From the lanai, Harconan watched as his Canadair CL215 Turbo drew a silvery streak of spray across the waveless surface of the strait before lifting into the sky. Angling away to the northwest, it bore the ambassador and his wife back to Jakarta. The running lights of the big twin-engine amphibian were soon lost amid the starblaze of the tropic midnight.
Settling his dinner jacket, the taipan turned and passed through the set of sliding glass doors that led to his commodious den/office.
Stepping forward from the shadows, the Chinese security man silently took up his station in the center of the lanai, facing outward to the sea and standing at a relaxed parade rest. A whisper of a breeze tugged the tail of his light linen sports coat aside, momentarily revealing the butt of a military caliber Beretta automatic pistol.
He was not alone. Beyond the muted circle of illumination cast by the house lights, the outer perimeter guards prowled quietly through the shadows, Steyr assault rifles slung over camouflage-clad shoulders.
Within the office, the airy batik wall hangings and expensive golden rattan furnishings effectively set off the polished teak of the massive centralized desk. Mr. Lan Lo, Makara Limited’s senior business manager and Makara Harconan’s personal aide-de-camp, stood respectfully beside the desk, hands clasped behind his back at a near parade rest, awaiting his employer. The stark white hair of the spare and venerable Chinese contrasted with the dark, well-tailored fabric of his conservatively cut suit.
“The dinner went very well indeed, Bapak,” Harconan replied, using the Bahasa Indonesian “father” honorific. “Ambassador Goodyard is a pleasant enough sort. Intelligent, albeit inexperienced. I think we will be able to do good work with him.”
Harconan crossed the office, giving the bow tie of his evening wear a loosening tug. “How do the openings look on the London and Paris exchanges?”
“Favorable, sir. Nickel, tin, and petroleum are stable. Mild upward trends continue for vanilla and pepper.”
“Excellent. And the Von Falken contract?”
“I have been in communication with our agents in Hamburg and the situation appears to be developing positively. The vote by the board of directors will not be taken until Friday; however, our preliminary polling indicates that the Harconan Lines bid will be accepted over that of PELNI for their regional container service between Singapore and Bali.”
The faintest ghost of a disapproving expression crossed La’s face. “Unfortunately, our agents also indicated it required an additional eighty-four thousand Euros in gifting beyond our projected budget to ensure the acquisition of the contract.”
Harconan laughed and tugged the tie from around his neck. “German businessmen are like their automobiles: expensive to buy, but the performance is worth it. Don’t worry, Bapak, we’ll get our money back and more. And now, the satellite operation?”
“Proceeding nominally, sir. The acquisition is complete and the spacecraft is under tow. Intelligence Division indicates no distress calls or alert notifications on the international distress frequencies and no unusual activity by Australian naval forces. Our operations group is proceeding on course to the holding site.”
“Very good indeed. It seems to be a successful night on all fronts.”
“So it would appear, sir.”
Arafura Sea
97 Miles North-Northwest of Cape Wessel
0540 Hours, Zone Time: July 9, 2008
When their recovery ship failed to meet its third scheduled radio call, the INDASAT agency in Darwin notified the Australian coast guard that a potential emergency existed. The response was rapid. An RAAF Orion maritime patrol plane was scrambled from its base at Cooktown, arriving over the last known location of the INDASAT Starcatcher just at first light. To the consternation of all involved, no trace of the vessel was found. The Starcatcher had vanished completely, without even a trace of wreckage or an oil slick left behind.
As the confusion grew and the search widened, a trio of Bugis pinisi reached the tangled straits of the Indonesian archipelago. There they, too, disappeared from the ken of man.
Operations Center, United States Navy
Special Forces Command
Pearl Harbor Fleet Base, Oahu, Hawaii
0455 Hours, Zone Time: July 24, 2008
Lieutenant Commander Christine Rendino wheeled the yellow Chevrolet Electrostar cabriolet into her reserved slot in the Intelligence Section parking lot. Squinting blearily into the sunrise that flamed over Diamond Head, she switched the solar-cell array of the little electric commuter car to “recharge” before dismounting from the vehicle. Slinging the strap of her uniform handbag over one shoulder and lugging the burden of her laptop case, she trudged across to the operations-center entrance.
A battered silver Porsche Targa sat parked in the lot’s first rank. A tall, square-set man in razor-creased tropic whites stood beside it, the stars of a Navy flag officer glinting on his shoulder boards. An amused smile cut across his leathery, tanned features as the blond intel approached.
“Good morning, Commander,” he said, returning the younger officer’s salute. “It looks like the beginning of a beautiful day.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that rumor at this time, sir. I’ll require additional input for verification.”
Admiral Elliot “Eddie Mac” MacIntyre, Commander in Chief, U.S. Naval Special Forces, laughed and collected his briefcase from the Porsche’s passenger seat. “I believe Captain Garrett did mention some thing about you not being a morning person.”
Christine gave another hitch to her purse strap. “Try me at about eleven-thirty, Admiral. That’s still morning and I’m usually pretty good by then.”
“Today, we’re keeping Washington time. Stand on, Commander. Our lords and masters await within.”
“Isn’t it traditional for us to get a tumbrel, sir?”
The intel and the admiral cleared the multiple layers of security at the opcenter entrance. Proceeding through the white cinderblock corridors to the communications center at the core of the sprawling, single-level complex, Christine, as usual, found herself half-trotting to keep pace with MacIntyre’s decisive, rangy stride.
At communications, a small, stark conference room awaited them. After tossing their uniform hats atop the gray metal government-standard coatrack, they settled in behind the central table. MacIntyre flipped open his briefcase while Christine deployed her laptop, jacking into the table’s access and power points.
Set into the conference room wall across from them was the two meter-wide flatscreen of a videoconferencing system, its camera lens staring down glassily from over the top of the frame.
“Set, Chris?” MacIntyre inquired.
“Anytime, sir.” She flipped open her pair of close-work glasses and settled them over her nose.
MacIntyre nodded and lifted the receiver from the table’s phone deck. “Communications, this is the C in C. Authenticator, Ironfist-November-zero-two-one. We’re ready for that conference link with the State Department.”
The red “active” light over the video receptor winked on. The wall display filled for an instant with a State Department screen logo and then broke to the image of a conference room far plusher than the utilitarian Navy facility.
Two men faced out from the monitor. One — tall, spare, and instinctively dignified — wore a gray suit cut with a Savile Row flair. The other individual, shorter, broader, and scowling, was clad in a conservative banker’s pinstripe.
MacIntyre took the lead. “Good morning, Harry,” he said, nodding to the man in gray. “It’s good to see you again. How’s Elaine doing?”