Lo made no reference to notes or other documentation during his quiet-voiced recital. Not only did he not require such props, but none of Harconan’s “special consideration” business was ever committed to hard copy.
Harconan was not displeased with the report. He’d had his doubts about the Poles and Czechs making a full commitment. Too many strong economic ties with the U.S., and they were trying for their full membership in the European Union this year. The Japanese weren’t risk-takers either. and the Russian corporates still lacked the monetary muscle to play out in the deep waters. Still, three out of the six was sufficient.
Harconan freshened the coffee in his cup. “You may tell Falaud, Yan Song, and Marutt to dispatch their teams. Inquire about any special equipment they may desire and arrange for their reception and transportation to the holding site. For Mittel Europa, hold out for at least another half million. They’re good for it. Accept the Genom offer as it stands.
“As for the Russians, as usual, they’re trying to get something for nothing. Tell them we have shown them adequate bona fides; we have a property of value equal to what we are asking. They have our terms. They remain fixed. They can either accept them or not.”
Lo inclined his head. “Very good, sir. I concur on all points. This now brings us to our point of concern.”
“Which is?”
“A possible… radical reaction by the United States to our acquisition of their industrial satellite.”
“Radical, Lo?”
Lan Lo’s old ivory features assumed the total neutrality he reserved for what he felt were truly critical matters “Our business agent in Port Said reports a U.S. naval task force passed through the Suez Canal last night on a priority scheduling. Although only two vessels were involved, both were powerful special operations units and both were proceeding eastbound into the Indian Ocean. No eventual port of destination was listed with either the canal authorities or the Egyptian government.
“By accessing various naval affairs sites on the global Internet, we have learned this was not a planned redeployment. These vessels were scheduled to remain in the Mediterranean for at least another two months. An examination of affairs within the Indian Ocean basin and Pacific Rim indicates no other difficulty involving U.S. interests that would warrant such a sudden shifting of military power at this time. My presumption would be that this is a reactive event targeted against our operations.”
Harconan nodded slowly, taking a sip from the potent black brew in his cup. “What about our contacts in Singapore and Jakarta, Lo? What do they have on U.S. naval intentions?”
“They have nothing, sir,” the Chinese executive replied. “Which leads me to two other possible presumptions. Firstly, that my presumption is wrong and that the Americans are bound elsewhere for other duties, or…”
Harconan’s dark eyes narrowed. “… or they have grown frustrated with the applied ineffectualism of the Indonesian government over their lost satellite and they intend to take matters into their own hands.”
“Quite so, sir. A definite point of concern.”
“That depends, Lo. That depends greatly on who they’ve sent out to hunt us.”
“Yet another point of concern, sir. The involved units constitute what is called the Sea Fighter Task Force by the American navy. They are specialists in small craft and coastal operations and are held responsible for the successful United Nations resolution of the Guinea-West African Union conflict of last year. I have briefly discussed this task force with our people knowledgeable in military affairs. They assure me it is most formidable in its capabilities. Likewise in its leadership.”
Harconan slowly lifted his cup to his lips again, his eyes set in the middle distance but his internal vision focused elsewhere. Things read: articles in popular magazines and international military journals. Things heard: whispered stories told by government officials in Taipei and Singapore. Things seen: a global-net television broadcast from the UN General Assembly and a striking amber-haired woman in a naval officer’s uniform, speaking with a quiet and level-eyed conviction.
“Captain Amanda Lee Garrett,” he said softly.
“Indeed, sir. A very definite point of concern.”
Red Sea, Northeast of Port Sudan
0501 Hours, Zone Time: July 29, 2008
The desert and the sea held their breath.
In moments the cruel sun would lift above the horizon to brand the earth for another day. The winds would rise with it, staining the sky with the restless migration of the sands between the Arabian Peninsula and the Horn of Africa.
For this moment though, a cool and perfect stillness held sway. The dark sapphire bowl of the heavens gleamed with the last few fading stars. The dark velvet hills of Saud defined the eastern horizon and the sea had the glossy smoothness of poured oil.
The stems of the two great gray warships slit open the waters like sword blades cutting silk, their bow waves radiating outward and back in foamless geometric perfection. In the stillness the breathy whine of gas turbines and the humming rumble of maritime diesels could be heard for a distance of ten miles. Closer, a faint whisper of music could be heard.
No class of ship built for the United States Navy had ever been designed with as much integral living space for the individual crewperson as the San Antonio-class LPD. Yet, privacy remained at a premium. One of the few places where it might be found was the short stretch of weatherdeck at the rear of the superstructure.
Located between the two aft RAM launchers and shielded from the signals bridge by the mast arrays and a small systems shack, an individual might find a degree of solitude here for a time. Amanda had discovered this shortly after coming aboard the Carlson, and she had made it clear that this space was hers alone during the dawn hour of all fair-weather mornings. When she danced, she generally preferred not to have an audience.
This day, there was an exception.
The theme issuing from the portable CD player lifted from broken despair to a somber but rising end movement that called for rebuilding and revenge. Amanda pursued the music with her body, flowing from pirouette to pirouette passé to relevé, her mind free for a few precious moments from the responsibilities of command.
The piece swelled and lifted to its conclusion and Amanda followed it, a fist stabbing into the sky. Then the player spun into silence and she sank to one knee on the dojo pad, the music and the movement lingering for a few moments more in her mind. Then, with deliberation, she snapped the spell, opening her eyes and taking a deep deliberate breath.
“That was beautiful,” Christine commented from where she sat at the edge of the mat. “What was that music anyway? I didn’t recognize it.”
“It’s something I’ve been experimenting with.” Amanda rose to her feet and took another deep breath. “‘The Pacific Boils Over’ by Richard Rodgers. It’s the Pearl Harbor theme from Victory at Sea.”
“I should have known.” Christine held out a chilled bottle of Evian water. “Just anybody could do Swan Lake.”
“Well, nobody has done anything with it, and it’s a pity.” Amanda took a long sip from the bottle, then sluiced the remainder of the cool fluid over her limbs and maroon leotard, relishing the refreshing chill as evaporation explosively leached the moisture away. “The Victory sound track is the world’s longest and most complex symphony. There are some terrific dance movements in there if someone would use them.”