Target Lock

Flag Plot, USS Evans F. Carlson 2253 Hours, Zone Time: August 24, 2008

MacIntyre leaned forward at the communications console and spoke into the microphone grill at the base of the videophone link. “Admiral Elliot MacIntyre, authenticator Ironfist November zero two one. Ready to receive call.”

Truth be told, he wasn’t. He wouldn’t be for perhaps another twelve hours. But one didn’t simply wave away a direct communication from the United States Secretary of State, not even if he was a friend.

The screen before him filled with the Milstar-linked image of Secretary of State Harrison Van Lynden, set against the backdrop of his private office at the State Department.

“Hello, Harry,” MacIntyre said levelly.

“Eddie Mac, what the hell’s going on out there?”

“A great deal, Mr. Secretary.”

“That’s readily apparent. What the world and the National Command Authority wants to know is, what? The Indonesians are yelling their heads off about a major firefight in Benoa Harbor. CNN camera crews seem to be backing that up. We have reports of many unidentified Indonesian casualties and rumors of missing U.S. personnel. What we aren’t receiving is input from NAVSPECFORCE. You’ve practically been running EMCON, Eddie Mac. What’s going on?”

MacIntyre sat back in his chair, aware of the other figures standing around him in the dimness of the flag plot. “Mr. Secretary, as stated in my preliminary report to the CNO, the task force came under attack by a heavily armed force believed to be an Indonesian pirate raiding party. Our ship’s personnel defended themselves and an emergency sortie from Benoa Port was conducted. At this time the task force has withdrawn to the Flores Sea south of the island of Sulawesi and an assessment of the situation is under way.”

“That’s exactly what I want, Eddie Mac, an assessment of the situation. I’m expected in the Oval Office in forty-five minutes and President Childress wants a nuts-and-bolts update. All I’m getting out of your headquarters are rewritten versions of this initial report. I want the whole story, Admiral, now, and do not even begin to bullshit me!”

“Mr. Secretary, what you have is essentially what we have. We’ve been successful in pushing the Indonesian piracy cartel into a corner, and they’ve pushed back — hard. The ships are intact and operational, we have taken casualties, two dead and five wounded, also as stated in our incident report.” MacIntyre took a deliberate breath. “However, there is an additional factor.”

“Do we have a hostage situation, Eddie Mac?”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary, we do. My task force commander, Captain Amanda Garrett, is in the hands of the cartel at this time.”

“Ah, Christ!” Van Lynden grimaced. “That is all we need. How in the hell did this happen, Eddie Mac?”

“They had good luck, we had bad, Mr. Secretary.”

“Can you confirm if she is alive?”

MacIntyre smiled frostily into the screen. “Yes sir. We can. We can not only confirm that she is alive, Mr. Secretary, but she has given us her location, the location of the hijacked INDASAT, and the location of the primary pirate base.”

In spite of the situation, Van Lynden laughed softly. “I should have known, I should have known. All right, Eddie Mac, what do you propose we do about this?”

“Mr. Secretary, we are working the problem at this time.”

“I understand that, Admiral, but I want a preliminary briefing I can run past the President, just to get him ready for what you have planned.”

“Mr. Secretary,” MacIntyre said, emphasizing his doublespeak carefully, “we are working the problem at this time. May I have a few additional hours to prepare a full situational update for the National Command Authority? I feel we will be able to present the President with a… valid resolution to the situation.”

MacIntyre locked eyes with Van Lynden. After a pause, the Secretary of State spoke again: “How long will you require to prepare this briefing, Admiral?”

“Approximately twelve hours, Mr. Secretary. At that time we will be prepared to answer any questions you may have.”

“Understood, Eddie Mac. Twelve hours. We’ll be standing by.”

The Milstar link was broken from the Washington end.

The admiral pushed himself back from the screen and reached for the officer’s cap he’d left balanced in the brow of the console. Crumpled soft, salt-stained and oil-spotted, its once polished bill was roughened and green from long exposure to the Persian Gulf sun. It was a relic from another time and another Eddie Mac MacIntyre, the fraying braid denoting a lieutenant commander’s rank.

MacIntyre had carried it for years, tucked away in his at-sea luggage. He’d never really known why. Now he did.

Donning the cap, MacIntyre gave it a decisive tug down over his eyes. It still felt pretty good after all these years; maybe it was the most comfortable hat he’d ever worn.

He stood and turned to face the others who shared the flag plot with him: Captain Carberry, Christine Rendino, Stone Quillain, Nguyen Tran, and Labelle Nichols. The policeman, the Marine, and the special boat woman loomed as shadows within the shadows, being clad in black utilities.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that’s as much authorization as we’re going to get.”