Supporting the island’s capital of Denpasar, Benoa Harbor has historically been the most important port in southern Bali.
Yet the great crescent-shaped indentation in the island’s southern peninsula had also been chronically cursed with shallows and building sandbars. The Dutch colonial government, confronted with the problem, elected to make lemonade.
Setting aside their role as a colonial taskmaster, the old Hollanders were master engineers with a vast amount of experience at wrestling land out of a resistant sea. Taking advantage of the shallows, they built a two kilometer-long causeway out onto the center of the harbor from its swamp-rimmed northern edge. At the end of this causeway they built a kilometer-square artificial island to serve as their port facility.
Here, as well as the required water depth, were the tank farms and warehouses, the container cranes and loading docks, needed to service the shipping of the world. One of his cargo liners, the Harconan Sumatra, was over there now, discharging.
The ships of his foes were present as well.
Reaching over to the Bentley’s glove box, he removed a pair of folding sports binoculars. Snapping them open, he aimed them across at the port complex.
In the fading light he could just make out the two great gray shapes, stern on and bow on between the eastern port piers, the American stealth cruiser, long and low and ominous, and the big slab-sided amphibious warfare ship with who knew how many deadly secrets hidden inside its belly.
Harconan could feel the gods looking over his shoulder and smiling.
They come for you, O King of the Sea. What shall you do now? Give us divertissement.
The car’s cellular phone purred softly, and Harconan lifted it to his ear. Bapak Lo spoke quietly. “Our guests will be arriving shortly, Mr. Harconan.”
“I know, Lo. In fact, I’m paying my respects to some of them now.”
White-gloved and with the red glare of the deck lights glinting off the gold of his saber hilt, Captain Stone Quillain worked down the line of the Sea Dragon’s honor squad, a gimlet eye scanning for the slightest imperfection in uniform or demeanor. The twelve Marines held rigidly at attention, eyes level, statues in dress blues.
Stone could find no real fault; yet, here and there he tugged a white enameled bayonet sheath even straighter or ran a finger along a rifle barrel seeking for a nonexistent smear of excess gun oil. These boys were just fine, just as he knew they’d be, but it wouldn’t pay to let ’em think the old man was getting sloppy.
“They’ll do, Sergeant,” Stone grunted to the squad leader. “At ease till we’re ready to embark.”
“Very good, sir! Squad! Stand at ease!”
There was the faintest scuffle of shoes on the antiskid decking, any relaxation on the part of the honor squad being purely nominal.
A few feet farther forward on the Carlson’s flight deck, the Special Boat Squadron commander, Lieutenant Labelle Nichols, was putting her white-uniformed RIB crews through the same kind of meticulous formal inspection in preparation for the night’s events. Farther forward, the detachment’s two eleven-meter Rigid Inflatable raider craft, polished, primped, and gleaming, rested in the LPD’s midships boat cradles, ready to launch.
Stone gave his own sword belt an unneeded settling tug. Even though Stone did enjoy doing a little saber fencing now and again, the Wilkinson Marine officer’s sword at his waist was essentially ceremonial. The same could not be said of the Randall combat knife strapped to his left forearm under his blouse sleeve, nor of the SIG Sauer P226 automatic in his concealed “Superman carry” shoulder holster.
The skipper had been emphatic about it: “Until further notice, ladies and gentlemen, this command is fangs out. Even in polite society.”
Stone wouldn’t think of arguing the point. That was why he looked up so sharply as a computer-synthesized voice thundered in the night, powerful loudspeakers barking out a sharp-edged phrase first in Bahasa Indonesia and then Bahasa Bali.
A local motor prahu had meandered too close to the Carlson’s stern, triggering the automatic-proximity warning.
Long before the Port Aden tragedy, the Navy had been aware that its ships were never more vulnerable than when they were resting at anchor in port. Since the Aden attack, even more attention and technology had been focused on the problem.
The task force now had a number of advantages over the ill-fated Cole.
