Target Lock

Royal Australian Navy Fleet Base Darwin, Australia 1325 Hours, Zone Time: August 27, 2008

The boxy LCAC backed carefully out of the Carlson’s well deck. Bearing a great plastic-wrapped lozenge shape in its open cargo bay, the hovercraft translated away from the pier with a lateral snort of its thrusters. The moan of its turbines reverberated off the shoreside warehouses and machine shops as it trundled across the oil-rainbowed waters of the fleet base to a shore access apron. There, a small army of INDASAT Industries trucks, cranes, and manpower eagerly awaited it. Battered, bullet-scarred, and sea-stained, INDASAT 06 was at last going home.

So were the other unwilling passengers of the Sea Fighter Task Force.

A bus convoy with a heavy military police escort rumbled through the shipyard en route to the Royal Australian Air Force Base at Darwin. Aboard it were the Melanesian and Bugis survivors of both the Crab’s Claw garrison and the Piscov raid, including a silent, disillusioned man called Mangkurat. They rode in nylon handcuffs, staring out at the strange, white-faced world beyond the steel mesh bolted over the bus windows. Indonesian air force transports awaited them at the air base, tasked with flying them back to Java. There they would face prison and possibly, eventually, a trial for high-seas piracy and treason.

Another group of Indonesians was being bused to Darwin’s civil airport and to a chartered Garuda Airlines 757. Although they wore no shackles. nor were there metal grids over their transport’s windows, the former crew of the frigate Sutanto were subdued, especially her captain. None were looking forward to the very official reception that would be awaiting them.

The third party was small enough to be transported in a Darwin city police van. Their destination was closer as well: the Darwin civil detention center. There, Professor Sonoo and the other surviving techno mercenaries would be held while assorted lawyers, diplomats, and police agencies wrangled over charges ranging from industrial espionage and criminal conspiracy to accessory to multiple murder.

As for the respective corporate entities Sonoo and the others had served, their responses when challenged had been essentially identical: “We’re sorry, but we aren’t acquainted with the gentlemen.”

Amid this outbound traffic, another motorcade had been inbound to the naval base. A pair of Navy-gray Ford Crown Victoria sedans, one of which bore four white stars on its front bumper, and a black Lincoln town car with U.S. Embassy plates.

Cleared through Darwin base security with alacrity, it proceeded to the main base pier where the USS Carlson and Cunningham lay moored. Drawing up alongside the LPD, they found the amphib’s crew manning the rail in dress whites, a Marine honor guard and a full suite of side boys at the gangway.

The Carlson’s bell chimed repeatedly, and her MC-1 sounded the sequence of calls.

“Secretary of State arriving.”

“Chief of Naval Operations arriving.”

“CNO staff… arriving.”

Once aboard, the protocols rapidly broke down. There was simply nothing “in the book” for this particular situation.

“Jesus H. Christ, Eddie Mac! I know you and Captain Garrett both operate outside of the box sometimes, but this is so far beyond—”

Admiral Jason Harwell let his string of words sputter out. White haired and baked gaunt from decades of sea service, he aimed an icy, blue-eyed glare across the wardroom table at MacIntyre “Damn it, man! The only reason I haven’t initiated a formal investigation into your actions in this affair is because I can’t believe the reports I’ve been reading. That’s why I’m here personally, to get a handle on this mess before every officer in this room, including me, gets hit with a general court! If we’re lucky, maybe we can limit it to just you!”

The small group of prime players had gathered in the Carlson’s wardroom, off the record and with no subordinates present, for a preliminary meeting. Harwell, MacIntyre, a somber and thoughtful Harrison Van Lynden, Christine Rendino, and Amanda Garrett.

“Jace, I’ve already stated I accept full responsibility for all aspects of our antipiracy operation down here,” MacIntyre replied stolidly. “I’ve put it in writing and it’s on your desk.”

“I know it is, and I want to know why it was necessary! When did one of my best flag officers go foaming-at-the-mouth crazy on me, Eddie Mac?”

“It was known from the beginning that this job was going to be unconventional, Jace. That’s why you gave it to NAVSPECFORCE and not the Seventh Fleet. I made both the State Department and the National Command Authority aware of that fact as we began to work the problem.”

MacIntyre nodded toward Van Lynden at the head of the table. “You can check with the Secretary of State himself on that. They were informed that we would not get results going by the book, and it was acknowledged that they understood the situation.”

“That’s true, Admiral Harwell,” Van Lynden said mildly. “I do remember the conversation.”

