Target Lock

by James H. Cobb

  Men and women disembarked, almost two score of them, clad in the field fatigues of both the Australian and United States air forces. Lugging a heavy burden of personal gear, toolboxes, and equipment cases, they trudged down the tail ramp of the grounded helicopter.

  Emptied, the Chinook lifted into the sky again, leaving its former passengers to their tasks.

  Some of the Australians produced massive key rings and scattered toward the sealed and deserted buildings along the flightline. U.S. communications personnel established a satellite phone link to the outside world and climbed the control tower carrying backpack SINCGARS radios with them. Other airmen began the long walk in the beating sun along the runways, searching for and clearing away foreign objects from the concrete. There was no time to waste. More traffic was inbound, a lot of it.

  The first USAF C-130J entered the pattern an hour later. After circling once to survey the approaches to the semicontrolled field, it gingerly settled out of the sky to land. Braking hard and with its quadruple turbo props reversing, the transport came to a halt at the airfield centerline. Its tailgate opened and swiftly it gave birth to a mobile airfield radar truck, a dozen more ground personnel and a humvee towing a power unit.

  With its payload disembarked, the C-130 taxied back to the end of the runway for takeoff. One of its sisters was already circling impatiently, demanding a clear field.

  All through the day a steady stream of C-130s and C-17s flowed in, and with each aircraft, Curtin Field came a little more alive. Generator sets snored, pumping electricity into the reactivated power grid. Water lines spat rust and hissed before gushing clean. Windows and doors were slammed open, allowing the wind off the sound to blow the hot staleness from the living quarters.

  Portable landing lights were deployed along the runways, even as aircraft touched down. Sitting in their air-conditioned vans, GCA controllers worked traffic as casually as might have been done at LAX. A growing fleet of ground vehicles trundled along the base roadways: humvee’s, pickups, tankers, fire and rescue trucks.

  A field kitchen served hot A rations. Field desks were carried into empty offices. Sleeping bags were unrolled on barracks floors.

  Not all of the aircraft that arrived departed again. An iron-ball-black MC-130J Combat Talon transport from the U.S. Air Force’s First Special Operations Wing taxied over to its reserved slot on the parking apron and shut down, disgorging its own ground crew and the support equipment and parts inventory it would need for a protracted stay.

  The Air Commando Combat Talon was a relation to the standard C-130 Hercules transports flying into Curtin, but at best a cousin. Stealthed and equipped with an extensive, cutting-edge array of sensors and countermeasures systems, the Talon was intended to go into places where conventional cargo aircraft couldn’t survive, and to get out again.

  On another stretch of apron, preparations were made to receive a very different class of airplane. The small fleet of white vans and trailers belonging to the mission control and the launch-and-recovery elements deployed with practiced speed. Multiple radio masts extended hydraulically, and satellite dishes elevated and tracked across the sky, sensing for their incoming charges.

  The justification for it all arrived just as the sun touched the western horizon, the red light flaming off of its composite skin. In silhouette, it was rather like an exceptionally futuristic sailplane, with the span of its narrow straight wings being twice the length of the stumpy fuselage. A sharply angled V tail was set aft and a pronounced hump atop the fuselage contained its Rolls-Royce/Allison turbofan engine, now throttled back to a bare whisper of power.

  Smoothly it ghosted in over the main runway, landing gear extending from its belly. There was a puff of smoke as tires touched tarmac and it was down, completing its eleven-thousand-mile deployment flight from its base on the West Coast of the United States.

  As it taxied toward its parking stand, an observer might also note a strong similarity with the legendary U-2/TR-1 family of reconnaissance aircraft.

  There was one decided difference: The Global Hawk UAV (Unmanned Aerial Vehicle) didn’t have a cockpit. One was not required. The “pilot” who had landed it sat in a virtual-reality cockpit within one of the mission control vans.

