Target Lock

by James H. Cobb

  A shallow hollow ran between the twin row of dunes, and the landing party was at labor at its bottom.

  Amanda had an AI2 visor hung around her neck like a pair of binoculars, Taking a breather on the sand crest, she switched the visor on and studied the weapons hide.

  At some time in the recent past, a long trench had been dug down the center of the hollow. Packing cases and bundles heavily wrapped in plastic sheeting and tightly tape-sealed bad been stacked along its bottom. Once recovered, the sea winds would have swiftly smoothed away all trace of its presence.

  By the invisible light of IR lumes, the Marines were reopening the trench, learning and exposing its secrets with engineer’s probes and mine detectors.

  “Were there any booby traps?” Amanda inquired as they shuffled down into the hollow.

  “Naw, they just weren’t figuring on anybody finding this place. No sense risking blowing up one of your own people by accident and maybe setting the whole shebang off. We got one of ’em fully set up over here.”

  Stone snapped on a white light flashlight and shined it on his prize, half smothering the beam with his hand.

  It was a compact rocket artillery piece, twelve up-angled launcher tubes in three rows of four, mounted on a light two-wheeled trailer.

  “I don’t recognize the system offhand,” Quillain commented. “It fires a four-point-two-inch spin-stabilized rocket, and all the case and weapon nomenclature and manuals look to be in Chinese. It’s a secondhand piece. It’s been fired and used in the field.”

  “It’s a Type 63,” Christine said, sinking down on her knees beside the launcher. “An older Chinese system, ex-PLA. How many launchers are there?”

  “Four of ’em. Plus about a thousand rounds of HE and incendiary ammo. Plus a cache of what looks like maintenance gear and spare parts. It’s a whole field artillery battery set to go.”

  Christine’s fingertips brushed the launcher’s tubes in a near caress. “This is what I’ve been wondering about. No way are these any kind of naval ordnance. Somebody’s planning a land war.”

  “Boy howdy, I’ll say. Let me show you this other stuff.” Quillain stepped off into the darkness and returned dragging a couple of flat wooden cases.

  “We got land mines here,” he said, lowering the cases flat on the sand. “Oops, ’scuse me, Princess Diana, I mean ‘area denial munitions.’ These I do recognize. These here are good old Made-in-the-US.A. M-21s, heavy antitank mines that can give just about any armored fighting vehicle in the world a bellyache. These others are C3A1 Elsies, Canadian-made antipersonnel mines. Mean little buggers, too, impossible to pick up with a standard electromagnetic detector. The Canucks swore up, down, and sideways they’d disposed of ’em all. I guess they must have missed a few.”

  “How many mines in all, Stone?”

  “We guess about fifty of the M-21 ATs. Maybe four hundred Elsies. We’re still digging up cases.”

  “This has got to be what the stars mean,” Christine insisted. “They denote hides that aren’t Bugis resupply points. They’re arms depots being built up for somebody else. But why? Harconan can’t be doing this just because of his generous nature.”

  Amanda didn’t reply; instead she turned away and walked a short distance up the hollow. With arms crossed, she looked up at the sky and the haze of glittering stars. What are you planning, Makara? Who are you buying these armaments for? Who do you mean to kill?

  No answer came back to her save the hiss and caress of wind-blown sand particles flowing low over the dune surface. She had gone to Palau Piri hoping to learn the man. Instead the taipan had read her secrets while remaining as darkly enigmatic as his smile.

  I lost to you on your beach that day, Makara, and accepted the defeat. I swear that will be the only time.

  She moved back to the trench. “How are you coming with the site documentation?” she demanded.

  “Best we can. We’re collecting all the paper, manuals, logbooks, and such. We got low-light videos taken of the hide site and the ordnance, and we’re recording all case and serial numbers.”

  “Good enough. Finish up and rig this place for demolition. Blow it all.”

  “Like the others?”

  “Just like the others.”