The Voice Proximity Alarm was the first line of defense. Programmable with the primary local languages, it vastly reduced the risk of killing an innocent Third World national who couldn’t understand the meaning of “Get the hell away from here.”
Nonlethal ordnance constituted the second line.
Forward, at each corner of the Carlson’s superstructure, the dish antenna of the LPD’s SMADS – Ship-Mounted Area Denial System – had deployed flowerlike from their box mounts. Euphemistically called “anti riot directed energy projectors,” the SMADS units were, in truth, microwave cannon carefully tuned to generate extreme discomfort but little physical injury.
Given a short-term exposure, at any rate.
Stone shuddered as he recalled the light brush he’d taken from a vehicle-mounted VMADS beam during the system orientation training. It was safe to say that anyone who stood on in the face of that brand of concentrated agony had to be either very desperate or very dedicated. Such focused individuals could be safely met with more decisive measures.
The Carlson’s four point-defense turrets were still retracted inboard, but gunners were at station in the 30mm chain gun mounts, scanning both the harbor and the dockside through their powerful night optics. Those were further augmented by the joint Marine and ship security deck patrols, the Marine half of each team carrying a loaded SABR, the Navy hand backing a squad automatic weapon with a full fifty-round magazine.
Like defenses were in place aboard the Cunningham.
Stone would have also liked OCSW grenade launchers mounted and manned at bow and stern and on the bridge wings, but Admiral MacIntyre had pointed out that at least some diplomatic niceties had to be maintained.
Other precautions had been taken, however. Both the Carlson and the Cunningham had “Mediterranean moored.” Instead of lying alongside the quay, the Duke had tied up with her stern to the seawall, held in place by a broad V of spring lines. The LPD had done the reverse: moored bow on so her stern ramp faced open water, leaving her free to conduct launching and recovery operations.
Developed by the Sixth Fleet during the old Cold War days, the Med moor allowed a ship to cast off and scald out of port rapidly without the need of backing and filling or tug assist.
Both ships had emergency engine room and sea and anchor details held ready to get under way at a moment’s notice. Both had anti-SCUBA tactical hydrophones deployed, and both had armed Seawolf gunships spotted on deck, ready to launch.
These bristling defenses were unneeded this time around. The startled motor junk veered away from the anchorage, scurrying away into the evening’s darkness.
Lieutenant Nichols wrapped up her own inspection. Standing her people down, she crossed to where Stone lingered at the rail. Nichols wore skirted tropic whites complete with gloves and pumps and the Sea Fighters’ black beret. Stone had to note that the tall and muscular young woman looked decisively sharp this night.
“Ready to go in the bandbox, Marine?” she inquired in a bantering tone.
“Oh, hell, we were born ready.” Stone had found the Special Boat officer to be both a fellow Georgian and a fellow bass-fishing fanatic, making her more than a worthwhile companion. “How about yourself? Get all that spittin’ and polishin’ done?”
“Barely. I don’t mind that the Lady is using my Raiders as liberty launches. But the way she’s had me set them up … there’s something funny going on.”
Stone nodded an agreement. “I know what you mean. It’s the same with me and my boys. The Lady’s got some kind of notion goin’ in that red head of hers. The thing is, I’ve done a cruise with Cap
tain Garrett before, and she always has a reason for everything she does. When she’s ready, she’ll let us in on it.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Even with her height and her heels, Nichols had to look up into Quillain’s face. “So, Captain”—she impishly let a touch of the Old South creep into her voice—“y’all goin’ to save me a dance on your card?”
Quillain pretended to think. “I dunno, woman. Those local gals likely haven’t seen anything as pretty as me come down the pike in a long time. But if the Duchess of Argyle stands me up, I reckon I might even let you have two.”
Nichols laughed, the brightness of her smile a pleasing contrast to the warm dark brown of her skin.
Amanda Garrett closed her makeup kit, satisfied with the results of that last careful dab of eyeliner. Stepping back as far as she could within the confines of her sleeping cabin, she critically examined as much of herself as possible in the small door mirror.
