“And our old buddy Sparza in South America,” the intel agreed. “Harconan is not only the man on the white horse, but he was born in the saddle. Yeah, I agree. If that’s where his head is, he could do it. I could feel it too.”
“Feelings are all well and good,” MacIntyre growled. “But we’re going to need a hell of a lot more than that to bring this man down. We need hard evidence linking Harconan to the pirate operations, and still, all we have is rumor. We need to find that damned industrial satellite and a way to connect Harconan to its theft. That’s the only way we’re ever going to justify direct U.S. action against him.”
“We’ll have a couple of shots at it tomorrow, sir,” Christine replied. “Cyberwar should start to produce on his computer net, and the microforce is going to recon the pirate base on Sulawesi.”
“We’ll get a third shot as well, Chris,” Amanda said, letting a hint of rueful amusement creep into her voice. “How fast do you think you could train me into being an effective Mata Hari?”
She felt Admiral MacIntyre twist abruptly on the bench seat beside her. “What in all hell are you talking about, Amanda?”
“Just that Makara Harconan extended me a personal invitation to visit his private island tomorrow. I accepted.”
“Officers’ Country,” USS Evans F. Carlson
2012 Hours, Zone Time: August 16, 2008
Nguyen Tran closed the door of his assigned guest cabin. Spartan in its outfitting, the windowless Navy gray cubicle contained a set of lockers, two surprisingly large and comfortable bunks, and a built-in bulkhead desk, a small connecting head its sole luxury.
Somehow, the solid steel bulkheads and bristling defenses of the American warship seemed more conducive to a sound sleep this night. Even at this moment Tran knew his name would be going onto a number of potentially dangerous lists.
Still, it had been worth it, to fling a glove into the face of the formerly unreachable Makara Harconan. To make him fear, even for an instant, his own destiny, the way a terrified eight-year-old had done, clinging to a drifting hulk in the South China Sea. With good fortune and the aid of these new allies, perhaps this seed of fear could be made to flourish and grow. A pleasant thought.
Tran had just tugged open his tie when a soft knock sounded at the door.
“Come in.”
Christine Rendino, still in her evening dress and heels, stepped into the cabin, flipping the door lock behind her. “Hi,” she said, tossing a rolled khaki uniform, a small make-up bag, and a command headset onto the upper bunk. Turning her back to Tran, she inquired, “Want to unzip me?”
Tran hesitated, startled. Given the fiery kisses he had shared with the ebullient little blonde, it was a ridiculous question, but one he hadn’t expected to answer quite so soon.
Christine glanced back over her shoulder and whistled a double note softly. “Zipper?”
Tran hastily ran the offending object down to the base of her spine. “My apologies, I was … assessing the situation.”
“Understandable under the circumstances.” The intel shrugged her dress from her shoulders allowing it to slip down to her ankles.
Very sheer panty hose and very brief golden silk panties and bra were apparently considered a needless complication. Christine turned to face him again. “I know that in the Islands the gentlemen generally take the lead in such things, but we have some time constraints going, and frankly, we can’t afford for you to be a gentleman.”
“We can’t?”
She shook her head decisively. “Nope.”
She kicked off her pumps and hooked her thumbs under the waist band of panty and panty hose alike, slipping both down with a wriggle and a relieved sigh. “I mean, it would be great if we could tack a little chrome onto this thing. You know, the traditional waltzing until dawn and gazing deep into each other’s eyes for hours on end and that kind of thing, but I’m afraid we’re not going to have that kind of leisure over the next few days.”
A pity, too, for those large gray blue eyes were worth gazing into. “And after that?”
She smiled a soft, regretful smile and stepped out of her pooled undergarments to stand before him, a golden tanned statue, nude and untroubled. “And after that, no promise asked or given. I get very good vibes off of you, Tran, and I know from the sparks that happen when we kiss, the feeling is mutual. But I also know we both have other places to go and other things to do. That’s the problem with being a cop or a spy. We know too much.”
