Before he could speak into the handset, however, an odd scuffling thud sounded from the starboard bridge wing, a similar disturbance starting to port an instant later. Night-colored figures rushed the wheelhouse from either side, silhouetted in the back glow from the CRT screens. Grunts, curses, and muffled exclamations followed, along with the smacking of leather-sheathed fists striking blows.
Kodi opened his mouth to yell just as a Taser pistol hissed. He felt the twin metal fangs of the stunner electrodes bite through his shirt, then he lost awareness of the proceedings.
A few feet aft, Captain Basry listened to a peculiar jumble of sounds issuing from the interphone. “Kodi … Kodi … Bridge, what’s going on?” he demanded. “Bridge … ? Bridge?”
The interphone connection broke with a click.
Swinging his feet to the deck, Basry started for the wheelhouse, not bothering to stuff his feet into his shoes. Flinging the door of his sea cabin open, he found the doorframe completely filled by a towering nightmare in black battle harness.
“Hello,” it said. Then a massive fist engulfed the front of Basry’s singlet, and he was yanked into the corridor.
Stone Quillain deposited the comatose Indonesian captain in an out of-the-way corner of the bridge.
Lieutenant Labelle Nichols stood at the wheel over the body of the helmsman. “Ship is under control and answering,” she reported crisply. “Engine control is on the bridge and responding.”
“Radio shack and chartrooms secure as well, sir,” another Special Boat crewman added. “All systems intact and functional, including the encryption station. The day’s codes appear to still be set and valid.”
Stone nodded approvingly. “All right. Looking good, ladies and gentlemen. ’Belle, stand by to put her across the wind. Mr. Tran, how are you coming?”
Tran looked up from the interphone deck. “I believe I have this set for what you would call the 1-MC, Captain.”
“’Belle, you found the ship’s alarm board?”
She pointed to a row of buttons on the overhead. “General quarters, fire, general alarm, and collision. Which one should we use?”
Stone shrugged. “Hell, why not all of ’em.” He keyed the command circuit on his Leprechaun transceiver. “Wave Two, Wave Two. This is Wave One. Bridge is secure. All hands in position. Situation is nominal. Ready to execute flush and ready to bring you aboard.”
“Understood, Wave One,” Admiral Maclntyre’s voice sounded over the thudding of helicopter rotors. “Proceed.”
“Understood. Proceeding.” Stone switched back to Tactical. “All elements mask up! Mask up and stand by!”
As he listened for the acknowledging clicks over the tactical net, he doffed his K-Pot helmet and pulled his antigas hood out of a harness pouch, drawing it on over his head. All of the other boarders did likewise, except for Tran, who would have need of a free and unmuffled voice for a short time longer.
With no further reason to delay and many not to, Stone touched the tactical Transmit key once more. “All boarder elements, execute flush now!”
Up and down the length of the Parchim-class frigate, a storm of hand grenades were hurled through doors, down hatches, and into ventilators as fast as the pins could be pulled, resulting in a veritable barrage of flash bangs, smoke, and riot gas.
The flashbangs had the first effect: A fusillade of explosions reverberated through the length of the frigate’s hull, like firecrackers dropped into an oil drum, jarring the watch-standers at their stations and startling awake the sleepers in the bunk rooms. Clouds of choking vapor poured into the interior spaces at almost the same moment.
Stone aimed a finger at Nichols and she reached up and ran a thumb down the row of alarm buttons. A cacophony of jangling bells and shrieking Klaxons joined in the confusion. Unsatisfied with the chaos she had unleashed, the SB woman hauled down on the cord for the ship’s air horns, adding its hoarse bellow to the chaos.
Stone aimed his finger at Tran. The Inspector held down the button on the interphone handset and yelled into the receiver in Bahasa Indonesia: “Fire in the magazines! Fire! Fire! All hands! Abandon ship! I say again, abandon ship! This is not a drill! This is not drill!”
With the steel around them ringing with detonations and the air inside the hull solid with eye- and lung-searing smoke, the Sutanto’s crew was willing to take the statement at face value.
