Target Lock

Red Sea, Northeast of Port Sudan 0501 Hours, Zone Time: July 29, 2008

The desert and the sea held their breath.

In moments the cruel sun would lift above the horizon to brand the earth for another day. The winds would rise with it, staining the sky with the restless migration of the sands between the Arabian Peninsula and the Horn of Africa.

For this moment though, a cool and perfect stillness held sway. The dark sapphire bowl of the heavens gleamed with the last few fading stars. The dark velvet hills of Saud defined the eastern horizon and the sea had the glossy smoothness of poured oil.

The stems of the two great gray warships slit open the waters like sword blades cutting silk, their bow waves radiating outward and back in foamless geometric perfection. In the stillness the breathy whine of gas turbines and the humming rumble of maritime diesels could be heard for a distance of ten miles. Closer, a faint whisper of music could be heard.

No class of ship built for the United States Navy had ever been designed with as much integral living space for the individual crewperson as the San Antonio-class LPD. Yet, privacy remained at a premium. One of the few places where it might be found was the short stretch of weatherdeck at the rear of the superstructure.

Located between the two aft RAM launchers and shielded from the signals bridge by the mast arrays and a small systems shack, an individual might find a degree of solitude here for a time. Amanda had discovered this shortly after coming aboard the Carlson, and she had made it clear that this space was hers alone during the dawn hour of all fair-weather mornings. When she danced, she generally preferred not to have an audience.

This day, there was an exception.

The theme issuing from the portable CD player lifted from broken despair to a somber but rising end movement that called for rebuilding and revenge. Amanda pursued the music with her body, flowing from pirouette to pirouette passé to relevé, her mind free for a few precious moments from the responsibilities of command.

The piece swelled and lifted to its conclusion and Amanda followed it, a fist stabbing into the sky. Then the player spun into silence and she sank to one knee on the dojo pad, the music and the movement lingering for a few moments more in her mind. Then, with deliberation, she snapped the spell, opening her eyes and taking a deep deliberate breath.

“That was beautiful,” Christine commented from where she sat at the edge of the mat. “What was that music anyway? I didn’t recognize it.”

“It’s something I’ve been experimenting with.” Amanda rose to her feet and took another deep breath. “‘The Pacific Boils Over’ by Richard Rodgers. It’s the Pearl Harbor theme from Victory at Sea.”

“I should have known.” Christine held out a chilled bottle of Evian water. “Just anybody could do Swan Lake.”

“Well, nobody has done anything with it, and it’s a pity.” Amanda took a long sip from the bottle, then sluiced the remainder of the cool fluid over her limbs and maroon leotard, relishing the refreshing chill as evaporation explosively leached the moisture away. “The Victory sound track is the world’s longest and most complex symphony. There are some terrific dance movements in there if someone would use them.”

She sank down beside Christine, putting her back to the systems shack bulkhead. “Pass me that brush, would you?” she asked, unpinning her hair.

Christine collected the brush from the gym bag at her side. “You’re letting it grow out a little more,” she commented, reaching up to touch Amanda’s tousled amber mane.

“Mmm, just too lazy to do anything with it.”

“Want me to do it?”

“Be my guest.”

Sitting cross-legged, Amanda turned half away to accept the grooming, and the two sat in the silence that is so different between old and comfortable friends from the silence between uneasy strangers, watching the Carlson’s wake boil white in the growing dawn.

“Hear anything from Arkady lately?” Christine inquired after a time.

“Now and again. He’s up in Japan at the moment, working with the Maritime Self Defense Force on their aviation ship program. I gather he’s taken enthusiastically to being a fighter pilot and he’s having more fun than kittens.”

Chris glanced away. keeping her voice casual. “That’s what I’d heard. I was just wondering if he’d been saying anything… special to you.”

Amanda tilted her head to let Christine work out a snarl. “We exchange a letter now and again, Chris. Friends’ letters.”

“Oh…”

Amanda poked an elbow back into the intel’s ribs. “And there is no reason to go ‘Oh’ on me, Christine Maude. Arkady and I have no regrets and a lot of very happy memories. It was just time to set it aside for a while.”

“Cool, then. Who’s the replacement?”

“Replacement? Good Lord, Chris. I haven’t replaced him with anyone.”

“Well, why not?”

“Because I haven’t had the time… or the particular inclination.”

