Target Lock

by James H. Cobb

  “Too often.” she whispered.

  “See?” He released his hold on her and stepped back. “Damn it, Amanda. Don’t you see that I’m not trying to hold you prisoner? I’m trying to set you free! I want you to consider alternatives! I’m not in this for self-aggrandizement or for money, either. If I were, I could sit back in the sun at Pabu Piri, spending my millions on myself. Instead, I’m willing to risk all that I have on a chance to make things right in these islands: not their way with their politicking and corruption and compromise, but my way with one bright, clean slash of the sword!”

  The emotion within him was too great for him to keep still. He paced, but his eyes stayed locked with hers. “Amanda, you felt the fire leap between us the first moment we saw each other. That’s why, even as enemies, we can’t help but lie in each other’s arms and build that flame higher. As allies, there is nothing we couldn’t dare, Amanda. As the raja dan ratu samudra, leading the Bugis people not as pirates but as a navy, there is an empire we could build here.”

  Amanda found a very honest tear trickling down her cheek. “The king and queen of the sea…. I wish I could say yes. I truly wish l could say yes.”

  Harconan stopped his pacing. Turning to face her, he peered into Amanda’s eyes. “Why can’t you? What do I have to change … to do?”

  “There’s nothing you can change, Makara, it’s just not the sixteenth century any more. There are no problems left that can be solved with one bright, clean slash of a sword … dammit.”

  The taipan tilted his head back toward the overhead, looking both very young and hurt and very old and tired at the same time. Then he turned away for the door of their quarters. “Then I will find a way to turn back time. The guard will bring you down to the main cabin when you are ready.”

  The breakfast party at the cabin table consisted of the Flores’s Captain Onderdank, his equally taciturn first officer, Professor Sonoo, Amanda and Harconan. She, the taipan, and the Indian scientist kept to a lighter rice-and-fruit menu while the two Hollanders plowed through their more solid platters of sausage and eggs.

  Few words were spoken, save by Sonoo, and his were driven more from nerves than a desire for genuine communication. Amanda kept her own peace and listened to the flow, awaiting developments. They were not long in coming.

  “As you have ordered, Mr. Harconan, we have prepared the satellite for transport. This is indicative we will be leaving shortly, to meet with our people?” Sonoo put a hopeful lift in his voice.

  “Very soon,” Harconan agreed, spearing a slice of jackfruit on the tines of his fork. “In fact, you may commence loading after breakfast.” He glanced at Onderdank. “We’ll be sailing tonight, after full dark.”

  “Aye, we will make ready. No problems. Our destination?”

  Harconan’s eyes cut in Amanda’s direction. “We’ll speak of that later, after we’re under way. Needless to say, Professor, your firm and their cohorts in this project have agreed to pay my price for full access to the INDASAT. They have also agreed on a mutually acceptable facility where you will be permitted to continue your research. We will be taking you and the satellite on to a rendezvous with another ship. That vessel will deliver you to the site.”

  Sonoo’s head bobbed. “Thank you. You will be most efficient in these matters, I’m sure. But the American military … There will be no … incidents?”

  Harconan chewed and swallowed the jackfruit before replying. “None at all. The United States government has agreed to pull their naval forces from this area in return for a guarantee of safety for Captain Garrett. They are withdrawing now. By tonight they will be well clear of our coast. There will be no possibility of their interference.”

  Amanda froze her features even as her heart leaped in her chest. That simply could not be right. Not under the Childress administration and not on Eddie Mac Maclntyre’s watch. Either Harconan was lying or he was operating under erroneous information. Which was the more likely?

  “They’ll be back just as soon as they realize I haven’t been released,” she said coolly.

  Harconan gave a shrug. “No doubt, Amanda. But they have no way of knowing about this base, and the Flores will be on her way. All trace of this operation will have vanished. Even for you, their presence will not matter.”

  The muscles in Amanda’s face ached, suppressing the urge to smile and frown both. You believe it, don’t you, Makara? Somebody was selling a package and you bought it.

