Target Lock

Java Sea 110 Miles North-Northeast of the Sunda Strait 1645 Hours, Zone Time: August 14, 2008

In the year 1992, one of the most remarkable arms sales in history took place.

Following the collapse of the USSR and the reunification of Germany, the united German government inherited a massive stock of Soviet and Warsaw Pact armaments from the former East Germany. Urgently needing funds to help refurbish its prostrate ex-Communist eastern territories, Germany placed these unneeded weapons on the world market.

Indonesia, in turn, urgently needed seapower to defend and bind together its scattered archipelago territories. Taking advantage of this mammoth national garage sale, they purchased almost the entire East German navy, lock, stock, and barrel.

The Parchim-class frigate Wolf One, now orbited, had been part of that bulk buy of military might. Much had been changed, though, since the angular 250-foot warship had cruised the chill waters of the Baltic. Leaning out of the helicopter’s side hatch, Amanda studied the modifications made to the frigate’s weapons package with an intent, professional eye.

The old 30mm point defense mount and the two twelve-tube RBU antisubmarine mortars were gone from the forward gun deck, replaced by a Bofors modular 57mm cannon and by the angled launch cells of a quartet of Exocet antishipping missiles.

Triple sets of Bofors Type 43 torpedo tubes were carried amidships, while back aft, the old Russian Twin 57 and the SA-6 Grail launcher had been replaced by a second modular Swedish autocannon and a French Mistral SAM quad mount.

Jane’s also indicated new Korean medium-speed diesels in the Parchim’s engine room, and a full Japanese electronics refit. Over its series of rebuilds and updates, this old Warsaw Pact subchaser had evolved into a fairly nasty little surface warfare platform, one that was paying far too much attention to Amanda’s task force flagship for comfort.

Following the Piskov incident, the Duke had gone evasive, running first south and then cast down the length of Java. Another night and day had been spent lurking off the Lombok and Atla straits on the off chance that one last pirate raider might not have gotten the word.

When one had obliged, CLA 79 had slipped through into the Java Sea and made herself apparent to the world once more, dropping her stealth and EMCON shields. Turning west again, she steamed to rejoin the Carlson, en route eastbound from Singapore.

Two hours prior, with Amanda Garrett onboard and with extended range ferry tanks clipped to her hardpoints, Wolf One had departed the Cunningham to make an early rendezvous with the Sea Fighter base ship.

Upon arrival at the Carlson’s position Amanda had found that the LPD was not alone.

Cobra circled back for another pass over the Indonesian warship, and an officer, possibly the frigate’s captain, stepped out onto the bridge wing. Clad in tropic whites, he stared up defiantly at the helicopter. Amanda met his gaze for a moment, wishing there were such a thing as mental telepathy.

“Okay, Cobra,” she said into her lip mike. “I’ve had my look-around. Put us down on the Carlson.”

“Doin’ it.”

Three minutes later the Super Huey settled onto the LPD’s flight deck.

“Home, Captain,” Richardson called back from the pilot’s seat, as he and his copilot commenced the aircraft power-down. “Never mind about your gear. My people will get it up to your cabin.”

“Thank you, and thanks for the lift and the good work. You and the Wolves didn’t take long in proving yourselves.”

“No strain, ma’am. Just give us something to shoot at every now and again and we’re happy.”

Leaving her cranial and lifejacket with the helo’s crew chief, Amanda disembarked. Heading forward to the superstructure, she found herself noting the slower, more deliberate pitch and roll of the larger ship, so different than the Duke’s decisive slice through the incoming rollers.

Admiral MacIntyre and Christine Rendino awaited her inside the open hangar bay doors, along with Captain Carberry and a handsome, intense Asian man in civilian clothes. He stood by impassively as Amanda honored the colors aft and exchanged salutes.

Admiral MacIntyre made the introductions. “Captain Garrett, this is Inspector Nguyen Tran of the Singapore National Police. He’s the guide Miss Rendino promised us.”

