Target Lock

by James H. Cobb

  The systems operator did so, and the oblong blobs snapped into a straight line. Suddenly it leaped off the screen into Maclntyre’s face. “That’s Morse code!”

  “Yes, sir, with the exact three-to-one unit and character spacings: dot dash, A, break, dash dash dot, G. A G, Amanda Garrett! She’s telling us where she is in a line of code fifteen miles long!”

  “By God!” Maclntyre’s fist lifted with deliberation, smashing down on the seat back of the workstation he was standing behind. “By God! How did she manage that?”

  “Amanda must have remembered how we back tracked the INDASAT Starcatcher to her sinking point by her trace oil slick. She must have banked on us doing another multispectral sweep of the archipelago.”

  “What’s the position on this thing?”

  “The more important question is, sir, is: What was its position when it was laid? Jonesy, give us the chart on the eastern Banda Sea on Display Two, then designate the time- and drift-adjusted coordinates of the slick.”

  Christine continued excitedly, “The imaging center ran an analysis of the slick’s pattern of dispersal and distortion, applying the Banda Sea current patterns from our oceanographic database and the regional weather states for the past forty-eight hours. Their best estimate is that the slick was generated sometime yesterday evening at this position: northeast of the Kai Island group, in the western approaches to New Guinea, about a hundred and seventy-five miles off the coast. They figure it was produced by a surface craft with a rate of advance of about ten to twelve knots, maintaining a heading of east by northeast.”

  “For how long, though?”

  “A considerable distance, sir. Jonesy, back off imaging magnification by point five.”

  The multispectral view snapped back to half its size in the center of the display. Beyond the code-patterned section of the slick, a long, continuous streak of oil continued. Drift-adjusted, it pointed dead on toward the underside of New Guinea’s Bomberai Peninsula.

  “We were able to maintain the track to within eighty miles of the coast, sir, with no deviation in course or speed. We’ve always known New Guinea to be a prime potential site for the INDASAT hide, and this proves it out. That’s probably where they’re taking her right now.”

  MacIntyre studied the time hack at the corner of the screen. “Yesterday evening. That means they’ve had more than enough time to reach the hide and go to ground.”

  “But, Admiral,” the intel protested, “at least we now know that Amanda has to be somewhere on that stretch of coast!”

  “All too true, Chris,” he replied, leaning on the seat back. “We know that she’s somewhere on the wildest, least-known, most dangerous stretch of coast on the entire planet.”

  Crab’s Claw Cape

  1700 Hours, Zone Time: August 23, 2008

  Amanda remained locked in the Flores’s captain’s cabin for most of the day. Abstractedly, she wondered how long her banishment from the sea king’s presence would last. Her deliberate revelation of how much the task force knew about Harconan’s INDASAT clientele was bound to foment trouble among the “staff,” as it were, and serve as yet a further drain on Harconan’s time and energy. For her next go-round with him she had better be ready to do some contrite damage-control work on her relationship with him.

  If he gave her the chance.

  If he didn’t, she hoped they’d use the truth drugs. Dying of a scopolamine overdose would be far more pleasant than being dissected alive. Either way, she wouldn’t have much to say about it. Accordingly she rejected the worry and spent the afternoon napping and mentally composing an intelligence report on all she had seen and heard.

  There was no clock in the cabin, and in the eternal dusk of the cavern she could only surmise that it was about sunset when Harconan himself came for her.

  He looked tired as he opened the cabin door; apparently even pirate kings could have a hard day at the office. “I thought you might like a little fresh air.”

  “I would, thank you,” she replied quietly, rising from the cabin couch.

  “Then come. I’d like you to meet someone.”

  He led her off the ship and across the cavern floor, her silent guard falling in step behind them but holding back a respectful distance.

