Amanda and MacIntyre exchanged glances. They both had come to rely on and implicitly trust Christine Rendino. Each, in their own way, had become very fond of the little blonde. But they both held to the old line officer’s adage that intels were always just a little bit strange.
“What have you got out of him so far?” MacIntyre inquired.
“That whoever is running this show, be it Harconan or whoever, has this place organized, ” Christine said emphatically. “Hayam Mangkurat’s ship is one of half a dozen raider schooners that stage out of a Bugis colony on the western peninsula of Sulawesi. It’s a village north of Parepare on Mandar Bay called Adat Tanjung. Apparently it’s a major pirate port and operating base, but if we went storming in there tomorrow, we wouldn’t find a single trace of a stolen cargo, an out-of-place weapon, or even a single rupiah that couldn’t be accounted for.”
Amanda sank down on the couch beside Christine. “How are they pulling it off, Chris?”
“They take advantage of the fact that there are about ten gajillion little islands, bays, and inlets out there, many of which have never been accurately charted. Apparently nothing incriminating is ever brought into the village area itself The raider pinisi are decontaminated before they return to base. All weapons are secured in cache sites, and the hijacked cargoes are delivered to prearranged dropoff points. The pirates themselves never see who recovers the loot.
“A reverse procedure occurs when they need to re-outfit. They’re given a pickup point along the coast or on a nearby island, and the gear they need — weapons, ammo, engine parts, whatever — is sitting there under camouflage, waiting for them. They never see who delivers it.”
“How’s this all coordinated?” MacIntyre demanded. “How do they set the pickup and delivery points?”
“It’s so ingenious it hurts, Admiral, sir,” Christine replied. “Every raider skipper is given two things: a garden-variety digital wristwatch with a month’s memory, and a hand-held Global Positioning Unit — two items that wouldn’t arouse any suspicion at all on an interisland trader. Each skipper is also given a place around his home village area where he leaves his wristwatch and GPU unit at a specific time once a month. When he picks them up again, the watch has been programmed with a set of pickup and delivery times and the GPU with drop and recovery point coordinates. There’s also a block of raiding intelligence on ships and high value cargoes passing within a given range of the clan villages. The raider captains themselves divvy up the pie according to what’s within their capabilities. The only decrees from the sea king are fair shares for all and no poaching in another clan’s territory. Break the rules and the support stops coming.”
Christine smothered a yawn with her palm. “The raider captains and the village elders all know that one of their number is the chosen agent of the raja samudra, but nobody knows who. It’s a classic cell security system. You can’t leak what you don’t know. There’s no overt chain of command to follow to the higher echelons of the organization.”
“How do the pirates get their payback?” Amanda asked.
“Any number of different ways; through material, for one: The pirate skipper leaves a wish list at his monthly drop, and the gear he needs is at his next pickup point.
“As far as cash goes, Indonesia isn’t all that primitive anymore. It’s the most natural thing in the world for the skipper of a pinisi to have a bank account on one of the interisland chain banks. Intermittently money is deposited in that account under his name, random amounts at erratic intervals. Money that can be explained away as a good haul of fish or a rich charter.”
“And what about those Bugis aid programs Harconan sponsors?” MacIntyre added. “What do you want to bet that the clans that most support the sea king get the plumpest support packages?”
“No bets taken,“Amanda replied. “And remember those so-called pirate raids on Harconan’s shipping line? That will be another mode of pay off and resupply he can use while maintaining the front of being just another harassed shipowner.”
She crossed to the porthole and stared out into the night. “He’s careful, Admiral, and so cunning it hurts. He’s subtly herding the Bugis clans under his control, building an association between the raja samudra and wealth, comfort, empowerment, and dignity. And so far he’s asked for little in return. Someday, though, he will. He’ll lead, and they’ll follow. The question is, where?”
MacIntyre gave an ironic chuckle. “It’s grown a bit from a satellite recovery mission, hasn’t it.”
“Too true, sir. Sometimes you have to tip the rock over before you can see what-all’s hiding underneath. I think the secretary of state and the National Command Authority will agree that this is a very definite and growing freedom-of-the-seas concern.”
“Tomorrow I’ll get on the horn to Foggy Bottom and brief the secretary of state on the new permutations we’re kicking up out here. I think he’ll agree this is very much a case of ‘Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.’ Until we at least develop a clearer image of how far this plan of Harconan’s has progressed. After that, we’ll see who gets to throw the monkey wrench into the works, us or the Indonesians.”
“Let’s hope they’ll believe us when the time comes.” Amanda turned from the port and came to lean back against the desk beside MacIntyre. “At any rate, we have a better idea of what to look for now, and we know where to aim Steamer and the microforce. Maybe they can find us the next step up the ladder.”
A soft snore came from the direction of the office couch. Collapsed in an inelegant but comfortable posture, Christine Rendino sprawled, asleep.
Amanda and the admiral swapped grins. “That reminds me”— Amanda lowered her voice to a whisper—“we’d all better get our beauty rest. We’ve got a party to go to tomorrow night.”
Benoa Port, Island of Bali
0926 Hours, Zone Time: August 15, 2008
It is said that Bali is the largest outpost of the Hindu religion outside of India; yet, this is not quite true. The religion of the Balinese, Agama Hindu Dharma (the Religion of the Holy Water) is unique unto and of itself, tempered with the ancient mysticism of the first peoples of the archipelago.
God- and demon-haunted, seemingly as delicate as a mountain mist or a butterfly’s wing, this religion/philosophy/way of life has endured through the centuries with the resiliency of tempered steel.
To Bali the Brahman priests and scholars of the lost golden Majapahit Empire retreated in the fifteenth century, and here they made their stand against the Islamic invasion from the West. Here they held, the followers of Mohammed breaking like the waves against the stark coastal cliffs of the little island.
Here, also, the Dutch came in 1846, Bali being the last free holdout in the archipelago against Holland’s colonial empire. Sixty years of savage resistance would follow before the last battle was fought, and yet, all the Dutch could claim were the towns and villages, never Bali’s soul.
In the late twentieth century came the most insidious invasion of all, the twentieth century itself, with its tourists and commercialization and a government in Jakarta with decided ideas of what should be done “for Bali’s own good.”
And yet, the Balinese stand. Perhaps it is because the Followers of the Holy Water have an advantage over every other religion in the world: It is said they know what heaven actually looks like.
Like Bali.