Amanda extended her hand and found it gripped in a solid western handshake. “I’m pleased to have you aboard, Inspector. We’ll be needing your help.”

“And I am pleased to be able to assist in this matter.” The inspector’s voice was deep, with a trace of the old formal British accent. “I am at your disposal.”

“Uh, his presence aboard is also not known by his government or acknowledged by ours,” Christine added. “The inspector’s sort of the little man who wasn’t there just now.”

“He won’t be alone in that status for long.” Amanda glanced at Commander Carberry. “Commander, later this afternoon you’ll be having a Seahawk coming in from the Cunningham. It will be carrying our… VIP passengers. Given the nosy Parker we have in the neighborhood, I suggest we do not unload said VIPs on the open flight deck. Bring the helo into the hangar and get the doors secured before disembarking them.”

“Understood, Captain,” Carberry replied. “As per Commander Rendino’s instructions, ship’s security has a holding area prepared.”

“Very good. We can conduct the interrogations here aboard the Carlson a lot better than we can aboard the Duke. What we don’t need at this juncture is for the Indonesian government to learn we’re holding some of their citizens incommunicado, pirates or not.”

“Not a problem, ma’am. By your leave, I’ll make arrangements with my AIRBOSS.”

“Carry on.”

The rotund little officer strode briskly away, and Amanda turned back to the gray hull and snowy bow wave loitering beyond the LPD’s wake. “And speaking of things we don’t need, what’s the word on our little puppy dog back there. What are the Indonesians up to?”

MacIntyre scowled and tilted his uniform cap back. “We’re not exactly sure. This young sailor-me-lad picked us up as we cleared Singapore and he’s been shadowing ever since. Inspector Tran has already developed one unpleasant theory about him.”

“Which is, Inspector?”

“The piracy cartel has ordered their purchased officers within the Indonesian navy to monitor your operations,” Tran replied. “I suspect also to interfere with those operations whenever possible.”

Amanda’s dark brows knit together. “The cartel has enough pull to do that?”

“They do, Captain. The proof follows behind us. Perhaps the greater question is, do they have enough ‘pull,’ as you say, to instigate the launching of an outright attack.”

“Essentially it has been a search for a series of convergent factors,” Tran stated to his small audience. He, Christine Rendino, Admiral MacIntyre, and the newly arrived Amanda Garrett had withdrawn to the Carlson’s wardroom. With his battered briefcase sitting before him on the tabletop, Tran began the presentation he had given so often in futility. “As it came clear a dedicated and effective support infrastructure was being developed for pirate operations in the archipelago, it also became dear certain specific elements must be involved.”

“A very sophisticated fencing and money-laundering operation, for one,” Captain Garrett commented. Frowning absently, she crossed to the miniature palm tree sitting in the corner of the compartment. Sinking to one knee, she tested the soil in its planter with a fingertip. “Pirating a high-value cargo is an act of futility unless you also have a secure method in place for reselling it on the world market and accounting for the money gained from it.”

“Logistics and transport, for a second,” MacIntyre added. The admiral sat half turned, facing Tran with his arm hooked over his chair back. “You’d have to be able to move your hijacked cargoes in to your sales points, and supplies and equipment out to your raider bases regularly and without arousing suspicion.”

“We’re also talking about a big-bucks business operation here,” Christine Rendino added, booting up her laptop on the table across from Tran, “something you couldn’t conduct in a waterfront dive. You’d have to be able to access some pretty rarified circles in the area of banking, international trade, and finance, as well as high-level regional government.”

Captain Garrett crossed to the wardroom’s sideboard and removed a water-filled spray bottle from one of the cupboards beneath it. “I would project, then, that our piracy cartel must control at least one legitimate maritime shipping line with regular traffic routes and ports of call both inside and out of Indonesian waters, an internationally rated bank, and a major trading house or brokerage. Am I correct?”

Returning to the little palm, she lightly misted its glossy leaves.