  Harconan guided her into one of the two tunnels at the rear of the cavern, the right-hand one. Close to the cavern, the passage was concrete lined, with lateral tunnels branching off to what must be storerooms and underground barracks. Amanda counted her steps. There were four such laterals on the right at about fifty-foot intervals, and one on the left about a hundred feet in, a crossover she suspected to the other main tunnel. Grilled work lights were spaced out along the ceiling, and the air was cool and damp, smelling of slime and diesel fumes.

  Beyond this section the concrete lining ended, revealing bare lava rock walls, and the tunnel began to angle toward the surface, a dot of green light ahead marking their objective. Amanda was surprised at the distance they had to climb.

  The tunnel ended in a huge concrete bunker. A massive set of rusted steel blast doors lay on the ground before the entry. The door framing was fractured, showing where high explosives had been used to blow the hinges out of their setting.

  Harconan gestured toward them. “When we found this place, these outside entrances were closed and barred from the inside. When they knew their show was playing out, the last survivors of the Japanese garrison must have sealed themselves in as a last gesture of obedience to their orders to hold until relieved.”

  “Impressive,” Amanda murmured, looking around.

  So were the rest of her surroundings. Red sunlight angled down through the dense stand of areca palms, prehistoric-looking ferns sprouting densely around the bases of their trunks. After the cool of the tunnels, heat lay over the land in a smothering blanket. So did the silence, unbroken save for the stroking of the surf along the flanks of the peninsula and the exotic call of some bird or reptile. The air smelled of charcoal smoke and orchids.

  It was as if they had stepped through a magical doorway into some primeval wilderness. Amanda halfway expected to turn around and see a stegosaurus munching on a fern clump. Instead, a tall Melanesian warrior drifted past the overgrown bunker, unashamedly naked save for a koteka penis sheath; his bare feet were soundless. The only jarring note to the primitive image was the all-too-modern FALN assault rifle he carried.

  “A friend of yours?” Amanda inquired.

  Harconan smiled. “Of a fashion. Come, I want you to meet another.”

  They walked on to the southern cliffside of the peninsula to a point where a view could be had of both the sea and the New Guinea coast. There, another Melanesian awaited them, an older man; age had bent him and grayed his wiry hair. He wore the rags of a shirt and trousers, and yet, he radiated an immense dignity: Amanda sensed the leadership and wisdom in him. A very worn but well kept double-barreled shotgun of some indeterminate make leaned against the palm log on which he sat.

  He nodded to them as they entered the clearing.

  “Captain Garrett, this is my friend and my ally, Chief Akima of the Asmat. His tribes hold this stretch of coast.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Captain,” the Asmat replied gravely in good English, extending a hand.

  Amanda accepted the firm, dry handshake. “And I am pleased to meet you, sir.”

  “Please, sit.”

  Amanda and Harconan accepted a log section across from the older man.

  “Chief Akima is also a member of the Morning Star separatist movement,” Harconan continued. “I trust you are acquainted with them.”

  “To a slight degree,” Amanda replied, frowning. “I know that the Morning Star movement is a revolutionary group seeking independence for New Guinea from the Jakarta government. I also know that there has been a protracted low-grade guerrilla war ongoing between the Indonesians and the Morning Star movement for decades. I’m afraid that’s all.”

  Chief Akima laughed. “Then, Captain, you know mor
e than many, many people. Our people and our fight for freedom have been ignored by most of the world. We call ourselves the Operasi Papua Merdeka, the Free Papua Movement, although the Morning Stars is not bad name. Papua is what we call our land, but we do not mind you to say New Guinea. It is better than what Sukarno named us: Irian Jaya”—the chief’s mouth twisted in distaste—“his ‘victorious hot land rising from the sea.’ ”

  “Bapak, would you tell the Captain the story of the Morning Star?” Harconan asked. “It is best heard from your lips.”

  “If your lady would be interested.”

  “I would be,” Amanda replied. “Very.”

  “As you wish.” The chief nodded. “We are not of Indonesia or its peoples. Our skin is not their color. Our ways are not their ways. Our gods are not their gods. Nor do we wish them to be. Papua is our place, our land.”

