Target Lock

Makara Limited Corporate Headquarters, Bali 0012 Hours, Zone Time: August 16, 2008

Amanda Garrett loved to dance. Thus she established her command post on the tiled dance floor set up in the center of the Makara Limited forecourt. The position gave her a mobile overview of the entire reception area as well as an excellent cover for discreet conversation with members of the shore party.

Or at least the masculine ones.

As she fell in step with Elliot MacIntyre and felt his strong hand curve to her waist, she mused at the wisdom of combining pleasure with business.

“How are you finding the reception, Admiral?”

“Very illuminating,” he replied, guiding her slowly to the updated strains of an old Bobby Troop lounge piece. “Did you notice a certain chill when you spoke with our Indonesian Ambassador Goodyard?”

She shot a glance toward the ambassador’s table. “Unusual for the tropics, wasn’t it?”

“The word is that Goodyard has been seen glad-handing with our host.”

Amanda lifted an eyebrow. “In the pocket?”

“Not yet, but watch this space,” the admiral replied, steering them to the emptier corner of the floor. “Remember handshaking with Brigadier General Bradley Inger, our Indonesian defense attache? I attended the General Staff War College with him. I got Brad over to one side and we swapped scuttlebutt over a couple of drinks.

“According to him, Goodyard is your typical political appointee. He doesn’t have a clue about international affairs, and he’s scared to death he might actually have to do something out here.”

“And the Harconan connection?” A distracted corner of Amanda’s mind wondered at the delicacy of Maclntyre’s embrace. Damn it, it wasn’t as if she were going to break.

“Harconan has volunteered himself to serve as Goodyard’s sea daddy and font of local information. Harconan’s already had him out to Palau Piri a couple of times.”

Amanda frowned. “Interesting. Could the ambassador be in Harconan’s pocket already?”

“Brad doesn’t think so. Not in the monetary sense, anyway. Goodyard’s not an overt sellout. He’s just green and a sucker for a good line. It’s not going to be easy to convince him that Harconan’s the root of all evil.”

Amanda considered, moving automatically to the music and to MacIntyre’s guidance. “Hmm, it’s always good to know about potential broken reeds before you might have to lean on them. Do you think you could have the secretary of state whisper in Goodyard’s ear over this matter?”

The admiral shook his head, his chin lightly brushing her bangs. “I’d have to be able to give Harry something solid on Harconan first. This man is a major player down here. Telling tales on this gentleman without the absolute proof to back it up will not endear us to either the State Department or the Indonesian government.”

“I see. Catch-22 rides again. Was your friend able to give us anything else under the table?”

“Just that Makara Harconan seems to work very hard at being scrupulously honest, or at least in giving that appearance. He won’t even touch the routine business high jinks expected of your average Asian trader. Enough to make Brad suspicious of a ‘hole in the water’ scenario.”

“A smart bird doesn’t make a mess in his own nest. Do you have any other friends here, sir?”

“One other. Theoretically he’s an Australian trade attache attached to their consulate here in Bali. However, when I knew the gentleman up in the Gulf, he was commanding a squadron of their Special Air Service Regiment and talking about a career change to intelligence work. We shall see.”

The quintet completed the piece and the music trailed away, followed by a polite scattering of applause from the other dancers.

“Thank you for the dance.” He looked down at her, that surprising trace of boyishness showing again in his smile.

“My pleasure, sir.”

MacIntyre escorted her to the edge of the floor. There was a moment’s hesitation before he released her hand, then he was moving off toward a caucusing cluster of foreign-office types. Amanda followed him with her eyes. The embrace on the dance floor had not been… what it could have, but that last clasp of her hand had been firm and warm.

Smiling, she set that aside and looked to another of the surrounding tables, the one shared by Cobra Richardson and Stone Quillain and a growing accumulation of Bintang lager bottles.

Given the flailing hands of the aviator and the maps being fingertip sketched on the tablecloth by the Marine, a major assault landing was well under way.

She crossed to the developing battle. Both officers broke off the engagement and stood at the approach of a lady.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, nodding in greeting. “Stone, I find myself lacking a partner and we haven’t danced yet tonight.”

Good Lord, was it possible for a Marine to blush?

“Uh, no, ma’am, we haven’t. But then, I’m not much of a hand for slow dancing.”

Amanda extended her hand. “The proper response, Captain, is ‘I’m not acquainted with the evolution, ma’am, but I am prepared to learn.’ ”

If Eddie Mac had treated her like a spun-glass statue, her landing force commander taught her how to dance like a live land mine. “Begging the Captain’s pardon,” Quillain growled under his breath as he gingerly steered her across the floor, “but if she gets a busted foot out of this, it’s her own damn fault.”

“Understood, Stone. However, it is permissible to move that hand at least somewhat lower than my shoulder blade. Good grief, didn’t you even dance with your girl at your senior prom?”

