The freighter skipper reached for the vodka once more. “Another drink, Captain. To seal this pact of silence.”
Amanda managed a polite smile and held up her glass.
Nusa Dua, Island of Bali
1017 Hours, Zone Time: August 11, 2008
Of the tourist and resort complexes that belt the southern coast of Bali, Nusa Dua is the most beautiful, the most upscale, and the most isolated from reality. Located four miles south of the mouth of Benoa Harbor on the Bukit Badung Peninsula, Nusa Dua lacks both the middle-class conviviality of Sanue Beach and the yeasty, surfers’ boisterousness of Kuta Bay. Rather it is a place of peace, dignity, and wealth. Its dozen or so luxury hotels, none built taller than the palm trees that shaded them, as per Balinese custom, faced pristine white sand and glistening azure waters with the hawkers and overt kitsch of Bali’s tourism invasion kept strictly at bay.
Here, too, were the business headquarters of Makara Limited, an ultramodern crescent of golden-tinted glass built on beach frontage worth one million dollars per linear meter. Harconan had little interest in its current worth. His father’s family had purchased the land from the local raja in the sixteenth century for fifty muskets and an Amsterdam music box.
The signing of the Von Falken shipping contracts marched through the series of polite formalities mandated by corporate protocol in the conference room on the upper floor. Introductions were made, hands shaken, and coffee and light refreshments served in the lounge off the master conference room.
Makara Harconan and the Von Falken Far Eastern representatives wore the light, tailored safari outfits that were the uniform of choice for the archipelago businessman. The senior company officials from Hamburg, however, sweated in their conservative banker’s suits, the dark clothing looking hot in the tropic sunlight pouring in through the glass wall that faced the sea.
Harconan aimed a wordless glance at an aide hovering unobtrusively at the perimeter of the meeting. Within moments, powered blinds purred down and angled, blocking the solar glare, and the faint whispering rumble of the air-conditioning deepened.
Polite compliments were offered about the Harconan business complex, and deprecating replies made. Hopes were expressed for a long and profitable joint venture between the two companies, and the thought was mechanically seconded by all present.
Makara Harconan maintained his expression of polite neutrality through it all, speaking the appropriate words, smiling the appropriate smiles, and concealing his boredom. He took no pleasure in these formalities, as ritualized in their way as a Ramayana ballet. This prize had already been pocketed. The challenge had been in seeking out the potentials of the deal and winning them on his terms. The mere documentation was something to be hurried through, freeing him to deal with more critical matters. Tuning out the traveler’s tale being told in labored English by the Von Falken vice president, Harconan’s gaze crept back toward the narrow strips of dazzling blue that peeked through slatted blinds. Within days, the American Sea Fighter Task Force would be standing in to Benoa Harbor, figuratively under the guns of his stronghold, and his greatest challenge to date would begin.
Captain Amanda Lee Garrett of the United States Navy. What might he expect of her?
Over the past week, his corporate intelligence group had collected a dossier on her, a most impressive document that Harconan had studied assiduously.
Amanda Garrett appeared to be the epitome of the modern American “liberated woman,” successfully assaulting a previously all-male bastion while earning the respect of her masculine peers. The daughter of an admiral and the heiress of an old Navy family, she had apparently bred true like an Arabian war mare, earning both her rank and a matching pair of Navy Crosses in combat. An objective assessment of her career indicated she was highly intelligent, extremely adaptive, and somewhat unconventional in her approaches to sea warfare. She was also apparently fearless on both the military and political battlefields.
This woman could be very dangerous, possibly one of the few truly dangerous individuals to challenge Harconan on his own ground in recent times. Was that why he also found the thought of her … stimulating?
Harconan snapped back to the moment and mouthed an appropriate platitude to the Von Falken VP. Detaching himself, he drifted loose across the lounge, desiring only the company of his own thoughts.
