On the bridge, they waited out the last minutes of the approach.
“Visual contact,” one of the lookouts called out from his low-light monitor. “Bearing two-nine-oh relative. Range two thousand meters and closing. Target is confirmed as a CH-53.”
The big Sea Stallion swept in literally at wave top height, the down blast of its five-bladed main rotor flattening a path through the whitecaps. Avenging himself for the radar painting he had received, the Israeli pilot aimed dead on for the Carlson’s bow. Pulling up at the last second, the thunder of his passage made the windscreen panes buzz in their frames.
With the mast cameras tracking it, the Stallion circled the LPD, lining up on the helipad, the extended-range drop tanks readily apparent on its sponsons.
Extending its landing gear, the Stallion flowed down onto the deck with an amazing delicacy for a flying machine its size. As Amanda and Carberry looked on, a side hatch on the helicopter popped open and a single passenger dropped to the flight deck. Clad in khakis and a dark navy Windcheater, the individual exchanged a cranial flight helmet for the computer bag and single suitcase handed down by the Israeli crew chief
With a farewell wave, the small form ducked clear of the rotor blast. Within seconds of its touchdown, the Sea Stallion was ramping back up to flight power.
“Passenger transfer complete, Captain,” the bridge systems operator reported as the helo lifted off into the night again. “Israeli aircraft now taking departure.”
Amanda frowned up at the deck monitor. There had been something about that passenger …
“Commander Carberry,” Amanda murmured, “resume prior speed and heading and inform Commander Hiro that we’re standing down from general quarters. I’m going down to the flight deck.”
The personage in question was waiting for her in one of the hangar bay passageways, and no, it had not been Amanda’s imagination.
“Request permission to come aboard, ma’am?” Christine Rendino said solemnly, firing off a picture-perfect salute.
“Permission granted,” Amanda replied by rote, her hand starting to lift in response. Before she could complete the gesture, however, the smaller woman was on her, locking her up in a fierce hug.
“Hi, Boss Ma’am. You miss me?”
Amanda returned the embrace of her old shipmate and dearest of friends with an equal fierceness. “Chris, my God! What are you doing out here?”
“I flew out with Eddie Mac.” The Intel took a step back, grinning up into Amanda’s face. “The Old Man’s in Saudi Arabia right now, hand shaking with assorted sheiks and potentates to borrow an air base.”
Amanda struggled to catch up. “An air base? For what?”
“It’s a long story, and I’m here to tell it to you. Personal briefings for you and for all senior task force officers. First things first, though. Get us headed for Port Said four bells and a jingle. The Egyptian navy will refuel us, then we head through the Suez Canal tomorrow night on a priority passage. We rendezvous with Admiral MacIntyre somewhere in the Red Sea day after tomorrow.”
“The Red Sea? Chris, slow down. Where are we headed, and why?”
“Indonesia, Boss Ma’am. It seems that some bad boys over there are sailing ‘on the account’ again and we have the job of closing it.”
Palau Piri Island, Indonesia
Off the Northwestern Tip of Bali
0614 Hours, Zone Time: July 29, 2008
Makara Harconan began his morning ritualistically with a double circumnavigation of his island. Clad in swim trunks, he alternated between a run along its lava sand beaches and a fast swim parallel to its shore, hardening his well-muscled body and clearing his mind for the work ahead.
It also provided him the opportunity to personally check on the security posts covering the far side approaches and to verify that his roving patrols were on the move and alert. Only a single mistake could be made in covering one’s back, the first that is also the last. Harconan did not intend to make that one error.
A cold and stinging shower followed his run and swim, then a session with his personal masseuse. Finally, after donning slacks, sandals, and a safari shirt, he retired to the central garden patio of the mansion for a simple meal of rice, fresh fruit, and strong Javanese coffee.
