The word didn’t have to be passed when the priority data dump came in from NAVSPECFORCE HQ. In the face of the multiple layers of steel and sound insulation around the joint intelligence center, Christine Rendino’s piercing scream of joy and triumph echoed through the Carlson’s passageways.
Five minutes later, Admiral MacIntyre was in JIC, studying an image on the central bulkhead flatscreen. To him it resembled a rather bizarre example of extremely esoteric modern art: a series of oblong blobs of a puckered yellow-orange curving across a light-green background.
“All right, Chris. What am I looking at?”
“Oil slicks, sir. Trace oil slicks in the Banda Sea as seen from low earth orbit. These were part of a multispectral reflectivity sweep of Indonesia taken this morning by an NIA Keyhole reconsat.”
Obviously the image meant much more than that, because the little intel was on the verge of exploding. She was hugging herself, and tears glinted in the corners of her eyes. MacIntyre had never seen her grinning so before.
“And?” MacIntyre asked cautiously.
“And it’s a message, sir. A message addressed to us.”
Dubious, MacIntyre stared at the computer-enhanced blobs once more. “A message?”
“Yes, sir, a goddamn message! Jones, run the imaging correction program for wind and current drift.”
The systems operator did so, and the oblong blobs snapped into a straight line. Suddenly it leaped off the screen into Maclntyre’s face. “That’s Morse code!”
“Yes, sir, with the exact three-to-one unit and character spacings: dot dash, A, break, dash dash dot, G. A G, Amanda Garrett! She’s telling us where she is in a line of code fifteen miles long!”
“By God!” Maclntyre’s fist lifted with deliberation, smashing down on the seat back of the workstation he was standing behind. “By God! How did she manage that?”
“Amanda must have remembered how we back tracked the INDASAT Starcatcher to her sinking point by her trace oil slick. She must have banked on us doing another multispectral sweep of the archipelago.”
“What’s the position on this thing?”
“The more important question is, sir, is: What was its position when it was laid? Jonesy, give us the chart on the eastern Banda Sea on Display Two, then designate the time- and drift-adjusted coordinates of the slick.”
Christine continued excitedly, “The imaging center ran an analysis of the slick’s pattern of dispersal and distortion, applying the Banda Sea current patterns from our oceanographic database and the regional weather states for the past forty-eight hours. Their best estimate is that the slick was generated sometime yesterday evening at this position: northeast of the Kai Island group, in the western approaches to New Guinea, about a hundred and seventy-five miles off the coast. They figure it was produced by a surface craft with a rate of advance of about ten to twelve knots, maintaining a heading of east by northeast.”
“For how long, though?”
“A considerable distance, sir. Jonesy, back off imaging magnification by point five.”
The multispectral view snapped back to half its size in the center of the display. Beyond the code-patterned section of the slick, a long, continuous streak of oil continued. Drift-adjusted, it pointed dead on toward the underside of New Guinea’s Bomberai Peninsula.
“We were able to maintain the track to within eighty miles of the coast, sir, with no deviation in course or speed. We’ve always known New Guinea to be a prime potential site for the INDASAT hide, and this proves it out. That’s probably where they’re taking her right now.”
MacIntyre studied the time hack at the corner of the screen. “Yesterday evening. That means they’ve had more than enough time to reach the hide and go to ground.”
“But, Admiral,” the intel protested, “at least we now know that Amanda has to be somewhere on that stretch of coast!”
“All too true, Chris,” he replied, leaning on the seat back. “We know that she’s somewhere on the wildest, least-known, most dangerous stretch of coast on the entire planet.”