She was a naval officer to the core and she was proud of her nation’s uniform, but she was also adequately feminine to savor dressing up when the opportunity presented itself. Her silken cream-colored blouse was long-sleeved and military-cut, and her formal length skirt was of light weight black velvet, with a slash just high enough to be interesting. She was pleased with the effect.
Removing her small jewelry box from a wall locker, she sought for a final touch. Simple golden disk earrings and … a necklace? She pondered for a moment. No, something else. She selected a thin, coiled black velvet ribbon from the box. Vince Arkady had given that to her on one occasion, telling her it was one of the three most stimulating things a woman could wear.
He had refused to elaborate on why, or what the other two articles were, though. Amanda smiled at the memory as she looped the ribbon around her throat. Someday, when some suitable male was available, she’d have to make further inquiries.
Finally, she removed the Navy Command insignia pin from the box and secured to her lapel. A little thing, but a reminder to others and to herself about who she was and that this night was still business.
She slipped her feet into a pair of rubber-soled deck shoes and caught up her evening bag and the pair of evening sandals she’d switch to before hitting the beach. Stiletto heels were definitely not designed for the ladderways of a man-of-war.
Ready.
She nodded to the sentry on duty outside her cabin door. The young Marine gave her a split second’s worth of gawk before catching himself and refreezing at a neutral-faced parade rest. Amanda smiled to herself. Yes, this outfit would do.
The other task force officers attending the reception awaited her in the wardroom. The low murmur of conversation trailed off as she appeared in the entryway.
Christine was present, the only other female officer to opt for civilian dress, in her case a short, golden-sequined sheath, outrageous enough to suit her. Amanda noted with interest that her friend was lingering close to Inspector Tran in a rather nonprofessional matter. And understandably, the Singapore police officer cut a very dashing figure in his white evening jacket.
Captain Carberry had been standing near the entry. “Good evening, Captain …” he began formally, then hesitated. The old-school Navy didn’t provide for moments like this with one’s commanding officer. Then the faintest hint of a smile touched Carberry’s face. “You’re looking lovely tonight, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Commander.” Amanda was pleased to find that she remembered how to curtsy.
And then Admiral Elliot MacIntyre stood before her in razor-creased whites, his uniform cap tucked under his arm. Somehow he looked younger than his years and rank, much as he must have as an Academy midshipman. And there was something in the gaze of his dark eyes.
An unexpected shiver rippled down her spine, and she found herself extending her hand without intending it. Then his fingers closed around hers and he, too, was bowing.
“Amanda.”
“Admiral.” His name had come to her lips first, but she could not use it here. Nor could she permit this moment to last any longer.
Flustered, she made herself look away, slipping her hand free. She also made a note to take Christine Rendino aside sometime soon to slap that smug, knowing expression off the intel’s face.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Amanda said. “Our transportation is ready to depart, I believe. I think we can expect an interesting night.”
The shore parties filed topside to the Carlson’s boat stations.
The LPD couldn’t spare the topside space or weight for conventional whaleboats or captain’s gigs. Her boat cradles and powered davits had been dedicated to the assault craft of the task force’s Special Boat detachment.
The eleven-meter rigid inflatable Raiders of the Special Boat Squadrons were the Navy’s answer to the Boghammer gunboat. Powered by diesel-driven hydrojet propulsors, they were lightweight, swift, and heavily armed for their size. Capable of carrying eight passengers plus a three-person crew, the little gunboats were superb for their primary mission, delivering special-operations detachments to and from hostile shores. They were not, however, a typical mode of transportation to a diplomatic reception.
That suited Amanda’s purposes quite well.
“Detachment ready to load and launch, Captain,” Lieutenant Nichols reported crisply. “The Marine landing force is already embarked aboard Raider One as instructed.”
