Target Lock

Indonesian Navy Frigate Sutanto 2330 Hours, Zone Time: August 24, 2008

The phone over the head of Captain Basry’s bunk buzzed over the whirr of the air conditioning. The Indonesian groaned and reached for it once more. “Yes?”

“Captain, this is watch officer Kodi. The Americans have resumed low-grade radar jamming once more.”

Basry muffled his second groan. “Any difference from other times today?”

“No, sir. We have received the same notification from the American flagship that they are systems testing.”

“Any interference with our station keeping?”

“No, sir. We have a clear visual plot on the running lights of both targets.”

“Any alteration of course and speed or any other unusual activity on the part of the Americans?”

“No, sir, nothing noted.”

“Then, Lieutenant, advise me when something unusual is noted.”

“Yes, sir. My apologies, Captain.”

Basry slammed the phone into its cradle and buried his face back into his pillow.

The operative phrase in the watch officer’s statement had been Nothing noted. The Sutanto’s lookouts had been too far away to note the two shadowy shapes that darted away from the flanks of the Carlson or the small Cipher reconnaissance drone that lifted off from the LPD’s flight deck. Likewise, the degraded Indonesian radar failed to detect the minute radar cross-sections of the three objects.

Half a mile out on either side of the line of advance of the Indonesian vessel, the seaborne shadows went inert, their wakes fading behind them as they powered down. Thermally stealthed as well, neither emitted enough infrared radiation to be discernible through a night-vision system.

The Sutanto swept between them, unaware of their presence.

The Cipher drone swung wide around the Indonesian frigate. Dropping in behind the ship, it crept up from astern, a black dot skimming the wave tops.

“Lieutenant Kodi,” one of the lookouts called, “something is taking place aboard the American vessels, sir.”

The lieutenant swept up his binoculars, aiming them at the distant clusters of running lights that marked the positions of the American ships. The helipad strobe lights on both U.S. vessels had begun their dazzling pulse, and the red flush of night work lights could be made out aboard the LPD as her hangar-bay doors opened. The Americans might be preparing to launch helicopters.

Kodi glanced at the bridge phone and hesitated. The captain had stated he wanted to be notified only if the Americans were up to something out of the ordinary. Would an air operation come under this definition? Perhaps if the Americans actually launched their helicopters…?

The watch officer chose to be conservative.

“Lookouts, stay alert,” he called to the men on the bridge wings. “Keep an eye on what the Americans are up to.”

He meant the American vessels ahead of them. As yet, no one aboard the Sutanto was aware of the U.S. craft behind them.

Heavy-duty Velcro parted and the anti-IR shroud split overhead down the length of Raider One. A puff of hot, fetid air was released as the insulated shroud peeled down to either gunwale.

Stone Quillain palmed the sweat from his face, resmearing the thick coat of black camouflage cream he wore. “Damn, that’s better,” he muttered. He was one of the dozen people aboard the eleven-meter RIB; half were handpicked SOC Marines, the others Special Boat Squadron hands. “Hey, Labelle. How we doin’?”

Lieutenant Commander Labelle Nichols stood beside the raider’s coxswain at the helm station, peering down at the dimly glowing lines on the miniature Cooperative Engagement tactical screen. Even with her naturally dark features, she, too, wore black camou paint to kill the sheen of her skin. “Looking good, Stone. Raider Two is on station and the Carlson reports no situational changes aboard the Sutanto. It looks like we climbed in their back pocket okay.”

“Good enough. Then let’s bite ’em in the ass.”

“Doing it.”

Nichols typed the execute command into her terminal and dispatched it via microburst to Raider Two and the CIC of their mother ship. Then she murmured a command to the coxswain at the helm station. Engines kicked over with a muffled rumble. With mufflers full on, the diesels were no louder than the hissing hydrojets they drove. Such quieting cost horsepower, but the raiders would still have more than enough speed to pursue and overtake the Sutanto.

The Cipher drone popped up astern of the Indonesian frigate. Station-keeping over the Sutanto’s wake, the drone’s onboard cameras provided an overview of the warship’s decks and the events unfolding around it.

