“Not that my boys are all that likely to need any help,” Quillain murmured.
Amanda lifted an eyebrow at the big Marine. “Be that as it may, I’ve got a hunch we’re going to be needing those assault parties before this show is over.”
“I’m not taking bets on any aspect of this operation,” MacIntyre grunted. “Not until we know a lot more about what we may be facing out there. Until then, Captain, what do you propose as your first move? It’ll take a while for State to get you a clearance for your Indonesian port call. By the way, where do you intend to put in, Jakarta?”
She shook her head. “No, Benoa, on Bali. It’s centralized within the archipelago; it’s quieter and some distance away from the military and governmental centers in western Java. It’s also a resort area, it’s laid-back, good for shore leave and more in line for the image of a friendly port call.”
“How do you want to work the approach?” MacIntyre inquired.
“I’ve been thinking about that.” Setting down her cup, Amanda crossed her arms on the tabletop. “If Chris is correct about this piracy cartel, they have a terrific maritime intelligence-gathering network in place in the major ports of the world. As it’s the gateway to the Suez Canal, that likely includes Port Said. So probably they know we’re en route to Indonesian waters. Shortly after our State Department contacts the Indonesian government about our port call, the cartel will know where we’re going and, theoretically, when we’re going to arrive.”
She leaned forward slightly, golden-hazel eyes intent. “What I intend to do is to use their own intelligence-gathering capacity against them. We’re going to let them know exactly where we are, but then, we’re going to also be somewhere else at the same time.”
“Keep talking,” MacIntyre said slowly.
“To begin, we set an arrival date for Bali as well as a routine replenishment stop at our fleet base in Singapore, both timed to match the time frame for a leisurely routine transit across the Indian Ocean for an LPD. The pirates will know a task force can never move faster than its slowest ship. Both of the task-force ships will be scheduled for the replenishment in Singapore, but only the Carlson will show up.
“Once we clear the mouth of the Red Sea, I intend to cross deck aboard the Cunningham with a Marine boarding platoon and half of the Seawolf gunships. From there, the Duke will detach from the Carlson, go full stealth and EMCON, and conduct a flank-speed sprint across to the East Indies. An at-sea replenishment from the Australian navy would be helpful when we arrive in their waters. After that, we start hunting pirates several days ahead of our listed port call in Singapore.”
Another grin cut across Maclntyre’s craggy features. “Damn, I like it! The cartel will likely be circumspect when they know we’re in their waters, but they might try to squeeze in a last operation or two before we arrive on station.”
“Exactly. The Carlson arriving alone may catch them by surprise with some of their raiders still at sea conducting operations. With a little luck we may be able to grab some prisoners for interrogation, along with some hard intelligence and documentation. It may produce a crack we can slip a crowbar into.”
Stone Quillain growled approvingly. “With the Skipper’s permission, I’d like a piece of that action. My company exec can cover the action here aboard the amphib. It’ll do him good.”
“Welcome aboard, Stone. I’ll be glad to have you running point. This first move’s going to be critical.”
“And also with the Boss Ma’am’s permission,” Christine Rendino added, “I’d like to go on ahead, too, but in a different kind of way.”
“How do you mean, Chris?”
“I want to go ashore with the last Saudi helo this afternoon. From Riyadh, I’d like to fly on to Singapore, but under the table, as a civilian tourist.”
“What’s up?” Amanda inquired.
“I think I may have a lead on what you might call a native guide.”
Indian Ocean
155 Miles Southeast of the Yemeni Headlands
0846 Hours, Zone Time: July 30, 2008
Details of the outfitting had changed, but the feel was the same. The ride of the low-set hull through the waves. The whirring whisper of the air through the ventilation ducts. The neutral warm paint and kerosene scent in the passageways….
Amanda made her way slowly forward through the Cunningham’s superstructure from the helipad, taking the time to savor it all. She had no complaints about her current command, but as any former captain can tell you, there is something very special about that one unique vessel you always remember as “your” ship. At night, her bridge is the one you always return to in your dreams.
Before heading up to officers’ country, she took a moment to stick her head into the wardroom. Here, beyond the freshened outfitting, nothing had changed at all. Her father’s commissioning portrait of the Cunningham still graced the starboard bulkhead beside the entry, while the naval aviator’s wings presented to the ship by her namesake, Admiral Randy “Duke” Cunningham, rested in their glass case to port. No, Ken wouldn’t let that change.
One level up in the superstructure, she dropped her seabag and brief case off in the ship’s minute guest cabin. The Duke’s accommodations didn’t run to flag quarters, and she’d flatly refused to have any of the cruiser’s officers shift living spaces for her.
With that done, she made the familiar climb up the ladder to the bridge level.
“Commodore on the bridge!”
“Stand easy,” she replied by rote; then for a long minute she just stood in the entryway, looking over the shoulders of the helm team seated at the central console and down the long, open stretch of foredeck to where that sharp-tipped bow cut the waves.
She’d briefly been back aboard on other occasions since the shift of command, for planning sessions and tours of inspection. But this was different: This was at sea and not bound to a dock somewhere. Here, she and the ship were both fully alive.
“Welcome aboard, ma’am.” Ken Hiro stood at her shoulder, a Cunningham baseball cap tugged low over his dark eyes. The Japanese-American’s usual reserve was totally shattered by the wide grin on his face.
Amanda quirked an eyebrow at him. “You two make a lovely couple, Ken. I knew it would be a good marriage.”
“The best, ma’am.”
“I’m pleased for you both. Ready to take departure?”
“Give the word.”
“Then make it so, Captain Hiro. Make signal to the Carlson that we are proceeding independently.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Hiro lifted his voice slightly. “Helm, engage Navicom. Select departure heading Easting one on your course presets. Lee helm, all power rooms to fast cruise. All engines ahead two-thirds. Make turns for thirty knots.”
Skilled eyes and hands played across the master console and power pedestal, calling up systems, rolling throttles and propeller controls forward, and verifying responses.
“Sir, Navicom engaged and the ship is tracking on course plot Easting one.”
“Sir, main engines and power rooms are indicating fast cruise. Ship is coming to thirty knots.”
The Duke trembled from her keel up, gaining way with each beat of her twin sets of contra-rotating propellers, and Amanda found herself reaching for a seat-back grab bar to steady herself against the surge of acceleration.
The cruiser’s bow wavered briefly as her autopilots and navigational systems hunted and found the great circle course that would take her across the Indian Ocean. Smoothly she swung to the new heading, the foam V streaming back from her cutwater deepening as she impatiently brushed the waves out of her way.