“Its official nomenclature is the BLU-82,” Cobra added. “It’s a fifteen-thousand-pound fuel-air explosive too big to be carried by any conventional bomber. You have to roll it out of the tail ramp of a C-130. It doesn’t matter what kind of forest you drop it into: when the toothpicks stop raining out of the sky, you’ve got four or five acres of beautiful landing zone, bare naked and flat as a pancake. What’s more, anyone aboveground for a quarter mile in any direction is instantly converted to raspberry jam. But people deep underground in a tunnel complex should survive okay.”
“Maybe,” MacIntyre replied. “But would this particular tunnel complex survive? The Japanese didn’t know about FAE’s when they built this place. Would the natural cavern roof be stressed to take that kind of shock wave without caving in?”
Richardson could only shrug. “It would depend on how it was reinforced, sir. We’d have to get inside and look the place over to know for sure.”
Maclntyre’s dark eyes shifted to Stone Quillain. “That’s not a valid option at the moment. Chances for amphibious or landside assault?”
Quillain’s usual scowl deepened as he mulled the problem. “Not good. There’s nothing in the way of a decent landing beach anywhere on Crab’s Claw. The lowest cliff side indicated is ninety feet. The shallowest slope gradient is about seventy degrees. All of it mean black-rock lava. Like the Rangers said at Point du Hoc: ‘Three old ladies with brooms could hold us off.’”
The Marine traced a line to the neck of the cape with his fingertip. “We could come in overland and bunker-bust our way up the peninsula. Maybe we could do it with enough gun support. It would be pure hell, though: direct frontal assaults on heavy fixed defenses. It would also be way slow. A day bare minimum to work that half mile to the tunnel entrances, and no sayin’ how many men we’d have left alive to go inside.”
“That’s another nonvalid option,” the admiral said flatly. “How about a small-team SOC infiltration?”
“Like underwater through the sea entrance?” Stone shrugged. “Sir, I honestly can’t say. The success possibility of any kind of Special Forces operation depends on how much intel you have on the target in a direct ratio. The more you know, the better chance you have of pulling it off. We have no idea what our guys will be facing in those tunnels, and Admiral, telling ’em to just go in and wing it likely won’t get the job done!”
“Understood, Stone. Steamer, you and the Three Little Pigs are our last chance. A high-speed assault through the sea entrance. Hey diddle diddle and straight up the middle.”
“It depends, sir,” the ex-surfer replied.
“On what?”
“From what I can see, on dumb-ass luck. Our best bet would be to divvy the assault force up between all of our fast-boat assets, Labelle’s RIBs, my Sea Fighters, and the LCAC. As we do the run in, the helos and the big ships put all the fire onto the clifftops overlooking the inlet and the gun emplacements up there, ceasing bombardment at the last second.
“If enough emplacements get taken out, and if the bad guys don’t have anything too nasty mounted in the mouth of the sub pen itself, and if nobody gets shot up too bad, well, then we’ll be inside fast and kicking butt. If it doesn’t break our way, though, we’ll be trapped outside in a killing ground with no speed and no room to maneuver. We’re pretty much going to be massacred. Roll the dice, sir.”
“So it would appear.”
“Sir,” Christine Rendino said, forcing the words past the dryness in her throat, “there is another factor that must be considered: The task force is being kept under continuous surveillance by an Indonesian war ship. In all probability, every move we make is being relayed directly to Harconan. If we move against the pirate base at Crab’s Claw, or if we so much as start to close the range with the New Guinea coast, he’s going to know about it.”
The members of the operations group awaited the call from their commander. Elliot MacIntyre sat with his eyes closed and his forehead resting against his steepled hands. To Christine Rendino, even though the admiral sat in the very midst of his officers, an aura of isolation, of aloneness, surrounded the man.
She found a tremor threatening to ripple through her. Beneath the shield of the table, Tran’s steadying hand rested lightly on her thigh.