Two miles ahead, in the Carlson’s Combat Information Center, Christine Rendino stood at the shoulder of the drone’s systems operator. Studying the low-light images feeding from the little RPV, she coached the raider force in over a voice communications channel.

“Looking good… the fan tail appears clear… the only lookouts appear to be forward on the bridge wings…. No reaction…. No reaction….”

The two RIBs appeared at the bottom of the screen, converging on the stern of the Indonesian frigate. Deftly skirting the edge of the larger vessel’s prop wash, the raiders merged their own foaming wakes in with that of the larger warship, while keeping their hull uncontrasted against dark, unbroken water.

Stone Quillain saw the angular stern of the Parchim-class frigate loom out of the darkness. At his station along the inflated starboard gunwale, he lifted the heavy anchor pad off the Fiberglas decking, fumbling a little as the powerful magnets tugged at the metal in his MOLLE harness.

This night in addition to a wide assortment of gas bombs and flash bangs, he carried a pair of Taser shock pistols at his belt and a SABR slung across his back. The magazine well for the rifle half of the composite weapon was empty, however, while the grenade half had been stoked only with teargas and jellybag stun loads.

The remainder of the boarding party was similarly armed. This night’s mission must be totally nonlethal. If this operation was to cling to the rags of legitimacy, no Indonesian sailor could be killed or even seriously harmed.

At the helm station, Labelle Nichols stared fixedly at the side of the ship that towered above them, commanding her coxswain with the slight quick gestures of a hand outlined in the faint glow of the binnacle light.

The RIB slid in closer. Bucking over the frigate’s hull wash, it bumped its rubberized Kevlar flank against the steel of the larger ship. Stone socked the rubber-coated magnetic bosses of the anchor against the plating, as did the three other hands along the starboard side. The drag of the magnets alone would not be enough to hold the RIB in place, but they would make station-keeping easier for the coxswain.

The Marines and sailors along the portside swung their preassembled titanium and Fiberglas boarding ladders up to the lip of the frigate’s deck, hooking their rubberized ends over the scuppers, the entire docking procedure taking only a matter of seconds.

Stone heard Nichols’s voice whisper through his com headset. “Raider One, docking accomplished. Ready to board.”

A few seconds later a second voice whispered out of the night: “Raider Two docked. Ready to board.”

With that declaration, command of the operation passed to Quillain. “Boarding parties! Board! Board! Board!”

Stone hit one ladder, Labelle Nichols the second, swarming up the thin, quivering yet immensely strong rungs to the frigate’s deck. He was just short of the deck lip when Christine Rendino hissed in his ear, “Hold! Hold! Hold! You have activity on deck!”

Stone froze, hanging from the ladder rungs. Three feet away, Nichols did the same, a shadow smeared against the gray hull paint. Overhead they could hear a clattering, a scuffling of feet, and an illegible whining mutter. A faint, foul stench tainted the clean sea air.

Cook’s Striker Achmed Singh swore to Shiva under his breath as he struggled to hoist the heavy slops can over the rail. Every night the same. He was always the one anointed to carry out the garbage. He knew that Chief Pangururan had it in for him because he, Singh, was the only Balinese Hindu in the galley gang, but still, every time?

Singh wouldn’t have even minded so much if it were daytime, but damnation, it was dark out here on the fantail at night. Singh wasn’t enough of a sailor yet to be confident at the rail with the luminous wake boiling furiously at his feet. Even in the face of the humiliating jests aimed at him by the other galley hands, he always donned his life jacket before beginning his nauseating task.

With a final heave he lifted the overflowing can to the top cable of the railing and tilted the garbage over the side, being careful not to spill anything on the deck. No sense in inciting the rage of that snot-nosed deck division ensign.

The can was just emptying out when Singh felt a powerful hand close on his life-jacket collar and a second on his belt.

“Y’all want a hand there, sport?”

Cook’s Striker Achmed Singh, garbage can and all, shot over the stern rail to plunge into the frigate’s wake, his startled scream temporarily gagged by a mouthful of seawater.

