“Pretty much so, Admiral, sir,” Christine replied. “Note how the compound is energy-independent, with solar cell arrays on the roofs and a couple of wind turbines here and here. You can also see the multiple satellite dishes. The place is wired like a NASA ground station, with direct access to all major satcom information nets. It’s also guarded like Fort Knox. There’s a permanent forty-person staff in residence, half of whom are armed guards.”
“Nung Chinese mercenaries, to be specific,” Tran added. “The best in Asia, equipped with automatic weapons and night-vision systems. You also have a sea-and-air-capable radar system, low-light television monitors covering the beaches, and a charged and sensor-wired perimeter fence around the compound itself.”
“What? No surface-to-air missiles?” MacIntyre inquired archly.
Tran held up a pair of fingers. “Two French Mistral shoulder-fired launchers issued to Harconan’s security forces by the Indonesian army as an ‘anti-terrorist’ precaution.”
“I should have guessed.”
Amanda Garrett rose and started to pace slowly around the table, her hands on her hips, her lower lip lightly bitten in thought.
“Excuse me, Captain Garrett,” Tran said apologetically. “But that particular posture you have assumed, the hands on the hips, is considered very insulting by the Indonesians. It’s how their Dutch overseers would stand in the fields back in the colonial days.”
Startled, she dropped her hands to her sides. “Thank you for the tip, Inspector,” she smiled. “If you catch us performing any other local faux pas, please bring it to our attention.”
She picked up one of Harconan’s photographs again, studying it. “This is all very good material, Inspector, but it’s also essentially circumstantial. We’re going to need more hard evidence linking this man and the piracy operations.”
“I regret I can provide none,” Tran replied. “Makara Harconan is a most intelligent and capable individual, and he has built a most formidable machine. One that I, operating alone and in my spare time, have not been able to breach. In my heart, I know he is our pirate king. All my instincts and all available information point in his direction. But the proof you require must be gained through your resources.”
“Then we’d best get about it.” Captain Garrett let the photograph glide back to the tabletop. “Our first possible access point will be the prisoners and hard intelligence we collected from the Piskov attack. Inspector, I trust you’ll be assisting Commander Rendino and our intelligence section with the interrogations and analysis?”
Tran nodded. “Of course, Captain.”
“Thank you.” She shifted her gaze to Christine. “Okay, Chris, I heard the transfer Oceanhawk come in a little bit ago, so your subjects are aboard. Wring ’em out as needed, but don’t damage them. Are we still maintaining track on the pirate mother ships?”
“Fa’ sure, Boss Ma’am. They headed north through the Sunda Strait and are now standing toward western Sulawesi, probably heading for one of the Bugis coastal villages.”
“Excellent. Tonight, before we turn south for Bali, I intend to spin off a Sea Fighter microforce. We’ll pre-position it on the Sulawesi coast with orders to penetrate and recon the pirate base as soon as we can get a fix on it. Our shadower will complicate matters, but I think we can work around him.”
She glanced at MacIntyre. “That is, with your permission, sir?”
A rueful smile cut across Maclntyre’s sea-tanned features. “Micromanagement is a dirty word, Captain. I gave you your job. Get it done. I’ll just sit back in the shade and take the credit.”
“That sounds like a deal, sir,” Amanda Garrett replied, matching smiles. “I think this operation is well under way. What we need next is an approach that can get us closer to this Makara Harconan.”
Maclntyre’s grin faded, and he removed a message flimsy from the pocket of his wash khaki shirt. “Funny thing. I received a communication from our embassy in Jakarta this afternoon. It seems that a local business firm desires to sponsor a goodwill reception for the task force’s senior officers during our port call in Bali. The usual cocktails, light refreshments, and local social and diplomatic elite.”
The admiral held the flimsy up between his fore- and middle fingers. “Makara Limited is extending the invitation.”
Somewhere Aboard the USS Carlson
Zone Time unknown: 2008
Hayam Mangkurat could not say if it was day or night, or how many days or nights might have passed since his capture. The bright electric light in the overhead burned continuously.
The Bugis prizemaster had seen neither the sun nor darkness since his capture aboard the Piskov. He had been moved from captivity on one ship to a second, he was certain of that. There had been the long helicopter flight, and this vessel rode the waves differently than the first.
He had been kept hooded throughout the transfer, and the gray steel walls of this cabin were all but identical to those of the other.
When Mangkurat had regained consciousness aboard the first vessel, he had sworn to himself by the Holy Name of God that he would not be broken. He was a Bugis sea raider, son of a hundred generations of sea raiders and a veteran of forty years’ voyaging. He would place his trust in Allah and keep faith with his clan and the sea king. Beyond his courage and will, he had the promise of the raja samudra himself. “Should you fall into the hands of our enemies, you will be remembered. Keep silent in all things and you will be freed.”
He had steeled himself for what was sure to come: the interrogation, the beating, the demands for information. His people had defied the Dutch, the Japanese, the Communists, the swaggering Javanese polisi. What could these American—at least, he believed they were American— bule do?