  Five miles to the north of the coral spit, a small fishing prahu circled with slatting sails. The fishing here in these particular waters was not good, as the prahu’s three-man crew knew full well. Yet, they had loitered here at the trailing end of the Sabalana group for two full days.

  A few hours before, the man on watch at the tiller had heard the faint flutter of helicopter rotors in the distance. He had awakened his comrades and with fishermen’s patience they had waited. Now they heard the flying machines echoing across the still waters, taking their departure.

  Then came the prolonged flash like heat lightning on the horizon and the rumble like matching thunder.

  The three Bugis seamen exchanged grim looks. It had been as the raja samudra had said it would be. The war had begun. The prahu’s captain brought the waterproof transceiver up from the tiny cabin along with its solar-charged battery and began setting up the antenna. The word must be sent.

  On the lonely sand spit, the fires died down and the smoke plumes faded. The tireless trade wind began its task of refilling the smoldering trench and burying the myriad fragments of jagged metal one coral grain at a time. It would have a fair start on the job by dawn.

  Palau Piri Island

  0645 Hours, Zone Time: August 20, 2008

  Makara Harconan pushed aside the half-emptied cup of coffee, regretting the way he had snapped at his servant for being slow with it. It was not the fault of the kitchen staff that he had come to the lanai early for breakfast. Breaking with routine, he had elected not to do his morning run and swim around the island. The east beach and the memories it invoked were too distracting.

  Early or not, Lan Lo had been waiting for him, taking his straight-spine seat across the table from the taipan.

  “Mr. Harconan, the depot at the south Sabalanas was destroyed last night.”

  “I know, just as were the replenishment sites at Bawean and Tana Jampea. The Americans probably got the locations of half a dozen other active hides in the Sulawesi operations area off the squadron at Adat Tanjung. They’ll be sailing from Benoa tomorrow, probably to conduct a sweep of the remaining sites.”

  “Might I propose an evacuation of our assets?”

  “Impossible, Bapak. If we move in a ship to evacuate our stores, American reconnaissance will backtrack it to its base and the cycle will begin again.”

  “Then what is lost is lost and we must accept and rebuild. The damage to our operations will not be excessive.”

  “I’m not so sure, Lo.” Abruptly, Harconan drew the coffee cup back, taking a gulp from it. “The material losses we can live with, I agree. But we’re being hit and we aren’t hitting back. This isn’t good for our people, Lo. Things have gone well for us and suddenly they aren’t.”

  “The maintenance of one’s aura of invulnerability is a difficult task.”

  Harconan looked up sharply at Lo. Was it conceivable that the weathered and staid Chinese was making his version of a joke?

  Harconan would accept it as such. “Point well taken, Lo,” he replied, smiling wryly. “A serious problem nonetheless. My people must keep their faith with me if we’re to continue with the plan. To ensure that happens, I must keep faith with them. Have there been any reports from Jakarta concerning the people we lost in the Piskov raid?”

  “No, sir, nothing from the polisi or the Defense Ministry.”

  “Then if any survive, they must be held aboard the American war ships. When do they sail from Benoa?”

  “Their scheduled departure time is eight-thirty tomorrow morning, sir.”

  “And the port assault force I ordered assembled?”

  “Two hundred and forty-five Bugis assembled and equipped, Mr. Harconan, plus small craft and demolition materials. Also, should more
sophisticated actions be required, we have a twelve-man Nung Special Operations team standing by.”

  “Excellent.” Harconan hesitated a moment more before committing. “Lo, we’re taking down the American task force tonight. We’re going to eliminate them as a threat, and we’re going to get our prisoners back.”

  There was only a flicker in Lo’s dark eyes. “You have set yourself a formidable task, Mr. Harconan. We must assume the Americans will be prepared for diverse eventualities.”

  “Very true, Lo,” Harconan replied, taking another sip of coffee and finding that he enjoyed it. As always the decision to attack, to take action, eased his tensions. “But it will only get worse if we let them get out to sea. This will be our best chance.”

  “Possibly, sir.”

  Harconan drained the cup. “Now, tell me this, Lo: As this will be their last night in port, are there any ceremonies or special events scheduled to take place as a farewell?”