Christine thumped the palm of her hand into the center of her forehead. “I can see it all now. After office hours, your staff turns off your main power switch and throws a dust cover over you. I knew it was a mistake to accept that tour with NAVSPEC. You need a keeper.”

“I’m doing just fine, thank you kindly.” Amanda gave her brush glossed hair a final setting shake into place.

Christine snorted. “Sure. And what are you going to carve on your tombstone? ‘Here lies Amanda Lee Garrett, who got too busy to have a life.’ ”

“I intend to be buried at sea, Chris.”

The intel sighed and tossed the brush back into the gym bag. Leaning back against the bulkhead again, she closed her eyes. “That was a bad line, Boss Ma’am…. Amanda, I’m sorry. It’s just that you drive me just a little bit crazy sometimes. You have got to be the most… generous person with yourself I’ve ever met. You give it all away, to the Navy, to the mission, to your crew, to your friends and lovers. Hey, I just wish you’d learn keep a little bit of it for yourself. It is okay to do that, you know?”

Amanda gave a brief wry chuckle and reached back to lightly slap her friend on the thigh. “I’ve heard rumors to that effect, yes. And to tell the truth, I’ve been giving the subject some thought. I missed something very good with Vince Arkady because the time simply wasn’t right. I don’t want the time to be wrong again, whether I pick up with Vince or whether I move on with someone else.”

An odd speculative tone came into Christine’s voice. “Have you talked with Eddie Mac lately?”

Amanda looked over her shoulder. “To Admiral MacIntyre? Of course. I brief him a couple of times a week on how the task force is shaking down. Why?”

Chris only shrugged and looked out to sea. “No reason. Just wondering.”

Amanda’s command headset had been hooked over one end of her open gym bag; now its exterior alarm chirped, demanding attention. Christine passed it across as Amanda came up onto her knees. “Garrett here,” she said, fitting the earphone to the side of her head. Intently she listened for a moment.

“Very good. Carry on.”

Lithely getting to her feet, Amanda reached for the set of wash khakis she had draped over the topside railing. “Speak of the devil, Chris. That was the task group AIRBOSS. Admiral Maclntyre’s inbound.”

Admiral Elliot MacIntyre had served for three years as CINCLANT (commander in chief, Atlantic Fleet) operating from FLEETLANT-COM’s bunkerlike headquarters complex in Norfolk, Virginia. Upon leaving that assignment for NAVSPECFORCE, he had sworn he would never again, as he phrased it, “fly his flag from a brick shithouse.”

These days he spent fully half of his time in the field with his combat elements. Accompanied by a minimal tactical staff, he utilized the advances made in military telecommunications to the maximum, remaining electronically linked with his headquarters responsibilities while working face-to-face with his unit commanders.

Within NAVSPECFORCE, it had been learned that the phrase “Eddie Mac will be on the ground in half an hour” could be spoken at any time, day or night. Depending upon the situation, this could be cause for relief or trepidation.

MacIntyre would agree that perhaps it was an unconventional way to run a major military command. However, peering down at the frost and jade wakes of his ships cutting across the Red Sea, he would also state it was a hell of a personal improvement over staring at a briefing-room flatscreen.

The desert-camouflaged Sikorsky S-70 gingerly eased in over the Carlson’s flight deck, its Saudi air force pilots demonstrating an understandable lack of familiarity with a shipboard landing platform. Eventually the landing gear of the export variant Blackhawk bounced down onto the deck, and the Saudi airmen throttled back to idling power. As the aircraft’s side doors slid open, MacIntyre led a mixed dozen of U.S. Navy enlisted hands, CPOs, and junior officers out of the helicopter’s cargo bay and onto the LPD’s deck.

In his own personal operating style, the admiral carried his own luggage off the aircaft; as per his standing orders within NAVSPECFORCE, no ceremony heralded his arrival beyond the small group of officers clustered at the head of the helipad.

Keeping the bill of his uniform cap tugged down against the rotor wash, he ducked across to his waiting officers. Straightening, he turned and saluted the colors aft, then turned to reply to the crisp volley of salutes offered to him.

“Request permission to come aboard, Captain,” he yelled to Commander Carberry over the rotor thunder.

“Permission granted, sir!”

Deckside communications then became temporarily impossible as the Saudi helicopter lifted off behind them. As the aircraft hauled away toward the Saudi coast and the sound level dropped, MacIntyre gave his cap a final settling tug. “Well, that’s an improvement. Commander Carberry, it’s a pleasure to see you again. And you, Commander Rendino… and you, Captain Garrett.”