As he ate, Mr. Lo sat across the table from him, a cup of green tea centered untouched before him. The latter was an insistence of Harconan’s, a symbol of a battle of wills with his aide-de-camp over the subject of La’s joining him for breakfast. Lan Lo, a staunch traditionalist, considered such familiarity in the presence of his employer decidedly improper.
In accordance with the morning ritual, following the withdrawal of the serving maid, none of the staff would approach the breakfast table unless summoned. Even the interior security man held well back out of earshot, monitoring the operation of the integral bug scanners and ultra sonic white-noise jammers that rendered the inner garden secure.
“And what is our first point of consideration today, Lo?” Harconan inquired.
“There are a series of developments in the satellite project, sir. Primarily positive, but including one point of possible concern.”
“Proceed.”
“We have received favorable responses from the Falaud Group, from Yan Song international and from the Marutt-Goa Combine. Each has put forward the necessary commitment money, shifting five million U.S. dollars or a pound sterling equivalency into our secured accounts in Zurich and Bahrain. Each client also has an R&D team standing by for deployment to the holding site.
“The Mittel Europa Group has declined direct involvement but has placed an initial bid of one million sterling for certain castings and alloy samples from the satellite payload. The Japanese Genom zaibatsu also declines direct involvement but has offered a bid of two million dollars for the satellite’s full run of orbital-grade ball bearings. Moskva-Grevitch continues to declare an interest but demands we present further specifications on the involved systems before making a monetary commitment;”
Lo made no reference to notes or other documentation during his quiet-voiced recital. Not only did he not require such props, but none of Harconan’s “special consideration” business was ever committed to hard copy.
Harconan was not displeased with the report. He’d had his doubts about the Poles and Czechs making a full commitment. Too many strong economic ties with the U.S., and they were trying for their full membership in the European Union this year. The Japanese weren’t risk-takers either. and the Russian corporates still lacked the monetary muscle to play out in the deep waters. Still, three out of the six was sufficient.
Harconan freshened the coffee in his cup. “You may tell Falaud, Yan Song, and Marutt to dispatch their teams. Inquire about any special equipment they may desire and arrange for their reception and transportation to the holding site. For Mittel Europa, hold out for at least another half million. They’re good for it. Accept the Genom offer as it stands.
“As for the Russians, as usual, they’re trying to get something for nothing. Tell them we have shown them adequate bona fides; we have a property of value equal to what we are asking. They have our terms. They remain fixed. They can either accept them or not.”
Lo inclined his head. “Very good, sir. I concur on all points. This now brings us to our point of concern.”
“Which is?”
“A possible … radical reaction by the United States to our acquisition of their industrial satellite.”
“Radical, Lo?”
Lan Lo’s old ivory features assumed the total neutrality he reserved for what he felt were truly critical matters “Our business agent in Port Said reports a U.S. naval task force passed through the Suez Canal last night on a priority scheduling. Although only two vessels were involved, both were powerful special operations units and both were proceeding eastbound into the Indian Ocean. No eventual port of destination was listed with either the canal authorities or the Egyptian government.
“By accessing various naval affairs
sites on the global Internet, we have learned this was not a planned redeployment. These vessels were scheduled to remain in the Mediterranean for at least another two months. An examination of affairs within the Indian Ocean basin and Pacific Rim indicates no other difficulty involving U.S. interests that would warrant such a sudden shifting of military power at this time. My presumption would be that this is a reactive event targeted against our operations.”
Harconan nodded slowly, taking a sip from the potent black brew in his cup. “What about our contacts in Singapore and Jakarta, Lo? What do they have on U.S. naval intentions?”
“They have nothing, sir,” the Chinese executive replied. “Which leads me to two other possible presumptions. Firstly, that my presumption is wrong and that the Americans are bound elsewhere for other duties, or …”
Harconan’s dark eyes narrowed. “… or they have grown frustrated with the applied ineffectualism of the Indonesian government over their lost satellite and they intend to take matters into their own hands.”