  With the first bird safe on the ground and powered down, the UAV systems operator flipped up the heavy display visor of his VR helmet and paused to take a gulp from a can of lukewarm Diet Pepsi balanced on his console top. Keying the intercom that linked him with the gang over in the cruise monitoring trailer, he advised them he was ready to assume link with the second of the four inbound UAVs, and could they please hurry it up before the lasagna was gone over at the chow line?

  As night fell over Curtin, the transformation was complete. Bustling activity had replaced abandonment. Lights blazed within its hangars and buildings. Come the next dawn the first Global Hawk would sortie northward into the skies over Indonesia. The base had a mission and meaning again

  In the thorn scrub beyond the base perimeters, the ’roos thirstily watched the activity and dimly wondered how they would reach the wellhead.

  Orchid Fantasy Monorail Station

  Sentosa Island, Singapore

  0829 Hours, Zone Time: August 4, 2008

  Sentosa Island was the Disney World of the Orient.

  Lying just off the mouth of Keppel Harbor, it could be reached from mainland by cable car, causeway, and ferry. Gardens, museums, theme parks, and the finest beaches in Singapore were spaced around the perimeter of the three-kilometer island like the beads of a necklace. An ultramodern monorail system served as the string linking them, shuttling Sentosa’s visitors, international and Singaporean alike, from amusement to amusement with swift and silent efficiency.

  Sentosa was a place of beauty, education, and pleasure. However, Inspector Nguyen Tran of the Singapore National Police had come here for none of those things.

  Stepping back into a deeply shaded nook near the monorail entrance, Tran checked his wristwatch and then the Glock Model 19 that rode in the shoulder holster beneath the coat of his tan linen suit.

  Singapore was by far the safest city in Southeast Asia when it came to overt street crime. Tran knew this to be true because his job was to help keep it so. He also knew full well that taking chances was a fool’s game. Especially when one was responding to an anonymously E-mailed request for a covert rendezvous. A request that specified he come alone.

  From his shadowed point of concealment, he scanned his back trail, seeking a suspicious face, a suspicious act, a look or an expression out of place. He found none in the scant early-morning flow of tourists and pleasure seekers.

  With computer-controlled precision, the eight-thirty run of the sleek monorail sighed into Orchid Fantasy Station. Tran let the departing passengers disembark before crossing to the boarding platform. Stepping through the doors of the near-empty car at the back of the train, he retired to the rearmost bench, a position that would give him a full commanding view of anyone who came aboard during the upcoming circuit of the island.

  The doors thumped shut. With a smooth surge of acceleration, the train flowed on its way, riding its single, pylon-mounted rail above the lush greenery of the forested parkland.

  His instructions were simple and succinct: Cross to Sentosa from the mainland on the Causeway Bridge. Board the monorail at Orchid Fantasy station at eight-thirty. Wait for contact. Tran had obeyed and now he waited, his hawkish, darkly handsome features impassive.

  Nothing occurred at the “Night Market” or “Lost Civilization” stops. However, at the “Underwater World” seaquarium, a young Caucasian woman boarded the car. A tourist, no doubt, given the sheaf of travel fliers stuffed into the side pocket of her shoulder bag and the theme-park balloon bouncing saucily on the string looped around her wrist.

  On his own time, Tran might have shot an appreciative glance at the sleek, golden-tanned legs below the brief skirt of the blonde’s summer shift. As it was, he was here on business. He added a little mor
e stone to his expression, seeking to scare her off a few seat rows. He was somewhat nonplussed when, instead, the girl dropped into the seat beside him.

  “Inspector Tran, I presume,” she murmured as the train gained way.

  Trans’ brows shot up in surprise and he had to catch himself before replying. “Yes, I am Nguyen Tran,” he replied in English, keeping his voice low. “And you are … ?”

  “The person you’re supposed to meet,” the girl—woman—replied. Close up, Tran could catch the carefully camouflaged maturity of the newcomer. “The person who contacted you.”

  “You can prove this?” Tran inquired warily.

  The blonde smiled. “In the message you received, there was an odd word included as an authenticator: Winnowill. Am I correct?”