And then Mr. Lo appeared in the lounge doorway. He did not seek to speak to Harconan, nor did he send a message. The Straits Chinese merely allowed himself to be seen, then he vanished as silently as he had come.
It was enough. Harconan knew his factotum would not have made an appearance at this time unless some crisis had occurred requiring Harconan’s immediate attention. Keeping his face calm, Harconan made his excuses and retired from the lounge.
Striding down the central corridor past the offices of his personal secretaries, he pressed his hand against the palm scanner that granted access to his private work suite at the southern tip of the building. Lo was the only other person to have his handprint registered with the security system. He waited within.
Harconan’s personal office was a decisive contrast to the stark twenty-first-century Western modernism of the headquarters building. Teak bas-relief wall panels, hand-carved on Bali, flanked the inset bookshelves, and an ages-worn stone lion from the great Buddhist temple at Borobudur stood guard beside an antique dark oak desk brought from Holland some two centuries before.
Lo wasted no time. “We have just received word from Chief Adwar. There has been a catastrophic failure with the Piskov boarding operation.”
The Chinese held in a stiff parade rest, a silhouette against the outer glass wall. For the perennially understated Lo to use a word like catastrophic underlined the urgency of the matter.
“What’s the problem?”
“There rests the problem, sir: We do not know. The interception was made as per the operations plan, and the assault boats were launched. The boarding was apparently made successfully. Shortly thereafter, all communications with the boarding party was lost. The assault boats did not return, any of them. Their fate is not known.”
“What about the mother ships?”
“Chief Adwar waited for the return of his attack boats until dawn, then he withdrew from the area. He reported no sign of unusual military or police activity except for some unusual flashes of light on the horizon. However, after sunrise, he observed a ship believed to be the target vessel. It was undamaged and under way, proceeding outbound for the Indian Ocean.”
“What about our contacts in Jakarta? What do they have on the incident?”
“As arranged, there were no Indonesian naval forces within the immediate interception zone. A fragmentary distress call was received from the Piskov indicating the vessel was under attack, then communication ceased. When the Regional Piracy Center later regained contact with the Piscov concerning her distress call, the vessel’s master denied having made any such call and insisted all was well with his ship and that they had experienced no untoward events.”
Harconan slowly crossed to his desk and leaned back against its scarred wood. “What could have happened out there, Bapak?”
“Two possibly associated events have been reported. With one, an Indonesian naval shore installation on the coast of western Java reported what was apparently intense radio jamming at the time of our boarding action. This may be the cause of our lost communications with our boarders and a clue to their fate.”
“And the other?”
“The American Sea Fighter Task Force arrived in Singapore this morning—or, rather, part of it did. Our agents in Singapore initially reported that two American vessels were scheduled for replenishment at the American naval facility there. Only one, the auxiliary, made its appearance. The other vessel, the naval cruiser, did not. Its location is currently unknown.”
“Damn it.” Harconan let the curse escape, followed by a soft protracted hiss. Crossing his arms, he stared down at the floor, his thoughts racing. “I am a
fool, Lo. I had the warning but I didn’t see. Damn it!”
His fist smashed against the desk edge, the frustrated blow making the massive and venerable piece of furniture shudder. “The first touch of the blades and she draws our blood.”
“Captain Garrett,” Lo said quietly.
“Yes, Captain Garrett. She goes out of her way to politely give us her itinerary, her arrival times, exact information as to where she will be at a given date. And I’m fool enough to believe her. She’s already in our waters, Lo. And she has already taken some of our people.”
“There is no verification of that, sir. I have contacted our sources within both the International Piracy Center and the Indonesian government. There have been no reports filed concerning anti-piracy operations, the presence of U.S. naval vessels in Indonesian waters, or the arrest of Indonesian nationals by the United States. None of the conventions to be expected should such an event have occurred.”
“Nor do I think there will be.” Harconan straightened and began to pace slowly across the rich carpeting. “She has put us on notice, Lo. She does not intend to fight by convention. She will not play by the rules. This is not some politically expedient gesture being made, some flag waving expedition. The Americans are here to destroy us.”