“Quite so, sir. A definite point of concern.”
“That depends, Lo. That depends greatly on who they’ve sent out to hunt us.”
“Yet another point of concern, sir. The involved units constitute what is called the Sea Fighter Task Force by the American navy. They are specialists in small craft and coastal operations and are held responsible for the successful United Nations resolution of the Guinea-West African Union conflict of last year. I have briefly discussed this task force with our people knowledgeable in military affairs. They assure me it is most formidable in its capabilities. Likewise in its leadership.”
Harconan slowly lifted his cup to his lips again, his eyes set in the middle distance but his internal vision focused elsewhere. Things read: articles in popular magazines and international military journals. Things heard: whispered stories told by government officials in Taipei and Singapore. Things seen: a global-net television broadcast from the UN General Assembly and a striking amber-haired woman in a naval officer’s uniform, speaking with a quiet and level-eyed conviction.
“Captain Amanda Lee Garrett,” he said softly.
“Indeed, sir. A very definite point of concern.”
Red Sea, Northeast of Port Sudan
0501 Hours, Zone Time: July 29, 2008
The desert and the sea held their breath.
In moments the cruel sun would lift above the horizon to brand the earth for another day. The winds would rise with it, staining the sky with the restless migration of the sands between the Arabian Peninsula and the Horn of Africa.
For this moment though, a cool and perfect stillness held sway. The dark sapphire bowl of the heavens gleamed with the last few fading stars. The dark velvet hills of Saud defined the eastern horizon and the sea had the glossy smoothness of poured oil.
The stems of the two great gray warships slit open the waters like sword blades cutting silk, their bow waves radiating outward and back in foamless geometric perfection. In the stillness the breathy whine of gas turbines and the humming rumble of maritime diesels could be heard for a distance of ten miles. Closer, a faint whisper of music could be heard.
No class of ship built for the United States Navy had ever been designed with as much integral living space for the individual crewperson as the San Antonio-class LPD. Yet, privacy remained at a premium. One of the few places where it might be found was the short stretch of weatherdeck at the rear of the superstructure.
Located between the two aft RAM launchers and shielded from the signals bridge by the mast arrays and a small systems shack, an individual might find a degree of solitude here for a time. Amanda had discovered this shortly after coming aboard the Carlson, and she had made it clear that this space was hers alone during the dawn hour of all fair-weather mornings. When she danced, she generally preferred not to have an audience.
This day, there was an exception.
The theme issuing from the portable CD player lifted from broken despair to a somber but rising end movement that called for rebuilding and revenge. Amanda pursued the music with her body, flowing from pirouette to pirouette passé to relevé, her mind free for a few precious moments from the responsibilities of command.
The piece swelled and lifted to its conclusion and Amanda followed it, a fist stabbing into the sky. Then the player spun into silence and she sank to one knee on the dojo pad, the music and the movement lingering for a few moments more in her mind. Then, with deliberation, she snapped the spell, opening her eyes and taking a deep deliberate breath.
“That was beautiful,” Christine commented from where she sat at the edge of the mat. “What was that music anyway? I didn’t recognize it.”
“It’s something I’ve been experimenting with.” Amanda rose to her feet and took another deep breath. “‘The Pacific Boils Over’ by Richard Rodgers. It’s the Pearl Harbor theme from Victory at Sea.”
“I should have known.” Christine held out a chilled bottle of Evian water. “Just anybody could do Swan Lake.”
“Well, nobody has done anything with it, and it’s a pity.” Amanda took a long sip from the bottle, then sluiced the remainder of the cool fluid over her limbs and maroon leotard, relishing the refreshing chill as evaporation explosively leached the moisture away. “The Victory sound track is the world’s longest and most complex symphony. There are some terrific dance movements in there if someone would use them.”
She sank down beside Christine, putting her back to the systems shack bulkhead. “Pass me that brush, would you?” she asked, unpinning her hair.