Topside, the frigate turned across the wind. The gas streaming from her deck hatches served as a windsock for the CH-60 transport helos moving in over her bow and stern. Held steady by the sure hand of Labelle Nichols. the frigate received the fastropes from the hovering Ocean hawks, followed by a double stream of Marine reinforcements.
There was nothing in the way of active resistance. Unarmed, stunned and half blinded, the majority of the Indonesians at first thought the boarders were rescuers rather than invaders. Deftly separating the officers and CPOs from the enlisted personnel, the Americans prolonged the fiction for as long as they could. Corpsmen began washing out eyes and treating the cuts and bruises incurred from the panicked evacuation topside.
In the meantime gas-masked Marines began a systematic compartment-by-compartment search belowdecks for holdouts.
“Ship’s arsenal secure, Bridge. Weapons racks and ammo stores are still locked. It appears all arms accounted for.”
“Officers’ country clear.”
“Berthing spaces clear for’rard.”
“Main engine rooms secure. Plant appears to be intact and functioning, but we could do with a real black gang down here, along with somebody who can translate the control markings.”
“Stand fast, Engine Room. Mr. Tran is on his way down and we have Wave Three coming aboard now. All hands! Open all deck hatches and scuttles! Ventilate the ship!”
The frigate had a small helipad aft, not large enough to handle a full size Oceanhawk, but adequate for the skids of a Seawolf Super Huey. Again, Admiral MacIntyre acknowledged Amanda Garrett’s wisdom in her choice of aircraft.
Ducking low, he and half a dozen volunteer ratings scuttled out from under the turning rotor arc of the UH-1Y. Once they were clear, Marine guards herded the first of the Indonesian navy personnel to the doors of the idling helicopter. The Sutanto’s new crew was shuttling aboard while her old one was bound for temporary incarceration aboard the Carlson.
Stone Quillain, the camou paint sketchily wiped from his face, awaited the admiral at the aft end of the deckhouse.
“Ship’s status, Stone?”
The leatherneck grinned. “We got her, sir. Ship’s in one piece and so’s the crew. Pretty much, anyway.”
“Well done. I’ll see you and your men get a commendation.” Then MacIntyre added wryly, “In whatever navy we may end up serving in.”
The first Seawolf lifted off and the second came in, discharging its passengers. The next cluster of Indonesians was urged forward, numbered among them a wild-eyed man in an officer’s khaki pants and a white T shirt. He noticed the stars on the shoulder boards of Maclntyre’s Windcheater.
“I protest,” he yelled over the rotor roar. Lunging to stand in front of the admiral, he raged on: “This is my ship! This is illegal seizure! Piracy! This is against all international law!”
“I agree with you, Captain,” MacIntyre replied, tilting his cap back. “This is indeed most irregular on our part. I apologize to you and your crew and I am certain further reparations will be made by my government, both to you personally and to the Indonesian navy. However, I regret necessity mandates that we … acquire your vessel for a time. I also regret we likely will not be able to return it to you in pristine condition. Again, please accept my apology.”
Captain Basry lost track of his shipmaster’s English in his fury, and his follow-up volley of expletives was lost in the lack of translation. The Marine guard standing behind the Indonesian officer lightly bumped him with the action of his SABR, steering him on toward the waiting Huey.
“Nice try, sir,” Stone commented, �
��but I don’t think that gentleman is really goin’ to be too good a sport about this.”
MacIntyre shrugged. “Well, some people are like that. I’ll be on the bridge if you need me.”
By 0100 hours, the crew transfer was complete. With American-born engineers at her Korean-made diesels, the Sutanto was ready to get under way as a unit of the Sea Fighter Task Force. In addition to her prize crew, the Parchim carried the entire 1st Marine Raider Company crowded below her decks. The last cross-decking payloads had consisted of several pallets of arms and ammunition, the boarding party swapping out their nonlethal weaponry ammunition for their more traditional tools of war.
“Bridge, aye,” MacIntyre said, scooping the buzzing interphone out of its cradle.
“This is the radio shack, sir, Chief Haldiman. We have our commogear installed and operational. We have SINCGARS and satphone links established with the rest of the task force.”