She rested a small hand on his chest. “Look, if you have a serious lady you haven’t mentioned or if you’d just rather not, it’s okay. I’ll get dressed and get out of here with no harm done. But if the two of us are going to have anything at all, it has to be here and now, and we can’t waste any more time.”
Tran had heard stories about these forthright American women. How delightful to learn they were true.
“I quite agree, my colleague, I shouldn’t want to be wasteful.” He gathered Christine to him. Lifting the warm, satin-skinned form in his arms, he placed her in the lower bunk.
Half a thousand miles away, the replenished Sea Fighters of the microforce raced on through the early morning darkness, sprinting from cover point to cover point like an infantry rifle team.
Within their hulls, off-watch Marines and sailors dozed atop the fresh fuel blivet, as cool and comfortable a resting place as any waterbed.
Flag Quarters, USS Evans F. Carlson
0921 Hours, Zone Time: August 16, 2008
Sitting on the edge of her bunk, Amanda studied the two holstered pistols lying atop the taut blanket: the big Marine-issue MEU Model .45 that Stone Quillain had issued her from the landing-force arsenal and her personally owned Ruger SP-101 revolver. Glancing over at the shoulder bag hanging from a hook on the opposite bulkhead, she considered.
Amanda was equally proficient with both handguns; Stone saw to that in his odd moments. The massive Marine captain hated the thought of being around anyone not weapons-capable. And the weight of either pistol in her bag might be of comfort in the day ahead. Maybe….
Amanda gave a derisive snort. If she thought she might need a gun on Harconan’s island, she shouldn’t go in the first place. And if she had miscalculated and this was a trap, a pistol wasn’t going to get her out of it. On the other hand, packing iron wasn’t the act of a woman setting out for a pleasant rendezvous with a handsome gentleman. It could ruin her chance of getting close enough to Harconan to actually learn something useful.
Her decision made, she knelt and stacked the automatic and revolver back into the cabin safe under the head of her bunk, giving the combination dial a scrambling spin. Standing, she gave her tropic-weight uniform slacks a careful straightening tug.
Damn, damn, damn, this was a deadly serious business. So why did she keep getting flashbacks of pacing around her bedroom in high school, waiting for her date to show up?
Maybe because, black-hearted pirate or not, Makara Harconan was an extremely attractive and dynamic man. And for Amanda Garrett, there had always been something about the legend of the buccaneer.
Amanda sat on the edge of the bunk and reached across to the built in bookcase for an old and treasured friend, Lowell Thomas’s Count Luckner, the Sea Devil, the biography of Count Hugo von Luckner. The tale of the dashing Imperial German Navy sea raider and his epic voyage in command of the last sail-powered man-of-war had always fascinated her, especially when she had been on the cusp of adolescence, providing her with her first romantic fantasies.
Perhaps they were right when they said that you always stayed just a little bit in love with the first one to touch your heart. Maybe that explained the tug she’d felt when she’d set eyes on Makara Harconan….
Amanda snorted again, at herself. Fantasies were all well and good for a fourteen-year-old, but she was a grown woman living in the all-too-real world. The buccaneers of legend and the pirates of reality were two very different breeds. Even her beloved count had in actuality been a naval officer of
a proper and chivalrous age, and not a true sea marauder.
Glancing down at the worn volume in her lap, Amanda noticed a bookmark she didn’t recognize. Admiral MacIntyre must have started reading about the count when he’d occupied her quarters. For some reason that pleased her, rather like the thought of two old friends hitting it off.
In the real world, a man like Elliot MacIntyre would be a far more sensible and worthy subject for a romantic fantasy: a solid and honorable man of proven courage, intelligence, and humanity. But what would a fourteen-year-old girl know?
The corner of Amanda’s mouth quirked up. Or, for that matter, a thirty-eight-year-old woman?
Someone knocked on the outer cabin door. Amanda tossed the book onto the bunk and stood up. Taking her shoulder bag and Sea Fighter beret from their respective hooks, she stepped out into the office space.
“Come in.”