  “In the last century, the Dutch came and planted their flag. But there were never many here, a few hundred. There was little to interest them, and they stayed in their trading posts along the coast, leaving our land to us in peace.

  “Then came the great war, the World War Two, and the Japanese and your people came and fought here, many, many thousands. But you were like a wave breaking on a rock: You came and then you left again and still the land was ours and we were left in peace.

  “But then the war ended and the Dutch tried to reclaim their colonies in Indonesia, but the time of colonies was past. Sukarno led a rebellion against them and the Dutch were driven out once more.”

  The chief gestured to the ground. “Everywhere but here. Here for a time they stayed. They knew by then that the age of colonies was past as well, and they began to work with our people, educating them, teaching them technical matters and administration. They said that soon they would be gone and we would be free, our own nation to find our own way. The Indonesians, Sukarno’s government, claimed that Papua belonged to them. They used the promise of uniting Papua with the rest of Indonesia as a rallying cry to draw their people to them, promising them land and wealth—our land … our wealth!”

  “Did they ever ask if you wanted to be united?” Amanda inquired.

  The chief chuckled mirthlessly. “They launched their konfrontasi campaign against the Dutch with terrorism, propaganda, and political pressure against the Dutch ‘colonialists.’ In 1962 the Dutch went home and the Indonesians came to ‘liberate’ us. We were promised an ‘Act of Free Choice,’ a vote of our people on whether to join permanently with Indonesia or to become an independent nation. It was to happen in 1969, but when the time for the voting came, Sukarno decided we were too primitive, too savage and ignorant, to understand voting and to choose our own destiny. Instead, only special representative voters would take part in the election.”

  The chief held his leathery palm up flat. “As the Indonesians got to choose all of the representatives, is it a surprise that the vote was unanimous for joining with Indonesia?

  “Since then we have found our brown-skinned colonial masters a heavier burden to bear than our former white ones. They tear open our mountains for the minerals there. Papua has the largest and richest copper mines in the world. The Indonesians share them with us. Jakarta takes the metal and the money and we get the poisons in our rivers.

  “They share more, the transmigrasi, the surplus population from Java and their other islands. They gather them up and bring them here in their thousands every year, dreaming of the day when they will outnumber us. Walk in the coastal towns like Jayapura, Biak, and Wamena and look at the color of the skin of the shopkeepers and policemen and officials. Then look at the skin of those sweeping the streets, carrying the loads, and working as houseboys. Then you will see why the Morning Star has risen. Let the Dutch come back: We would greet them as brothers. But the Indonesians we will drive into the sea!”

  The old man had never lifted his voice once. But his passion was plain.

  “I can understand your cause. There is justice in it.” Amanda glanced at the man sitting beside her. “But you are allies with Harconan, and he is an Indonesian.”

  The chief shrugged. “He hates Jakarta as much as we. He needs men to fight for him and to guard his bases here on Papua, and he pays us well with the supplies and arms we need for our battle. We shall be—what is the word?—yes, his mercenaries, for as long as it benefits us both.”

  She continued to gaze at Harconan. “Even if Harconan stands accused of being a pirate and criminal? It could damage your cause in the eyes of the world.”

  Chief Akima shrugged. “Harconan gives us guns, which is more than the world has given us.”

  “He tells quite a story, doesn’t he?” Harconan said, standing with foot propped up on the palm log.

  “He certainly does,” Amanda replied, looking out to sea in the dimming light of the afternoon.

  Akima had faded into his jungle, leaving the two alone on the cliff edge.

  “Maybe you are willing to admit that things are not quite as simple as you think?”

  Amanda sighed. “Makara, I’ve always been willing to admit that there is nothing simple in this part of the world. But I can’t see how the murder of the crew of the INDASAT Starcatcher is justified by the Morning Star rebellion.”

  “In war there are casualties.”

  “And when did Australia and the United States declare war on you?”

  “Damn it, Amanda”—Harconan took his foot off the log and paced a frustrated step or two—“you are a very frustrating woman.”