“Why, sure. We did some fine line dancing in between the fistfights. It’s just I never danced with my CO before. Feels funny.”

“Let me guess. You wore your best Stetson with your rented tux?”

“Doesn’t ever’body?”

Amanda chuckled. “If they switch to country-western later in the evening, I know where to come. In the meantime you’re doing fine. Have you picked up anything interesting so far?”

“Words with the lieutenant commanding the embassy Marine security detail. He’s got a suspicion some of their Indonesian staffers might be taking home two paychecks. He’s not sure who’s signing the other one, though. It doesn’t seem to be one of the usual suspect governments, so our guys figure it may be a private party. That’d play with what we’re working on, wouldn’t it?”

“It certainly would. What about Chris and Tran?”

“They’re keepin’ it fluid,” the Marine replied. “They’ll buzz us on the pager net when they jump off. I’ve already got the exterior security mapped. Nothin’ we didn’t expect.”

Amanda glanced toward the headquarters building. “We can’t say the same about the inside yet. Are the emergency extraction protocols in place?”

“Oh, yeah. We got a real nice little terrorist bomb all set to go off if we need it. Out in the trees on the north end of the court. Just cover your face with that special hanky I issued you and head for the boat dock. I’ll see Miss Rendino and Mr. Tran get clear okay.”

“Uh, Stone,” Amanda asked cautiously, “you didn’t get too enthusiastic with the bomb, did you?”

She felt the rumble of laughter in Stone’s broad chest. “Oh, hell, no. Just a little old radio detonated flashbang in a Baggie full of CS teargas powder. Everybody likes a good cry now and again.”

“But not if we can avoid it.”

“That part’s out of our hands, ma’am.”

The dance came to its end, and Stone released her and stepped back with a degree of visible relief.

“Was it really that bad?” Amanda inquired archly.

“Purely the circumstances, ma’am.” He grinned down on her. “You come back to Georgia sometime. We’ll get us some decent music and this ol’ boy will show you some dancin’ that is dancin’!”

Amanda returned the grin. “Consider it a date, Captain.”

Letting the Marine return to face the amiable ridicule of his table mates, Amanda drifted along the edge of the dance floor, acquiring and pretending to sip from a glass of champagne. Unobtrusively she scanned for the golden sheen of Christine Rendino’s dress and hair. So far their counterforce operation against Harconan had worked quite well. Shortly, her intel would be executing the most audacious facet of the night’s game plan. The most risky as well.

Lost in that consideration, she was startled by the deep and resonant voice that spoke from behind her. “Good evening, Captain.”

Turning swiftly, she found herself face-to-face with the enemy.

“I’ve been remiss as a host,” Harconan continued soberly. “You are my guest of honor, and yet, I’ve been able to devote almost none of my time to you. l apologize.”

Amanda’s voice caught in her throat for a moment, then she continued smoothly. “No apologies are required Mr. Harconan. It’s a lovely evening and a wonderful welcome to this part of the world.”

“A gesture.” He shrugged. “I’ve noted you on the dance floor, availing yourself of our entertainment. I trust the music has been to your liking?”

“Excellent,” she replied. You may be a pirate, Makara Harconan, she added silently, but you do know how to throw a party.

“I’m pleased.” He held out his hand to her. “Then, shall we enjoy it together?”

The silent pager clipped to the inside of her skirt waistband vibrated a three-ring burst. Chris’s signal her op was starting.

Amanda smiled and set her glass down on a table. “I’d love to,” she replied, moving into Harconan’s arms.

With the action notification sent over the silent pager net, Christine Rendino tapped a second number into her phone. Keying the call into the local cellular system, she waited.

The call was picked up on the first ring. “Yes?” A guarded voice answered.

“Authenticator Victoria George,” Christine murmured. “Execute. T minus two. Duration five.”

“Acknowledged. T minus two. Duration five.” The connection broke.

Christine snapped the phone shut, tucking it away in her evening bag. Glancing up into Inspector Tran’s face, she stated. “I have a sudden overwhelming urge to go tinkle.”

“And when one has to go…” Tran deactivated the miniaturized “bug sniffer” he had used to ensure their concealing pocket of shadows had been free of security microphones. Together they started toward the courtyard entrance of the Makara Limited headquarters building.

Makara Limited was a decisively security-conscious firm. They had hired a major Singapore-based private security agency to wrap their operations in multiple layers of high-tech corporate defense. Literally the best money could buy shielded the Makara headquarters building.

But that was its vulnerability as well. What could be bought once could be bought again, and Christine and Tran were eager purchasers.

The “acquisition of cooperation” is an art form in Asia, and Christine Rendino and Nguyen Tran were artists each in their own medium. For Tran, it was in the deft use of his National Police identification card and the hinted-at power of the all-encompassing Singapore national government. For Christine, it was in the deft use of a smile and access to NAVSPECFORCE’s “special contingency” funds.