Christine entered the office, a file folder of hard copy tucked under one arm. “Hi, Boss Ma’am. I have the latest situation reports assembled. I’ll be going over them with Admiral MacIntyre while you’re off ship.”
“Good. Anything I need to know before I take off?”
The intel hesitated and then shook her head. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
“Leave them on my desk, then. I’ll play catch up … probably tomorrow morning, it looks like now. Any change in the situation with the microforce?”
“Negative.” The intel set the file on the desktop and sank into one of the office chairs. “They’re in the pre-mission hide. They’re secure, and no situational changes are reported in the zone of interest. They’ll start moving at 2300 and should be launching the op by 0100 as per the mission profile.”
“I’ll be back well before then,” Amanda mused, “although it might be interesting to be on Palau Piri when we start putting some moves on one of our pirate king’s bases.”
The small khaki-clad figure in the office chair strangled something down under her breath, and Amanda noted the intel’s exceptionally broody expression.
“All right, Chris,” she said, parking her hip against the edge of the desk. “What’s going on?”
“Request permission to speak freely to the Captain?”
Amanda sighed. She was in for it now. Military formality was dangerous, coming from Christine Rendino. “You’ve always had it, Chris. You know that.”
Christine looked up, eyes glinting angrily. “Then may I remind the Captain that she is merely a line officer in the United States Navy, not frickin’ Modesty Blaise!”
Amanda chuckled softly. “By that, I gather you still disapprove of my excursion to Harconan’s island?”
“That’s right, I do.” Christine aimed an emphatic finger at Amanda. “You are going to be walking into the heart of the goddamn enemy camp alone. There’s not going to be a soul around who can help you or even witness what might happen to you.”
“Very true,” Amanda acknowledged. “But I thought we agreed last night that the probability of Harconan taking any overt action against me was small. It would be too obvious. The death or disappearance of a senior American military officer on his home ground is just the kind of thing he’d want to avoid, especially now.”
Chris lowered her eyes, her lower lip protruding stubbornly. “We might be wrong. It could be made to look like an accident. Maybe his buy-offs extend deeper into the local governments than we know. Maybe … anything. This guy has got to know you’re after him, Boss Ma’am.”
“The Navy is after him, Chris,” Amanda replied quietly. “And I’m a very small and readily replaceable part of that organization. At the moment I’m unique in only one way: I’m the one he’s invited into his home. It’s our chance to get a closer look at how he thinks and operates. It’s my best chance to get inside his head. I need to learn how to read him. That’s going to be important.”
“Well, maybe,” Christine conceded grudgingly. “But maybe some of us feel you aren’t all that replaceable. Maybe some of us, in fact, figure you’re pretty damn unique in a lot of ways, and if anything happened to you, we’d be pretty damn unhappy.”
Amanda tilted her head back and laughed. “I’d miss you, too, Chris. I promise nothing fancy. I’ll just go in, sip tea with the taipan, and then I’m out of there…. But now that I think about it, would there be any kind of bug or hidden microphone or something I could smuggle in there with me … ?”
Christine collapsed forward melodramatically, catching her face in her hands. “Aaaaaagh! She watches an old James Bond flick on Site TV and she thinks she’s a superspy.”
“Just kidding, Mother! Just kidding!”
Christine looked up again. “I’m not. If you insist, try this soft probe, okay! Probably—I say again, probably—Harconan will be willing to maintain this polite fiction you two have going for a while longer. He’s probably still as curious about your intentions as you are about his, and he’s likely going to try and pump you just as hard as you are him. Act dumb, but don’t be stupid! They are going to be waiting for you to try something. Disappoint them! Please!”
Her friend’s open distress brought Amanda back from her moment of levity. “I understand, Chris. I’ll be on a knife edge. I know it. I’ll watch myself.”
The desk phone buzzed and Amanda leaned across to scoop the hand set out of its cradle. “Garrett here…. All right. I’ll be right up. Thank you.”
She hung up the phone. “That was our AIRBOSS. It appears my ride is here.”