  Tran gave a nod. “Correct. There was. I accept that you are the person who sent me a most mysterious message. But I still do not know who you are or why you contacted me. I trust I will be enlightened before this goes much further?”

  “My name is Christine Rendino, Lieutenant Commander Christine Rendino, United States Naval Special Forces.”

  “United States Naval Special Forces?”

  “That’s right,” she replied, presenting an identification card she’d been palming, “and I’m here to talk with you about matters of mutual concern.”

  “What matters of mutual concern would I have with the United States Navy, Commander Rendino?”

  “Pirates, Inspector Tran,” the young woman replied, crossing her legs. “We’re all just crazy-mad about pirates.”

  Shaded by rustling palms and backdropped by the velvet greenness of its world-class golf courses, the lanai café of the Hotel Beaufort seemed an unusual locale to discuss piracy with a naval officer. But then this Christine Rendino seemed a most unusual naval officer.

  “Might I ask why you’ve sought me out in this manner, Commander?”

  “Of course.” She kicked off her sandals and leaned back comfortably in her rattan chair. “It’s in relation to a series of articles you wrote last year for the International Journal of Maritime Affairs, the ones on the changing face of modern-day piracy in Asia. I and a number of other people found them very impressive. I hope your superiors gave you the recognition you deserve for your investigation.”

  “Those articles were purely a private project on my part,” Tran replied stiffly. “They had no relationship with my duties as a member of the Singapore National Police.”

  The American woman chuckled and took a sip of her French-vanilla latte. “I know. I also know that your superiors and your government attempted to distance themselves from both you and your articles in the face of the furor they kicked up. What was some of the phraseology used in the rebuttal issued by the Indonesian Foreign Ministry? ‘Speculative, unproven, the promotion of needless hysteria’ and other such buzzwords as are used by a nervous bureaucracy confronted with a dangerous reality leakage.”

  In spite of himself, Tran smiled. Mysterious or not, this young lady was easy to like. “It was suggested to me that truth is sometimes too dangerous a commodity to simply leave lying about. But which truth in particular are we talking about?”

  She continued. “In your articles, you suggested that the piracy operations within the Indonesian archipelago are coming under a single centralized command. Instead of a hundred individual raider groups, we’re seeing the organization of a united pirate fleet, something that has not happened in these waters since the sixteenth century. You indicated that this fleet is developing a sophisticated support and logistics network as well as a money and cargo operation. You also broadly hinted that it had corrupted officials within both the international business world and the regional governments.”

  Tran scowled. “As was stated in the Indonesian Foreign Ministry’s rebuttal. Commander Rendino, this was all speculation on my part.”

  “Really.” She leaned forward, her gray-blue eyes intent. “And what if I say that I know your ‘speculations’ are all dead-on? There is a piracy cartel. It is real. It is growing, and if somebody doesn’t do something about it soon, it’s going to control a block of ocean the size of the North Atlantic as well as the destiny of every living soul between Port Moresby and the Malay Peninsula.”

  Tran sensed the opening of a door, whether to a trap or to an opportunity he was not yet sure. “And who is proposing to do something about it, Commander Rendino?”

  “Have you heard of the INDASAT Starcatcher?”

  Tran nodded. “I have been tracking the case for my files, yes.”

  “That’s the one that got our attention. We’ve been ordered to clean out the cartel.”

  Tran openly chuckled. “I’m sure the navy of the United States has some very formidable assets at its disposal. But if you expect to wipe out East Indian piracy in a single blow, I fear you will be sadly disappointed. Piracy is not a crime in these waters, it’s a culture.”

  Tran raised his glass of ice water. “Western and regional governments have been trying to eliminate the trade for over six centuries and have failed. Your nation should not expect to do better.”

  Christine Rendino continued to study him with that catlike fixation. “No, we shouldn’t, not in the sense of eliminating every Bugis marauder hiding out in every backwater cove in the archipelago. But maybe we can return East Indian piracy to what it once was, a scattering of disorganized criminal gangs operating independently with limited resources. Just maybe we can take out this new pirate king and the infrastructure he’s building. Oh, and on the side, we can grab our satellite back. Does that hit you as doable?”