During the days before the Carlson’s departure from Singapore, they had mapped out the Makara security network, bit by bit and contractor by contractor.

Layer one would be building access. After business hours, all exterior doors in the climate-controlled building were locked and alarmed. Access was possible only through the use of both an employee’s computer-coded key card and clearance through the internal security station.

Oddly enough, the reception itself breached this first barrier. One simply could not ask the wife of the French ambassador to use a port-a-potty. The courtyard entry of the headquarters building had been left open to permit access to the ground floor rest rooms.

A stolid Nung Chinese security guard stood at parade rest next to the open courtyard doors. As Christine and Tran brushed past him, he nodded politely, then refocused his attention to the outside building approaches. What happened inside was someone else’s responsibility.

The entry lobby and the corridor beyond it were done in muted tans with framed batik panels intermittently adding flares of dramatic color. The indirect lighting had been toned down and their footfalls were silent on the fitted carpeting.

Directly ahead at the T intersection with the central building corridor, a small dark glass dome had been inset into the ceiling. Christine felt another set of eyes regarding her.

Harconan’s interior defense line would present a far greater obstacle. Low-light-capable security cameras, like the one at the intersection, monitored every hallway, stairwell, and public area. Every interior office door was alarm-locked and every office space blanketed by radar-type motion sensors.

Multiply redundant, with an independent power backup instantly available, this was no Hollywood movie security system that could be deactivated by the snipping of a few convenient wires.

Christine and Tran had concluded the system to be almost impenetrable by conventional means. Fortunately, they had far more than conventional means available to them.

Seven kilometers away, at Benoa Port, Commander Ken Hiro returned the cellular-linked interphone to its cradle. He’d passed on the reception tonight, preferring to personally oversee a different round of “festivities” from shipboard. Turning, he crossed the screen-lit dimness of the Cunningham’s hexagon-shaped Combat Information Center, passing from the radio shack, starboard side forward, to the electronic warfare bay, portside aft.

Beneath his rubber-soled shoes, the Duke’s deck trembled lightly. Down in the power rooms, one of the cruiser’s three massive turbine/electric generator sets was spooling up to feed the upcoming load demand.

In the EW bay, the systems operators looked up from their workstations with anticipation. Tonight was going to be an interesting challenge. They would be applying the awesome power of their electronic arsenal in a way not exactly intended, or ever before used.

“Links set with the Carlson?” Hiro inquired.

“Yes, sir, Carlson reports go and we have joint control through our boards.”

The LPD’s countermeasures arrays were fully as potent as the Cunningham’s, and both formidable systems had been harnessed in tandem through the joint-engagement matrix.

Hiro glanced at his wristwatch. “All right, ladies and gentlemen, the word is go in ninety seconds. Duration is still five minutes by the action plan. Heat ’em up.”

“Aye, aye, sir ”

The primary jammers came on line, the powerbars crawling up the display scales marked CLA-79 and LPD-26. The senior SO chuckled evilly. “Boy, the local couch potatoes are gonna hate our guts.”

Seated at the main console of the Makara headquarters security office, Chiang Long leaned back in his chair and yawned enormously, aiming yet another drowsy curse at his relief man.

Long’s proper guard shift was the treasured nine-to-five daytime, befitting his years of seniority within Makara Limited’s security division. But this afternoon, just short of the end of his shift he’d received a call from his division chief. The man supposed to cover the board during the five-to-one shift had called in unavailable. Somehow the idiot had gotten himself mugged and rolled, and now he was in hospital with a sprained shoulder. Long would have to cover the evening watch as well.

He didn’t object too strenuously to the overtime, but his wife was fixing unfried spring rolls and hokken mee noodles for dinner — his favorite. The packet of shrimp crisps from the lounge vending machine had been a poor substitute. Beyond that was the sheer boredom of night duty.

During the day, one could at least spy on the better-looking office ladies via the scanner cameras. After hours, there was nothing to watch but the empty hallways.

This evening, at least, there was the reception going on in the courtyard. That was outside of Long’s coverage sector: The special-team boys had that duty, the bastards. But at least the access corridor from the courtyard lobby to the rest rooms was open. The occasional low-cut evening gown made an interesting change from the usual heels and business suits on the day watch. Long had taken one of his six console monitors out of the rotational camera cycle and had left it permanently linked with the entry corridor camera. All in the interest of security, of course.

The courtyard lobby doors, the ones whose lock and alarm systems currently read DISENGAGED on the status boards, opened now, and a couple entered Long’s field of view. The man was only a man, one of the fat cats invited to the reception, but the woman was worth consideration.

She was Caucasian — a blonde, no less — maybe a little skinny for Long’s taste, but the tits were good. Reaching for the joystick of the camera scan override, he zoomed in on her for an inch-by-inch examination.

