And yet again, “What is your name?”
Mangkurat kept silent and braced himself for the blow that must lash out of the darkness, be it a fist, whip, or dub.
But the blow never fell.
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
A pause.
“Understand this,” the voice went on after a moment. “We already know what you are. You are Bugis. You are a pirate who sailed away one day to rob a ship and who never returned. No one knows what happened to you. Not your captain. Not your family. Not your village. Not even the raja samudra himself.”
Mangkurat struggled to keep his stoicism. They knew of the sea king. They must also know of his promise.
The voice continued quietly, hypnotically level. “No one knows where you are, so you are nowhere. You are a nonentity, a ghost, nothing. Tell us your name so you can be a man again.”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
There was only the darkness and the light and the voice and hard edges of the stool biting into his buttocks.
That and the one question.
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
Slowly, Mangkurat’s folded legs began to go numb. Dryness crept down his throat and his eyes burned from the light. Even when he closed them, the glare seeped redly through his eyelids. And the question, hammering at him, becoming meaningless as time drew on.
“What is your name?”
His startled jump almost toppled Mangkurat to the deck. A second voice had asked the question, a woman’s voice, still speaking Indonesian, but with the sharp-edged inflections of a westerner.
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
The voice was new, different. He had to listen to it again! It had meaning once more!
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
How many times did the two voices switch off? Five times, ten, a dozen? Mangkurat lost the count. He lost track of everything but that one hammering demand.
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
Once Mangkurat tried to spring up. He strove to hurl himself beyond the light at that hateful, insistent, eternal query, but his legs buckled beneath him. The guards materialized out of the darkness, catching him by the arms and restraining him as he writhed and hoarsely screamed curses. They did not strike. They did not beat. They refused to offer even a scrap of pain to hold and treasure as a charm against the eternal, nagging question.
When Mangkurat went limp and silent in their grasp, they lowered him gently back down onto the stool. And never once did that voice change its timbre or rhythm or request.
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
He would not tell them.
“What is your name?”
His name was his soul. He would not give it away.
“What is your name?”
They would not steal his treasure.
“What is your name?”
He was Bugis! He was Mangkurat of the Bugis! He would not weaken.
“What is your name?”
He was Mangkurat.
“What is your name? ”
Mangkurat!
“What is your name?”
Mangkurat!
“What is your name?”
“Mangkurat.”
“Mangkurat… thank you, Mangkurat.”
Instantly they were upon him. They lifted him in their arms and the stool was kicked away. He was lowered into a chair, metal, but its smooth, cool contours soothed his cramped body like the finest silk. A cup was being held to his lips. Water! Icy sweet water! They let him drain the cup, and a second was offered.
He collapsed back in the chair, his ragged shirt sodden with sweat and spillage.
“Mangkurat,” the voice repeated from beyond the light.
How could they know his name now? He hadn’t told them. He hadn’t… he didn’t think. No, he had said nothing… nothing! They must have known all along. Fooling him. How many other secrets did they know?
“Now, Mangkurat,” the voice continued, “what is the name of your village?”
“What is the name of your village?”
“What is the name of your village?”
Java Sea, Approaching the Rass Island Group
0119 Hours, Zone Time: August 15, 2008
The golden horn of the moon dipped into shimmering sea. As it sank steadily lower, the thin scattering of clouds in the tropic night darkened, losing its reflected light.
And then it was gone.
“Right. That’s it.” Amanda turned to the cluster of officers sharing the Carlson’s portside bridge wing. “Commander Carberry, your ship’s status?”
“Ready to proceed, Captain,” the little man replied crisply. “Crew at air and sea launch stations. Ready to initiate countermeasures and hangar bay blackout.”
“And the latest from Commander Hiro?”
“He is paralleling us to the north at an eight-mile range at full stealth and limited EMCON. He reports he is ready to commence a high-speed convergence upon your command.”
“Very good, Captain. Cobra, how about you?”
The aviator was even more succinct. “I’m good. Ready to launch.”
“Remember your tasking parameters. Go in fast. Get out fast. You’re a pest, not a provocation.”
“I got the picture, ma’am. Aye, aye.”
“Steamer?”
The Sea Fighter commander settled his baseball cap lower over his eyes. “Queen of the West and Manassas are ready to start engines. Fuel blivits embarked. Recon party going aboard. We’re good to go.”
“Christine find you your initial hide?”
“Yeah, a good little nowhere up in the Laut Kecils. Nobody around for miles, crappy access, and good cover. We can get to it and get buried well before oh-light-hundred.”
“Very well. We’ll have an underway replenishment set up with Curtin by tomorrow night. You shouldn’t really need it with your blivits aboard, but I want you to go in with a maneuvering reserve, just in case.” Amanda smiled and extended a hand. “An independent command, Steamer. You won’t have a rusty old four-bar hanging over your shoulder. Good luck.”
“I don’t know, ma’am. You’re kind’ of handy to have around some times,” he replied, exchanging a brief, strong grip with her. “We’ll see you in a few days.”
“Maybe sooner than that, if we don’t pull this off. Gentlemen, let’s proceed.”
Two miles astern of the USS Carlson, Lieutenant Commander Hasan Basry, captain of the Indonesian navy frigate Sutanto, swore into his pillow as the interphone at the head of his bunk buzzed… again.
He clawed the offending instrument from its cradle. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry, Captain,” the watch officer said apologetically, “but it’s the Americans. They are doing something… odd, sir.”
“They have been doing odd things ever since they left Singapore, Lieutenant. What is it now?”
“They have launched a helicopter, sir.”
“Ships that carry helicopters frequently do,” Basry snapped. “What is so unusual about this particular exercise?”
“Immediately after launching their aircraft, the Americans cut off their running lights. The amphibious ship is now running fully blacked out.”
Basry hesitated for several heartbeats. He wasn’t certain why he and his ship had been ordered to abort a portside refit to keep the Americans under surveillance. Admiral Lukisan had merely said “for reasons of national security,” a statement that covered a great deal of territory.