Taman Werdi Budaya Art Center 1916 Hours, Zone Time: August 20, 2008

The Marine security detail had already thrown up a security perimeter around the hired cars. The contents of their briefcases were now revealed as FN P-90 personal defense weapons, an odd-looking but lethal Belgian-made crossbreed of bull pup assault rifle and submachine gun. The hired Balinese drivers had also been relieved of their keys and pointedly told to get lost. From this point on, no one who was not in a U.S. Navy uniform was going to be trusted.

Her own weapon drawn, Amanda hurried down the path to the parking lot. Even though they were a good eight miles from the harbor, she could hear the sound of distant explosions.

Stone Quillain was already overseeing the loading, an automatic in his right hand, a cellphone held to his ear with his left.

“What’s happening with the task force?” she demanded, hurrying to his side.

“They’re hitting us,” the Marine replied matter-of-factly, “but our guys were waiting for ’em. So far, so good. Captain Carberry’s casting off and hauling out.”

“Good. How about our people here?”

“All present and accounted for. Loading now.”

“Right! Pull in your sentries and let’s get to the pickup site. Is the point driver set to lead us out?”

“Corporal Smitson drove the route twice yesterday. He’s good to go. Mount up, Skipper, the admiral’s waiting on you.”

“Negative, I’m taking the trailer. I’ll see you at the rendezvous.”

Before Quillain could raise an objection, Amanda was sliding into the front seat of the last sedan in line. Having been designated the emergency recovery vehicle in the advent of trouble with any of the other cars, it carried only a Marine driver, its passenger load having been divided among the rest of the motorcade.

“Take off, Stone,” she yelled through the open window. “Expedite!”

• • •

From the shadows near the parking lot exit, Harconan watched the line of sedans swerve into the road and accelerate away with a chirping of tires. As he expected, he caught the sheen of red hair in the front seat of the last car. In this situation, her instinct would be to be the last one out, ensuring that all of her people were away and safe.

Harconan was already aware that his attack on the task force was a disaster. She had been waiting for him to strike at her ships. But perhaps the day was not totally lost. There was another prize to be taken, one she had left vulnerable.

Flipping his phone open, he called through to the team leader of his Nung special-forces unit, issuing specific instructions.

• • •

The liberty party’s evacuation route did not run south toward the Benoa Harbor area. That had been calculated as too obvious and too much of an invitation to an ambush. Instead it ran eastward, passing under the urban core of Denpasar to the resort area of Sanur Beach. There a Sea Fighter would be waiting to return the officer cadre to the big ships waiting offshore.

It was a solid plan that should take only a matter of minutes to execute.

“What’s the task force status, Stone?” MacIntyre demanded from the number-five car’s rear seat, which he shared with Christine and Tran.

“They had to wax a bunch of Boghammers, but they’re clear now, sir. Minimal damage,” Quillain reported, riding with his phone still to his ear.

“Captain Garrett was correct in her assessment,” Nguyen Tran commented. “Your actions are driving Harconan to adopt increasingly desperate measures.”

“That’ll sound a lot better when we’re back aboard ship,” Christine replied. She was twisted around in her seat, peering back through the rear window.

“Is she still back there?” MacIntyre demanded testily.

“Still hanging in, sir.”

The Toyota executed a dry-pavement skid as it snaked around a tight corner on the narrow two-lane. The motorcade was thundering through a semirural area with truck-garden patches and palm groves interspersed with the close-set houses and shops of roadside villages. They were still out of the coastal resort strip, and lights and other vehicles were few and far between.

MacIntyre looked over his shoulder into the glare of the trailing headlights. “Damn it, Stone, why’d you let her take the trail car? That wasn’t in the plan!”

“I know it, Admiral, and I wasn’t happy about it either. If somebody had just given me a four-grade bump to brigadier general, I woulda been happy to do something about it.”

“Then you should have called me, dammit!”

“Maybe so, sir. But we were kind of tight on time back there. Anyway, we’re comin’ up on Panjer village. Six more klicks and we got it beat.”

But they didn’t.

As they shot past a side road MacIntyre caught a glint of chrome from a blacked-out automobile. An instant later the headlights of Amanda’s car were occulted as the black car cut it off. The crash of crumpling steel was cut through by Christine’s scream.

“Brake!” Quillain roared, and the Toyota’s tires sobbed on the pot holed pavement. He caught up the P-90 and was rolling out of the passenger door before the sedan had reached a full stop.

“I’m coming with you,” MacIntyre yelled, starting to open his door as well.

“The hell you are, sir.” Quillain shouldered the door shut. He’d screwed up once tonight; he wasn’t doing it again. “Take off, O’Malley, and don’t you stop for anything, especially admirals!”

The sedan shot away, its tires smoking.

Standing six feet away, Nguyen Tran slid his Glock automatic out from under his evening jacket. “Will you permit me to assist you, Captain Quillain?”

Quillain wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand. “More’n that Mr. Tran, I’d appreciate you. Let’s go!”

Their car had halted a good hundred yards from the crash site and the two men separated, working up the road through the scrub cover on either shoulder. Their instinct was to race back, but their wisdom said that would only lead to disaster. There would be waiting guns covering their approach, and stealth was their only chance.

But stealth took time.

The scent of hot metal and steam told them they were close. The Toyota had center-punched a large and elderly Mercedes-Benz station wagon. There were no other vehicles immediately in sight, but less than a minute later a rattletrap farm truck appeared, coming in from behind the wrecks. The illumination of its single headlight revealed no activity at all around the crash site.

Stone bit the bullet and charged.

Nothing.

The Toyota’s air bags had worked, but the Marine driver was still sprawled behind the wheel, unconscious. The shattered driver’s side window and the bruise on the side of his head resembled rifle-butt work far more than it did a collision injury. As for Amanda Garrett, there was nothing except for her shoulder bag lying on the car floor.

“Elegantly done,” Tran commented. He returned his pistol to its holster and went to calm the startled driver of the farm truck and to arrange for a lift.

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