MacIntyre looked up. “All right. Here’s how it stands. Harconan is probably preparing to deliver the captured INDASAT to his buyers, and he wants us out of the way. We have roughly twenty-three hours before we hit the deadline he’s given us. After that, if the task force does not withdraw from the Indonesian archipelago, Captain Garrett, in theory, will be killed.”
MacIntyre lifted his head. Christine found the bleakness on his expression terrifying. “Ladies and gentlemen, when I discuss these developments with our superiors tonight, I intend to state in the strongest possible terms that this task force must not retreat. There will be no precedent set for the United States Navy to yield one inch, one millimeter, of the free oceans of the world to any criminal or tyrant, for any reason. I believe Amanda Garrett would approve of this policy and sentiment.”
MacIntyre came to his feet, his hands braced on the tabletop, “With that policy set, let’s investigate ways to get Captain Garrett back—alive. Return to your respective staff and start working the problem. “Work it until you come up with some answers! There will be another 0 group at oh-six-hundred tomorrow morning. I want an assault plan to crack Crab’s Claw. This is a blank-check operation, ladies and gentleman, no holds barred! Feel free to think and fight as dirty as you please. If you come up with something too outrageous, we’ll do it UNODUR and tell the bean counters in D.C. about it afterwards!”
Task Force Commander’s Quarters,
USS Evans F. Carlson
0330 Hours, Zone Time: August 24, 2008
Admiral Elliot MacIntyre paced the length of the office cabin and back, a path he’d repeated a good hundred times or more already that night. He had come to this cabin to think. This had seemed the place for it. As Amanda Garrett was at the center of this conflict, it seemed right to do his own planning here in the space marked with her lingering aura.
A hundred times also he mentally replayed his conversation with Harconan, those carefully guarded words that implied so much but gave away so little.
Harconan had her. There was no question. Just as there was no doubt he had the INDASAT. They knew where. Even in captivity Amanda had managed to point an arrow dead on at the enemy complex. But the fix on Amanda, on the satellite, and on the proof Harconan had stolen them both, was transitory. Within days, if not hours, it would melt away, leaving them nothing once more. If Harconan was to be stopped, it had to be done now.
MacIntyre had the assets in place to do the job. Also, Harconan could have no idea his security had been breached. The raid itself would provide all the evidence needed to justify the attack and to convict the raja samudra in the eyes of Indonesia and the world.
There was one problem, a problem that should, by rights, be insignificant if not flatly irrelevant to the equation: the life of a single hostage American naval officer. The life of Amanda Lee Garrett.
Harconan’s implication was clear. Take any further action against the Bugis cartel and Amanda’s life was forfeit. Oddly enough, the probable intent of his threat wasn’t to directly shield himself or his cartel; it was merely to force the Sea Fighter Task Force out of his waters so he could move his INDASAT prize safely. Harconan himself had no idea that it served as a double-edged dagger.
MacIntyre paused in his pacing. Why the hell not simply back off? With the departure point known, it would be easy enough to use satellite and drone recon to track the ship carrying the INDASAT to whatever destination Harconan intended. Try for the takeout later, under more controlled circumstances.
MacIntyre grimaced. Nice sophistry, Eddie Mac. Let somebody else make the blood call. The only problem is, we have all of the pieces now! We can end it now! We can move in and take incontrovertible evidence while it’s aboard one of Harconan�
��s own ships. Let this strike window close, and this tactical setup might never come together again.
All that was required was for MacIntyre to say Amanda Lee Garrett had to take her chances like any other member of the United States Armed Forces.
And, to his despair, he found that he couldn’t.
He imagined Amanda standing before him. He could visualize the stark fury in her eyes at even the suggestion the task force back off for her sake. He could hear the angered scorn in her voice and feel the sting of the enraged slap that, difference in rank or not, would have been delivered.
His fists clenched. God damn you, Amanda, I’m not holding back for your sake! I’m holding back for mine! Because I’m an old fool who’s performed the cardinal sin of falling in love with you and I can’t make myself throw your life away!
MacIntyre stood rigid with the biting self-confession.