“We have a local in the water astern,” Labelle Nichols whispered into her headset. “Drone Control, keep a fix on him. Raider One, drop back and pick him up.”

Stone gave the grinning black woman a thumbs-up sign and they headed forward.

The remainder of the sixteen-person boarding party was on deck and ready to deploy. Moving silently on foam boot soles, the black-clad assault force flowed up either side of the Sutanto’s deckhouse. Following the ops plan, men peeled off at each hatchway and deck ventilator, grenades coming out of harness pouches.

Half a dozen boarders remained to edge up the ladderways to the bridge wings.

“Lieutenant Kodi, the Americans are launching helicopters.”

The watch officer had already seen the lights of the first aircraft lifting from the helipads of the LPD. He also observed that it was swinging back in the direction of the Sutanto. This was clearly an event worthy of the Old Man’s interest. Reaching for the interphone, Kodi buzzed the captain’s sea cabin.

Before he could speak into the handset, however, an odd scuffling thud sounded from the starboard bridge wing, a similar disturbance starting to port an instant later. Night-colored figures rushed the wheelhouse from either side, silhouetted in the back glow from the CRT screens. Grunts, curses, and muffled exclamations followed, along with the smacking of leather-sheathed fists striking blows.

Kodi opened his mouth to yell just as a Taser pistol hissed. He felt the twin metal fangs of the stunner electrodes bite through his shirt, then he lost awareness of the proceedings.

A few feet aft, Captain Basry listened to a peculiar jumble of sounds issuing from the interphone. “Kodi… Kodi… Bridge, what’s going on?” he demanded. “Bridge…? Bridge?”

The interphone connection broke with a click.

Swinging his feet to the deck, Basry started for the wheelhouse, not bothering to stuff his feet into his shoes. Flinging the door of his sea cabin open, he found the doorframe completely filled by a towering nightmare in black battle harness.

“Hello,” it said. Then a massive fist engulfed the front of Basry’s singlet, and he was yanked into the corridor.

Stone Quillain deposited the comatose Indonesian captain in an out of-the-way corner of the bridge.

Lieutenant Labelle Nichols stood at the wheel over the body of the helmsman. “Ship is under control and answering,” she reported crisply. “Engine control is on the bridge and responding.”

“Radio shack and chartrooms secure as well, sir,” another Special Boat crewman added. “All systems intact and functional, including the encryption station. The day’s codes appear to still be set and valid.”

Stone nodded approvingly. “All right. Looking good, ladies and gentlemen. ’Belle, stand by to put her across the wind. Mr. Tran, how are you coming?”

Tran looked up from the interphone deck. “I believe I have this set for what you would call the 1-MC, Captain.”

“’Belle, you found the ship’s alarm board?”

She pointed to a row of buttons on the overhead. “General quarters, fire, general alarm, and collision. Which one should we use?”

Stone shrugged. “Hell, why not all of ’em.” He keyed the command circuit on his Leprechaun transceiver. “Wave Two, Wave Two. This is Wave One. Bridge is secure. All hands in position. Situation is nominal. Ready to execute flush and ready to bring you aboard.”

“Understood, Wave One,” Admiral Maclntyre’s voice sounded over the thudding of helicopter rotors. “Proceed.”

“Understood. Proceeding.” Stone switched back to Tactical. “All elements mask up! Mask up and stand by!”

As he listened for the acknowledging clicks over the tactical net, he doffed his K-Pot helmet and pulled his antigas hood out of a harness pouch, drawing it on over his head. All of the other boarders did likewise, except for Tran, who would have need of a free and unmuffled voice for a short time longer.

With no further reason to delay and many not to, Stone touched the tactical Transmit key once more. “All boarder elements, execute flush now!”

Up and down the length of the Parchim-class frigate, a storm of hand grenades were hurled through doors, down hatches, and into ventilators as fast as the pins could be pulled, resulting in a veritable barrage of flash bangs, smoke, and riot gas.