  Tran scowled. He wasn’t certain yet, but if this could somehow be real … “Answer me this, Commander: How serious is your government about this affair? Is this only someone’s politically expedient stunt, or are they willing to go to the extremes that may be necessary?”

  “I personally know the two individuals who’ll be running this operation,” Christine replied soberly. “You have my word that they will do whatever has to be done. And they aren’t the kind to worry overmuch about the rulebook.”

  “And you have contacted my government concerning this operation?”

  “No, we have not contacted the governments of either Singapore or Indonesia concerning our intentions. Nor do we plan to until we have located and identified the cartel leadership beyond all questions. We’ll be working covertly within Indonesian territorial waters. We’ve elected to operate in this fashion because, like you, we suspect that the cartel has infiltrated the security and foreign affairs ministries of certain of the regional governments. We’re no longer sure whom we can trust.”

  “Commander Rendino,” Tran replied, “I can assure you that Singapore has the most honest, secure, and corruption-free government in all of Asia.”

  The inspector paused and took a sip of his ice water. “And having said that,” he continued with an arch smile, “I may also assure you that any communication you might have with my government concerning anti-piracy operations in these waters would be in the hands of the cartel leadership within … I would say, twenty-four hours at the outside.”

  The intel’s eyes widened. “That bad? Even here in Singapore?”

  “That bad, Commander. And it’s worse in Kuala Lumpur, Bangkok, Bandar Seri Begawan, Manila, and Jakarta—especially Jakarta. You might even want to be circumspect to a degree in your dealings with Canberra. But to continue, how might I be of help? I am only one man.”

  “A man who has spent his entire life studying the problems of piracy in Southeast Asia. My people at NAVSPECFORCE intelligence have been looking at your career very intently for the past couple of weeks. We have the articles and papers you have written as well as copies of the memos and reports you’ve filed on the subject with various government ministries here in Singapore.”

  She shook her head, cutting off his puzzled query. “Don’t ask, we just have them. At any rate, we think you may very well be the most knowledgeable ‘hands-on’ expert alive concerning East A
sian piracy. Also, by reading between the lines of those reports, we suspect you know a hell of a lot more about certain things than you’ve written up.”

  “I do,” Tran replied frankly. “But as you say, I’m the most knowledgeable expert alive. To speak … imprudently in these matters could bring about an abrupt change in that status.”

  The American woman’s eyes narrowed and she smiled humorlessly. “But you’d risk it if it would mean hitting them hard, just once, wouldn’t you?”

  Tran studied the glass in his hand. It was like something from the old Muslim seamen’s myths, the Sinbad stories that had been born here in the East Indies. One day, when you least expect it, a pretty genie pops out of a bottle and offers you your most heartfelt desire. But at what price?

  “What would you want me to do?” Tran inquired slowly.

  “We’d like you to come with us. We want you to serve as an adviser on the region and on the cartel’s operations. Tell us what we don’t know. Show us what doors we have to kick in. Help us take down the king. It will all be unofficial. We can offer you nothing in return except for maybe a little satisfaction.”

  “And maybe peace.” Tran barely heard his own murmur. He looked up at the intelligence officer. “A final question. If you can’t trust my government, how can you trust me? How do you know I might not be in the pay of the cartel as well—a professional red herring, as it were?”

  Christine Rendino smiled again, her eyes softer and the smile sympathetic and knowing. “I’ve been studying more than your reports, Inspector. I’ve been studying you as well.

  “For example,” she continued, “you’re Vietnamese, a boat person. You were born in Saigon and, in 1986, when you were eight years old, your family attempted an escape from Communist Vietnam. You, your father and mother, and your fourteen-year-old sister attempted a crossing to the Malay Peninsula with twenty-four other Vietnamese aboard a small fishing boat.