  “Yes, sir. The island governor is holding a farewell dinner and an exhibition of Balinese dance and performing arts tonight at the Taman Werdi Budaya Art Center, for the ships’ officers.”

  Harconan lightly brushed his mustache in thought. “I see. And have I an invitation to this function?”

  “Governor Tengarra always sends you an invitation to any such affair, sir.”

  “Excellent. You may inform the governor it will be my great pleasure to attend. Please notify the helipad that I’ll want the helicopter in one hour. Have the pilot standing by as well: I think I’ll want him along on this flight. Also, notify the unit leader of our special-operations team that I want him waiting in my office when I get in.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Lo hesitated for a moment, his uncertainty very unusual. “Mr. Harconan, may I state that this is a decided … gamble we will be taking?”

  Harconan looked fondly at his old retainer. “What hasn’t been a gamble, Bapak? From the beginning and on to whatever the end will be, always there will be the gamble.”

  “This is understood, Mr. Harconan. But there is always the degree of the gamble. In a direct confrontation with the United States Navy, you will be taking on a foe such as never before challenged.”

  “A ship is a ship, Lo,” Harconan replied jovially, “and all are prizes to be taken. You know how it is with the Americans: With a bit of luck, having two of their ships attacked in an Indonesian port will set their politicians to squabbling like a pack of village dogs. We’ll be left in peace for years, or at least until their next election.”

  “Possibly, sir. But might I remind you of the words of a Japanese admiral, Yamamoto, in a somewhat similar situation with the Americans.…”

  Harconan sobered abruptly. “I recall, Bapak. ‘We have awakened a sleeping giant that will destroy us all.’ ”

  Flag Quarters, USS Carlson

  1732 Hours, Zone Time: August 20, 2008

  “We’ve had one major development since this afternoon’s O Group.” Clad in her pumps and going-ashore whites, Christine Rendino sat back on the flag office couch. “It seems that one of Mr. Harconan’s ships is missing.”

  Standing beside the desk, Amanda Garrett looked up from the revolver she’d been checking. “Say again?”

  “We can’t find one of the Harconan Seaways ships, anywhere,” Christine repeated insistently. “I ordered an assets inventory on the shipping line and we can’t get a fix on one of his coasters.”

  “Which one, and how do you lose an entire ship?” Amanda spun the chambers, checking the five .38-caliber loads in the little weapon, then carefully pressed the cylinder closed. Once, on the firing range, she’d flipped the action shut like she’d seen done on television and Stone Quillain had almost taken her head off—something about distorting the cylinder crane. Amanda hadn’t seen fit to question his call on the matter.

  “The Harconan Flores, and that’s what we’d like to know. She’s not listed in at any of the regional ports, and we can’t pick her up at sea with either the Oceansats or the Global Hawks. Either she’s done a Bermuda Triangle on us or our boy Makara is running a swifty.”

  Amanda couldn’t stop the frown that tugged at her mouth at the mention of the taipan’s name, nor could she halt the burst of recent memories it released. Turning away from the intel to hide her expression, she slipped the handgun into the holster she’d had stitched inside her shoulder bag, verifying that the row of speedloaders were in their loops at its bottom.

  The revolver in her bag and the automatic in Christine’s were only an aspect of the security she’d ordered for their last evening in Bali. If she could exercise her own preference, no one, especially the task force’s senior officers, would be leaving the ship tonight. But they had to maintain the pretense that this was still a routine goodwill port call, even though the enemy knew by now it was just a facade.

  She wondered how he had taken it, the night after their day together. Had he reacted to her attack on his base with anger, or coldly, as if it were just another chess move in the game they were playing? Had it been enough of a slap in the face to draw him into an overt action against the task force? If it had been, he’d move tonight, before they sailed.

  Amanda became aware of the voice behind her again. “Excuse me, Chris, what was that?”