Harwell turned to address Van Lynden. “I’m sure that’s true, Mr. Secretary, but you surely couldn’t have imagined that extending to the hijacking of a naval vessel of a sovereign nation on good terms with the United States. That’s not unconventional, sir, that’s insane!”

Van Lynden steepled his hands before him on the polished wood. “Actually, Admiral Harwell, it’s irrelevant.”

The CNO did a double take. “What’s that Mr. Secretary?”

“Jakarta doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about the loss of their ship or how it came about. In fact, today the Indonesian government will be issuing a press statement about the frigate Sutanto and how it was lost in an operational accident: She struck a reef and sank while assisting the Sea Fighter Task Force in the recovery of the INDASAT space vehicle.”

Van Lynden nodded to the officers grouped at the table, a slight, ironic smile on his face. “In fact, the Indonesian government extends its thanks to the U.S. Navy for their successful rescue of the Sutanto’s entire crew. Just as we are extending our thanks to the Indonesian government for uncovering the plot by a group of New Guinea separatists to steal the INDASAT and hold it for ransom.”

Van Lynden met the eyes of each seated individual. “And, by order of the National Command Authority and until further notice, that is all that has taken place on this cruise. There was no Piskov boarding. There was no attack on the pirate base at Adat Tanjung, and the incident at Benoa Port was a clash between two smuggling gangs, with no direct involvement with the United States Navy. There will be no court-martials. There will be no investigations. This affair, or at least this aspect of it, is now closed.”

Van Lynden sat back in his chair, watching the exchange of startled looks flow around the table. “That’s why all the Sea Fighter personnel were ordered held aboard ship until my arrival,” the Secretary of State continued, rather enjoying the joke of it. “And why the press blackout has been invoked. We had to have the chance to tell you what you’ve been doing lately.”

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Secretary,” Admiral Harwell said, “but just what the hell is going on here?”

“Sorry I couldn’t fill you in beforehand, Admiral, but I flew in from Jakarta just an hour ago. I’ve spent the last two days in emergency consultation with the Indonesian Foreign Ministry and with President Kediri. Needless to say, what you are about to hear does not leave this room under any circumstances.”

The murmur traveled around the table: “Understood, Mr. Secretary.”

“All right; here, as you would say in the fleet, is the dope. The Indonesians are terrified and they have every right to be. We have a potential ‘government killer’ scenario developing for the fourth largest government on the planet.

“Makara Harconan was a major player in Indonesia, a major power, and a stabilizing influence in the archipelago economy. Should word get out that he’s actually a world-class criminal and that his holdings have collapsed, it is going be a body blow to the rupiah on the world money markets and decisively damaging to overseas investment.

“Furthermore, the Indonesian people are sick and tired of corruption by their officials. Corruption charges almost brought down the Walid government back in 2001, and this scandal will make the Walid crisis pall in comparison.

“From the communications traffic seized aboard the Harconan transport, we know at least one Indonesian navy flag officer had sold out to Harconan. The gentleman in question has since disappeared, apparently warned that the show is over. Six other senior government and military officials have also dropped out of sight in much the same way. A seventh committed suicide during an arrest attempt, and two more have been found assassinated within the last forty-eight hours.”

The Secretary of State continued to tick off his points. “When the world’s maritime powers gain the proof of what they have long suspected — that Indonesian officials have been allowing their shipping to be victimized — they’re going to start screaming reparation. A lot of Indonesians have suffered at the hands of the archipelago pirates as well. The word that the Bugis clans have been actively involved in a major criminal conspiracy against the other island groups is not going to be taken easily. Some damn fool is going to start shoving Bugis around, and the Bugis are going to shove back, so we can add a race war to the brew.”

“What do the Indonesians intend to do about the situation?” MacIntyre inquired.

“Stonewall. Overtly say and do nothing about the situation.”

“That won’t wash, Mr. Secretary,” Christine Rendino protested. “This thing is too big, with too many factors involved. Indonesia doesn’t exactly maintain what you could call a free press, but no way are they going to be able to bury this, even if we help.”

Van Lynden peered over his glasses. “They’re very aware of that, Commander Rendino. President Kediri knows he’s sitting on a keg of dynamite with a lit fuse. The best he can hope for is to try to limit the explosion when the truth does come out. He literally begged me to help him buy some time.”

“For what?” MacIntyre asked. “What are their intentions?”

“To locate Makara Harconan and to ascertain his intentions.”