  “What about me?” she probed. “Do I sail with the satellite too?”

  “For a way,” he said, studying his empty plate. “There will be another rendezvous with another ship. You will be taken to another place, an island. You will stay there for a time, until certain events have taken place. You will have every comfort. You will lack for nothing. Anything you wish will be provided. When I can, I will come for you.”

  “I see.”

  There is a certain finality to an island prison. Saint Helena, Alcatraz, Devil’s Island—all proved the point. Glenda, I think I’m ready to go home to Kansas, Amanda thought feverishly. Elliot, Chris, Stone, Ken, somebody! Get me the hell out of here!

  With breakfast completed, the cargo handling commenced. Even with nightfall and her departure hours away, the Harconan Flores was stirring, coming awake from her dockside slumber. Engine-testing stirred the waters of the ship pen, and work lights blazed on her weather and vehicle decks.

  Harconan went forward to the forepeak of the LSM’s bow. Accompanied by Sonoo and equipped with a civilian shipmaster’s Handie-Talkie, he personally intended to supervise the INDASAT loading operation. He offered no objection and in fact seemed rather pleased when Amanda asked to accompany him. She merely noted that her old friend, the guard from the pinisi, was back, a living shadow following at her heels.

  On the forecastle she found yet another impressive example of Harconan’s forethought waiting for her. The inflatable clean room had been collapsed and withdrawn from around INDASAT 06. The access hatches had all been reclosed in its hull, and the massive space platform had been sealed within multiple layers of plastic, neatly packaged for shipment.

  A second trailer had been rolled out of the vehicle deck of the Flores and parked directly behind the one that cradled the INDASAT. This trailer, a squat industrial lowboy, carried a huge stainless-steel tank. Slightly larger than the satellite in all dimensions, its end cap was missing. Hazmat warnings in several languages and the international chemical hazard symbol were painted on its silver sides.

  As Amanda looked on in grudging admiration, the INDASAT was jackassed slowly back into the empty tank over a set of transfer tracks.

  “The consummate smuggler,” she said. “I am impressed, Makara. You’re leaving nothing to chance.”

  “Chance is a poor ally, Amanda. I rarely depend on her. Should the Flores be intercepted at sea and boarded, the boarders will find her transporting a shipment of toxic waste from a chemical company in the Philippines to an industrial incinerator operation in Malaya. Her captain will have full and legal documentation for the cargo and sworn testimony available at the source and destination to back up the documentation. Should anyone want to open an inspection hatch or a test cock, they will find a rather nasty acid compound that no one in their right mind would want to fool with excessively.”

  “The old rum in the double-headed vinegar cask ploy.”

  Harconan chuckled. “For all of the world’s technological sophistication, the old ploys still work best.” Lifting the Handie-Talkie to his lips, the taipan gave a sharp command in Bahasa.

  “I have to ask, Makara: How much?”

  “All total?” He scratched the underside of his chin with the Handie Talkie antenna. “Oh, I’d daresay the gross is about forty-one million U.S. dollars. After expenses, we’ll clear about thirty million in profit.” He glanced at her. “A share of it, ten per cent, is yours to do with as you will.”

  “I won’t count it yet, Makara. Elliot MacIntyre knows all the old ploys too.”<
br />
  “Ah, but then that’s another advantage of transporting toxic waste. This particular compound is very volatile—just the kind of thing that might burst into flames at an inopportune moment, say, as an American man-of war looms over the horizon. The crew abandons ship, there is a terrific explosion, and the ship sinks, taking its cargo into the deeps with it.”

  Amanda lifted an eyebrow. “And since the Flores was transporting hazmat, you naturally took out extensive insurance on the ship?”

  “Naturally.”

  “But the satellite, Mr. Harconan,” Sonoo bleated. “Should this happen, what of the money my company has paid for this technology? We were promised delivery!”

  Harconan leaned on the rail, as content as a lolling tiger. “Refer to your contract, Professor, the ‘Acts of Man and God’ clause. No refunds, so sorry.”