As always, MacIntyre found himself stricken with the poise and natural regality of Amanda’s bearing and, dammit, by the striking and unself-conscious beauty of the woman, the rich reddish brown of her hair and the golden glow of her skin contrasting with her tropic whites and rakish black Sea Fighter beret.

“It’s a pleasure to have you aboard, sir,” she replied in her purring alto. “Chris says that you have an interesting job for us.”

“Among other things. But first be advised you can expect about a dozen more Saudi helos in this morning. Beyond my staff people, we have personnel transfers for both the Carlson and the Cunningham, and some sling loads of parts and munitions. You’ve got company coming aboard.”

Even as the noise of the departing Saudi aircraft faded in the distance, a new droning, differently toned, grew in intensity. Four dark specks in an echelon could be seen against the intensely blue sky, crossing the coast outbound for the task group.

Amanda Garrett’s golden hazel eyes widened. “You’ve got them for me!” she exclaimed, taking a step forward.

The admiral was pleased at her pleasure. It was a rather unusual gift to bring to a lady, but then, Amanda Garrett was a most unusual lady.

“When I talked to Cobra a couple of days ago, he claimed they’d need at least another month of work-up before they’d be ready to come aboard,” MacIntyre said. “But when I mentioned that we had a potentially fangs-out job going out here, he said, ‘Hell, if you’re talking about operating, we’re set to go now.’”

“That’s Commander Richardson for you, Admiral.” She shot an amused glance back at MacIntyre. “So that’s what you were doing in Riyadh?”

Eddie Mac nodded. “I had to dicker for the loan of the SAAF air base outside of Mecca. Military Airlift Command brought Cobra’s lead detachment in yesterday. They worked all night assembling their aircraft so they could stage aboard the task group this morning.”

Amanda shook her head slowly, studying the approaching helo formation. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a great day. The Seawolves fly again.”

And it was, MacIntyre mused. The return of a legend is a rare thing.

The Seawolves, or, more formally, Helicopter Attack (light) Squadron 3, had been born during the desperate, savage days of the U.S. involvement in the Indochina war. Driven by the necessity of providing immediate on-call air cover for its riverine patrol forces and SEAL detachments, the Navy had created its first and only dedicated helicopter gunship formation.

Flying their first-generation UH-1B Hueys out of isolated swamp country bases and from the decks of anchored LST “aircraft carriers,” the Seawolves accumulated a list of combat honors second to none in that grim, twilit conflict, along with a reputation for fearlessness, dedication, and bold battlefield ferocity.

Seawolf was a name to conjure with. MacIntyre suspected that was why Amanda had called for this proud old unit’s reactivation. Battles are sometimes won by factors beyond mere numbers and firepower.

Drawing closer, the readily recognizable pollywog silhouette of the UH-1 Iroquois became apparent. However, instead of the distinctive twin blade whup, whup, whup of the Vietnam-vintage Huey, these machines produced the vibrant, humming roar of modern flex-rotor flight systems.

As they swept past astern of the Carlson, a meager hundred feet off the deck, other differences could be noted. A twin-turbine power pack rode atop each squat gray fuselage, augmented with Black Hole and Flicker Flash anti-infrared systems. Hardpoint studded snub wings were set low at the aft end of the cabin, and the ominous, stumpy barrel of an OCSW projected from a chin-mounted gun and sensor turret.

The breed had improved over the intervening four decades.

Turning around sharply, Amanda caught the eye of a flight-deck talker standing by with a command headset. “Hey, sailor,” she called, lifting her voice. “Relay this to the task group AIRBOSS. I want one Sea wolf section positioned on each ship. Two aircraft here. Two aboard the Cunningham. Got that?”

“Aye, aye, ma’am. Two and two.”

“As you asked for, Amanda,” MacIntyre commented, “UH-1Y gunship conversions. I’m still not quite sure why you wanted the Super Huey rebuilds instead of Whiskey Cobras or armed Oceanhawks. Hell, I could have gotten you Sea Comanches if you’d yelled for them loudly enough.”

“I had my reasons, Admiral,” Amanda replied. “Cockpit-style gunships might offer more firepower, but they aren’t as flexible for special operations work. A Y-bird can transport and deliver a four-man Marine fire team as well as a weapons payload. They’re also smaller than Ocean hawks, so we can shoehorn more of them aboard our available platforms. These will do me.”