“If, in fact, this Harconan even survived the attack on his base in New Guinea,” Harwell said. “From what you say in your after-action reports, I can’t see how he got out of that place alive.”

“But he did, sir,” Christine Rendino stated. “His body was never located anywhere within the tunnel complex or on Crab’s Claw Cape. We know now that Harconan had a whole escape-and-evasion operation preprogrammed and ready to go. He knew that sooner or later he was going to have to bail out of his international businessman persona. This E-and E program was initiated after we hit Crab’s Claw. Harconan must have been the one to order its execution.”

“What-all did this bail out program entail?” Harwell asked skeptically.

“When the Indonesian authorities moved in on Makara Limited, anything left was an empty shell. All bank accounts and stock portfolios had been emptied. The vaults of Makara Limited’s banking division were even emptied of cash assets. Harconan’s personal residence on Palau Piri Island and his corporate headquarters on Bali both self-destructed, burning to the ground and leaving nothing for the investigators. The disappearances and assassinations mentioned by the Secretary of State indicate that Harconan is also pulling his trusted lieutenants under cover with him while eliminating his not-so-trusted ones. He’s gone to ground somewhere within the Indonesian archipelago with a war chest we estimate to be in excess of three hundred million dollars.”

The intel leaned forward, meeting Harwell’s gaze. “Sir, Harconan and his whole organization has just executed a crash dive like a submarine, He’s still out there, running on course and continuing with his mission. We just can’t see him anymore.”

“The question then is, what is his mission?” Van Lynden asked.

“The destruction of the Indonesian government,” Amanda Garrett said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was level and controlled, her eyes distant, as if she were looking into the future. “Mr. Secretary, you were quite right with your assessment of this situation as being a government killer scenario. That’s always been Harconan’s intention. But he doesn’t want to just bring down the Kediri government; he wants to destroy the state of Indonesia as a whole, blowing the entire national structure as we currently recognize it apart.”

“I see,” Van Lynden said quietly. “I presume you gained some insight into this while you were his prisoner.”

“Enough to make some suppositions, sir, if you’d care to hear them.”

Van Lynden nodded. “Very much so, Captain. How does he intend to do this and why? What’s his justification?”

“A deep discontent with the way things presently are in Indonesia. This is an attempt by one man to restructure his world into what he visualizes as a better place.”

“A common-enough phenomenon. What’s his plan?”

Amanda turned to Christine Rendino. “Chris, how many major separatist and revolutionary movements are there in Indonesia, both in active hot-war mode or as a dangerous potential?”

“Jeez, ask me a simple one,” the intel replied. “Currently you’ve got two fair-sized shooting wars going on either end of the archipelago, New Guinea with the Morning Star separatists and the Islamic extremist separatists in the Aceh district of Sumatra. You’ve got another big batch of cranky hard-core Islamics, the leftovers of the Walid movement, in eastern Java, making the Balinese Hindus nervous.

“You’ve got a UN peacekeeping force still trying to keep that septic mess on Timor under control. You’ve got the Dayak tribesmen going after the Javanese transmigrasi in Borneo. You still have a bunch of Moluccans who haven’t really been happy since the Dutch left. You have all kinds of coup-grade factionalism within the Indonesian army and navy cadres…. I could go on all afternoon, Boss Ma’am.”

“That’s adequate to prove the point, Chris. Mr. Secretary, this is how Makara Harconan intends to bring about the downfall of Indonesia.”

“You mean, by somehow uniting all of these factions against the Jakarta government?” Van Lynden adjusted his glasses, puzzled. “I’ve put some time in on the Indonesia question of late, and I can assure you that’s all but impossible. Many of these groups are in diametric opposition to each other.”

“Unity is not what Harconan wants, Mr. Secretary. He’s promoting chaos, anarchy, and factionalism, a total breakdown of the Indonesian national order. He wants to return Indonesia to a scattering of independent island kingdoms, each with its own cultural group, religion, and leadership.”

“And what does he get out of this?” Admiral Harwell demanded.

“All of these diverse island groups will have only one thing in common,” Amanda replied. “They will, in fact, be islands dependent upon the sea for their communications and trade, and the raja samudra and his Bugis followers will control the sea. His will be the true power in the archipelago. Anyone who wants passage rights through his waters will have to pay him tribute. And that will include us.”

“Christ,” Harwell murmured, “do you have any idea how he intends to do it, Captain?”

“His plan is simplicity itself, sir,” Amanda replied. “Indonesia is a hotbed of rebellion. Harconan intends to throw a bucket of gasoline on the coals.