Hmmm, maybe not too skinny after all.

Long followed the couple down the entry hall to the rest room entries. They paused before the door to the women’s lounge, facing each other and conversing for a moment. Then, much to Long’s growing interest, the little blonde slipped her arms around the man’s neck and a most impressive kiss followed. As she came up on her toes, the pleasantly short skirt of her dress lifted until one could… almost… see…

Pah! The kiss ended and the skirt settled. Smiling, the blonde disappeared through the ladies’ lounge door, the one barrier in the building sacrosanct to Long’s hungry cameras.

Long yawned again and rubbed his gritty eyes. The show was over until she finished her business….

“Three… two… one… Jammers are active, sir.”

The task force’s electron warriors had spent all day consulting with stateside specialists in their field and modifying their systems for this attack. A waveform had been sculpted with the care of a Michelangelo, an intangible etheric sword designed to cut precisely across certain portions of the electromagnetic spectrum.

The ships’ planar arrays had also been aligned to blanket only the quadrant to the southeast. The island capital of Denpasar and its suburbs, as well as the Ngurah Rai Airport, would be uninvolved. “Brute force” electrical systems such as land-line telephone, lighting, and power would also be safe enough, as would most computer systems. “Frequency windows” had been carefully programmed into the strike that would leave processors and memory unaffected. Still, in an expanding cone-shaped zone engulfing Cape Benoa and the resort communities strung out along it, certain electronic devices convulsed.

When Long looked up again, all six of his camera monitors shimmered blankly in a cascade of snow.

Long sat erect, his boredom evaporating. As his eyes tracked across the console displays, the status board delivered another shock. Every motion sensor in the building had gone off simultaneously.

What in the hell…? He’d never seen anything like this before, even in the training programs. The hard-lock sensors hadn’t gone berserk, at least. All doors still read secure, as did the elevators, the safes, and the confidential hard-copy files.

But could he trust the readouts? What else might be going wrong?

Hastily, Long turned to the screen of the security office computer terminal, calling up the systems diagnostics display.

Green boards on both the television and the internal alarms. According to this damn thing, all systems were testing fully functional.

Long glanced uneasily at the red panic button, the one with the guard flipped down over it. A press on that would sound an alarm at the regional polisi headquarters, bringing outside assistance. But Long knew that his employers didn’t like outsiders, particularly from the local government, within the building — not unless there was a very good reason for it. That was why the manual man-break had been incorporated into the system. Indeed, that was why Long’s security cadre had been hired and brought in from Singapore. Best to keep things in the house until he had a grip on what was happening.

Long reached for the Motorola walkie-talkie plugged into its charger atop the console, intent on contacting the head of the outside security team. There was no response to his call, and when Long lifted his thumb from the transmit button, static sizzled angrily in his ear.

So, it was a problem from outside of the building. An electrical storm, perhaps, or some kind of sunspot interference like they’d had last year. A check of the landline phones showed they were still working.

Long glanced at the panic button again. If this was just some kind of natural phenomenon and he called in the police needlessly, he could be looking at empty corridors until his retirement. Likewise, his division chief enjoyed his sleep and didn’t appreciate unsubstantiated emergency calls. The smart move might be to just wait it out.

But what if it wasn’t some natural phenomenon?

Long stood up, loosening the Beretta automatic pistol in his shoulder holster. He was a capable security man and nobody’s fool. Before he did anything else, he would pull in a couple of the outside special force guards and have them institute an interior patrol. Then he’d see about sorting these systems out.

Donning his suit jacket, he deactivated the security office hard-lock alarms from the main console. Stepping to the entry, he released the dead bolt and swung open the heavy steel fire door. He started to make a visual sweep of the halflit central corridor beyond.

Before he could complete the move, something silver flicked from left to right across his field of vision, a polished coin that bounced down the beige carpeting.

Long couldn’t stop the instinctive turn of his head to follow the flash of movement. But then he froze entirely, feeling the circular coolness of a gun barrel pressing against the back of his neck.

“Continue turning, please,” a masculine voice said in flawless Straits Chinese. “All the way to your right. Raise your hands, then step forward, just three paces. Do not look back over your shoulder. It would not be wise.”

Karate-trained, Long tensed, readying to try for a spin, block, and strike. Before he could act, however, the gun barrel was withdrawn as his ambusher stepped back, denying Long his positioning mark. Whoever this man was, he was not an amateur.

Long completed his turn to the right and lifted his hands, taking the three steps down the corridor as ordered. The pistol was not removed from his shoulder holster; both Long and the man standing behind him knew it was an irrelevance at the moment.

The guard strained his ears, catching the hint of another footfall, a suggestion someone had just passed into the security office. Who else was here? What did they want and might it include his life?

“How is your family in China faring, Long?”

Those words snatched up the guard’s attention. What could this man know of his family? And how?