But what they did was nothing. His wounds had been treated with care, and he had been placed alone in that first metal room. The mattress on the bunk was comfortable. Sleep would have been easy were it not for the incessant glare of the light in the overhead. There was water to be had at the turn of a tap, and frequently food was brought. Bland fish and rice, but it was plentiful, brought three times a day … he thought.
He wasn’t sure. The timing of the meals never seemed to be the same. The food was never brought at the same time … he didn’t think. Some times he had to wait until his stomach growled. At other times the meals seemed only minutes apart. It was unsettling.
And the big men who brought the food. The men in the green uniforms who wore the black hoods that let only their eyes show. They never lifted a hand against him. They never threatened or questioned. They never spoke a word at all.
There were only the ship sounds. The padding footsteps beyond the locked steel door, the occasional squawk of a muffled voice over a loud speaker, and the whisper of the air in the ventilator ducts that began to sound like a woman’s whisper after a while.
And then they did come for him. Two of the green uniforms. They slipped the hood over his head and they guided him out of the narrow door, one on either side. Mangkurat thought for a moment about fighting, about making a break. But then the hands on his arms tightened as his guards read his mind.
A stumbling walk followed, up steep ladders and over shin-cracking hatch sills. Then the Bugis found himself forced down onto a low metal stool. The hood was whisked away, but Mangkurat saw only more blackness. He could not see his guards, but they were still there. Still close by.
Abruptly, dazzling white light exploded in his face, and Mangkurat’s muscles spasmed in fright. Frantically he tried to drag his cloak of stoicism back around himself. H was Bugis! He was not afraid! They could not break him!
“Siapa nama saudara?” What is your name?
For the first time in days—how many?—he heard a human voice. It came out of the impenetrable shadow beyond the light focused in his eye’s. A man’s voice, quiet and level, the tongue Bahasa Indonesia, spoken with the ease and fluidity of a native.
“What is your name?” the voice repeated.
And yet
again, “What is your name?”
Mangkurat kept silent and braced himself for the blow that must lash out of the darkness, be it a fist, whip, or dub.
But the blow never fell.
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
A pause.
“Understand this,” the voice went on after a moment. “We already know what you are. You are Bugis. You are a pirate who sailed away one day to rob a ship and who never returned. No one knows what happened to you. Not your captain. Not your family. Not your village. Not even the raja samudra himself.”
Mangkurat struggled to keep his stoicism. They knew of the sea king. They must also know of his promise.
The voice continued quietly, hypnotically level. “No one knows where you are, so you are nowhere. You are a nonentity, a ghost, nothing. Tell us your name so you can be a man again.”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
There was only the darkness and the light and the voice and hard edges of the stool biting into his buttocks.
That and the one question.
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
Slowly, Mangkurat’s folded legs began to go numb. Dryness crept down his throat and his eyes burned from the light. Even when he closed them, the glare seeped redly through his eyelids. And the question, hammering at him, becoming meaningless as time drew on.
“What is your name?”
His startled jump almost toppled Mangkurat to the deck. A second voice had asked the question, a woman’s voice, still speaking Indonesian, but with the sharp-edged inflections of a westerner.
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
The voice was new, different. He had to listen to it again! It had meaning once more!
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
How many times did the two voices switch off? Five times, ten, a dozen? Mangkurat lost the count. He lost track of everything but that one hammering demand.
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
Once Mangkurat tried to spring up. He strove to hurl himself beyond the light at that hateful, insistent, eternal query, but his legs buckled beneath him. The guards materialized out of the darkness, catching him by the arms and restraining him as he writhed and hoarsely screamed curses. They did not strike. They did not beat. They refused to offer even a scrap of pain to hold and treasure as a charm against the eternal, nagging question.
When Mangkurat went limp and silent in their grasp, they lowered him gently back down onto the stool. And never once did that voice change its timbre or rhythm or request.
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
He would not tell them.
“What is your name?”
His name was his soul. He would not give it away.
“What is your name?”
They would not steal his treasure.
“What is your name?”
He was Bugis! He was Mangkurat of the Bugis! He would not weaken.
“What is your name?”
He was Mangkurat.
“What is your name? ”
Mangkurat!
“What is your name?”
Mangkurat!
“What is your name?”
“Mangkurat.”
“Mangkurat … thank you, Mangkurat.”
Instantly they were upon him. They lifted him in their arms and the stool was kicked away. He was lowered into a chair, metal, but its smooth, cool contours soothed his cramped body like the finest silk. A cup was being held to his lips. Water! Icy sweet water! They let him drain the cup, and a second was offered.
He collapsed back in the chair, his ragged shirt sodden with sweat and spillage.
“Mangkurat,” the voice repeated from beyond the light.
How could they know his name now? He hadn’t told them. He hadn’t … he didn’t think. No, he had said nothing … nothing! They must have known all along. Fooling him. How many other secrets did they know?
“Now, Mangkurat,” the voice continued, “what is the name of your village?”
