“And our old buddy Sparza in South America,” the intel agreed. “Harconan is not only the man on the white horse, but he was born in the saddle. Yeah, I agree. If that’s where his head is, he could do it. I could feel it too.”
“Feelings are all well and good,” MacIntyre growled. “But we’re going to need a hell of a lot more than that to bring this man down. We need hard evidence linking Harconan to the pirate operations, and still, all we have is rumor. We need to find that damned industrial satellite and a way to connect Harconan to its theft. That’s the only way we’re ever going to justify direct U.S. action against him.”
“We’ll have a couple of shots at it tomorrow, sir,” Christine replied. “Cyberwar should start to produce on his computer net, and the microforce is going to recon the pirate base on Sulawesi.”
“We’ll get a third shot as well, Chris,” Amanda said, letting a hint of rueful amusement creep into her voice. “How fast do you think you could train me into being an effective Mata Hari?”
She felt Admiral MacIntyre twist abruptly on the bench seat beside her. “What in all hell are you talking about, Amanda?”
“Just that Makara Harconan extended me a personal invitation to visit his private island tomorrow. I accepted.”
“Officers’ Country,” USS Evans F. Carlson
2012 Hours, Zone Time: August 16, 2008
Nguyen Tran closed the door of his assigned guest cabin. Spartan in its outfitting, the windowless Navy gray cubicle contained a set of lockers, two surprisingly large and comfortable bunks, and a built-in bulkhead desk, a small connecting head its sole luxury.
Somehow, the solid steel bulkheads and bristling defenses of the American warship seemed more conducive to a sound sleep this night. Even at this moment Tran knew his name would be going onto a number of potentially dangerous lists.
Still, it had been worth it, to fling a glove into the face of the formerly unreachable Makara Harconan. To make him fear, even for an instant, his own destiny, the way a terrified eight-year-old had done, clinging to a drifting hulk in the South China Sea. With good fortune and the aid of these new allies, perhaps this seed of fear could be made to flourish and grow. A pleasant thought.
Tran had just tugged open his tie when a soft knock sounded at the door.
“Come in.”
Christine Rendino, still in her evening dress and heels, stepped into the cabin, flipping the door lock behind her. “Hi,” she said, tossing a rolled khaki uniform, a small make-up bag, and a command headset onto the upper bunk. Turning her back to Tran, she inquired, “Want to unzip me?”
Tran hesitated, startled. Given the fiery kisses he had shared with the ebullient little blonde, it was a ridiculous question, but one he hadn’t expected to answer quite so soon.
Christine glanced back over her shoulder and whistled a double note softly. “Zipper?”
Tran hastily ran the offending object down to the base of her spine. “My apologies, I was… assessing the situation.”
“Understandable under the circumstances.” The intel shrugged her dress from her shoulders allowing it to slip down to her ankles.
Very sheer panty hose and very brief golden silk panties and bra were apparently considered a needless complication. Christine turned to face him again. “I know that in the Islands the gentlemen generally take the lead in such things, but we have some time constraints going, and frankly, we can’t afford for you to be a gentleman.”
“We can’t?”
She shook her head decisively. “Nope.”
She kicked off her pumps and hooked her thumbs under the waist band of panty and panty hose alike, slipping both down with a wriggle and a relieved sigh. “I mean, it would be great if we could tack a little chrome onto this thing. You know, the traditional waltzing until dawn and gazing deep into each other’s eyes for hours on end and that kind of thing, but I’m afraid we’re not going to have that kind of leisure over the next few days.”
A pity, too, for those large gray blue eyes were worth gazing into. “And after that?”
She smiled a soft, regretful smile and stepped out of her pooled undergarments to stand before him, a golden tanned statue, nude and untroubled. “And after that, no promise asked or given. I get very good vibes off of you, Tran, and I know from the sparks that happen when we kiss, the feeling is mutual. But I also know we both have other places to go and other things to do. That’s the problem with being a cop or a spy. We know too much.”
She rested a small hand on his chest. “Look, if you have a serious lady you haven’t mentioned or if you’d just rather not, it’s okay. I’ll get dressed and get out of here with no harm done. But if the two of us are going to have anything at all, it has to be here and now, and we can’t waste any more time.”
Tran had heard stories about these forthright American women. How delightful to learn they were true.
“I quite agree, my colleague, I shouldn’t want to be wasteful.” He gathered Christine to him. Lifting the warm, satin-skinned form in his arms, he placed her in the lower bunk.
Half a thousand miles away, the replenished Sea Fighters of the microforce raced on through the early morning darkness, sprinting from cover point to cover point like an infantry rifle team.
Within their hulls, off-watch Marines and sailors dozed atop the fresh fuel blivet, as cool and comfortable a resting place as any waterbed.
Flag Quarters, USS Evans F. Carlson
0921 Hours, Zone Time: August 16, 2008
Sitting on the edge of her bunk, Amanda studied the two holstered pistols lying atop the taut blanket: the big Marine-issue MEU Model .45 that Stone Quillain had issued her from the landing-force arsenal and her personally owned Ruger SP-101 revolver. Glancing over at the shoulder bag hanging from a hook on the opposite bulkhead, she considered.
Amanda was equally proficient with both handguns; Stone saw to that in his odd moments. The massive Marine captain hated the thought of being around anyone not weapons-capable. And the weight of either pistol in her bag might be of comfort in the day ahead. Maybe….
Amanda gave a derisive snort. If she thought she might need a gun on Harconan’s island, she shouldn’t go in the first place. And if she had miscalculated and this was a trap, a pistol wasn’t going to get her out of it. On the other hand, packing iron wasn’t the act of a woman setting out for a pleasant rendezvous with a handsome gentleman. It could ruin her chance of getting close enough to Harconan to actually learn something useful.
Her decision made, she knelt and stacked the automatic and revolver back into the cabin safe under the head of her bunk, giving the combination dial a scrambling spin. Standing, she gave her tropic-weight uniform slacks a careful straightening tug.
Damn, damn, damn, this was a deadly serious business. So why did she keep getting flashbacks of pacing around her bedroom in high school, waiting for her date to show up?
Maybe because, black-hearted pirate or not, Makara Harconan was an extremely attractive and dynamic man. And for Amanda Garrett, there had always been something about the legend of the buccaneer.
Amanda sat on the edge of the bunk and reached across to the built in bookcase for an old and treasured friend, Lowell Thomas’s Count Luckner, the Sea Devil, the biography of Count Hugo von Luckner. The tale of the dashing Imperial German Navy sea raider and his epic voyage in command of the last sail-powered man-of-war had always fascinated her, especially when she had been on the cusp of adolescence, providing her with her first romantic fantasies.