“Your elder brother in Singapore is working hard to get your mother out of China,” the voice continued evenly. “Your mother, your cousin and his wife, their children. Things are hard after a civil war has ravaged a nation. There is little work in Guangxi Zhuangzu region, where they live. Food is scarce, medicine is hard to come by…. Your grandmother is ailing, is she not, Long? I know both you and your brother have been trying to bring them to safety to Singapore. But getting the immigration permits is difficult… so difficult.”

Long felt a slight tug at the side of his coat.

“There is a card in your pocket, Long. It has a name on it, an official in the Ministry of Immigration. This official could be of great use to you in your quest to bring your family to safety and prosperity. There is also a date and a time for an appointment with this official. He has your brother’s name and will be expecting him. Truly, this may be your best chance for obtaining the permits you require. It would be such a pity if an… untoward incident should lead to the cancellation of this appointment and the loss of this opportunity….”

Inside the security office Christine Rendino, skintight rubber gloves drawn on over her hands, slipped into the still-warm chair behind the systems console.

This was the last line of defense to overcome: the cybernetic guards overwatching the Makara Limited internal computer network. Here, too, no expense had been spared. Christine had greased copies of Makara Limited’s purchasing orders from a junior clerk in the office of their corporate software provider. Specifically the ones involving computer security.

Even she was impressed. There would be no easy way to batter past the firewalls and virus screens erected around Makara Limited’s secrets. Nor, once inside, would there be any way to quickly and easily find a way through the maze of in-company encryption barricades that had been deployed.

Even the physical use of a Makara network terminal required both a company key card and a personal access code recognized by the system… unless, of course, one could get access to an already active terminal, such as this one in the security office.

Leaning in over the keyboard, Christine made no effort to penetrate deeper into the network. There was no time and far too many chances of tripping an internal watchdog program. Instead, she called up the Internet provider used by Makara Limited, typing in the Web address of Sony Business Security Systems Division.

From the main menu, she windowed up the USER TROUBLESHOOTING Web page. She went to the STATE PROBLEM window and typed in a memorized eight-digit code.

A FILE READY TO DOWNLOAD prompt appeared on her screen and she moused over and double-tapped, initiating it.

That was the interesting thing about computer firewalls: They were one-dimensional, keeping intruders out. However, as with a vampire, if something was invited in, all bets were off.

The programmers at Sony Security would not have recognized the link Christine had just keyed off of their Web site. They had not incorporated it into their system. It had not even existed twenty minutes before, and after this single use, it would disappear as rapidly as it had materialized, leaving no trace of its brief presence. All involved security and provider logs would register only a routine information request to a reputable host within proper business-use parameters.

Likewise, the Makara antivirus screens would not recognize the sophisticated espionage program caging itself over their operating systems. Until further notice, the combat hackers at NAVSPECFORCE’s computer warfare center in San Diego would have an open back door into the Makara business net.

Minutes crept past, a small eternity of them. Chiang Long heard nothing more from behind him; no more words, no more traces of sound. His jaw knotted, the tension within building. Long didn’t consciously plan and trigger the move; his muscles simply exploded, hurling him to the far side of the corridor, spinning him around, snapping his hand to the butt of his pistol.

There was no one. The half-lit hallway was empty, the door to the security office gaping open.

With gun in hand, Long peered around the doorframe. An almost eerie sense of normalcy reigned in the security office. The motion-sensor board had reset and now glowed an unperturbed green. The television monitors cycled placidly through their interior views of an empty building. The set monitor covering the entry hallway showed the blonde of Long’s prior lustful focus emerging from the ladies’ lounge to take the arm of her escort.

It was if nothing had happened. Long might pass it all off as some freak of imagination… if he wished.

His hand dipped into his jacket pocket. A business card with the name of a Singapore Ministry of Immigration official, one higher up the ladder than his brother had ever been able to reach, with a date and time written on its back. This at least was real… if he wanted it to be.

Long closed the security office door, carefully securing the dead bolt.

Back in their shadowy corner of the courtyard, Christine palmed her cellular phone. Flipping it open, she verified that the unit was accessing service, a verification that the electronic barrage from the Cunningham was over. Over the sound of the dance music the distant metallic hee-haw of police sirens could be heard, a polisi patrol unit futilely responding to tripped burglar alarms elsewhere along the cape.

Tran chuckled softly. “I fear we’ve created a lot of paperwork for the local law enforcement.”

“Fa’ sure.” Christine returned the phone to her bag. Exchanging it for Kleenex, she reached up and lightly dabbed a smudge of lipstick from Tran’s mouth. “Excuse my familiarity, Inspector,” she said, grinning, “but I thought we should put on a decent show for our friend Mr. Camera back there.”

