“What? No surface-to-air missiles?” MacIntyre inquired archly.
Tran held up a pair of fingers. “Two French Mistral shoulder-fired launchers issued to Harconan’s security forces by the Indonesian army as an ‘anti-terrorist’ precaution.”
“I should have guessed.”
Amanda Garrett rose and started to pace slowly around the table, her hands on her hips, her lower lip lightly bitten in thought.
“Excuse me, Captain Garrett,” Tran said apologetically. “But that particular posture you have assumed, the hands on the hips, is considered very insulting by the Indonesians. It’s how their Dutch overseers would stand in the fields back in the colonial days.”
Startled, she dropped her hands to her sides. “Thank you for the tip, Inspector,” she smiled. “If you catch us performing any other local faux pas, please bring it to our attention.”
She picked up one of Harconan’s photographs again, studying it. “This is all very good material, Inspector, but it’s also essentially circumstantial. We’re going to need more hard evidence linking this man and the piracy operations.”
“I regret I can provide none,” Tran replied. “Makara Harconan is a most intelligent and capable individual, and he has built a most formidable machine. One that I, operating alone and in my spare time, have not been able to breach. In my heart, I know he is our pirate king. All my instincts and all available information point in his direction. But the proof you require must be gained through your resources.”
“Then we’d best get about it.” Captain Garrett let the photograph glide back to the tabletop. “Our first possible access point will be the prisoners and hard intelligence we collected from the Piskov attack. Inspector, I trust you’ll be assisting Commander Rendino and our intelligence section with the interrogations and analysis?”
Tran nodded. “Of course, Captain.”
“Thank you.” She shifted her gaze to Christine. “Okay, Chris, I heard the transfer Oceanhawk come in a little bit ago, so your subjects are aboard. Wring ’em out as needed, but don’t damage them. Are we still maintaining track on the pirate mother ships?”
“Fa’ sure, Boss Ma’am. They headed north through the Sunda Strait and are now standing toward western Sulawesi, probably heading for one of the Bugis coastal villages.”
“Excellent. Tonight, before we turn south for Bali, I intend to spin off a Sea Fighter microforce. We’ll pre-position it on the Sulawesi coast with orders to penetrate and recon the pirate base as soon as we can get a fix on it. Our shadower will complicate matters, but I think we can work around him.”
She glanced at MacIntyre. “That is, with your permission, sir?”
A rueful smile cut across Maclntyre’s sea-tanned features. “Micromanagement is a dirty word, Captain. I gave you your job. Get it done. I’ll just sit back in the shade and take the credit.”
“That sounds like a deal, sir,” Amanda Garrett replied, matching smiles. “I think this operation is well under way. What we need next is an approach that can get us closer to this Makara Harconan.”
Maclntyre’s grin faded, and he removed a message flimsy from the pocket of his wash khaki shirt. “Funny thing. I received a communication from our embassy in Jakarta this afternoon. It seems that a local business firm desires to sponsor a goodwill reception for the task force’s senior officers during our port call in Bali. The usual cocktails, light refreshments, and local social and diplomatic elite.”
The admiral held the flimsy up between his fore- and middle fingers. “Makara Limited is extending the invitation.”
Somewhere Aboard the USS Carlson
Zone Time unknown: 2008
Hayam Mangkurat could not say if it was day or night, or how many days or nights might have passed since his capture. The bright electric light in the overhead burned continuously.
The Bugis prizemaster had seen neither the sun nor darkness since his capture aboard the Piskov. He had been moved from captivity on one ship to a second, he was certain of that. There had been the long helicopter flight, and this vessel rode the waves differently than the first.
He had been kept hooded throughout the transfer, and the gray steel walls of this cabin were all but identical to those of the other.
When Mangkurat had regained consciousness aboard the first vessel, he had sworn to himself by the Holy Name of God that he would not be broken. He was a Bugis sea raider, son of a hundred generations of sea raiders and a veteran of forty years’ voyaging. He would place his trust in Allah and keep faith with his clan and the sea king. Beyond his courage and will, he had the promise of the raja samudra himself. “Should you fall into the hands of our enemies, you will be remembered. Keep silent in all things and you will be freed.”
He had steeled himself for what was sure to come: the interrogation, the beating, the demands for information. His people had defied the Dutch, the Japanese, the Communists, the swaggering Javanese polisi. What could these American — at least, he believed they were American— bule do?
But what they did was nothing. His wounds had been treated with care, and he had been placed alone in that first metal room. The mattress on the bunk was comfortable. Sleep would have been easy were it not for the incessant glare of the light in the overhead. There was water to be had at the turn of a tap, and frequently food was brought. Bland fish and rice, but it was plentiful, brought three times a day… he thought.
He wasn’t sure. The timing of the meals never seemed to be the same. The food was never brought at the same time… he didn’t think. Some times he had to wait until his stomach growled. At other times the meals seemed only minutes apart. It was unsettling.
And the big men who brought the food. The men in the green uniforms who wore the black hoods that let only their eyes show. They never lifted a hand against him. They never threatened or questioned. They never spoke a word at all.
There were only the ship sounds. The padding footsteps beyond the locked steel door, the occasional squawk of a muffled voice over a loud speaker, and the whisper of the air in the ventilator ducts that began to sound like a woman’s whisper after a while.
And then they did come for him. Two of the green uniforms. They slipped the hood over his head and they guided him out of the narrow door, one on either side. Mangkurat thought for a moment about fighting, about making a break. But then the hands on his arms tightened as his guards read his mind.
A stumbling walk followed, up steep ladders and over shin-cracking hatch sills. Then the Bugis found himself forced down onto a low metal stool. The hood was whisked away, but Mangkurat saw only more blackness. He could not see his guards, but they were still there. Still close by.
Abruptly, dazzling white light exploded in his face, and Mangkurat’s muscles spasmed in fright. Frantically he tried to drag his cloak of stoicism back around himself. H was Bugis! He was not afraid! They could not break him!
“Siapa nama saudara?” What is your name?
For the first time in days — how many? — he heard a human voice. It came out of the impenetrable shadow beyond the light focused in his eye’s. A man’s voice, quiet and level, the tongue Bahasa Indonesia, spoken with the ease and fluidity of a native.
“What is your name?” the voice repeated.