He loved Amanda Garrett. He’d loved her for some time now, all without a touch of her hand or a solitary kiss or the slightest hint of reciprocation on her part.
He acknowledged all of the clumsy attempts at self-rationalization, the childish anger he had felt when he had seen Amanda with Harconan. His recall of feelings he’d thought lost forever with the death of his wife …
What did the name Amanda mean? Worthy of being loved, wasn’t that it? He had never expected to find anyone like that in his world again. He had told himself he was content with his children and his duty and that was all he needed.
He looked around at the picture of the amber-haired little girl and the toy boat on the cabin bulkhead. That little girl had grown up and had shown him he was a liar.
And suddenly, with the confession, there also came clarity of thought, as if a pressure had been released, allowing a subtle distortion to snap out of his worldview.
He loved Amanda Garrett. Live with it. Work with it. Stop mully-gutsing over the fact, accept it, and get on with your job.
In his mind, Amanda still stood before him, only now she smiled, that wry, knowing smile MacIntyre had come to know and treasure. If I’m giving you problems, Elliot, imagine what I’m doing to Harconan, the poor devil.
MacIntyre’s fists unclenched.
Deliberately, MacIntyre recalled the way Harconan had studied Amanda the times he had seen them together. He considered the ways Harconan had used to gather her in—the way he was keeping her near him now. He imagined how any man might feel having lain beside her even for a single night.
His eyes narrowed and he smiled back at Amanda’s specter, as understanding came.
Execution, my ass! You aren’t a hostage, my dear. You’re a prize!
Turning, MacIntyre crossed to the pitcher of ice water on the cabin sideboard and drank two glasses with deliberate relish. Refreshed, he sank into the chair behind the desk. He started to boot up the computer terminal, then impatiently passed on the notion. Rummaging through a drawer, he found an unused notebook and a pen. Flipping the notebook open, he began to jot down the initial parameters of an operations plan.
MacIntyre grinned as he wrote. He wouldn’t be throwing Amanda’s life away, merely his own career. He found that a trade worth making.
Twenty pages of the notebook had been filled when a light knock sounded on the door. MacIntyre glanced up and found a sunrise flaming in the cabin portholes.
“Enter.”
Christine Rendino entered the office space. Her eyes were reddened with crying and shadowed with sleeplessness, but the new wash khakis she wore were pressed and immaculate, as was the parade rest she assumed as she stood before the desk. For one of the few times MacIntyre could remember, she looked every inch the naval officer.
“Sir,” she said crisply, “request permission to speak freely with the Admiral.”
MacIntyre set his pen aside and nodded. “Granted, Commander.”
Christine moistened her lips. “Sir, I’d like to talk to you about the operations group coming up this morning. There’s a factor that might be a little hard to go into in the open planning session.”
“What factor is that, Chris?”
“It relates to Captain Garrett’s hostage status and how it must not be taken into consideration except as a subject for a rescue operation. I have reason to believe her life may not be as much at risk as Harconan is claiming. However, I also believe that any negotiated release will also be impossible.”
Christine’s stiff-spine discipline began to weaken with the growing intensity of her words. “Admiral, we have to get her out before Harconan can do a vanishing act with her. Once he gets her off New Guinea and out into the ten thousand hiding places he has in the archipelago, we’re never going see her again. For … various reasons, he’s not going to let her go—ever.”
“And that’s your professional assessment, Commander?”
Christine took an unsteady breath. “Yes, sir, it is. My assessment is that Harconan does not intend to release Amanda. For Harconan, there are personal factors involved beyond Amanda’s hostage value. Her life, as she has known it, is going to end if we don’t get her our of there. What happens to her next, whatever you want to call it—captivity, slavery, a forced, bonded relationship, hell, marriage, I don’t know—is not going to be in any kind of her best interests.”
MacIntyre tilted his chair back, studying the intel. “Chris, I think I understand the grounds for your assessment. It so happens I agree with them fully and I’ve already taken them into consideration. There’s just one final question I need answered before we proceed beyond this point. I need it answered by Amanda’s closest friend, and I need to ask it as someone who isn’t her commanding officer.”