“Very good, Chief. How are you coming with the Indonesian systems?”
“No sweat, sir. It’s all over-the-counter stuff we downloaded manuals for. Lieutenant Selkirk has the encryption gear sorted out and he says the code keys in the system are good for at least the next twenty hours. We’ve sent out our first phony position report and got a routine acknowledgment from Jakarta Fleet HQ. As far as they’re concerned, we’re still heading south on course for Darwin.”
“Excellent, Chief.”
“Captain Carberry and Captain Hiro both report boats, aircraft, and prisoners secure and that they are ready in all aspects to get under way. Drone and radar search indicates we have clear water out to eight miles on all bearings. Awaiting orders, sir.”
“Stand by.” Eddie Mac glanced at the statuesque black woman who still held sway at the helm station. “How about it, Exec? Ship’s status?”
“Ship is secured for sea. Engine room reports ready to answer all bells.” Her smile flashed white in the darkness of the wheelhouse. “This old kraut can’s a bit creaky in the knees, but she’ll get us there.”
“Then let’s proceed, Lieutenant. We have business on the New Guinea coast. All engines, ahead full. Make your course zero nine four ”
“Yes, sir. All engines, ahead full. Making turns for twenty-six knots.”
“Chief Haldiman, inform the task group to form up on us. Right echelon at two-thousand-meter intervals”
“Aye, aye, sir. Right echelon at two thousand.”
MacIntyre slapped the phone to its cradle. By God, it felt good to be commanding a ship again instead of a political entity. Tugging his ratty commander’s cap lower over his eyes, he leaned back against the bulk head, savoring the growing vibration of the Sutanto’s propellers.
“Admiral, can I ask you a question?” Nichols asked from the helm station.
“Of course, Miss Nichols. What about?”
“Our flag, sir. We’re running this tub, so she shouldn’t be operating under Indonesian colors anymore. But she’s not a commissioned vessel of the United States Navy, so we can’t officially fly the stars and stripes either. But shouldn’t we have some kind of battle flag if we’re going into a fight tomorrow?”
“Valid points, I suppose, Lieutenant,” MacIntyre replied, wondering where this conversation was heading. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“Uh, yes, sir, the subject did come up within the Special Boat Detachment and we’d like to put forward a proposal. Higbee, show the admiral.”
An SB hand dug a mass of dark cloth out of a flag bag and passed it to MacIntyre. The admiral unfolded it, trying to make out the design in the dimness. When he did, his bellow of laughter made the wheel house ring.
“Excellent choice, Lieutenant. My compliments to you and to the detachment: It suits our purposes perfectly. Have it run up to the main truck immediately.”
Three warships raced on, closing the range with the coast of New Guinea, the light of the Southern Cross and a million more tropic stars caught and reflected in the spray of the bow waves. Aboard the lead vessel, the smallest yet at the moment the most critical of the trio, a bundle of black fabric rose jerkily to the head of the latticework mainmast. A lanyard was yanked and the banner streamed in the trade wind, the stark white skull and crossbones grinning into the night.
MV Harconan Flores, Crab’s Claw Cape
0614 Hours, Zone Time: August 25, 2008
Amanda Garrett’s eyes snapped open and she found herself instantly awake and poised for … what? The master’s cabin was dark; the dim, silvery glow of the cavern work lights leaked through the slatted blinds of the portholes, sketching shapes, shadows, and outline, including that of the masculine form lying still on the other side of the bed.
Experimentally she held her breath, listening. There was nothing save the purr of the cabin air conditioner and the more distant mumble of the ship’s auxiliary power plant. That and the occasional muffled voice and metallic transitory of a crewed ship at a moorage.
Nothing was different. Nothing had changed. Yet, Amanda was totally alert and aware, stimulated by the ringing of some subliminal alarm. She recognized the state as a personal call to battle stations, never to be disregarded.
She closed her eyes against the dark and sought for the central node of the warning.
How long had it been since her kidnapping? Five nights. How long since she had painted her message on the surface of the sea? Three nights. Granted that it had worked, how long might it take to be noticed and deciphered? How long would it take the task force to follow it up and pinpoint this base? How long to plan and position for an attack?