“Exactly correct, Captain,” Tran replied. “However, there are two additional factors that narrow the field even further. Merely controlling these enterprises is not enough. They must be under tight, personal control, a rarity in these days of corporate entities. And finally, the driving force behind the cartel must be an individual who understands the culture of the Bugis sea clans in depth. He must be able to work with them and, most importantly, he must be trusted and respected by them. He cannot be an outsider.”

Garrett set the spray bottle on the sideboard. “That should narrow the field considerably. How long is our list of suspects?”

“Suspect, Captain: singular. In my investigations I have found only one man who seems to meet this convergence of factors.”

Popping the latches on his briefcase, Tran removed a folder. Placing it on the wardroom table, he flipped the folder open, spreading out the eight-by-ten news file photographs he had collected from the archives of the New Straits Times.

“This man.”

Captain Garrett returned to the table and joined her fellow officers in an examination of the pictures. She studied them for a long moment. “What’s his name?” she inquired quietly.

“Harconan. Makara Harconan. His father was a member of one of the old Dutch colonial families that managed to hang on after Indonesian independence. His mother was the daughter of a major Bugis clan leader.”

“Oh, yeah, Mommy,” Christine murmured, glancing up at Amanda. “You can buy me one of these for my birthday.”

Tran suppressed an ironic smile at the comment. As a police officer, Tran knew image rarely meshed with reality. Makara Harconan was an exception to the rule. He was the way a pirate king should be, very much in the classic Errol Flynn mold. Only the strength in those hard-lined features and the defiant boldness in those dark eyes were the real thing and not born from any school of acting.

Amanda Garrett slowly leafed through the photo file: Harconan in an evening jacket, escorting a prominent Singapore starlet; Harconan in a business suit, disembarking from an airliner; Harconan shirtless and smiling, leaning back against the rail of a Bugis schooner. Lightly she traced the curve of his jaw with a fingertip. “What’s his story?”

“As I said, the Harconans were one of the old Dutch East Indies colonial families that stayed on after Indonesian independence. Apparently a very tough and stubborn lot, well versed in political infighting and in the accumulation of influence. They had to be, to survive both the Sukarno and the Suharto regimes.

“From his father’s family, Makara inherited a number of assets, a small merchant’s bank with branches in Jakarta and Singapore, several small coastal cargo vessels, and an interisland trading firm with outlets on the major Indonesian islands.”

Captain Garrett tossed the file back on the tabletop. “There are your three major elements.”

“The beginning of them at least,” Tran replied. “However, what he inherited from his mother’s side was perhaps more critical.”

Captain Garrett leaned back against the table. “Go on.”

“From what I have learned, Makara Harconan had no great bond with his Dutch father. I suspect that his parents’ marriage was one of political expediency, an attempt to buy an ‘in’ with the Bugis clans. Be that as it may, the relationship between the father and the half-caste son never grew close.

“The same could not be said of the boy’s feelings for his maternal grandfather. The mother’s father took over the role of the male parent. As Makara grew toward adulthood, he spent the majority of his holidays aboard his grandfather’s trading schooner, learning of his Bugis heritage as well as the ways of the sea. By the time he was fifteen, he was a master seaman capable of navigating a pinisi from here to New Guinea and back. I suspect he did so more than once.”

Tran noted how Garrett smiled, her eyes distant. “What a marvelous childhood to have,” she commented. “Most kids only get to dream of sailing away to the South Seas.”

“Indeed. From all I can learn, Harconan and his grandfather developed a fierce affection for each other. There was only one drawback to the relationship.”

“Which was?”

“The grandfather was also one of the most notorious and ruthless pirate captains in the archipelago,” Tran replied. “The old renegade apparently schooled the boy in that as well. On this point, naturally enough, I have only the vaguest of coast rumors and supposition to go on. But in his teenage years, Harconan may actually have sailed on a number of raiding expeditions with his grandfather, very possibly being involved in the boarding and fighting. Also in the killing.”

“Damnation,” MacIntyre scowled. “I suppose you can say the boy came by it naturally. It’s in his blood.”