“Honor guard, Lieutenant,” Amanda corrected, standing in the scarlet glow of the deck lights. “Let’s maintain the niceties. Are we ready to make our debut?”
The SB officer broke into a grin. “We’re going to knock their eyes out, ma’am.”
“Very good, Lieutenant. My intention exactly. Let’s get them in the water.”
Hydraulics howled as the power davits lifted the Raider over the side, lowering them smoothly and swiftly to the sea. The twin turbo-charged engines kicked over the instant water reached their cooling intake, and the bow and stern shackles were cast off. As Raider Two paid off and half circled away from the quay and the ship, Amanda took a final judgmental look aft, checking the silhouettes of the security watch along the rails.
What had she overlooked? What else could be done? Nothing more here; it was time to refocus. Time to orient herself for this night’s battle.
Trailing Raider One, Raider Two planed out and around the tip of Cape Benoa, turning south for the five-kilometer run down the coast to the Makara Limited headquarters at Nusa Dua. The big RIB was commodious but crowded this night, carrying in the first group of shore bound officers. Amanda sat beside Admiral MacIntyre on one of the foldout bench seats in the cockpit, not particularly minding the warm touch at hip and shoulder. Across from them, she could see the shimmer of Christine’s dress and the paleness of Tran’s jacket in the glow of the console lights.
Amanda lifted her voice over the rumble of the diesels. “I’m glad you decided to accept Christine’s invitation, Inspector. Your presence tonight should induce some useful effects.”
Tran chuckled lowly. “As the saying goes, Captain, I wouldn’t miss this party for the world.”
MacIntyre shifted at her side. “All right, Amanda, this is scarcely your average liberty party we’re taking ashore with us. You and your hench-woman over there have had your heads together all afternoon, assembling some kind of plot. Isn’t it about time you let the boss in on the action?”
“It’s about mind games, Admiral,” said Amanda. “Harconan was playing one when he issued his invitation. He wants to get a close look at us, to learn how much we suspect, what our intentions are, and how we intend to play this out. All while we are effectively disarmed and out of balance at this supposedly innocent reception.”
MacIntyre thumped his fist on his knee. “Ha! Now I get the dog-and pony show. You’re turning the game around on him.”
Amanda’s responding smile was grim. “I’m told that’s one of my specialties. Harconan made a bold move with this reception. You counter boldness with boldness.”
2105 Hours, Zone Time: August 15, 2008
“I must admit,” Harconan commented, “I’ve been looking forward to this evening. I’ve heard a great deal about your navy’s Captain Garrett. I’m very interested in meeting her.”
Randolph Goodyard frowned thoughtfully. “I daresay we all have heard a great deal about Captain Garrett.”
Harconan caught the accenting of Goodyard’s words. “Is there some difficulty, Ambassador? If I may ask, that is?”
And Harconan knew he could. This was why he had invited America’s ambassador from his posting in Jakarta to this function. Above and beyond the credentials he provided, Goodyard was a malleable source of information.
The two men spoke over the soft brassy flow of the jazz quintet and the murmur of voices. Taking advantage of the mellow tropic night, the fleet reception was being held outdoors in the artfully landscaped court yard between the concave front face of the Makara Limited headquarters building and the beach. Almost as many guests came by boat as by car, the waterborne arrivals unloading at the modernistic J-shaped private pier centered on the court.
Hypersonic insect repellers kept insectoid night marauders at bay. Tray bearing waiters moved with silent efficiency, and golden indirect lighting underlit the surrounding palm grove, half revealing the couples and clusters of people who conversed and occasionally laughed in the night.
“There’s not a problem, really, Mr. Harconan,” Goodyard continued as the two men paced slowly along the tiled walk atop the beach. “It’s only that Captain Garrett and our Naval Special Forces as a whole have developed a certain … reputation.”
“Reputation? How so, Ambassador? Oh, and please, call me Makara.”
Goodyard glanced around for any of his staffers. The ambassador didn’t fancy being overheard airing State Department dirty laundry off his own turf.
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