  “The Harconan Flores is a most interesting ship, Boss Ma’am,” Christine repeated patiently. Amanda could sense an intent blue-eyed gaze aimed at the back of her neck. “She’s an amphib, an ex-East German Frosche-class LSM, part of the same bulk buy as our old buddy the Sutanto. Harconan picked her up surplus a couple of years ago and had her refurbished for use as a small interisland RO/RO. Her beaching gear and bow ramp are still installed and operational, and I bet you and Harconan did it mare-and-stallion style a lot. He looks like the type.”

  Amanda spun around, an angry, wordless exclamation bursting from her. Christine sat on the couch, legs crossed, chin supported by her palm, calmly daring her friend and commanding officer to deny the charge.

  After a long second Amanda let her held breath escape in a sigh. Denying it in this company would be an act of futility. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, Chris, or maybe I did. I’m not sure myself.”

  Christine shot a beseeching glance at the overhead. “I knew it. Pow! The baby seal bites it!”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, just something I said when Admiral MacIntyre and I were talking about this situation.”

  “What!” Appalled, Amanda stared down at the intel. “You were discussing Makara and me with the admiral?”

  “Just the potential, not the reality. Don’t have a cow, Amanda Lee: He wouldn’t have a clue about that Little-Nell-done-wrong haze you’ve been wandering around in since you got back from Palau Piri. In most ways Eddie Mac’s as big an innocent as you are.”

  Amanda crossed the room and sank down on the couch. “Damn, damn, damn, Chris. I don’t know what to say other than it happened.”

  “Well, you can start by sketching in all the really juicy details. It must have been fantastic!”

  Amanda glared. “Chris, I slept with the enemy, dammit! I let him, or rather I let myself …”

  The little blonde glared back. “Was it or was it not fantastic?”

  Amanda groped for the correct words for explanation or self-condemnation and could find neither. “Yes, it was!”

  “Good! You’re a classy lady, Boss Ma’am, and I figured that it would take somebody really, really special to make you feel like an idiot.”

  Amanda found that she could not help but smile sheepishly. “Thanks, I think. In one way the whole experience was incredible. I don’t how to describe it beyond saying that after a while I just forgot who Makara was and why I was there. We were just two … lovers on this incredibly beautiful island. Chris, assessment, please: Is there any way conceivable that Harconan might not be our pirate king? Any possibility at all?”

  Almost sadly, the intel shook her head. “An assessment of all intelligence collected to date indicates that Ma
kara Harconan is our target subject. No valid alternatives have presented themselves. None, and I’ve been looking-hard.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since you fell a little bit in love with that swashbuckling pirate you’ve dreamed about since you were a little girl.”

  “Oh, damn, Chris.” Amanda looked away.

  “Can we quit doing Navy for a little bit, please?” Christine received a tight-throated nod in reply.

  She slipped her arm around Amanda and rested her head on her shoulder. “It seems like it’s something we all do, you know?” she said softly. “Sooner or later we all meet that one really incredible guy who it’s really, really dumb to get involved with. And we do it anyway and we get all smashed up over it. Then, if we’re lucky, we get past it and go on. I had my turn in college and I thought I was going to die from it, but I didn’t.”

  She rocked her friend slightly. “Because you’re such a total, straight edged square, it took longer for it to happen to you. That just makes it harder because you can’t pass it off as kid-stupid.”

  She felt the soft fringe of Amanda’s hair as it brushed the side of her face and she shook her head. “No, I can’t pass it off, Chris. I made love with him and now I have to destroy him.”

  “Yep, Boss Ma’am, you sure do.”

  The rasp of the interphone startled them apart. Amanda straightened and rose to her feet, and Christine watched as she drew an almost visible shell of discipline and control about herself. Her voice was totally level as she picked up the handset.

  “Garrett here…. All right, thank you. We’ll be right down. Captain Barberry, the Carlson is now lead ship and you have the watch. Set all A-class security protocols now. We will maintain until we clear port tomorrow. Guns hot. Lethal force is authorized. Good night, Captain.”

  She returned the phone to its cradle. “Come along, Chris. Our coach awaits … and thank you.”