“Jesus! You mean it could happen again?”
Amanda shrugged. “I gather there’s no reason it couldn’t.”
“Uh, Skipper,” Stone asked carefully, “just where is this Krakatau place anyhow?”
Amanda pointed off the Cunningham’s starboard bow. The reflection trail from the sinking moon silhouetted a gaunt basaltic cone rising from the center of Sunda Strait, multiple steam plumes trailing from its jagged crest.
“Right over there.”
Inside the Southern Approaches to the Sunda Strait
0100 Hours, Zone Time: August 11, 2008
Javanese dangdut pop music flowed from the speaker of the cheap tape player, the softly wailing vocal counterpointing the heavy drum rhythm. The only other sound in the night was the thump and creak of the rafted motor launches as they butted together in the low swells. Aboard the small craft, the members of the Bugis raider party each found his own way of working off his pre-assault tensions.
The younger men checked and rechecked their weapons, jacking actions open and shut, thumbing dip-spring tensions, and giving knife edges a final unneeded honing. The older men, the veterans, their arms long before made ready, sat in the darkness puffing clove kretek cigarettes. Some studied the distant city skyglow over Balembeng on the southern tip of Sumatra, remembering past raids and past glories. Others lay across the boat thwarts and gazed up at the mariner’s stars as their ancestors had done for a thousand years.
Hayam Mangkurat, the raid leader and prizemaster, sat in the stern of the lead boat and lifted a set of powerful Korean-made binoculars to his eyes and studied the running lights of the approaching freighter.
This one was nervous. It had veered sharply to the westward upon exiting from the Selat Sunda, leaving the standard shipping lanes. It was steaming hard now, hastening for the safety of the open ocean.
This captain had evaded interception twice before using these tactics, but now he had used them once too often. The eyes of the raja samudra were wide. Before Mangkurat’s clan had sailed on this raid, the sea king’s agents had whispered to them not only secrets of the freighter’s cargo but of the course it would sail and where best the strike could be made.
Carefully, Mangkurat set the binoculars aside. After a lifetime at sea and a quarter century of raiding, his night vision was still keen and his sailor’s judgment still solid. Still, it was easier to use the binoculars.
Much else was easier since the coming of the raja samudra. When he had sailed as a boy on his first raid, Mangkurat had carried nothing but a salt-rusted parang. Now there was a powerful new automatic pistol at his belt. There were new engines for the boats as well, and radios to link them together. There was food and medicine and other such luxuries for the village and money to buy peace from the polisi and military and respect from the Javanese politicians.
Most importantly, there was knowledge. Knowledge of which big ships have cargo worth claiming, and of where it could be sold for a decent profit. The sea king took his share, but the share was just for the return.
Mangkurat lifted the night glasses again. The target was holding its course and standing in closer steadily. He could make out the flash of white foam at the base of its cutwater now.
Could anything be gained by waiting further? No, it was time.
“Ayo!”
The play of the dangdut terminated abruptly. Mooring lines were cast off and the boats were shoved apart. Canvas covers were peeled back from the machine guns in the bows, and cartridge belts gleamed brassily. Electric starters whined and the primed and pre-warmed outboard engines snarled to life.
Southern Approaches to the Sunda Strait
0111 Hours, Zone Time: August 11, 2008
They stood in her dreams as they often did when action was in the offing: Erikson, Chief Tehoa, Snowy Banks, Fry Guy, Danna, the Marines from the decks of the Bajara. Telling her that another reckoning loomed. Speaking no recrimination, but reminding her of the price to be paid. Always reminding her…
Amanda’s eyes opened and she looked into the blue-lit dimness of the cramped two-berth cabin. There was a momentary disorientation. She was back aboard the Duke, but these weren’t her quarters.
Full recall came swiftly. She was an outsider aboard the Cunningham now, and the captain’s suite belonged to Ken Hiro. After a long evening’s wait for action, she had gone below to the transients’ quarters assigned to her for a few hours of sleep.
Yet, what had brought her awake? What was happening with the ship? Maybe the Duke was no longer her personal command, but she still knew the feel of the cruiser down to the last pump resonance and plate vibration. Reaching down from her bunk, Amanda pressed her hand flat against the deck.
The power rooms were spooling up. The cruiser had gone to all ahead full and was coming hard about. Amanda could feel the lean of the hull. She was out of her berth and pulling on her slacks as the call to general quarters sounded.
“Battle stations, Aviation! All hands, stand by to launch aircraft! All aircrews and aircraft handling details lay to, on the double! Marine boarding detail, stand by to embark! All stations expedite! This is not a drill! I say again, this is not a drill!”
The cabin phone buzzed and Amanda snatched it from its cradle. “Go. Ken.” She didn’t have to ask who would be on the other end of the circuit.
“We’ve got one, Captain. The Russian RO/RO Piskov is reporting she is under pirate attack and is being boarded at this time. She is requesting assistance.”
“Whereaway?”
“In the Sunda approaches, fifty-four miles southwest of our current position. The Piskov reports she is taking fire from four Boghammer-type gunboats. As per the plan of engagement, we have gone to flank speed and are closing the range. Gunships and boarding helos are prepping to launch. Do you have further orders at this time, ma’am?”
“Very good, Captain Hiro.” Amanda wedged the phone between her head and shoulder as she fumbled the buttons of her shirt closed. “Contact Global Hawk control and have them commence an expanding concentric search around the Piskov’s location. Those Bogs probably have a mother ship nearby. I want it spotted and tracked. Also, jam the Piskov’s distress call.”
“Say again. ma’am?”
“You heard me, Ken. Jam the Russians’ transmissions. Broad spectrum and full power. Take down all communications in this area. I don’t want anyone else showing up for the party.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
“And notify Commander Richardson he’ll be having a ride-along.”
“Aye, aye.”
She slammed the phone back into its cradle and reached for the equipment racked up beside the cabin door. First the pistol belt with its Navy Mark 4 survival knife, its clip pouches and the obsolete leather holster carrying the MEU Model .45 automatic. Then the Model 1-C combined flotation and flak vest, studded with survival gear. A touch at her throat made sure her dogtags were in place, and she was ready to face the night.
Topside, a warm gale whipped across the Cunningham’s decks as she gained way, the sea roaring in her wake as it boiled under the thrust of her hard-driving propellers.
On the helipad, aviation hands peeled the RAM shrouds back from the two pre-spotted Seawolf Hueys. Rotors deployed for flight and dim blue-green instrument lights snapped on as flight crews raced through preflight checklists.