She added the hours up in her mind and opened her eyes once more. Today. They would be coming today—soon.
Amanda brushed aside the single sheet covering her nude form. Flowing to her feet, she silently padded the two steps to the porthole. Peering out, she saw only the shadow-streaked cavern wall and wooden pier side with the gun emplacement at its end. A pair of sentries, one Bugis the other Melanesian, paced listlessly in and out of the work-light pools. All was as it had been for her last two days’ imprisonment here.
She was the only one with the warning. When the time came, Amanda knew she must be ready to act. Exactly what she was going to do would depend on circumstances and luck. She had certain ideas, but she would have to see how things broke.
The porthole was located near the foot of Harconan’s bed. As she turned away from the port, her eyes fell naturally on him. She paused, then reached back to the blind, silently parting the lattice with her finger tips. A band of illumination fell across Harconan’s decisive, angular features, softened slightly in sleep.
He was beautiful, a beautiful, wild, and dangerous animal and a deadly risk to the peaceful flocks she had sworn to protect. Thus, she must destroy him.
Yet, they were alike, as the ancestors of the wolf and sheepdog must have once hunted side by side. Amanda knew it, sensed it in the hunger and recklessness he had inspired in her. So different from any other man she had known. Different from the joyful comradeship she’d shared with her last youthful lover. Different from what she would share with that half-visualized ideal she sought for. Different.
And Makara—had he fallen sway to that impossible dangerous draw as well? He must have. Why else was she here? Why else would he keep her at his side this way unless he genuinely believed that the sheepdog could be called out to run with the pack again?
And it could not be, not in any way or manner, save for maybe one.
Amanda slipped under the sheet beside that powerful, long-muscled form. Covering Makara’s body with her own, she brought him fully awake with her mouth on his, her body aching. This time she was the aggressor, urgently demanding her fill, savoring this one last moment of madness.
USS Cunningham, CLA-79, on Buccaneer Station
30 Miles West of Crab’s Claw Cape
0721 Hours, Zone Time: August 25, 2008
“Navicom reports we are on station, sir,” the helmsman said, looking up from his station at the central bridge conso
le. “CIC verifies we have matching coordinates for Firing Station Buccaneer as per the action plan.”
“Very good, Helm,” Commander Ken Hiro replied. “Stop all engines. Initiate active station-keeping. Quartermaster, sound general quarters, bombardment stations!”
Throughout the superstructure and hull, the bawling Klaxons sounded the call to arms. In drill and in reality Hiro had heard them sound many times before aboard the Duke. There was a different tone to them now, though. Before, he had been serving as Amanda Garrett’s executive officer. Now he was Captain, under God, and they were sounding the call to battle under his command.
I wonder if your throat was dry that first time in Drake’s Passage, ma’am, Hiro thought to a presence not at his side. It sure didn’t sound or look like it.
It was that way every time, Ken, every time. Trust your ship. Trust your crew. You’ve got them both ready.
But you’re going to be the one under our guns out there, ma’am.
Ken visualized the ironic lift of a pair of brows. Why do you think I’m glad it’s the Duke doing the job? Carry on, Mr. Hiro.
“Aye, aye, ma’am.” He smiled and whispered the acknowledgment aloud. Turning to the racked combat gear on the rear bridge bulkhead, he took down and donned the combination flak vest and lifejacket and the gray Kevlar helmet with the white-stenciled CAPTAIN on its brow.
Down the long open sweep of the Cunninham’s foredeck, in the forward-most Vertical Launch System array, half a dozen missile silo lurches swung open, big silo hatches, taking up four of the standard bunch cells.
Aft of VLS Array One, in the space taken up by what at one time had been the second of the Duke’s three Vertical Launch Systems, another pair of rectangular hatches retracted, revealing a pair of guide tracks set in slots in the deck. A pair of massive gun barrels slid up the tracks, fixed to fire forward at a shallow angle off the bow, they locked into train with only a couple of feet of muzzle protruding.
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