“Indeed, Commander.” Tran’s words were sober, but his grin matched the intel’s, his hands coming up to rest on her slim shoulders. “A good police officer must be prepared to make sacrifices for the cause.”

“Oh, very true, Inspector. Since nobody’s shooting at us or sounding a hue and cry, I’d guess everything went pretty well, including our buy off of Harconan’s security man. Do you think your little gift will hold him?”

“It is difficult to say. The Nung Chinese have a centuries-old tradition of serving as loyal retainers and bodyguards. Your own military used them as such in my former homeland. But there is one thing a Nung or any other Chinese values even over a word given to an employer.”

“Family?”

“Precisely. My contact at our Ministry of Immigration says that our guard is having certain difficulties in this area. Hopefully the coin I’ve offered him will be adequate to buy his silence.”

“In that case,” Christine said, “I can only see one small factor that I overlooked.”

“And what’s that?”

“Now I really do have to go to the bathroom.”

They shared the laugh and Christine lifted onto her toes once more and the intel and the inspector shared a second kiss, this one on their own time.

They separated, and a satisfied sigh later, Tran glanced across at the dance floor. “Look, it appears as if progress is being made elsewhere.”

Amanda Garrett still danced with Makara Harconan.

Amanda recalled a line from an old movie. Something about “Have you ever danced with the Devil in the pale moonlight?”

It was a novel sensation.

Likewise novel were the subtle differences between dancing with Makara Harconan and with one of her fellow officers. Certain intangible barriers born out of rank and professionalism did not exist. When this man held her, he might see her as an enemy but also as a woman. That she could recognize. There was no fear of the impropriety of his drawing her closer or shifting a hand with the hint of a caress.

There was a sensation of nakedness involved, of being stripped of layers of defense. Yet, as she moved in easy rhythm with the tall Eurasian, Amanda found this vulnerability only enhancing her own defiance. If one was going to dance with the Devil, one might as well savor the experience.

“Thank you again, Captain,” Harconan said as the music concluded. “Would you care to sit out this next set with a drink?”

“I’d like that.”

Amanda allowed herself to be guided to Harconan’s personal table, noting that they would be alone save for the waiter already standing by.

Around Makara Harconan, things didn’t have to be asked or called for: They seemed to simply happen effortlessly. Nothing ever just “happened,” of course. Deft organizational skills were at play here, as well as a meticulous attention to the smallest detail.

This was something to remember. A warrior often fought as he lived. She wondered what her own actions might reveal to Harconan.

The taipan held her chair, then took the seat across from her. Without a word being spoken, the waiter set a tall tulip glass at her place. Thanking him, she reached for it, then froze, her fingers not quite touching the glass.

It was a sherry and soda, her favored cocktail beverage, a fact she had mentioned to no one at the reception.

Harconan watched from across the snowy tablecloth, smiling slightly.

She broke her hesitation and took up the glass. “And thank you.”

She sipped. Yes, it was even her favorite brand of sherry. She admired the intelligence-gathering.

“My pleasure, Captain, and my honor.” Harconan took up his own drink, mineral water with lemon. Religion or strategy? Amanda wondered. Had he adopted the Islamic ways of the Bugis, or did he simply desire a clear head at all times? The taipan’s personal beliefs were something on which even Inspector Tran had no insight.

“When I learned you were coming to the archipelago,” he continued, “I knew I wanted you as my guest. You are a most remarkable individual.”

Amanda chuckled. “Why would you say that?”

It was Harconan’s turn to chuckle. “Would you deny your record of rather extraordinary accomplishments?”

Amanda frowned in thought. “Yes and no. I’ve been fortunate to command some excellent crews, and not so fortunate in that I’ve had to take them into harm’s way on occasion to serve my nation’s interests. Any number of other officers within my service could have done as well. Honor goes to the personnel I lead. As for myself, I am most extraordinarily average!”

Harconan laughed aloud this time, a genuine laugh, his even white teeth flashing. “Captain Garrett, we both know your charming humility is a polite fiction. You are a most unique woman, and we are both fully aware of that fact.”

Amanda couldn’t keep from smiling in response or lifting her head in challenge. “Why? Because I’m a woman and a naval officer? There’s nothing particularly remarkable about that anymore.”

“Agreed on that point,” he replied. “However, it is inconceivable that you could have ever become anything else.”

“How so?” Amanda inquired. This scenario was an intriguing one, as was the man. In her career she’d faced off against a number of strong and dynamic male opponents, but always across a battle theater, and never like this: eyes meeting across a table.

“There are many reasons,” Harconan continued. “For one, you are a warrior’s child, born of a line of warriors. The warrior’s flame burns true through the generations. Your father, Admiral Wilson Garrett, had no grown son to whom he could pass the spark, so it passed into your hands.”

Amanda felt her brows rise. Just how much did this man know about her?

