Target Lock

Approaches to the Anchorage at Adat Tanjung Island of Sulawesi 2241 Hours, Zone Time: August 16, 2008

Twin shadows ran in echelon formation through the night, not with the shriek of turbines and the billowing spray of lift fans, but with the all but inaudible mutter of silenced auxiliary diesels and the lap of waves against displacing hulls.

The Queen of the West and her sister craft, the Manassas, crept in toward the river estuary that served Adat Tanjung as a harbor. The ECM threat boards had sensed no trace of radar, and the only stealth ranges the Sea Fighters needed to be concerned with were the ancient ones of sight and sound.

At the “shoulders” of each broad hull, just aft and to either side of the cockpit, weapons pedestals elevated into firing position, rocket pods and twin-barreled 30mm autocannon locking into place and panning across the darkness. The snub barrels of OCSW grenade launchers supplemented the primary armament, peering from the open side hatches.

Normally, a third grenade launcher would have been mounted aft, to fire out the opened tailgate. On this night however, a small team of SOC Marines made use of that space to inflate and equip their small CRRC (Combat Rubber Raiding Craft).

With the hull hatches open, the Queen’s air conditioners couldn’t cope with the inrush of steaming warm night air. Sweat prickled under interceptor vests and Kevlar K-Pot combat helmets. Steamer Lane bounced his attention between the graphics chart of the estuary on his Navicom display and what was visible through the windscreen via his night-vision visor.

“Okay,” he commented, “that’s the western point. We get around that and we should see the village on the eastern bank of the river mouth.”

“Uh-huh.” Scrounger Caitlin looked up from the console screen she was using to access the more powerful low-light television camera in the Mast-Mounted Sighting System. “Better keep us at least two klicks off the point, sir. I’m seeing some fish traps and some small-boat activity off the beach. Locals night fishing, I guess.”

“Will do. How about that coaster passing astern of us?”

The sensor pod atop the snub mast swiveled around to peer aft.

“Almost over the horizon, sir. No longer a factor.”

“Good enough.” Lane chuckled softly. “I can see a real nice break over the bar across that river mouth. You know, if you had a strong southerly wind building out here, you could probably catch a wave on that bar and ride it a good mile up the bay.”

“Begging the Commander’s pardon, but I don’t think my guys and I want to try that tonight.”

It was a try at levity from the young Marine officer riding the cock pit passenger seat. It didn’t quite come off. Tonight would be the first hot mission for Second Lieutenant Lincoln Ives, USMC (SOC).

Steamer Lane and Scrounger Caitlin knew the feeling and empathized. They had been there themselves. It wouldn’t really help Ives to explain that the knotting gut and dry mouth would always be there. Experience just allowed you to hide the symptoms better.

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” Caitlin called back over her shoulder. “It’s going to be a cakewalk, you’ll see.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Chief,” Ives replied wryly.

“Vote nothing, sir, a statement of fact. I know tonight’s run is going to be good for you.”

Ives looked up from adjusting his MOLLE harness for the tenth time. “You know? What do you mean?”

“Just that. I know. I got the Touch, sir.”

“The Touch…” the Marine’s voice trailed off. He’d heard the stories. Every combat hand does sooner or later. The military urban legends about certain individuals who seem to have the ability to sense the future, specifically concerning fate, life, and death, warriors who have accurately predicted the loss in combat of others or themselves. Ives had always tossed off such stories as just that, stories. They couldn’t be true, no matter how matter of factly the Queen’s chief of the boat spoke. Could they?

“Believe her, Lieutenant,” Steamer Lane said quietly. “This is a genuine no-shiner. If the Scrounge says you’re going to be okay, you are.”

At that moment Lincoln Ives had wanted nothing more in the world than for someone to say, “Hey, it’s going to be all right,” with enough conviction to make him believe it.

“If you say so, Commander.” He grinned. “Thanks for the word, Chief. I’ll pass it along.”

There was a thump and scuff from overhead, and Ensign Wilder slid down through the open hatch in the cockpit overhead. “Cipher drone tie-downs are cleared for launch, sir,” he reported, sliding into the navigator’s seat.

“Good enough, Terr. Get us a status update from the Manassas and then let the Carlson know we’re on station and ready to open the ball.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“I’d better check on how my guys are coming down in the main hull.” Ives levered himself out of the jump seat and started down the cockpit ladderway.

Lane let him drop out of sight before glancing over at his copilot. Steamer would no more doubt Sandra Caitlin’s gift than he would one of the Queen’s instrument readouts. After “the Touch” had foretold the deaths of some people very close to them both, he and Caitlin had spent many long nights considering the complex morality involved in such a power.

“So was that a square count on tonight’s run?” he asked.

She returned his gaze and gave an ominous shrug.