Target Lock

Flag Quarters, USS Carlson 1732 Hours, Zone Time: August 20, 2008

“We’ve had one major development since this afternoon’s O Group.” Clad in her pumps and going-ashore whites, Christine Rendino sat back on the flag office couch. “It seems that one of Mr. Harconan’s ships is missing.”

Standing beside the desk, Amanda Garrett looked up from the revolver she’d been checking. “Say again?”

“We can’t find one of the Harconan Seaways ships, anywhere,” Christine repeated insistently. “I ordered an assets inventory on the shipping line and we can’t get a fix on one of his coasters.”

“Which one, and how do you lose an entire ship?” Amanda spun the chambers, checking the five .38-caliber loads in the little weapon, then carefully pressed the cylinder closed. Once, on the firing range, she’d flipped the action shut like she’d seen done on television and Stone Quillain had almost taken her head off — something about distorting the cylinder crane. Amanda hadn’t seen fit to question his call on the matter.

“The Harconan Flores, and that’s what we’d like to know. She’s not listed in at any of the regional ports, and we can’t pick her up at sea with either the Oceansats or the Global Hawks. Either she’s done a Bermuda Triangle on us or our boy Makara is running a swifty.”

Amanda couldn’t stop the frown that tugged at her mouth at the mention of the taipan’s name, nor could she halt the burst of recent memories it released. Turning away from the intel to hide her expression, she slipped the handgun into the holster she’d had stitched inside her shoulder bag, verifying that the row of speedloaders were in their loops at its bottom.

The revolver in her bag and the automatic in Christine’s were only an aspect of the security she’d ordered for their last evening in Bali. If she could exercise her own preference, no one, especially the task force’s senior officers, would be leaving the ship tonight. But they had to maintain the pretense that this was still a routine goodwill port call, even though the enemy knew by now it was just a facade.

She wondered how he had taken it, the night after their day together. Had he reacted to her attack on his base with anger, or coldly, as if it were just another chess move in the game they were playing? Had it been enough of a slap in the face to draw him into an overt action against the task force? If it had been, he’d move tonight, before they sailed.

Amanda became aware of the voice behind her again. “Excuse me, Chris, what was that?”

“The Harconan Flores is a most interesting ship, Boss Ma’am,” Christine repeated patiently. Amanda could sense an intent blue-eyed gaze aimed at the back of her neck. “She’s an amphib, an ex-East German Frosche-class LSM, part of the same bulk buy as our old buddy the Sutanto. Harconan picked her up surplus a couple of years ago and had her refurbished for use as a small interisland RO/RO. Her beaching gear and bow ramp are still installed and operational, and I bet you and Harconan did it mare-and-stallion style a lot. He looks like the type.”

Amanda spun around, an angry, wordless exclamation bursting from her. Christine sat on the couch, legs crossed, chin supported by her palm, calmly daring her friend and commanding officer to deny the charge.

After a long second Amanda let her held breath escape in a sigh. Denying it in this company would be an act of futility. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, Chris, or maybe I did. I’m not sure myself.”

Christine shot a beseeching glance at the overhead. “I knew it. Pow! The baby seal bites it!”

“What?”

“Nothing, just something I said when Admiral MacIntyre and I were talking about this situation.”

“What!” Appalled, Amanda stared down at the intel. “You were discussing Makara and me with the admiral?”

“Just the potential, not the reality. Don’t have a cow, Amanda Lee: He wouldn’t have a clue about that Little-Nell-done-wrong haze you’ve been wandering around in since you got back from Palau Piri. In most ways Eddie Mac’s as big an innocent as you are.”

Amanda crossed the room and sank down on the couch. “Damn, damn, damn, Chris. I don’t know what to say other than it happened.”

“Well, you can start by sketching in all the really juicy details. It must have been fantastic!”

Amanda glared. “Chris, I slept with the enemy, dammit! I let him, or rather I let myself…”

The little blonde glared back. “Was it or was it not fantastic?”

Amanda groped for the correct words for explanation or self-condemnation and could find neither. “Yes, it was!”

“Good! You’re a classy lady, Boss Ma’am, and I figured that it would take somebody really, really special to make you feel like an idiot.”

Amanda found that she could not help but smile sheepishly. “Thanks, I think. In one way the whole experience was incredible. I don’t how to describe it beyond saying that after a while I just forgot who Makara was and why I was there. We were just two… lovers on this incredibly beautiful island. Chris, assessment, please: Is there any way conceivable that Harconan might not be our pirate king? Any possibility at all?”

Almost sadly, the intel shook her head. “An assessment of all intelligence collected to date indicates that Makara Harconan is our target subject. No valid alternatives have presented themselves. None, and I’ve been looking-hard.”

“Since when?”

“Since you fell a little bit in love with that swashbuckling pirate you’ve dreamed about since you were a little girl.”

“Oh, damn, Chris.” Amanda looked away.

“Can we quit doing Navy for a little bit, please?” Christine received a tight-throated nod in reply.

She slipped her arm around Amanda and rested her head on her shoulder. “It seems like it’s something we all do, you know?” she said softly. “Sooner or later we all meet that one really incredible guy who it’s really, really dumb to get involved with. And we do it anyway and we get all smashed up over it. Then, if we’re lucky, we get past it and go on. I had my turn in college and I thought I was going to die from it, but I didn’t.”

She rocked her friend slightly. “Because you’re such a total, straight edged square, it took longer for it to happen to you. That just makes it harder because you can’t pass it off as kid-stupid.”

She felt the soft fringe of Amanda’s hair as it brushed the side of her face and she shook her head. “No, I can’t pass it off, Chris. I made love with him and now I have to destroy him.”

“Yep, Boss Ma’am, you sure do.”

The rasp of the interphone startled them apart. Amanda straightened and rose to her feet, and Christine watched as she drew an almost visible shell of discipline and control about herself. Her voice was totally level as she picked up the handset.

“Garrett here…. All right, thank you. We’ll be right down. Captain Barberry, the Carlson is now lead ship and you have the watch. Set all A-class security protocols now. We will maintain until we clear port tomorrow. Guns hot. Lethal force is authorized. Good night, Captain.”

She returned the phone to its cradle. “Come along, Chris. Our coach awaits… and thank you.”

The causeway road was a concrete ribbon across Benoa Harbor, linking the ordered arrays of golden work arcs at the port island with the scattered constellations of the shoreside villages. Half a dozen sets of head lights flowed along it, heading inland, the motorcade carrying the task force officers into the island capital.

Precautions had been taken. Cellular communication was being maintained with the ships, a pistol rode under every jacket and in every shoulder bag, and a Marine security guard sat beside the Balinese driver of each of the rented Toyota sedans, an ominously heavy briefcase in his lap.

However, others had taken precautions as well. As the Navy motorcade cleared the causeway road, a second group of vehicles also in contact with a central headquarters and also carrying a heavily armed party of men began to maintain an expert alternating front and rear tail on the convoy.