Christine collected the brush from the gym bag at her side. “You’re letting it grow out a little more,” she commented, reaching up to touch Amanda’s tousled amber mane.
“Mmm, just too lazy to do anything with it.”
“Want me to do it?”
“Be my guest.”
Sitting cross-legged, Amanda turned half away to accept the grooming, and the two sat in the silence that is so different between old and comfortable friends from the silence between uneasy strangers, watching the Carlson’s wake boil white in the growing dawn.
“Hear anything from Arkady lately?” Christine inquired after a time.
“Now and again. He’s up in Japan at the moment, working with the Maritime Self Defense Force on their aviation ship program. I gather he’s taken enthusiastically to being a fighter pilot and he’s having more fun than kittens.”
Chris glanced away. keeping her voice casual. “That’s what I’d heard. I was just wondering if he’d been saying anything … special to you.”
Amanda tilted her head to let Christine work out a snarl. “We exchange a letter now and again, Chris. Friends’ letters.”
“Oh …”
Amanda poked an elbow back into the intel’s ribs. “And there is no reason to go ‘Oh’ on me, Christine Maude. Arkady and I have no regrets and a lot of very happy memories. It was just time to set it aside for a while.”
“Cool, then. Who’s the replacement?”
“Replacement? Good Lord, Chris. I haven’t replaced him with anyone.”
“Well, why not?”
“Because I haven’t had the time … or the particular inclination.”
Christine thumped the palm of her hand into the center of her forehead. “I can see it all now. After office hours, your staff turns off your main power switch and throws a dust cover over you. I knew it was a mistake to accept that tour with NAVSPEC. You need a keeper.”
“I’m doing just fine, thank you kindly.” Amanda gave her brush glossed hair a final setting shake into place.
Christine snorted. “Sure. And what are you going to carve on your tombstone? ‘Here lies Amanda Lee Garrett, who got too busy to have a life.’ ”
“I intend to be buried at sea, Chris.”
The intel sighed and tossed the brush back into the gym bag. Leaning back against the bulkhead again, she closed her eyes. “That was a bad line, Boss Ma’am…. Amanda, I’m sorry. It’s just that you
drive me just a little bit crazy sometimes. You have got to be the most … generous person with yourself I’ve ever met. You give it all away, to the Navy, to the mission, to your crew, to your friends and lovers. Hey, I just wish you’d learn keep a little bit of it for yourself. It is okay to do that, you know?”
Amanda gave a brief wry chuckle and reached back to lightly slap her friend on the thigh. “I’ve heard rumors to that effect, yes. And to tell the truth, I’ve been giving the subject some thought. I missed something very good with Vince Arkady because the time simply wasn’t right. I don’t want the time to be wrong again, whether I pick up with Vince or whether I move on with someone else.”
An odd speculative tone came into Christine’s voice. “Have you talked with Eddie Mac lately?”
Amanda looked over her shoulder. “To Admiral MacIntyre? Of course. I brief him a couple of times a week on how the task force is shaking down. Why?”
Chris only shrugged and looked out to sea. “No reason. Just wondering.”
Amanda’s command headset had been hooked over one end of her open gym bag; now its exterior alarm chirped, demanding attention. Christine passed it across as Amanda came up onto her knees. “Garrett here,” she said, fitting the earphone to the side of her head. Intently she listened for a moment.
“Very good. Carry on.”
Lithely getting to her feet, Amanda reached for the set of wash khakis she had draped over the topside railing. “Speak of the devil, Chris. That was the task group AIRBOSS. Admiral Maclntyre’s inbound.”
Admiral Elliot MacIntyre had served for three years as CINCLANT (commander in chief, Atlantic Fleet) operating from FLEETLANT-COM’s bunkerlike headquarters complex in Norfolk, Virginia. Upon leaving that assignment for NAVSPECFORCE, he had sworn he would never again, as he phrased it, “fly his flag from a brick shithouse.”
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