“As Commander Rendino has pointed out, there are any number of rebellious factions within Indonesia. Many of them haven’t been a major threat to Jakarta so far because of one simple factor: It takes money to run a good war.

“Back before the old USSR and Red China went under, they were always ready to supply some eager young group of insurgents. In recent years, however, things have gotten a little lean in the revolution business. Arms and support have been hard to come by. But then Harconan turns up. Chris, explain what we’ve been learning about Harconan’s arms trade.”

Rendino took over the flow. “Over the past few years, Makara Harconan has been a major arms purchaser. Nothing big at any one time, but all kinds of small-lot purchases using false front companies. Nothing fancy either: Third World and used First World armaments and ammunition, whatever could be picked up cheap without attracting a lot of attention. Your basic rifle, machine-gun, hand-grenade kind of thing.”

“What’s he done with it?”

“We think he’s been dispersing it out in hundreds of small, heavily camouflaged arms dumps located in isolated areas throughout the archipelago,” the intel replied. “We’ve uncovered a couple of them already. Crab’s Claw was apparently being used as a major disbursement point for the operation.”

“And his intention for these weapons?”

“That’s the gasoline I mentioned, sir,” Amanda resumed the briefing. “Wherever there is a Bugis colony, Harconan has agents provocateurs. It would be very easy for him to provoke incidents to increase national tension: religious violations, race riots, any number of things. His own corruption scandal could lay the groundwork for it. When popular disaffection reaches its peak, and the Jakarta government is strained to the breaking point, Harconan releases a location list of the arms caches to the leaders of the different rebel factions throughout the archipelago.”

“Kaboom!” Christine Rendino vividly put the punctuation to the thought.

“God,” Van Lynden whispered. “And Indonesians thought they were in trouble before. Half a million people were killed in the 1965 anti-Communist purges. This would trigger a bloodbath that would dwarf that. How can we stop this thing?”

Amanda’s jaw tightened. “Find and kill Makara Harconan,” she said tonelessly. “Fast. That’s the only way. He’s the linchpin to the entire operation. Pull it, and things might decouple, at least to a controllable level.”

“I’ll pass your recommendation on to the Indonesian government,” Van Lynden replied. “How much time do you think they have?”

“Not long, Mr. Secretary. Not long at all. Harconan won’t wait. We’ve broken the piracy cartel he was using to finance his operation, and we’ve knocked out his legitimate business holdings. The Indonesians have been tipped about his plan, and he knows he’s not going to get any stronger. He has to go with what he has now… and he will.”

Following her part in the conference, Amanda Garrett spent the rest of the afternoon caught up in a whirlwind of work. Rations and fuel were pouring aboard both the LPD and the Duke, along with whatever replacement parts and munitions could be matched out of Australian military stocks.

The task force’s more exotic and specialized needs were on the way as well, being flown in from the U.S. Fleet bases in Hawaii, Singapore, and Guam. So were the living spare parts for the Table of Organization, new Navy and Marine personnel to replace those lost in the recent campaign.

Within the task force hulls, crews labored, watch on watch, swearing at Eddie Mac and the Lady. Australia was known within the Fleet as the greatest shore leave in the world. There would be none, however, until all battle damage had been repaired, all onboard maintenance and servicing programs had been brought up to date, and the Sea Fighters were ready in all aspects for an immediate combat sortie.

Amanda had stoically issued those orders, along with a knife-edged command for all elements to expedite their readiness preparations. She knew that their next order for sailing would be for a war cruise.

The disintegration of Indonesia would simply be too big an event for the United States to ignore, nor could half a dozen other sea powers around the Pacific Rim. All would be involved in one way or for one reason or another.

Repeatedly, when she was topside, Amanda found her gaze drawn northwestward across the shimmering waters of Port Darwin and the Beagle Gulf beyond, her mind’s eye extending her vision across the Timor Sea to the Indonesian archipelago. The raja samudra was there, safe among his seaborne subjects and his thousand-island strongholds, moving his plans toward fruition.

She would find him again. Somehow she would find him. She sensed that she and Makara Harconan were locked in some strange, fated ritual like the Balinese dance they had watched together. The music had not yet ended and they each had steps left to perform.

So be it. She was a dancer and she would dance this one “right to the ground,” as her Celtic ancestors would phrase it. And if the gods were choreographing this, let it be that the last movement would leave her eye to eye with Harconan one more time.