The flashbangs had the first effect: A fusillade of explosions reverberated through the length of the frigate’s hull, like firecrackers dropped into an oil drum, jarring the watch-standers at their stations and startling awake the sleepers in the bunk rooms. Clouds of choking vapor poured into the interior spaces at almost the same moment.

Stone aimed a finger at Nichols and she reached up and ran a thumb down the row of alarm buttons. A cacophony of jangling bells and shrieking Klaxons joined in the confusion. Unsatisfied with the chaos she had unleashed, the SB woman hauled down on the cord for the ship’s air horns, adding its hoarse bellow to the chaos.

Stone aimed his finger at Tran. The Inspector held down the button on the interphone handset and yelled into the receiver in Bahasa Indonesia: “Fire in the magazines! Fire! Fire! All hands! Abandon ship! I say again, abandon ship! This is not a drill! This is not drill!”

With the steel around them ringing with detonations and the air inside the hull solid with eye- and lung-searing smoke, the Sutanto’s crew was willing to take the statement at face value.

Topside, the frigate turned across the wind. The gas streaming from her deck hatches served as a windsock for the CH-60 transport helos moving in over her bow and stern. Held steady by the sure hand of Labelle Nichols. the frigate received the fastropes from the hovering Ocean hawks, followed by a double stream of Marine reinforcements.

There was nothing in the way of active resistance. Unarmed, stunned and half blinded, the majority of the Indonesians at first thought the boarders were rescuers rather than invaders. Deftly separating the officers and CPOs from the enlisted personnel, the Americans prolonged the fiction for as long as they could. Corpsmen began washing out eyes and treating the cuts and bruises incurred from the panicked evacuation topside.

In the meantime gas-masked Marines began a systematic compartment-by-compartment search belowdecks for holdouts.

“Ship’s arsenal secure, Bridge. Weapons racks and ammo stores are still locked. It appears all arms accounted for.”

“Officers’ country clear.”

“Berthing spaces clear for’rard.”

“Main engine rooms secure. Plant appears to be intact and functioning, but we could do with a real black gang down here, along with somebody who can translate the control markings.”

“Stand fast, Engine Room. Mr. Tran is on his way down and we have Wave Three coming aboard now. All hands! Open all deck hatches and scuttles! Ventilate the ship!”

The frigate had a small helipad aft, not large enough to handle a full size Oceanhawk, but adequate for the skids of a Seawolf Super Huey. Again, Admiral MacIntyre acknowledged Amanda Garrett’s wisdom in her choice of aircraft.

Ducking low, he and half a dozen volunteer ratings scuttled out from under the turning rotor arc of the UH-1Y. Once they were clear, Marine guards herded the first of the Indonesian navy personnel to the doors of the idling helicopter. The Sutanto’s new crew was shuttling aboard while her old one was bound for temporary incarceration aboard the Carlson.

Stone Quillain, the camou paint sketchily wiped from his face, awaited the admiral at the aft end of the deckhouse.

“Ship’s status, Stone?”

The leatherneck grinned. “We got her, sir. Ship’s in one piece and so’s the crew. Pretty much, anyway.”

“Well done. I’ll see you and your men get a commendation.” Then MacIntyre added wryly, “In whatever navy we may end up serving in.”

The first Seawolf lifted off and the second came in, discharging its passengers. The next cluster of Indonesians was urged forward, numbered among them a wild-eyed man in an officer’s khaki pants and a white T shirt. He noticed the stars on the shoulder boards of Maclntyre’s Windcheater.

“I protest,” he yelled over the rotor roar. Lunging to stand in front of the admiral, he raged on: “This is my ship! This is illegal seizure! Piracy! This is against all international law!”

“I agree with you, Captain,” MacIntyre replied, tilting his cap back. “This is indeed most irregular on our part. I apologize to you and your crew and I am certain further reparations will be made by my government, both to you personally and to the Indonesian navy. However, I regret necessity mandates that we… acquire your vessel for a time. I also regret we likely will not be able to return it to you in pristine condition. Again, please accept my apology.”