  “And you expected me not to ask these questions?”

  “No … not at all. You’re not stupid.”

  “Thank you for agreeing.” She smiled.

  “Then you agree there is a problem here—that something must be done!”

  “I quite agree, Makara. Something must be done. But as a military officer, l must point out that war is a last best choice for the resolution of any problem. You are a man of great power in this part of the world: economic power, political power, personal power. If you want to help the Free Papua Movement you could do so in a hundred better ways than fomenting an escalation in what is bound to be an exceptionally bloody and ugly conflict.”

  “But it’s not just the Morning Stars, Amanda; it’s what is being done to the entire archipelago. Not just to New Guinea, but to all of the islands and all of the cultures here.”

  There was a fervor in Harconan’s voice and an intent glint in his eye that told Amanda she was close to another truth with this man, the real motivation beyond mere wealth. She was coming close to where he lived.

  “What is happening to them, Makara?” she prompted.

  “They’re being buried alive. You heard Chief Akima: The same story is being repeated with all the other islands as well. Indonesia has never been a representative government, it’s always been Java-centric. The Javanese dominate the government and they want to dominate our cultures as well. Their battle cry is their national motto, ‘Bhinneka tunggal ika,’ ‘The many are one’ “—Harconan spat the phrase out—“but the only many that count are the Javanese, and the only one that rules is Jakarta. Is that a right thing, Amanda?”

  “No, it isn’t,” she agreed somberly. “But what is there to take its place?”

  The taipan sank down on the log beside her, lost in an image within his mind. “We go back to what Indonesia was before the coming of the Dutch and the Portuguese. Just islands in the sea. Each island independent unto itself, answerable to no one but itself. Each people and culture free to grow and develop in its own way.”

  “In some places that’s called Balkanization, Makara. It’s generally considered to be a bad thing.”

  “But not here, Amanda; this was how it was in Indonesia’s golden age, and we could go back to what it once was.”

  He kept saying “we.” What “we” was he speaking of? And the earnestness of him touched her. He wanted her to see his golden islands and revived glories as he did.

  She covered one of his hands with hers. “I’m so
rry, Makara, but a writer in my country once said that ‘Paradise is inevitably either ahead, around the next corner, or back around the last.’”

  “But it could be here and now, Amanda. If I had the right … help to do it. A confederacy of independent Indonesian states, each free in their own right but each united by …” He hesitated.

  “Tell me, love, united by what?” Amanda challenged gently. “Or by whom?”

  The moment was broken. Harconan stood abruptly. “It’s getting on towards dark. We’d better get back down into the tunnels.”

  Amanda followed him silently. However, just before she entered the tunnel mouth, she looked back sharply over her shoulder. For a moment she had experienced that inexplicable but unnerving sensation of being stared at.

  Joint Intelligence Center, USS Carlson

  1732 Hours, Zone Time: August 23, 2008

  “Commander Rendino”—the systems operator at the drone control station lifted his YR-helmeted head, his voice sharp—“Curtin Base just tried to override me on G-Hawk Teal Deuce.”

  “Did you lose it?” Christine demanded, hurrying across the darkened center to lean down at the SO’s shoulder.

  “Nah, I got the signal strength on ’em. I jumped ops frequencies and regathered the aircraft. If those Air Force clowns keep screwing with us this way, they’re going to dump us a bird.”

  “Is Teal Deuce still good with fuel?”

  “I’m projecting we still have a good fifteen minutes to absolute bingo, ma’am.”

  “Then use all fifteen of them. I’ll take care of the Air Force.” She mashed her thumb down on the Transmit key of her headset belt unit. “Communications, patch me into the hot link to Curtin drone control! Expedite!”

  From his seat across the compartment, Inspector Tran watched the fierce little blonde press the earphone tightly against the side of her head. It was interesting to see his irreverent and playful lover so transformed into the steel-willed warrior. A Hindu would say the shade of some past incarnation had come forward at need to guide her through her current crisis.