  Amanda couldn’t stop her smile, nor could she stop her hand from lightly touching that broad back. Could there be more than one such corsair left in the world?

  “Mr. Harconan!”

  There was urgency in the call over the low-powered hand radio. It was Captain Onderdank’s voice, and the Dutch officer sounded perturbed.

  “What is it, Captain?” Harconan demanded, straightening.

  “I am here at the fantail lookout. The surface sentries have reported an Indonesian patrol frigate standing in close to the cape. It looks like a routine coastal sweep, but the latest set of deployment updates from Admiral Lukisan’s headquarters indicates that there shouldn’t be any major Indonesian fleet units in this area. The closest frigate should be the one shadowing the American task force, and its last position report puts it four hundred miles to the southwest.”

  Harconan’s first instinct was to look toward Amanda. She held her face immobile, suppressing all emotion.

  “Captain, get down to the bow and expedite the loading!” Harconan barked into the radio. “Get the satellite aboard the ship now! Sonoo, you stay with me, and you, too, Amanda!”

  Harconan hastened aft, snapping out additional commands in Indonesian, both into the radio and in shouts down to the pier side. Sonoo and Amanda were herded along behind him. Amanda wondered if Sonoo had noted that “her” guard had suddenly become “their” guard.

  The camouflage curtain across the mouth of the cavern just barely cleared the fantail of the moored LSM. A lookout point had been established there with an observation slit cut through the heavy plasticized nylon. By leaning outboard and releasing the industrial Velcro closing strips, the flap covering the slit could be dropped, permitting a view down the inlet from the ship’s deck.

  A Parchim-class patrol frigate could indeed be seen emerging from behind the left-hand cliffside, the ship running perhaps a mile off the tip of the cape. Harconan snatched a pair of binoculars out of a rack on the rear bulkhead of the superstructure, leveling them at the passing vessel.

  There was a second set of binoculars in the rack. The guard took no action when Amanda lifted them to her own eyes.

  There was no doubt that it was an Indonesian Parchim, and yes, those were the hull numbers of her old friend the Sutanto. She was riding light, though, very light, with a broad strip of red lead showing along her waterline. There wasn’t a soul on deck, either.

  Amanda lowered the glasses and dared to wonder.

  Bridge of the Frigate Sutanto

  1 Mile off Crab’s Claw Cape

  0800 Hours, Zone Time: August 25, 2008

  Elliot MacIntyre lowered his binoculars as well, his eyes narrowing. Remarkable. He could see right down the gut of the inlet, and there wasn’t a sign of anything in the way of an exterior dock gate or passage at its far end. If this all turned out to be some kind of staggering miscalculation, he mused, he was on the verge of earning himself a very unique slot in American naval history.

  He lifted a hand to the touchpad of his Leprechaun transceiver. “Lost Prize to Black Beard. We are at Station Privateer. I say again, we are at Station Privateer. Report commitment status on all Freebooter elements.”

  “Lost Prize, Lost Prize,” Ken Hiro’s voice replied from over the horizon. “This is Blackbeard. We show green boards. All elements on station. All elements on time line. All elements report ready for mission commit. We show no situational changes on Crab’s Claw. Ready to execute on your command.”

  There was no sense in waiting to see if he’d made a fool of himself. “Understood, Blackbeard. Transmit UNODUR notification and initiate primary Freebooter time line. Commit the attack.”

  “All elements initiating primary time line,” Hiro replied. “Good luck, sir.”

  “To us all, Commander. To us all.”

  Washington D.C.

  2200 Hours, Zone Time: August 24, 2008

  Literally halfway around the world from Crab’s Claw Cape, teleprinters in the Pentagon and the State Department began to hiss out priority flagged hard copy at the same instant.