Tran lifted his hand in an open palm gesture. “More importantly, Admiral, it’s in his mind. Makara Harconan is a man between two worlds, the world of the western-oriented twenty-first century and the more ancient and lawless realm of the Bugis sea gypsy. Being intelligent, aggressive, and educated to think outside of conventional morality, he has learned how to apply the tools and lessons gained in one world to the other.

“When he was eighteen, Harconan was sent to college in Europe for six years, first studying economics and business administration at the University of Amsterdam, and then attending the Dutch Maritime Academy, earning his merchant officer’s ratings. Upon his returning home to Indonesia, he requested and obtained a placement aboard one of his father’s coastal freighters. To no one’s surprise, within a year he was commanding the ship.

“At that moment, almost to the day, the affairs of the Harconan family took a sudden dramatic upswing. Makara Harconan, it seemed, had a magic touch at nosing out profitable business, inevitably from islands with large Bugis colonies on them. It also seemed that his competitors were dogged with ill fortune. Some of them even had ships and cargo disappear completely.”

MacIntyre glanced down at the photos on the tabletop. “Damn peculiar coincidence, that.”

“Is it not? To proceed, by the time he was thirty, Harconan was the director of one of the strongest regional shipping lines in the archipelago. Harconan Seaways was also the premier moneymaker of the Harconan family holdings.”

Garrett frowned and sank into a chair across the table from Tran. “How big of an operation are we talking about?”

Christine Rendino fielded the question. “Currently, Harconan Seaways flags a total of nine vessels. Six of them are good-sized motor coasters working a series of scheduled and unscheduled interisland routes from the Gulf of Thailand and the Andaman Sea clear across Indonesia and up into the Philippines.

“He also owns three big combined container and break bulk liners that work a couple of regular deepwater circuits. One is up the China coast with stops in Vietnam, the United Republics of Korea, and Russia. The other run circumnavigates the Indian Ocean, Bangladesh, India, Pakistan, a couple of the Persian Gulf states, and the African Horn. Harconan focuses on the trade out of some of the rougher secondary ports the bigger lines shy clear of.”

“The smugglers ports, you mean? The ones with iffier customs coverage?”

The blonde intel quirked an eyebrow. “A judgmental and suspicious person might say that, Boss Ma’am.”

Tran resumed the discourse. “In addition to their own vessels, Harconan Seaways operates an extensive charter and brokerage service. They may have several dozen pinisi under hire at any one time, moving cargo in and out of the lesser Indonesian ports.”

“And does Harconan Seaways ever suffer from pirate attacks?”

Tran smiled. “Oh, yes, almost more so than the other regional shipping lines. Mr. Harconan has frequently stated his concerns about piracy in the Archipelago. While he has not lost ships or personnel, his cargo losses are quite extensive every year. Cargo like maritime diesel power plants, outboard motors, radio and radar equipment — all never recovered. It is fortunate he always keeps his ships and the loads they carry well insured.”

“A wise businessman,” Captain Garrett agreed.

“He is.” Tran continued with the story. “When his father died, leaving Makara as his sole heir, he was very much, as you Americans say, ‘in the catbird seat’.”

“He bought out the remaining holdings of the last few Harconan relations and investors with a surprisingly large personal cash reserve, assuming full control not only of the shipping line but of the Jakarta Trans-Asian Bank, and of Harconan Trade and Brokerage. He united all three as divisions of a holding company called Makara Limited, with a company headquarters established on Bali.”

“There’s your personal control,” Amanda commented.

“Quite so,” Tran agreed. “He has refused to place Makara Limited stock on the open market, keeping his own hand solely on the tiller. In spite of that, Makara Limited has boomed. It is a multi-hundred-million dollar operation currently, and Harconan is a name to be strongly reckoned with among the new taipans of the Far East.”

“That’s rather peculiar, isn’t it?” MacIntyre commented, his craggy features thoughtful. “If the man’s made his pile, why continue with these piracy operations? Why keep risking it all? Why not do what the old Mafia dons did — go legitimate and sit back in the sun for the rest of his life?”