With her arms crossed and the Carlson’s way breeze tugging lightly at her hair, she turned with the circling Seawolves, following them intently with her eyes. Already MacIntyre could see her projecting possibilities and considering options, weaving his gift into her plans. “Yes,” she said, nodding, “these grand old ladies will do me just fine.”

The Carlson’s wardroom was large, with a triple row of dark oak mess tables in its center and comfortably outfitted with matching brown leather couches and lounge chairs spaced around its perimeter. Yet, a new ship’s starkness still lingered about it. The accumulation of awards, mementos, and cruise memorabilia that would personalize this living space of the task force’s officers had barely begun.

Still, some progress had been made. Commander Carberry had a framed set of Treaty-era battleship and cruiser lithographs mounted on the bulkheads. Coming from his personal art collection, they underlined his decided fondness for the days and ways of “The Old Black Shoe Navy.”

Junior officers had learned to sidle for the door whenever Carberry started to wax eloquent about some detail or anecdote concerning a Texas-class dreadnought or Milwaukee light cruiser. The next installment of his continuing “What-all’s wrong with the fleet today” lecture loomed.

And then, of course, there was the palm tree.

Bearing an ominous resemblance to an interior decoration of the Pearl Harbor officers’ club, it had materialized mysteriously in the corner of the wardroom during the night prior to the Carlson’s sailing, complete with a hand-lettered CAPTAIN GARRETT’S PROPERTY sign spiked into the soil of its redwood planter.

The officer of the deck, the gangway watch, and the interior security patrols all stoutly denied knowledge of the miniature palm’s arrival. While Amanda thought that the handwriting on the sign bore a significant similarity to that of a certain female intel of her acquaintance, there wasn’t enough definitive evidence to warrant action.

There was only one possible dignified counter to the Ensign Pulverish prank. Amanda took the little palm under her personal care. Setting a grow light up over the leafy intruder, she bid that it stay.

The funny part was that she was actually growing rather fond of the ridiculous thing.

Stone Quillain was waiting for them at the center table. As the task force’s senior Marine officer and Amanda’s personal ground-warfare advisor, she wanted the rawboned leatherneck in on this ad hoc planning session.

Quillain came swiftly to his feet as Amanda, Christine, and MacIntyre entered.

“Good to see you again, Stone.” MacIntyre exchanged a handshake with the Marine. “How are your Sea Dragons working up?”

“Tolerable, sir, tolerable. Of course, so far it’s just been drill work and exercises.” A speculative glint came to the Marine’s dark and rather narrow eyes. “We’re going to have to take some real fire before we can say for sure.”

Quillain’s 1st Provisional Raider Company, more commonly referred to as the Sea Dragons, was yet another of the “great experiments” Amanda found herself dealing with. A unique five-platoon company, three of its elements, the heavy-weapons platoon and two of the rifle platoons, were standard Marine SOC (Special Operations Capable) line units. The remaining two platoons were fourteen-man Marine Force Reconnaissance units specialists in deep battlefield infiltration and covet intelligence gathering.

I warned you about being careful of what you ask for, Stone,” Amanda murmured. “Wishes can sometimes get granted at the most awkward of times.”

Coffee mugs were filled from the big stainless steel urn, more by reflex than from any real desire, and the four officers clumped at the center table.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” MacIntyre began, “let’s use the short form. The National Command Authority has handed off this Indonesian piracy problem to NAVSPECFORCE. In turn I’ve passed the baby on to the Sea Fighters. You’ve been given the word on what we’re facing and you’ve had a couple of days to work the problem. What are your intentions and what else are you going to need get the job done?”

Amanda exchanged glances with her two junior officers. “Well, there’s one thing we’re certain of already: Absolutely nothing conventional is going to work.”

MacIntyre grimaced and took a sip of coffee. “I was afraid of that.”

“That’s just how it cuts, Admiral,” Quillain added. “The Indonesian archipelago’s the goddamnedest littoral combat environment on the planet. Even if we had the whole combined 7th Fleet and 1st Marine Expeditionary Force committed to this job, we could be working it for the next ten years.”

MacIntyre nodded. “I’m quite willing to cede the point. What I want to know is what we can accomplish with the time and the assets we have available.”

“We do have some ideas,” Amanda resumed. “For a starter, we’re going to have to get clearance to work from inside of Indonesian territorial waters. How are our diplomatic relations with them currently?”