Amanda crossed back and forth between the Carlson and Cunningham half a dozen times that afternoon, consulting with her officers and making it plain to all hands that there would be no stand down for her, either, until the Sea Fighters were ready to fight again. The stars glittered in an otherwise lightless sky when she crossed the pier tarmac to the LPD’s gang way for the last time, a cooling wind from the sea drying her perspiration damp shirt.

She found herself suddenly looking forward to a shower, a long hot pier-side one. And after that, midrats and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before turning in.

No, cancel that. Captain’s privileges: She’d have the steward run her up a steak sandwich… and french fries. She was suddenly ravenous.

“Hey, Boss Ma’am. Hold up!”

Clad in shoreside whites, the little intel ran breathlessly to Amanda. “Begging the Captain’s pardon, but may this lowly one, pretty please, ask a flagrant personal favor of the TACBOSS?”

“Anything’s possible, Chris,” she said, smiling at the thought of how they were back to comparatively normal. “What is it?”

“Relating to your no-shore-leave order, would it be possible for a little bitty exception to be made? Inspector Tran’s leaving with Secretary Van Lynden’s party, and I’d like to see him off at the airport.”

Glancing over Christine’s shoulder, she noted the dark, hawkish policeman leaning back against the fender of a staff car parked under a pier light. He nodded in silent acknowledgment, awaiting the decision.

“The inspector is going with Van Lynden? What’s up, Chris?”

“It seems that Singapore has given Tran an indefinite leave of absence so he can serve as a regional adviser to State on the Indonesian and piracy problems. I gather that Tran’s been made a kind of ‘company’ temp, if you get my meaning.”

“Hmm, interesting. I’m glad we’re going to have him on board.” Amanda’s brows suddenly knit. “But wait a minute: the Secretary of State’s party isn’t leaving until tomorrow morning.”

Christine endeavored to look innocent and failed miserably. “Well, I was kinda going to help him buy some toothpaste and a good book for the trip… and stuff.”

Amanda rolled her eyes and smiled. “Permission granted… for stuff.”

“Thanks, Boss Ma’am. Much appreciated.”

“Are you two…?”

The little blonde shrugged and grinned. “We’re running together for a little while. We’re the same breed of cat. You understand?”

“I do. Very well.”

Christine studied Amanda’s face. “How are you doing?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“I’m fine, Chris. I can’t really explain what happened to me back there. I guess I met the same breed of cat, too. But he was on the other side of the fence.”

“You told me once about your teenage fantasy of meeting a bold, swashbuckling buccaneer and running away to the South Seas with him. Sorry it kind of got all screwed up.”

“It’s all right.” Amanda glanced away toward the northwest again. “Maybe, once upon a time, when all of the world’s ills could be solved with one bright, clean slash of a sword, it would have been fun to run away to play pirate but not now.”

“Understood. ’Night, Boss Ma’am.”

“Have fun, Chris. Say so long to the inspector for me.”

Climbing the Carlson’s gangway, Amanda honored the flag aft, and after exchanging a few words with the OOD, she made the climb to her quarters. Maybe, when the task force was ready to sail again, she’d hit the beach for a day or two. She’d check into an ultra-plush hotel room and spend an entire afternoon soaking in a steaming bath. Then she’d just sleep for hours and hours in a huge, soft king-size bed. She was still mentally luxuriating when she nodded to the sentry outside of her cabin door and entered her office.

Elliot MacIntyre startled her for a moment as he stood up at her entry. “Sorry about intruding like this, Amanda,” he said diffidently, “but I had to pick up some hard copy I left in your desk.” He nodded toward the briefcase leaning against the desk leg.

MacIntyre was wearing a black Navy Windcheater over his khakis, and an officer’s cap sat upside down and ready to hand on the desktop. “I’m flying back to Hawaii tonight, and before I hauled out, I also wanted to tell you it’s been a damn interesting ride-along. It’s quite obvious you’ve accomplished everything I’ve asked you to do with the task force. Well done, Captain. Exceedingly well done.”

“I’ll pass that along to my people, sir. Thank you.”

There was a silence in the little room then, encompassing them both and extending for a long time. Yet, strangely, Amanda didn’t find it uncomfortable and she sensed that Elliot didn’t find it so, either. It was merely a mutual acknowledgment of many words that could not be said.

“There was one other thing as well,” MacIntyre said finally, reaching for a book on the desk. “I never did get a chance to finish this. Would you mind if I borrowed it for the flight?”

Amanda looked and saw that it was her battered old copy of Count Luckner, the Sea Devil.

“Keep it,” she said, smiling into Maclntyre’s face. “I’m done with it.”