Captain Basry lost track of his shipmaster’s English in his fury, and his follow-up volley of expletives was lost in the lack of translation. The Marine guard standing behind the Indonesian officer lightly bumped him with the action of his SABR, steering him on toward the waiting Huey.

“Nice try, sir,” Stone commented, “but I don’t think that gentleman is really goin’ to be too good a sport about this.”

MacIntyre shrugged. “Well, some people are like that. I’ll be on the bridge if you need me.”

By 0100 hours, the crew transfer was complete. With American-born engineers at her Korean-made diesels, the Sutanto was ready to get under way as a unit of the Sea Fighter Task Force. In addition to her prize crew, the Parchim carried the entire 1st Marine Raider Company crowded below her decks. The last cross-decking payloads had consisted of several pallets of arms and ammunition, the boarding party swapping out their nonlethal weaponry ammunition for their more traditional tools of war.

“Bridge, aye,” MacIntyre said, scooping the buzzing interphone out of its cradle.

“This is the radio shack, sir, Chief Haldiman. We have our commogear installed and operational. We have SINCGARS and satphone links established with the rest of the task force.”

“Very good, Chief. How are you coming with the Indonesian systems?”

“No sweat, sir. It’s all over-the-counter stuff we downloaded manuals for. Lieutenant Selkirk has the encryption gear sorted out and he says the code keys in the system are good for at least the next twenty hours. We’ve sent out our first phony position report and got a routine acknowledgment from Jakarta Fleet HQ. As far as they’re concerned, we’re still heading south on course for Darwin.”

“Excellent, Chief.”

“Captain Carberry and Captain Hiro both report boats, aircraft, and prisoners secure and that they are ready in all aspects to get under way. Drone and radar search indicates we have clear water out to eight miles on all bearings. Awaiting orders, sir.”

“Stand by.” Eddie Mac glanced at the statuesque black woman who still held sway at the helm station. “How about it, Exec? Ship’s status?”

“Ship is secured for sea. Engine room reports ready to answer all bells.” Her smile flashed white in the darkness of the wheelhouse. “This old kraut can’s a bit creaky in the knees, but she’ll get us there.”

“Then let’s proceed, Lieutenant. We have business on the New Guinea coast. All engines, ahead full. Make your course zero nine four ”

“Yes, sir. All engines, ahead full. Making turns for twenty-six knots.”

“Chief Haldiman, inform the task group to form up on us. Right echelon at two-thousand-meter intervals”

“Aye, aye, sir. Right echelon at two thousand.”

MacIntyre slapped the phone to its cradle. By God, it felt good to be commanding a ship again instead of a political entity. Tugging his ratty commander’s cap lower over his eyes, he leaned back against the bulk head, savoring the growing vibration of the Sutanto’s propellers.

“Admiral, can I ask you a question?” Nichols asked from the helm station.

“Of course, Miss Nichols. What about?”

“Our flag, sir. We’re running this tub, so she shouldn’t be operating under Indonesian colors anymore. But she’s not a commissioned vessel of the United States Navy, so we can’t officially fly the stars and stripes either. But shouldn’t we have some kind of battle flag if we’re going into a fight tomorrow?”

“Valid points, I suppose, Lieutenant,” MacIntyre replied, wondering where this conversation was heading. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“Uh, yes, sir, the subject did come up within the Special Boat Detachment and we’d like to put forward a proposal. Higbee, show the admiral.”

An SB hand dug a mass of dark cloth out of a flag bag and passed it to MacIntyre. The admiral unfolded it, trying to make out the design in the dimness. When he did, his bellow of laughter made the wheel house ring.

“Excellent choice, Lieutenant. My compliments to you and to the detachment: It suits our purposes perfectly. Have it run up to the main truck immediately.”

Three warships raced on, closing the range with the coast of New Guinea, the light of the Southern Cross and a million more tropic stars caught and reflected in the spray of the bow waves. Aboard the lead vessel, the smallest yet at the moment the most critical of the trio, a bundle of black fabric rose jerkily to the head of the latticework mainmast. A lanyard was yanked and the banner streamed in the trade wind, the stark white skull and crossbones grinning into the night.