre nodded his acknowledgment. “Here’s the situation, Senator. As has been released to the press, the wreck of the INDASAT Starcatcher has been located on the ocean floor, not far from the designated recovery point in the Arafura Sea. The satellite is not aboard, but we fear that the entire crew is. The Australian navy has a salvage vessel on site at this time, and they are endeavoring to recover the bodies. Given that the wreck is resting in almost a thousand feet of water, this will likely be a protracted and difficult process.

  “A survey of the wreck by Remotely Operated Vehicle indicates that there is no chance of this being an accidental sinking. The INDASAT Starcatcher was attacked, fired upon, and deliberately scuttled. We may presume the intent was to steal the Industrial Applications Satellite it had just recovered and the payload the satellite carried.”

  “I think that many of us concluded that a long time ago, Admiral,” Donovan replied caustically. “What took the Navy so long to b
e convinced? And why did it take more than a week to find this ship? There had to have been an oil slick, wreckage. Who was asleep at the switch? The Australians? Us? Who?”

  “No one, sir,” Christine Rendino interjected. “The ship wasn’t found sooner because someone went to a great deal of trouble to make sure it wouldn’t be found.”

  “How’s that?” Donovan lifted a bushy eyebrow.

  “We’re dealing with an exceptionally sophisticated and capable group of people here, Senator. The sinking of the Starcatcher was deliberately concealed. The Australian navy’s ROV survey indicates that the ship was neither blown up nor burned but underwent a controlled scuttling via the opening of its sea cocks. Buoyant materials topside on the recovery vessel were also stricken and secured belowdecks so there would be no floating debris field from the sinking. The fuel must have even been emptied from the ship’s bunkerage tanks into another vessel so there would be no large oil slick.

  “Accordingly, the Australian navy’s search problem was vastly complicated. They couldn’t tell if the Starcatcher had been sunk, hijacked, or had just sailed away. They had to cover all of the possibilities. When an extensive air and sea sweep by their assets failed to turn up anything, they requested our assistance.”

  “How did we find the wreck?” Van Lynden inquired, leaning back in his chair.

  “An Oceansat, sir, a Navy Ocean Surveillance Satellite. We conducted a scan of the Arafura Sea from orbit, using varying filtered light spectra, and we picked up a reflectivity shift on the ocean’s surface. There was an oil slick after all, but only a faint residual, so thin and dispersed it was invisible to the naked eye.