Harconan touched the rim of his glass to his lips and answered her unspoken question. “Yet again: You are a sailor born of a line of sailors. You look to the sea to earn your living and to find your life’s duty. You also look to the sea for your pleasure. You scuba dive, you fish, you own a cruising sloop, and you’ve competed in offshore powerboat races.”

His voice softened, growing level, almost hypnotic. “You have never lived more than two miles away from the ocean in your life. You never will. You are physically and psychologically incapable of doing so. You would suffocate like a fish cast out on the land. The sea is in your blood. More than that, it is your blood.”

He leaned back in his chair. “This is something I can understand. I am this way myself.”

“You know a great deal about me.” Amanda said slowly. “What have I done to warrant this attention?”

Harconan shrugged. “You interest me, Captain, and I learn about things that interest me.”

“Apparently.” She was almost afraid to ask the next question, but she couldn’t not ask it. “What else have you learned?”

“One further critical factor: You command.”

“An aspect of my profession, Mr. Harconan.”

“Wrong!”

He put just enough sharpness into the word to startle her. He lifted a hand and aimed a finger at her heart. “You command as kismet demands that you command. Your profession merely takes advantage of the fact. Command is as much a part of you as the fire and the water. You are, by nature and by destiny, meant to rule and lead in the same way as the majority are meant to obey and follow.”

His voice softened to that hypnotic evenness again. “In the world where democracy is the current fad, that leaves you with either the military or commerce for your empire-building. By fastidious instinct, you dislike the miry waters of moneymaking, so you chose the clean cutting blade of the military. Save for one other potential, you have no other choice.”

Amanda noticed for the first time that Harconan had the eyes of his father’s people. They were dark gray and penetrating, and the way he used them on her put a wary but stimulating tingle down her spine. Damn, damn, damn, but she found she had to make one more pass closer to the flame.

“Interesting. I’ve never had my life assessed in quite that way before, Mr. Harconan. What’s the other potential career choice you believe I have?”

Harconan smile deepened.

“Queen,” he replied, and lifted his glass to her in salute.

“A port visit to Jakarta might have served us a little better, Admiral. Showing the flag at the real seat of power, you understand. But I can’t blame you for wanting a shore leave on Bali,” Ambassador Goodyard added with a forced attempt at humor.

“I’m sure our port call here will prove to be very productive, Mr. Ambassador.” More so than this conversation, at any rate, MacIntyre added silently. “Following our layover here, we intend to conduct some further training in these waters. We’ll give the Indonesians a good look at us.”

He and the ambassador were sharing a table for the mandatory protocol drink. It had come late in the game. The reception was on its down slope, with the first guests taking their departure.

The task force’s officers were rapidly approaching their own extraction time. They had come, they had seen, and if they had yet to conquer, they had at least conducted a successful probe into enemy territory.

Christine Rendino had given him the high sign about the successful insertion of the invader program into the Makara net. Even now, the combat hackers at cyberwar should be ravaging their way through Harconan’s business files for useful and incriminating intelligence. What the end result would be, only time would tell.

Likewise with Amanda’s psywar assault on Harconan. Would their applied pressure flush him out of his successful businessman persona into a more overtly confrontational mode? Again, time would tell.

MacIntyre glanced across the dance floor again. Amanda was still seated at Harconan’s table. She’d spent a great deal of her time during the latter half of the reception there or on the dance floor with the man.

If they’d shaken him with their challenging arrival, he’d recovered well. The taipan had proven to be the most charming of hosts. Could this be an indication that the suave son of a bitch was rising to the dare? Or did it mean they’d missed the call and he wasn’t their pirate king after all?

The admiral tasted the ice-weakened rye whiskey in his glass and scowled to himself. No. As Christine would put it, there must be “bad vibes” radiating off Harconan at an instinctive level. Why else would it put his teeth so on edge to see Amanda close to the man?

“… Admiral?”

MacIntyre snapped back into himself. “Excuse me, Ambassador, I was distracted for a moment. What were you saying?”

“The Indonesian naval ministry is very interested in your, ah, Sea Fighter task force,” Goodyard repeated. “They seem to think there’s a good deal they could learn from your people in relation to — what do you call it? — littoral warfare. As an aspect of your goodwill cruise, they’ve formally requested a number of their naval officers be allowed to come aboard your vessels as observers during your stay in Indonesian waters. I thought I’d run the idea past you before kicking it upstairs. I think it’s an excellent notion myself, both for them and for us.”

MacIntyre set his glass on the tabletop. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ambassador, but we’ll have to say no. Here in port, we’ll be glad to have Indonesian military personnel tour our vessels and we’ll be glad to make briefing officers available to the Ankatan Laut to discuss littoral doctrine. However, taking foreign observers aboard the task force at this time will be quite impossible.”