MacIntyre scowled. “Sore. State’s been pushing them hard over this INDASAT matter, and Jakarta’s getting muley on the whole subject. They’re not doing much about this entire piracy matter and they don’t like having it pointed out to them.”

“It’s not PC to say it,” Christine commented, “but face still matters a great deal out there.”

“And that can work very much in our favor,” Amanda added. “Admiral, you still have influence with the secretary of state, don’t you?”

“Harry Van Lynden and I still swap fishing lies and lures, if that’s what you mean.”

“Could you get him to do us a favor?”

MacIntyre shrugged. “It depends on what it is.”

“Get him to back off. Overtly get him to drop the INDASAT Starcatcher question and Indonesian piracy as a whole. In fact, he could even slip an under-the-table apology to the Indonesian ambassador for our overreaction to the matter.”

The admiral cocked a gray-frosted eyebrow. “State’s catching hell from certain factions in Congress over this. I’d have to give the secretary an awfully good justification.”

Amanda smiled. “Because it would give the United States a reason to conduct a goodwill visit to an Indonesian port as a fence-mending gesture of friendship and solidarity with the Jakarta government.”

Maclntyre’s grin grew to match Amanda’s. “And this will give us our excuse to move into their waters.”

“Exactly, sir. We’ll lollygag around on our way in and out, collecting intelligence on pirate operations as we go. As Christine has pointed out, the piracy cartel has likely infiltrated both the Indonesian government and their defense forces — or at least they have contacts on the inside. Anything we hope to accomplish must be done independently and covertly. When we zero the location of the INDASAT and the pirate leadership, we make our move and take them out.”

MacIntyre dubiously scratched the back of his neck. “And what does the Indonesian government do when we declare a private war on some of their own citizens on their own territory?”

“We give them a choice, Admiral, sir,” Christine answered. “They can either be exposed as a bunch of corrupt and ineffectual bumblers who had to have their mess cleaned up by somebody from the outside. Or they can be our heroic allies in defeating a major threat to the world maritime community.” She propped her chin up on a slim hand. “As Captain Garrett said, face has its uses.”

MacIntyre stared down into his cup, considering. “This all hinges, of course, on our recovering enough hard intel to find where the INDASAT is hidden.”

“Very true,” Amanda acknowledged. “Intelligence gathering is going to be the keystone for this operation. Because of that, I’m going to need more collection assets placed directly under my command.”

“Say the word and you’ll have them.”

“I am. I want a half-squadron of Global Hawks for the duration of this operation and an advanced base for them in Australia.”

MacIntyre winced. “It couldn’t be something simple like a few H-bombs or an aircraft carrier, could it? I could pick those up in-house. For Global Hawks, I’ll have to go to the Air Force.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but that’s an asset I’m going to need if I’m going to pull this off real-time regional recon, on call, twenty-four hours a day. That means G-Hawks directly attached to the task force. We have a functional control node setup here aboard the Carlson, and we can fly the systems operators out from Diego Garcia while we’re in transit.”

“I’ll get them for you somehow,” MacIntyre growled. “I just have to worry about what the bandits in blue are going to want in return one of these days.”

Amanda smiled over her coffee cup. “I’m pleased to say that’s your problem, sir. I just have to deal with the day-to-day of tracking our pirate king to his lair.”

MacIntyre chuckled deep in his chest. “I rather like the sound of that. There’s damn little swashbuckling left in This Man’s Navy. If you don’t mind the company on your flag bridge, Amanda, I think I’ll ride along on this one. It’s still your show all the way, but I want to get the feel of how this new Sea Fighter task structure is going to work.”

“All I can say is: Excellent and welcome aboard, sir. I suspect that there’s going to be some politicking and diplomacy required on this run, and a vice admiral’s stars pack a lot more weight than a captain’s birds. Beyond that, we’ll be operating in an Islamic cultural environment where having a male senior officer aboard could make things a little less complicated.”

MacIntyre nodded. “Just leave the assorted pooh-bahs, potentates, and powers that be to me. It can’t be any worse than dealing with Congress. Anything else you’re going to need?”

“Some additional air logistics. The covert kind. We might have to support a microforce at any point within the archipelago. Can you get me a Combat Talon while you’re picking up those Global Hawks?”

“Done. What else do we need to consider?”

“Tactical security,” Stone Quillain said. “Operating inside of an Indonesian port and in their coastal waters can work good for us, but it can work for the bad guys too. They can get at us with their available assets. We’re going to have a lot of ship and personnel vulnerability to sabotage and terrorist action.”