“And how shall we respond, sir?” Lo inquired, studying his employer through impassive black eyes.
Harconan stopped pacing and gazed out toward the shimmering reach of the Badung Straits.
“We fight, Lo. Instead of letting ourselves be eaten up, we fight. For a thousand years, these waters have, by rights, belonged to my people. Their tides flow in our heart, our spirit, our soul. It is time we remind the world of that fact—Washington, Jakarta, Singapore, even Amanda Garrett.”
“Sir …” Lo hesitated for a long moment. “Initiating an overt confrontation at this time, when your greater plans are only approaching a state of readiness—do you perceive this as a … prudent course of action?”
Makara Harconan felt his lips curl into a slight, reckless smile. The multiplicity of gods who ruled these lands and waters must have sensed his hunger for new challenges. In their hunger for ironic divertissement, the deities had provided them, daring the mere mortal to react. In any such contest with the gods, a man had but two choices: to creep away in chastised humility or to draw steel and scream his defiance back to the heavens.
“No, Bapak, this is not a prudent course of action at this time. But it is the one I intend to follow.”
Lo tilted his head in acknowledgment. “As long as you have recognized this, sir. What are your instructions?”
“Pass the word to all clan chiefs and support-group leaders. Until further notice, all raiding operations are to be shut down. However, all clans are to keep their fighting crews assembled and their ships ready to sail on my command. Clan resupply will continue, as will the combat training. Shift the arms and ammunition disbursements totally to our people. I want all clans up to peak fighting strength. We may need them.”
“It will be done.”
“Next, I want full intelligence collection on the task group: their intentions, their mode of operation, sabotage potentials. Focus on all of the vulnerabilities of the ships and their crews. Also, contact our clan leaders on Lombok and eastern Java. I want to start assembling a ground assault force here on Bali. Have them start infiltrating their best teams. Arrange for housing, funding, and equipment.”
Lo nodded. “Very good, sir. A question, however, in relation to our discontinuing operations: Does that include the satellite project? The first of the foreign technical teams have arrived and are ready to proceed to the holding site. Should we abort?”
Harconan hesitated, balancing potentials. “No. Proceed with all possible speed. The sooner we can get the assessments done and the INDASAT parted out, the better. Also, contact our liaison with Morning Star separatists. I want our land security around the holding site reinforced heavily. Negotiate a suitable remuneration.”
Lo frowned. “The more personnel we move into the area, the higher the probability of detection.”
“It can’t be helped. Garrett has stolen one march on me already. She won’t steal two. I’m not running the risk of her simply popping in and walking away with this prize. If she wants it back, she must fight for it.”
The Chinese inclined his head. “As you wish, sir. But might I suggest that we pre-position the Harconan Flores at the holding site in the event that a rapid evacuation becomes advisable.”
“A good notion, Lo. Have her guns remounted as well.”
“And finally, sir, might I also suggest that above and beyond our covert intelligence gathering operations against the Americans, we might bring a more overt methodology into play.”
Harconan cocked his head. “How so?”
“It strikes me there might be a way to force your Captain Garrett to ‘play by the rules,’ sir. Covert operations within the Indonesian archipelago may prove more difficult if the American task group is kept under close surveillance by the Indonesian authorities.”
Harconan snapped his fingers. “Excellent, Lo. It’s time to get our money’s worth on that retainer we’ve been paying to our dear friend Admiral Lukisan. Set up a meeting with him.”
“As you wish, sir. Is there anything further at this time?”
For a few moments Harconan considered. “Yes,” he said finally. “There is an old western military truism, Lo: ‘Know your enemy.’ To this, I would add a saying from my own people. ‘To truly know your enemy, you must first look into his … or her, eyes.’ We shall arrange for this.”
Java Sea
110 Miles North-Northeast of the Sunda Strait
1645 Hours, Zone Time: August 14, 2008
In the year 1992, one of the most remarkable arms sales in history took place.
