“NAVSPECFORCE,” Carberry murmured in puzzlement. “Captain, are we expecting a rendezvous with anyone out here?”
Amanda shook her head, frowning. “I certainly wasn’t.”
The SO tilted her head again. “CIC reports Contact Able has established voice radio communications. The pilot identifies his aircraft as an Israeli Air Force CH-53 operating under their special operations executive. He states he has a VIP passenger aboard for us and he’s requesting approach and landing clearance.”
“That would explain the wave hugging and the EMCON,” Hiro commented from the overhead screen. “An Israeli special-ops helicopter operating alone off the Syrian coast wouldn’t want to be obvious.”
Carberry stared balefully down at the target hack on the table display. “But what would one of our people be doing trying to come aboard like this?”
Amanda shook her head. “Gentlemen. I haven’t got an answer for you, but I intend to get some. Commander Carberry, notify your AIRBOSS that the Israeli is cleared for landing. Put your ship across the wind and stand by to recover aircraft.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Carberry lifted his voice: “Watch officer! Aviation stations! Clear the helipads and lay to all aircraft-handling details. Inform the tactical air control center they are to bring that helo aboard on the double!”
“Shall we secure the task force from general quarters as well, ma’am?” Hiro’s screen-filtered voice inquired.
“No… not yet, Ken. Cease targeting designation but keep the group at battle stations. I want to find out a little more before we stand down.”
The LPD’s commodious flight deck, capable of handling half a dozen VTOL aircraft simultaneously, took up the full rear third of the Carlson’s topside length. Turning ponderously, the big amphib put the prevailing wind across deck at the prescribed forty-five-degree angle for a helicopter approach. Night vision-filtered strobe lights began to pulse at the corners of the helipad, beckoning the newcomer aboard.
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;”