Target Lock

Fantail of the MV Harconan Flores 0803 Hours, Zone Time: August 25, 2008

Amanda saw the massive gouts of smoke stream back from the frigate’s side hull exhausts. It was readily apparent the ship was tacking on more speed. Defining her intent was less easy.

The Sutanto’s hull seemed to shorten as she wore around. Reversing course? No. Her helmsman met the turn as she came in line with the tip of the cape. She was standing on straight for the mouth of the inlet, her bow wave building rapidly as the lunatic on her bridge piled on the revs.

“What the hell…?” she heard Harconan’s perplexed whisper. “He can’t be thinking of entering the inlet. Not at that rate of knots.”

What the hell, indeed, Amanda agreed silently. That Indonesian skipper was bringing his ship in like…

“… Like the Campbeltown.” Amanda said it aloud.

She knew who the “lunatic,” was now. Her train of thought jumped across to meet his with admiration and awe. Boldness countered by boldness. Brilliant, Elliot!

Amanda lowered the binoculars and looked at Harconan. He had turned to study her in return, seeking for some clue, disbelief and bewilderment warring across his handsome face. He had been found out and he knew who must be responsible.

“You didn’t have a chance, Makara,” she said with genuine regret, not for what was going to follow, but for its necessity. Also for all of the possibilities that might have been had Harconan been content to be merely a man instead of a king. “There was never a chance.”