“Very true, Stone,” Amanda agreed. “And not just from the piracy cartel. This whole operational area is volatile. The Jakarta government is bucking a number of rebellious factions within the islands, and the usual knee-jerk anti-Americanism can also be expected. We’re going to push our shipboard security and anti-boarding drills all the way across the Indian Ocean. How are your boys doing with our crew combat training.”

“Pretty fair. All hands should have completed the advanced cycle by the time we hit the operating theater. We could do with some spare crew served weapons and a bigger ship’s ammo reserve, though.”

Amanda nodded. “I’ll see they’ll be on the beach waiting for us in Singapore.” She glanced back at MacIntyre. “One of the programs we’ve instituted within the task force is augmented weapons training. We’re carrying enough small arms, body armor, and units of fire in our arsenals to load out all hands. Stone’s Marines have also been giving us an advanced indoctrination in shipboard and ground combat. If we’re pushed, not only can we protect our ships but we can back up the Raiders with shore assault parties.”

“Not that my boys are all that likely to need any help,” Quillain murmured.

Amanda lifted an eyebrow at the big Marine. “Be that as it may, I’ve got a hunch we’re going to be needing those assault parties before this show is over.”

“I’m not taking bets on any aspect of this operation,” MacIntyre grunted. “Not until we know a lot more about what we may be facing out there. Until then, Captain, what do you propose as your first move? It’ll take a while for State to get you a clearance for your Indonesian port call. By the way, where do you intend to put in, Jakarta?”

She shook her head. “No, Benoa, on Bali. It’s centralized within the archipelago; it’s quieter and some distance away from the military and governmental centers in western Java. It’s also a resort area, it’s laid-back, good for shore leave and more in line for the image of a friendly port call.”

“How do you want to work the approach?” MacIntyre inquired.

“I’ve been thinking about that.” Setting down her cup, Amanda crossed her arms on the tabletop. “If Chris is correct about this piracy cartel, they have a terrific maritime intelligence-gathering network in place in the major ports of the world. As it’s the gateway to the Suez Canal, that likely includes Port Said. So probably they know we’re en route to Indonesian waters. Shortly after our State Department contacts the Indonesian government about our port call, the cartel will know where we’re going and, theoretically, when we’re going to arrive.”

She leaned forward slightly, golden-hazel eyes intent. “What I intend to do is to use their own intelligence-gathering capacity against them. We’re going to let them know exactly where we are, but then, we’re going to also be somewhere else at the same time.”

“Keep talking,” MacIntyre said slowly.

“To begin, we set an arrival date for Bali as well as a routine replenishment stop at our fleet base in Singapore, both timed to match the time frame for a leisurely routine transit across the Indian Ocean for an LPD. The pirates will know a task force can never move faster than its slowest ship. Both of the task-force ships will be scheduled for the replenishment in Singapore, but only the Carlson will show up.

“Once we clear the mouth of the Red Sea, I intend to cross deck aboard the Cunningham with a Marine boarding platoon and half of the Seawolf gunships. From there, the Duke will detach from the Carlson, go full stealth and EMCON, and conduct a flank-speed sprint across to the East Indies. An at-sea replenishment from the Australian navy would be helpful when we arrive in their waters. After that, we start hunting pirates several days ahead of our listed port call in Singapore.”

Another grin cut across Maclntyre’s craggy features. “Damn, I like it! The cartel will likely be circumspect when they know we’re in their waters, but they might try to squeeze in a last operation or two before we arrive on station.”

“Exactly. The Carlson arriving alone may catch them by surprise with some of their raiders still at sea conducting operations. With a little luck we may be able to grab some prisoners for interrogation, along with some hard intelligence and documentation. It may produce a crack we can slip a crowbar into.”

Stone Quillain growled approvingly. “With the Skipper’s permission, I’d like a piece of that action. My company exec can cover the action here aboard the amphib. It’ll do him good.”

“Welcome aboard, Stone. I’ll be glad to have you running point. This first move’s going to be critical.”

“And also with the Boss Ma’am’s permission,” Christine Rendino added, “I’d like to go on ahead, too, but in a different kind of way.”

“How do you mean, Chris?”

“I want to go ashore with the last Saudi helo this afternoon. From Riyadh, I’d like to fly on to Singapore, but under the table, as a civilian tourist.”

“What’s up?” Amanda inquired.

“I think I may have a lead on what you might call a native guide.”