Christine smiled faintly. “Understood, Admiral, sir.”
“Think about this one carefully, Chris. What about the possibility that Amanda might want her life, as she and we have known it, to end. Is there any chance she might not want us to get her out?”
Christine looked startled “You mean, like she’s turned? That she might actually want to stay with Harconan?”
“As the saying goes, ‘Could she have been seduced by the dark side of the Force?’ It has to be asked, Chris. And I have to ask it of you.”
The intel looked away. MacIntyre said nothing, giving her a chance to work on it. When she turned back, her mouth was set. “Admiral, for as long as I’ve known Amanda Garrett, the job and her people have always come first and she’s put herself second—her wants, her needs, what’s best for her, all secondary. The thing is, that’s been the way she’s wanted it. Makara Harconan could offer her an awful lot. But it would all be for her and to hell with the rest of the world. Amanda doesn’t work that way. She never has. She never could.”
MacIntyre smiled. “We concur again, Chris. I just wanted to make sure.”
“We’re going in after her, sir? We’re going to get her out?”
“Too damn right we are.” MacIntyre tapped his notepad. “We’re going to collect Amanda and that damn satellite both. And, as your generation puts it, we are going to kick some serious pirate butt while we’re about it.”
Christine looked away again, but only for a few seconds. When she looked back, her eyes were wet. “Sir, can I ask you to do something very irregular for a junior officer.”
“Why not?” MacIntyre mused. “Compared to what we’re going to do, it couldn’t be all that strange.”
“Then stand up a second, sir.”
MacIntyre did, puzzled. Christine circled the desk and slipped her arms around his neck, locking him up in a fierce hug, brushing away a tear on the front of his shirt.
MacIntyre patted her lightly on the back as he would his daughter. “It’s all right, Chris. I understand. Go give the mess steward a call and order us a breakfast. A big one.”
The meal was delivered and eaten at the desk while the intel and the admiral started walking through yet another tactical assessment.
“Beyond our knowledge of the existence of Crab’s Claw, Harconan’s infatuation with Amanda is possibly our one greates
t advantage,” MacIntyre commented, finishing a last piece of toast.
“How’s that work, sir?” Christine inquired.
“It means we’re guaranteed a window of opportunity. While Harconan may be holding Amanda prisoner, we likely don’t have a sword-of Damocles scenario. She’s probably not going to be sitting there wired to five pounds of Semtex. No doubt Harconan will be quite willing to use her as a shield and a bargaining chip for his own survival, but her death is not going to be ordered casually or automatically in the advent of an attack. I’ll give him that much. We can exploit this if we can get a large enough force inside his base fast enough.”
“Fa’ sure, that’s going to be the trick, Admiral,” Christine said, setting aside her coffee cup. “The Japanese knew what they were doing when they dug in at Crab Claw. I’ve been networking with the unit tactical groups all night, and so far no one’s been able to come up with a valid concept for a fast entry.”
“I have.” MacIntyre ran a blunt fingertip along the curving reach of water between the blades of the claw. “The frontal assault through the inlet.”
“Uh, sir, even Steamer Lane is real iffy on that one, and usually he’s sure his Sea Fighters can beat the world. To make that frontal assault work, we’d have to stand off and really rake the place to suppress the defenses. Everyone agrees that would be too slow for a hostage takedown. Amanda would have a kris at her throat by the time we could get in there.”
“Not necessarily. I think we can make this thing work. We just have to invoke one of Amanda’s pet doctrines. We have to turn our enemy’s advantages back against him.”
MacIntyre rose from behind the desk and paced out into the office space, his thumbs hooked into the corners of his pants pockets. “For example, the Japanese fortifications. Now, the safe assumption is that Harconan’s core personnel, the INDASAT, and Amanda are all underground in the sub pen’s tunnel and bunker complex, right?”
Christine considered for a moment. “Yeah, I’d say so. That would give them both maximum concealment and the most livable environment for a non-New Guinea native.”
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