Following the collapse of the USSR and the reunification of Germany, the united German government inherited a massive stock of Soviet and Warsaw Pact armaments from the former East Germany. Urgently needing funds to help refurbish its prostrate ex-Communist eastern territories, Germany placed these unneeded weapons on the world market.
Indonesia, in turn, urgently needed seapower to defend and bind together its scattered archipelago territories. Taking advantage of this mammoth national garage sale, they purchased almost the entire East German navy, lock, stock, and barrel.
The Parchim-class frigate Wolf One, now orbited, had been part of that bulk buy of military might. Much had been changed, though, since the angular 250-foot warship had cruised the chill waters of the Baltic. Leaning out of the helicopter’s side hatch, Amanda studied the modifications made to the frigate’s weapons package with an intent, professional eye.
The old 30mm point defense mount and the two twelve-tube RBU antisubmarine mortars were gone from the forward gun deck, replaced by a Bofors modular 57mm cannon and by the angled launch cells of a quartet of Exocet antishipping missiles.
Triple sets of Bofors Type 43 torpedo tubes were carried amidships, while back aft, the old Russian Twin 57 and the SA-6 Grail launcher had been replaced by a second modular Swedish autocannon and a French Mistral SAM quad mount.
Jane’s also indicated new Korean medium-speed diesels in the Parchim’s engine room, and a full Japanese electronics refit. Over its series of rebuilds and updates, this old Warsaw Pact subchaser had evolved into a fairly nasty little surface warfare platform, one that was paying far too much attention to Amanda’s task force flagship for comfort.
Following the Piskov incident, the Duke had gone evasive, running first south and then cast down the length of Java. Another night and day had been spent lurking off the Lombok and Atla straits on the off chance that one last pirate raider might not have gotten the word.
When one had obliged, CLA 79 had slipped through into the Java Sea and made herself apparent to the world once more, dropping her stealth and EMCON shields. Turning west again, she steamed to rejoin the Carlson, en route eastbound from Singapore.
Two hours
prior, with Amanda Garrett onboard and with extended range ferry tanks clipped to her hardpoints, Wolf One had departed the Cunningham to make an early rendezvous with the Sea Fighter base ship.
Upon arrival at the Carlson’s position Amanda had found that the LPD was not alone.
Cobra circled back for another pass over the Indonesian warship, and an officer, possibly the frigate’s captain, stepped out onto the bridge wing. Clad in tropic whites, he stared up defiantly at the helicopter. Amanda met his gaze for a moment, wishing there were such a thing as mental telepathy.
“Okay, Cobra,” she said into her lip mike. “I’ve had my look-around. Put us down on the Carlson.”
“Doin’ it.”
Three minutes later the Super Huey settled onto the LPD’s flight deck.
“Home, Captain,” Richardson called back from the pilot’s seat, as he and his copilot commenced the aircraft power-down. “Never mind about your gear. My people will get it up to your cabin.”
“Thank you, and thanks for the lift and the good work. You and the Wolves didn’t take long in proving yourselves.”
“No strain, ma’am. Just give us something to shoot at every now and again and we’re happy.”
Leaving her cranial and lifejacket with the helo’s crew chief, Amanda disembarked. Heading forward to the superstructure, she found herself noting the slower, more deliberate pitch and roll of the larger ship, so different than the Duke’s decisive slice through the incoming rollers.
Admiral MacIntyre and Christine Rendino awaited her inside the open hangar bay doors, along with Captain Carberry and a handsome, intense Asian man in civilian clothes. He stood by impassively as Amanda honored the colors aft and exchanged salutes.
Admiral MacIntyre made the introductions. “Captain Garrett, this is Inspector Nguyen Tran of the Singapore National Police. He’s the guide Miss Rendino promised us.”
Amanda extended her hand and found it gripped in a solid western handshake. “I’m pleased to have you aboard, Inspector. We’ll be needing your help.”
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