Target Lock

Taman Werdi Budaya Art Center 1910 Hours, Zone Time: August 20, 2008

Makara Harconan shot a careful glance down at his wristwatch. Soon… it would be soon. Seeking divertissement to keep himself relaxed, he returned his attention to the stage and the performance.

In honor of the guests from the task force and the accompanying government officialdom, the current resident troop at the center was performing the Legong, the most difficult and dazzling of the Balinese women’s dances. Glittering costumes of silken brocade and gold leaf blazed on the stage as the youthful performers spun the tale of the beautiful kidnapped princess Rangkesari and her evil and arrogant suitor, the king of Lasem.

Even after a life lived in the archipelago and a hundred performances seen, Harconan could still lose himself in the elegance and perfection of the Balinese dance and the discordant yet flowing percussion of the gamelan orchestra. The woman beside him was totally enthralled.

Amanda Garrett leaned forward, eyes wide and intent, catching every gesture, every nuance. As a dancer in her own right, she must appreciate even more than the average patron the skills and training involved in developing this precision.

“God, I wish I could learn some of this,” she whispered, never shifting her eyes from the stage.

“For the Legong, I fear it is too late,” he replied under his breath, studying the fine line of her jaw and undercurl of her hair beneath it. “A Legong dancer begins her training when she is five and must retire with her first menstruation.”

Amanda made a slight face. “I’m an inch too tall to be a ballerina, too.”

“There is training you could take in other schools of the dance,” Harconan encouraged. “It could be arranged with the proper instructor. It would take time — two years at a minimum.”

“That would be nice, but the Navy doesn’t provide for dance training sabbaticals.”

“You aren’t going to be in your Navy forever, Amanda.”

“That’s true,” she answered absently, “but by the time I retire, I’ll be too old for anything more demanding than a foxtrot.”

A court-martial for losing your command could expedite that retirement, Harconan added silently. But would that be something she could ever forgive him for?

He sneaked another look at his watch. Two minutes more to the jump-off.

Abruptly, Amanda sat erect in her seat. Her hand darted into the bag at her side, drawing a cellular phone. Harconan realized that she must have received a prompt from a silent pager concealed somewhere on her person. He had to suppress the urge to slap the phone from her hand.

“This is Garrett.” She held the phone tightly against her ear, her hand cupped around the mouthpiece to seal in her words and seal out the sound of the orchestra. And then she was looking at him, every hint of the dreaming dancer stricken from her face. Those molten gold eyes narrowing in rage like a mother whose child has been threatened.

“Execute immediate departure! Extraction Bravo!” Her voice lifted. “Get those ships out of there now!” She was on her feet, lifting her voice again, yelling over the orchestra. “Sea Fighters! Back to the task force! Move!”

The Gamelan musicians stalled and the dancers hesitated. Around the amphitheater white-uniformed naval officers and blue-jacketed Marines were hastening from their seats to the exits.

What the hell had happened? Had his people launched the attack early, or had they been spotted? Harconan had known the Americans would be alert, but he’d hoped for a few minutes of surprise or confusion. She must have been holding them coiled and poised to counterstrike like an angry cobra.

As she had been holding herself. Her face was cold and her eyes unreadable, her hand in her shoulder bag again as she stared down at him. “Call them off, Makara,” she commanded. “For their sake, call them off!”

Then she was gone and the amphitheater was a mass of milling confusion. By the time Harconan could reach an area secure enough for him to use his own cellular, it was too late.