  ***URGENT ***URGENT ***URGENT ***URGENT ***URGENT ***

  ***TIME CRITICAL MESSAGE FOLLOWS***

  ***AUTHENTICATOR IRONFIST NOVEMBER ZERO-TWO-ONE

  ***FROM: CINCNAVSPECFORCE***

  ***TO: CNO/SECSTATE***

  ***HAVE LOCATED HOSTAGE CAPT. A. GARRETT AND STOLEN INDASAT 06 VEHICLE ON WEST COAST NEW GUINEA. UNLESS OTHERWISE DIRECTED AM INITIATING RESCUE AND RECOVERY OPERATION. DETAILS IN ATTACHMENT FILE***

  MacIntyre CINCNAVSPECFORCE

  Somehow, such UNODIR (UNless Otherwise DIRected) notifications never got sent in time to be otherwise directed.

  Bridge of the Frigate Sutanto

  0801 Hours, Zone Time: August 25, 2008

  MacIntyre lifted his finger from the communications pad. “Miss Nichols, take us in, please. You have the helm.”

  Labelle Nichols, still at the helm station she had claimed since the boarding, spun the Sutanto’s wheel hard over, starting the frigate’s bow on its arc toward the mouth of the inlet.

  “Going in, sir.” The young woman sounded incredibly cool and collected for her first act of barratry. “Lee helm, all engines ahead emergency.”

  The enlisted hand at the engine controls rolled his throttles forward to their stops.

  MacIntyre strode across the bridge, past the helm stations and past the lounging bulk of Stone Quillain, to the ship interphone. Lifting the handset from its cradle, he rang through to the main engine control.

  “Engine Room, this is the bridge. This is it. Lock it all down and get the hell out of there!”

  “Engine Room, aye!” the voice answered from the belly of the doomed ship.

  “Eddie Mac’s taking us in!” the engineering CPO bawled down the narrow passage between the thundering pair of Hyundai marine diesels. “Haul ass, you guys, haul ass!”

  The three other members of the skeleton black gang needed no urging. They were the last hands below the frigate’s waterline. They raced forward to the ladderway that led up to the comparative safety of mid decks.

  The veteran chief petty officer counted them up the ladder, three in with him, three out ahead of him. Before he followed, instinct made him pause for a last second for a look at the gauge banks on the main engine control boards.

  Some needles were already starting their climb into the red zone. Whoever had been running coolant and lubrication maintenance on this plant needed to be taken out and shot after he’d been hung. Oh, well, it wasn’t as if it mattered all that much.

  He started to climb.

  Two levels above, he unlatched the ladder trunk hatch and slammed it shut, kicking the locking dogs solidly into place. All watertight doors and hatches below the frigate’s waterline had been tightly closed, just as all doors and hatches above the waterline had been securely wedged open against the risk of their freezing shut from frame distortion.

  The central passageway of the main deck, one level below topside, was a rank and crowded place that smelled heavily of both heat and tension sweat. Spalling mats had been run down either side of the passage with the intent that the Kevlar armor combine
d with the steel ship’s hull would keep the space bullet- and fragmentation-free. Or such was the theory. Battle lanterns had also been spaced down the passageway. They were now being switched on in preparation for the loss of the internal lighting.

  All hands, Marine and Navy, had their spot staked out. The CPO had left his combat gear parked at his. Hastily he dragged the MOLLE harness and flak vest on over the green utilities he wore. Donning his K-Pot helmet, he sank down with his back to the bulkhead and tried to remember the loading and clearing drill for his twelve-gauge combat shotgun.

  From the feel of the hull, they had completed their turn and were reaching flank speed. Not long before the show starts. Crazy damn way to do things! Hope the admiral knows what he’s doing. Hope the main bearings on Number Two hold out. Probably they’re red-hot by now. Too late to worry about it. Hell of a way to treat a ship.

  The chief glanced at the three youthful Motor Macs huddled together against the bulkhead across from him. Two guys and a girl, all three of them just out of high school. Good kids and good sailors. They’d all volunteered for this job, practically begging for it, but they were looking scared now. Just about as scared as the CPO felt.

  He gave them the slightest nod of his head and a bored smile that indicated that this was just another day leading to twenty and out.

  That’s part of a chief’s job.

  Fantail of the MV Harconan Flores

  0803 Hours, Zone Time: August 25, 2008