110 Miles North-Northeast of the Sunda Strait
1645 Hours, Zone Time: August 14, 2008
In the year 1992, one of the most remarkable arms sales in history took place.
Following the collapse of the USSR and the reunification of Germany, the united German government inherited a massive stock of Soviet and Warsaw Pact armaments from the former East Germany. Urgently needing funds to help refurbish its prostrate ex-Communist eastern territories, Germany placed these unneeded weapons on the world market.
Indonesia, in turn, urgently needed seapower to defend and bind together its scattered archipelago territories. Taking advantage of this mammoth national garage sale, they purchased almost the entire East German navy, lock, stock, and barrel.
The Parchim-class frigate Wolf One, now orbited, had been part of that bulk buy of military might. Much had been changed, though, since the angular 250-foot warship had cruised the chill waters of the Baltic. Leaning out of the helicopter’s side hatch, Amanda studied the modifications made to the frigate’s weapons package with an intent, professional eye.
The old 30mm point defense mount and the two twelve-tube RBU antisubmarine mortars were gone from the forward gun deck, replaced by a Bofors modular 57mm cannon and by the angled launch cells of a quartet of Exocet antishipping missiles.
Triple sets of Bofors Type 43 torpedo tubes were carried amidships, while back aft, the old Russian Twin 57 and the SA-6 Grail launcher had been replaced by a second modular Swedish autocannon and a French Mistral SAM quad mount.
Jane’s also indicated new Korean medium-speed diesels in the Parchim’s engine room, and a full Japanese electronics refit. Over its series of rebuilds and updates, this old Warsaw Pact subchaser had evolved into a fairly nasty little surface warfare platform, one that was paying far too much attention to Amanda’s task force flagship for comfort.
Following the Piskov incident, the Duke had gone evasive, running first south and then cast down the length of Java. Another night and day had been spent lurking off the Lombok and Atla straits on the off chance that one last pirate raider might not have gotten the word.
When one had obliged, CLA 79 had slipped through into the Java Sea and made herself apparent to the world once more, dropping her stealth and EMCON shields. Turning west again, she steamed to rejoin the Carlson, en route eastbound from Singapore.
Two hours prior, with Amanda Garrett onboard and with extended range ferry tanks clipped to her hardpoints, Wolf One had departed the Cunningham to make an early rendezvous with the Sea Fighter base ship.
Upon arrival at the Carlson’s position Amanda had found that the LPD was not alone.
Cobra circled back for another pass over the Indonesian warship, and an officer, possibly the frigate’s captain, stepped out onto the bridge wing. Clad in tropic whites, he stared up defiantly at the helicopter. Amanda met his gaze for a moment, wishing there were such a thing as mental telepathy.
“Okay, Cobra,” she said into her lip mike. “I’ve had my look-around. Put us down on the Carlson.”
“Doin’ it.”
Three minutes later the Super Huey settled onto the LPD’s flight deck.
“Home, Captain,” Richardson called back from the pilot’s seat, as he and his copilot commenced the aircraft power-down. “Never mind about your gear. My people will get it up to your cabin.”
“Thank you, and thanks for the lift and the good work. You and the Wolves didn’t take long in proving yourselves.”
“No strain, ma’am. Just give us something to shoot at every now and again and we’re happy.”
Leaving her cranial and lifejacket with the helo’s crew chief, Amanda disembarked. Heading forward to the superstructure, she found herself noting the slower, more deliberate pitch and roll of the larger ship, so different than the Duke’s decisive slice through the incoming rollers.
Admiral MacIntyre and Christine Rendino awaited her inside the open hangar bay doors, along with Captain Carberry and a handsome, intense Asian man in civilian clothes. He stood by impassively as Amanda honored the colors aft and exchanged salutes.
Admiral MacIntyre made the introductions. “Captain Garrett, this is Inspector Nguyen Tran of the Singapore National Police. He’s the guide Miss Rendino promised us.”
Amanda extended her hand and found it gripped in a solid western handshake. “I’m pleased to have you aboard, Inspector. We’ll be needing your help.”
“And I am pleased to be able to assist in this matter.” The inspector’s voice was deep, with a trace of the old formal British accent. “I am at your disposal.”
“Uh, his presence aboard is also not known by his government or acknowledged by ours,” Christine added. “The inspector’s sort of the little man who wasn’t there just now.”
“He won’t be alone in that status for long.” Amanda glanced at Commander Carberry. “Commander, later this afternoon you’ll be having a Seahawk coming in from the Cunningham. It will be carrying our… VIP passengers. Given the nosy Parker we have in the neighborhood, I suggest we do not unload said VIPs on the open flight deck. Bring the helo into the hangar and get the doors secured before disembarking them.”
“Understood, Captain,” Carberry replied. “As per Commander Rendino’s instructions, ship’s security has a holding area prepared.”
“Very good. We can conduct the interrogations here aboard the Carlson a lot better than we can aboard the Duke. What we don’t need at this juncture is for the Indonesian government to learn we’re holding some of their citizens incommunicado, pirates or not.”
“Not a problem, ma’am. By your leave, I’ll make arrangements with my AIRBOSS.”
“Carry on.”
The rotund little officer strode briskly away, and Amanda turned back to the gray hull and snowy bow wave loitering beyond the LPD’s wake. “And speaking of things we don’t need, what’s the word on our little puppy dog back there. What are the Indonesians up to?”
MacIntyre scowled and tilted his uniform cap back. “We’re not exactly sure. This young sailor-me-lad picked us up as we cleared Singapore and he’s been shadowing ever since. Inspector Tran has already developed one unpleasant theory about him.”
“Which is, Inspector?”
“The piracy cartel has ordered their purchased officers within the Indonesian navy to monitor your operations,” Tran replied. “I suspect also to interfere with those operations whenever possible.”
Amanda’s dark brows knit together. “The cartel has enough pull to do that?”
“They do, Captain. The proof follows behind us. Perhaps the greater question is, do they have enough ‘pull,’ as you say, to instigate the launching of an outright attack.”
“Essentially it has been a search for a series of convergent factors,” Tran stated to his small audience. He, Christine Rendino, Admiral MacIntyre, and the newly arrived Amanda Garrett had withdrawn to the Carlson’s wardroom. With his battered briefcase sitting before him on the tabletop, Tran began the presentation he had given so often in futility. “As it came clear a dedicated and effective support infrastructure was being developed for pirate operations in the archipelago, it also became dear certain specific elements must be involved.”
“A very sophisticated fencing and money-laundering operation, for one,” Captain Garrett commented. Frowning absently, she crossed to the miniature palm tree sitting in the corner of the compartment. Sinking to one knee, she tested the soil in its planter with a fingertip. “Pirating a high-value cargo is an act of futility unless you also have a secure method in place for reselling it on the world market and accounting for the money gained from it.”