“Two reasons, I believe, Admiral. For one, I suspect that Harconan has an agenda beyond mere monetary gain. The wealth Harconan is acquiring through his piracy operations is being channeled back to the Bugis. He is making piracy attractively profitable for the sea clans again, luring the men away from fishing and trading and shoreside employment and encouraging the old raiders’ ways.

“As the men return, he hones their fighting skills giving them better ships, better weapons, and better training. Soon they will no longer be pirates. They will be a navy.”

“A navy that owes a secret allegiance to Makara Harconan,” Amanda Garrett interjected.

“You got it, Boss Ma’am.” Christine Rendino looked up from her laptop. “We saw this mechanism once before, in West Africa. A sufficiently charismatic and effective leader can turn a tribal culture into an empire practically overnight. He just has to prove he’s a winner.”

“‘Charismatic and effective’ very much describes Makara Harconan,” Tran agreed. “Among the Bugis colonies he is already a known and respected man. He maintains a number of private philanthropic operations within the archipelago, providing aid and assistance to the Bugis. Things such as schools, better medical care, better housing. Many Bugis already say he has done more for them than Jakarta ever managed.”

Tran hesitated before continuing. “If you know where to listen, there are already whispers of the coming of a raja samudra, a ‘sea king’ who will restore the glories of the ancient Bone Empire of Sulawesi, the apex of Bugis power within the archipelago. No name has yet to be attached to the title — publicly, at any rate.”

“The restoration of some mythic ‘golden age’ or ‘shining time’ has set more than one culture on the road to war,” Amanda commented grimly. “Where does our ‘sea king’ have his current throne?”

Christine took over the flow of the briefing. “Makara Limited’s corporate headquarters are located in the coastal town of Nusa Dua, near Benoa Harbor. I suppose you could call Nusa Dua a suburb of the island capital of Denpasar. However, Harconan’s personal headquarters are located on another smaller island off the northwestern tip of Bali, near the approaches to the Bali Strait.”

Christine rotated her laptop’s screen on its pivot point, displaying a chart call-up. “It’s called Palau Piri, Island of the Princes, appropriately enough. Harconan owns the whole damn island outright. Apparently it’s been in the family for centuries. Access by personal invitation only.”

Amanda whistled softly. “Interesting. He must like privacy and borders both. And he must have picked Bali for his headquarters for the same reason we did: its strategic central location. Have the G-Hawks had a look at this place, Chris?”

“Oh yeah, very impressive.” The intel called up a high-altitude photo file. “About two square miles in area. As you can see, it’s heavily forested with black-sand beaches all the way around. Reefs to the north and west with a small breakwater harbor and a set of piers on the south side.”

On the screen, a window formed around the small group of structures near the piers, the image zooming up to fill the screen. Reaching around, Christine conducted a guided tour with a pencil tip.

“The only structures are the half-dozen inside the Harconan compound, the rest of the island is maintained as a nature preserve. That very impressive single-story building on the bottom left is the Harconan mansion. That’s a helipad next to it, with the pontoon-equipped EC365 Eurocopter that Harconan uses as a personal executive shuttle.”

The pencil tapped another point on the screen. “This is a boathouse. Beyond a couple of utility launches, you’ve got a Magnum VI open ocean racing boat in there, a dope runner’s special. According to the builders in Florida, it’s equipped with a triple set of turbo-charged 454- cubic-inch Chevy engines and extended-range fuel tanks. It can walk away from just about anything afloat, even a Sea Fighter, and it has a five hundred-mile range at a ninety-knot cruise.”

“How about the other big building with the beach apron?” Amanda inquired.

“It’s what it looks like, a seaplane hangar for the Makara corporate aircraft, a Canadair CL215-T twin turboprop amphibian, again with extended-range tanks. It could take you anywhere from Cooktown to Shanghai without refueling.”

“Give this man two spare seconds and he could vanish off the face of the earth,” MacIntyre commented, leaning closer to the screen.

“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.”