“What is the name of your village?”
“What is the name of your village?”
Java Sea, Approaching the Rass Island Group
0119 Hours, Zone Time: August 15, 2008
The golden horn of the moon dipped into shimmering sea. As it sank steadily lower, the thin scattering of clouds in the tropic night darkened, losing its reflected light.
And then it was gone.
“Right. That’s it.” Amanda turned to the cluster of officers sharing the Carlson’s portside bridge wing. “Commander Carberry, your ship’s status?”
“Ready to proceed, Captain,” the little man replied crisply. “Crew at air and sea launch stations. Ready to initiate countermeasures and hangar bay blackout.”
“And the latest from Commander Hiro?”
“He is paralleling us to the north at an eight-mile range at full stealth and limited EMCON. He reports he is ready to commence a high-speed convergence upon your command.”
“Very good, Captain. Cobra, how about you?”
The aviator was even more succinct. “I’m good. Ready to launch.”
“Remember your tasking parameters. Go in fast. Get out fast. You’re a pest, not a provocation.”
“I got the picture, ma’am. Aye, aye.”
“Steamer?”
The Sea Fighter commander settled his baseball cap lower over his eyes. “Queen of the West and Manassas are ready to start engines. Fuel blivits embarked. Recon party going aboard. We’re good to go.”
“Christine find you your initial hide?”
“Yeah, a good little nowhere up in the Laut Kecils. Nobody around for miles, crappy access, and good cover. We can get to it and get buried well before oh-light-hundred.”
“Very well. We’ll have an underway replenishment set up with Curtin by tomorrow night. You shouldn’t really need it with your blivits aboard, but I want you to go in with a maneuvering reserve, just in case.” Amanda smiled and extended a hand. “An independent command, Steamer. You won’t have a rusty old four-bar hanging over your shoulder. Good luck.”
“I don’t know, ma’am. You’re kind’ of handy to have around some times,” he replied, exchanging a brief, strong grip with her. “We’ll see you in a few days.”
“Maybe sooner than that, if we don’t pull this off. Gentlemen, let’s proceed.”
Two miles astern of the USS Carlson, Lieutenant Commander Hasan Basry, captain of the Indonesian navy frigate Sutanto, swore into his pillow as the interphone at the head of his bunk buzzed … again.
He clawed the offending instrument from its cradle. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry, Captain,” the watch officer said apologetically, “but it’s the Americans. They are doing something … odd, sir.”
“They have been doing odd things ever since they left Singapore, Lieutenant. What is it now?”
“They have launched a helicopter, sir.”
“Ships that carry helicopters frequently do,” Basry snapped. “What is so unusual about this particular exercise?”
“Immediately after launching their aircraft, the Americans cut off their running lights. The amphibious ship is now running fully blacked out.”
Basry hesitated for several heartbeats. He wasn’t certain why he and his ship had been ordered to abort a portside refit to keep the Americans under surveillance. Admiral Lukisan had merely said “for reasons of national security,” a statement that covered a great deal of territory.
Just what were the
Yankees up to in Indonesia’s home waters? And what about the second American vessel, the major surface combatant that supposedly was to have escorted the LPD? First it had failed to appear at Singapore, then this morning it had materialized in the middle of the Java Sea, much to the consternation of Basry’s superiors.
This evening it had vanished again, this time off of the radar screens of the naval surveillance Nomad attempting to keep it under observation. Could it be moving in?
“All right,” he said into the interphone. “I’m coming up.”
On the Carlson’s bridge, Amanda bent over the tactical display, studying the glowing graphics chart and the various position hacks like a chess master studying a game board. As per the ops plan, the Carlson was in the lead, with her shadower, the Indonesian frigate, trailing two miles astern. The Cunningham was steaming parallel to the LPD, but off to port at effective stealth range, invisible to the Indonesian’s search radar.
A single bat-shaped aircraft hack circled in a close holding pattern over the Carlson, the recently launched Wolf One.
The task group was rapidly closing with the tail end of the Rass island group, an uninhabited and nameless patch of coral and sand that would be passing to starboard at a distance of five miles.
Amanda made a final check for merchant vessels shipping. Clear within a twenty-mile range.
All was ready. She touched the mike key of her command headset. “All task group elements, this is the TACBOSS. We are at Point Item. All elements prepare for breakaway. Wolf One, you are cleared to initiate audial and visual screening.”
The Wolf One air hack fell back and occulted the symbol of the pursuing Indonesian frigate.
A hurricane blast of wind ripped across the decks of the Sutanto, and a dazzling blue white glare illuminated every inch of the frigate’s weather deck. Clutching the bridge wing rail, Commander Basry squinted into both, and was able to make out the silhouette of a Huey helicopter hovering broadside on, just off the bow of his ship.
Sidling ahead of the Indonesian vessel, the helicopter had a battery of what appeared to be aircraft landing lights aimed out of its side hatch, trained full into the eyes and night-vision systems of the bridge watch.
Target Lock Page 17
