Target Lock

Somewhere Aboard the USS Carlson Zone Time unknown: 2008

Hayam Mangkurat could not say if it was day or night, or how many days or nights might have passed since his capture. The bright electric light in the overhead burned continuously.

The Bugis prizemaster had seen neither the sun nor darkness since his capture aboard the Piskov. He had been moved from captivity on one ship to a second, he was certain of that. There had been the long helicopter flight, and this vessel rode the waves differently than the first.

He had been kept hooded throughout the transfer, and the gray steel walls of this cabin were all but identical to those of the other.

When Mangkurat had regained consciousness aboard the first vessel, he had sworn to himself by the Holy Name of God that he would not be broken. He was a Bugis sea raider, son of a hundred generations of sea raiders and a veteran of forty years’ voyaging. He would place his trust in Allah and keep faith with his clan and the sea king. Beyond his courage and will, he had the promise of the raja samudra himself. “Should you fall into the hands of our enemies, you will be remembered. Keep silent in all things and you will be freed.”

He had steeled himself for what was sure to come: the interrogation, the beating, the demands for information. His people had defied the Dutch, the Japanese, the Communists, the swaggering Javanese polisi. What could these American — at least, he believed they were American— bule do?

But what they did was nothing. His wounds had been treated with care, and he had been placed alone in that first metal room. The mattress on the bunk was comfortable. Sleep would have been easy were it not for the incessant glare of the light in the overhead. There was water to be had at the turn of a tap, and frequently food was brought. Bland fish and rice, but it was plentiful, brought three times a day… he thought.

He wasn’t sure. The timing of the meals never seemed to be the same. The food was never brought at the same time… he didn’t think. Some times he had to wait until his stomach growled. At other times the meals seemed only minutes apart. It was unsettling.

And the big men who brought the food. The men in the green uniforms who wore the black hoods that let only their eyes show. They never lifted a hand against him. They never threatened or questioned. They never spoke a word at all.

There were only the ship sounds. The padding footsteps beyond the locked steel door, the occasional squawk of a muffled voice over a loud speaker, and the whisper of the air in the ventilator ducts that began to sound like a woman’s whisper after a while.

And then they did come for him. Two of the green uniforms. They slipped the hood over his head and they guided him out of the narrow door, one on either side. Mangkurat thought for a moment about fighting, about making a break. But then the hands on his arms tightened as his guards read his mind.

A stumbling walk followed, up steep ladders and over shin-cracking hatch sills. Then the Bugis found himself forced down onto a low metal stool. The hood was whisked away, but Mangkurat saw only more blackness. He could not see his guards, but they were still there. Still close by.

Abruptly, dazzling white light exploded in his face, and Mangkurat’s muscles spasmed in fright. Frantically he tried to drag his cloak of stoicism back around himself. H was Bugis! He was not afraid! They could not break him!

“Siapa nama saudara?” What is your name?

For the first time in days — how many? — he heard a human voice. It came out of the impenetrable shadow beyond the light focused in his eye’s. A man’s voice, quiet and level, the tongue Bahasa Indonesia, spoken with the ease and fluidity of a native.

“What is your name?” the voice repeated.

And yet again, “What is your name?”

Mangkurat kept silent and braced himself for the blow that must lash out of the darkness, be it a fist, whip, or dub.

But the blow never fell.

“What is your name?”

“What is your name?”

“What is your name?”

A pause.

“Understand this,” the voice went on after a moment. “We already know what you are. You are Bugis. You are a pirate who sailed away one day to rob a ship and who never returned. No one knows what happened to you. Not your captain. Not your family. Not your village. Not even the raja samudra himself.”

Mangkurat struggled to keep his stoicism. They knew of the sea king. They must also know of his promise.

The voice continued quietly, hypnotically level. “No one knows where you are, so you are nowhere. You are a nonentity, a ghost, nothing. Tell us your name so you can be a man again.”

“What is your name?”

“What is your name?”

“What is your name?”

There was only the darkness and the light and the voice and hard edges of the stool biting into his buttocks.

That and the one question.

“What is your name?”

“What is your name?”

“What is your name?”

Slowly, Mangkurat’s folded legs began to go numb. Dryness crept down his throat and his eyes burned from the light. Even when he closed them, the glare seeped redly through his eyelids. And the question, hammering at him, becoming meaningless as time drew on.

“What is your name?”

His startled jump almost toppled Mangkurat to the deck. A second voice had asked the question, a woman’s voice, still speaking Indonesian, but with the sharp-edged inflections of a westerner.

“What is your name?”

“What is your name?”

“What is your name?”

The voice was new, different. He had to listen to it again! It had meaning once more!

“What is your name?”

“What is your name?”

“What is your name?”

How many times did the two voices switch off? Five times, ten, a dozen? Mangkurat lost the count. He lost track of everything but that one hammering demand.

“What is your name?”

“What is your name?”

“What is your name?”

Once Mangkurat tried to spring up. He strove to hurl himself beyond the light at that hateful, insistent, eternal query, but his legs buckled beneath him. The guards materialized out of the darkness, catching him by the arms and restraining him as he writhed and hoarsely screamed curses. They did not strike. They did not beat. They refused to offer even a scrap of pain to hold and treasure as a charm against the eternal, nagging question.

When Mangkurat went limp and silent in their grasp, they lowered him gently back down onto the stool. And never once did that voice change its timbre or rhythm or request.

“What is your name?”

“What is your name?”

“What is your name?”

He would not tell them.

“What is your name?”

His name was his soul. He would not give it away.

“What is your name?”

They would not steal his treasure.

“What is your name?”

He was Bugis! He was Mangkurat of the Bugis! He would not weaken.

“What is your name?”

He was Mangkurat.

“What is your name? ”

Mangkurat!

“What is your name?”

Mangkurat!

“What is your name?”

“Mangkurat.”

“Mangkurat… thank you, Mangkurat.”

Instantly they were upon him. They lifted him in their arms and the stool was kicked away. He was lowered into a chair, metal, but its smooth, cool contours soothed his cramped body like the finest silk. A cup was being held to his lips. Water! Icy sweet water! They let him drain the cup, and a second was offered.

He collapsed back in the chair, his ragged shirt sodden with sweat and spillage.

“Mangkurat,” the voice repeated from beyond the light.

How could they know his name now? He hadn’t told them. He hadn’t… he didn’t think. No, he had said nothing… nothing! They must have known all along. Fooling him. How many other secrets did they know?

“Now, Mangkurat,” the voice continued, “what is the name of your village?”

“What is the name of your village?”

“What is the name of your village?”