Permitting a foreign civil aircraft to land on a U.S. naval vessel was strictly non-SOP. Accordingly, the Harconan Limited helicopter flared out and touched down in a corner of the quay parking lot, apparently unconcerned with the views of the harbormaster on the subject.
The quayside had been a busy place before the arrival of the sleek, dark-blue Eurocopter. A double row of buses was parked, both discharging and taking aboard passengers.
The discharging buses carried Balinese civilians, curious townspeople from the capital of Denpasar and the other surrounding communities, taking advantage of the “open house” program being offered aboard the American warships. Ushered aboard in small groups, friendly American sailors would then take each party on a brief tour of certain less critical areas of the cruiser and LPD, all part of the Navy’s “Ambassadors of Goodwill” program.
But being an Ambassador of Goodwill did not mean being a fool As each group climbed the pierced aluminum gangway to board each vessel, the more curious might have noted the soft purr of an electric fan under their feet. Chemical-sensitive bomb-sniffer units were at work, ready to flash a warning to ship’s security.
The second, shorter row of buses loaded sailors and Marines for land side tours and shopping expeditions. It would look strange if none of the task force personnel hit the beach while in Bali. All hands had been given very specific orders, however: Stay in groups. Stay in better-class public areas. No carousing, and all hands back aboard by nightfall.
Standing on the Carlson’s forecastle, waiting for the gangway to clear, Amanda and Christine watched as the copter’s pilot dismounted from the idling aircraft. Both instantly recognized the tall tanned figure in the safari suit and sunglasses. He recognized them as well, throwing a hand up in a casual wave.
“The man himself,” Amanda murmured. “I’m honored.”
“Well,” Christine responded sourly, “at least that eliminates the worry of a suicide pilot or five pounds of plastique under your seat.”
Amanda waved the intel off “I promise I won’t sit in the back row in the movie, and if he claims he’s run out of gas, I’ll remember to hit him where you told me. See you tonight, Chris.”
“Oh, really? You think?”
Feeling exceedingly antsy, Christine looked on as her friend checked off ship with the Carlson’s OOD and descended the gangway. Harconan awaited Amanda at the quayside, and even at a distance he looked hellishly handsome. Beyond listening range, the intel read the exchange of gesture body language that followed. Harconan’
s air of flamboyant gallantry, which would have seemed forced in another man, flowed naturally, and Amanda, with the blood of her Virginia belle ancestors, could flirt with the best when she put her mind to it.
“You look worried, Little One.”
Nguyen Tran had come up beside her on the forecastle, keeping his voice low so as to not be overheard by the gangway watch.
On the dock Amanda and Harconan were walking away toward the waiting helo. “I am,” Christine murmured. “Please tell me I am stuffed full of blueberry muffins to think that somehow this is a really bad idea?”
“I’m not sure.” Tran’s eyes narrowed as he followed Amanda and the taipan with his gaze. “I doubt that Harconan would be foolish enough to harm your captain or do anything to draw suspicion onto himself. Still … do you know what the name Makara means?”
“No, what?”
“In Indonesia, the Makara is a legendary sea creature with two facets to its being: It has the beauty and grace of the dolphin, but the teeth … and soul … of the shark.”
The Eurocopter lifted off and cut across the waters of Benoa Harbor and the narrow spit of the Bukit Badung Peninsula before turning north west to parallel the coast. Amanda, who was not a pilot herself but who had spent a great deal of time in the company of aviators, noted the surety of the suntanned hands on the helicopter’s controls and the way Harconan seemed to merge with the aircraft in flight. Again she had to be impressed.
The tangle of cheap surfing resorts and coastal tourist villages thinned out rapidly, the cliffs lifting along the seaside and the great central mountains of the island interior rising as they headed inland. Soon a green and elegant terrain was passing beneath the helo’s pontoons, the valleys and even hillsides sculpted for rice cultivation, the flowing webwork of interlocking terraces seemingly made for aesthetics as well as for practicality. Interspersed among the fields were the farming communities, at the center of each the pura desa, the village temple, the bale agung, the village assembly ground, and the sacred banyan tree.
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