The diplomat frowned, his voice growing pointed. “Admiral Lukisan at the naval ministry has indicated a strong interest in this particular matter. He seems to feel the observers would promote… positive relations between your services and our governments. I must agree. The admiral also informed me that one misunderstanding has already taken place between elements of the Indonesian navy and your ships. We don’t really need any more of them. Onboard liaison officers would help in ensuring we would have no further such incidents.”

MacIntyre nodded. “I agree, Mr. Ambassador, on that one point. We don’t need any further conflicts with the Indonesians. That’s why I would suggest you advise Admiral Lukisan to withdraw the warship of his command that has been shadowing my task force. Either that, or have him instruct his shadower’s commander to stand off at a prudent distance in the future.

“As for onboard observers, as I have stated, that’s impossible due to national security concerns involving certain systems and procedures being tested by the Sea Fighter task force at this time. The matter is closed. Please give my apologies to the naval ministry.”

Goodyard’s eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. Since his appointment to ambassadorship, he had grown unaccustomed to being spoken to with such decisiveness.

“Let’s put our cards on the table, Admiral,” he challenged. “Why are you really here? Is this, in fact, just a goodwill mission or is something else going on? Dammit, this is my territory! I have a right to know and I have a right to know the truth!”

MacIntyre suppressed a snort. By the great Lord Harry, this man was a tyro, and one who obviously hadn’t been listening during the lecture series on basic State Department security. The admiral didn’t care whose campaign this man had done favors for, he should have been left in the Midwest, kissing babies.

“Mr. Ambassador, I will be pleased to show you the orders, issued to NAVSPECFORCE by the chief of Naval Operations, instructing the deployment of the Sea Fighter task force to the Indonesian archipelago on a goodwill cruise in support of our relations with the Jakarta government. Beyond that, sir, I can only suggest that you refer to the CNO or the Secretary of State. They may have some information on this matter not available to this command.”

“As you say, Admiral.” Goodyard stood abruptly. “I may very well do just that, concerning both this matter and others. In the meantime, I do not want to hear of any further incidents or provocations taking place be tween your task force and the Indonesians while you are in my zone of responsibility.”

The corner of MacIntyre’s mouth quirked as he rose to bid Goodyard farewell. “Understood, Mr. Ambassador. I give you my personal assurance. You aren’t going to hear another word.”

Raider Two pulled away from the Makara Limited pier float. Lifting onto plane, it ran northward past the glittering lights of the resorts, bearing home the same party it had carried ashore hours before.

“As we had hoped, it was a most interesting evening,” Tran commented.

MacIntyre gave an acknowledging grunt over the rumble and hiss of the diesel propulsors.

“I’d say so,” Amanda commented, drawing herself in against the cooling slipstream that flowed around the cockpit control station. “I’d say very much so.”

“What do you mean, Boss Ma’am?” In the darkness of the cockpit, Amanda didn’t notice the intent way in which Christine stared at her.

“We don’t know what cyberwar may pick up from your probe yet, Chris. And we didn’t pick up on anything overt beyond Harconan having all of the appropriate connections and trappings of power. But I did learn something that convinces me that Inspector Tran, here, has us on the right track about Harconan.”

“Which is…?” MacIntyre murmured.

“The man is capable of doing what the inspector says he is. That’s not saying that he’s doing it, but he has the personal capability to be our pirate king.”

“Where do you get that assessment, Captain?” MacIntyre asked stiffly.

“A combination of gut instinct, intuition, and personal experience, sir. I’ve been in the service long enough to recognize a born leader, the genuine article, when I see one. Harconan has the charisma and dynamism — the mystique, if you will — to draw followers and control situations. He also has the intelligence to effectively use this potential as a tool. Obviously he has used this talent to become an effective force in the business world. Just as easily, he could use it to become a national leader or a military commander. Remember General Belewa, Chris? He had the same touch.”

“And our old buddy Sparza in South America,” the intel agreed. “Harconan is not only the man on the white horse, but he was born in the saddle. Yeah, I agree. If that’s where his head is, he could do it. I could feel it too.”

“Feelings are all well and good,” MacIntyre growled. “But we’re going to need a hell of a lot more than that to bring this man down. We need hard evidence linking Harconan to the pirate operations, and still, all we have is rumor. We need to find that damned industrial satellite and a way to connect Harconan to its theft. That’s the only way we’re ever going to justify direct U.S. action against him.”

“We’ll have a couple of shots at it tomorrow, sir,” Christine replied. “Cyberwar should start to produce on his computer net, and the microforce is going to recon the pirate base on Sulawesi.”

“We’ll get a third shot as well, Chris,” Amanda said, letting a hint of rueful amusement creep into her voice. “How fast do you think you could train me into being an effective Mata Hari?”

She felt Admiral MacIntyre twist abruptly on the bench seat beside her. “What in all hell are you talking about, Amanda?”

“Just that Makara Harconan extended me a personal invitation to visit his private island tomorrow. I accepted.”