It would have been a rather startling pronouncement anywhere but in Indonesia. However, Amanda had studied the task force’s cultural database enough to know that the Indonesians were both one of the cleanest of people as well as the best-versed in maintaining comfort in a tropic environment. Offering a visitor a chance to bathe after a journey was a courtesy. And the ride under the Eurocopter’s plastic bubble had been a hot and sticky one.
“Thank you. That would be very nice.”
If Amanda had been expecting one of the traditional Indonesian mandi scoop baths, she would have been disappointed. The sun-gold and ivory European-style bathroom she was shown to was alone larger than her entire flag quarters aboard the Carlson, and it opened off a dressing room and bedroom that were far larger yet. Amanda suspected that the cost of the furnishings and fabrics involved in the elegant guest suite probably could have effortlessly absorbed several years of her salary.
The suite also came complete with two pretty, skilled, and silent Chinese maids. It was the first time in many years that Amanda had allowed anyone to undress her, except for recreational purposes. However, the only way to maintain one’s dignity in such a situation is to flow with it. Amanda relaxed and accepted the pampering.
The bath products were Guerlain, the tub large enough to float in, Appreciative of a good deep soaking, Amanda could have luxuriated for a far longer period, but her maids were standing by with fluffy sheet-size towels, and her host awaited.
At the dressing table she found an array of expensive, tasteful cosmetics matched to her complexion, and she found that one of the maids also doubled as a skilled hairdresser.
She didn’t realize the trap that had been sprung until she returned, towel-wrapped, to the bedroom. Her uniform and every other stitch she had worn had been taken, no doubt for cleaning. Replacing them were a set of ice-blue lounging pajamas, obviously from one of Bali’s finest fashion houses and made of silk so fine that it flowed like water. It made a person feel cool merely to look at them.
Amanda recognized the deft move. She could make a fuss by yelling for her own clothes back or she could wear this elegant, expensive, and exotic outfit, no doubt chosen by Harconan himself, that was simply screaming to be tried on.
Two minutes later she was examining herself in the triangular mirror. The effect worked well with her amber hair and golden eyes. It worked very well indeed. And the incredible feel of the silk… Just wearing these garments was an erotic experience.
There was a discrete knock at the bedroom door, and Amanda nodded to one of the maids. It was amazing how rapidly a person got used to having such handy individuals around.
It was Lo. “Luncheon is ready, Captain.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lo. I think I’m ready as well.” She slipped her feet into the soft golden sandals that had been provided with the outfit, shot a final glance into the mirror, and set forth.
Flag Quarters, USS Evans F. Carlson
1233 Hours, Zone Time: August 17, 2008
“Understood, Frank. I agree with Admiral Sonderburg that getting a sound profile on the new Indian nuclear attack sub is important. I just disagree about how important.”
The distant voice of Maclntyre’s chief of staff sounded in his ear. The admiral’s chair creaked as he tilted it back to stare at the cable clusters overhead. Beyond the Sea Fighter task force and its current mission, he still had the remainder of Naval Special Forces to run. Today, with the Lady away, he made use of Amanda’s office and workstation for his daily bout of teleconferencing with NAVSPECFORCE headquarters.
“You can point out to the admiral that currently I have two — count them, two — dedicated Raven subs in the Pacific,” he replied into the phone. “If COMSUBPAC wants to park one of his own attack boats off Madras for the next six months, fine, I wish him luck. I’ve got too many other missions for my hulls to leave them loitering around in the Bay of Bengal, waiting for New Delhi to run trials with their new nuke. Hell, Frank, we can track this guy down and lift a sound profile on him after he’s operational and at sea…. I’ll do better than that, Frank, I’ll say I’m sure Admiral Sonderburg isn’t going to like it, but that’s my call.”
A knock at the door straightened him up behind the desk. “Enter.”
Christine Rendino hesitated in the entryway, a file folder of hard copy under one arm. MacIntyre gestured her into the chair across the desk from him as he finished his call “Right… that should just about do it. Forward me the after action report on the last SEAL ops cycle in northern China and lean on the yard problems with the PC rebuilds. I’ll catch you tomorrow at oh-eight for the morning sitrep. Later, Frank.”
He returned the phone to the desk communications deck and swiveled the chair around to face the intel. “What do you have for me, Chris?”
She held up the hard-copy file. “Latest operational intelligence updates. Would you like the file or would you prefer a fast verbal?”
“Both. Let’s start with the latest from the dungeons below. What’s the status on our prisoners, and have you gotten anything more out of them on the location of the INDASAT?”
“They’re doing fine, sir. We’ve got them out of isolation and time disorientation. They’re eating like horses and watching Baywatch reruns in six different languages. When they go back to their village, they aren’t going to be able to live without satellite television. As for intel, we’re getting all sorts of casual stuff on routine raider operations. I can already give you the names of half a dozen other major base villages on Sulawesi and Ambon and maybe twice that many raider schooners and their captains. Apparently Sulawesi is a hotbed of both piracy and Raja Samudra nationalism. No surprises there. But so far we’ve picked up nothing on the upper cartel echelons or the INDASAT.”
“Any explanation for that?” MacIntyre grunted.
“Supercompartmentalization. Harconan understands his people and the tribal culture form. He knows the propensity for gossip to disseminate rapidly within a fluid, mobile culture like the Bugis.
“If the INDASAT were being held at one of the Bugis colonies on Sulawesi, our prisoners probably would have at least a hint of something especially big going on. As we aren’t seeing this, it suggests that Harconan’s probably keeping our satellite in the hands of a special team of somewhat more sophisticated personnel at a location outside of the usual Bugis operating areas.”
“In other words, the damn thing could be anywhere.”
Christine perked up. “No, sir, the satellite is still somewhere in the Indonesian archipelago. It is in Harconan’s hands and he is in the process of selling it off to the highest international bidder.”
MacIntyre brought his chair upright. “What have you got?”
“We scored on our systems invasion of Makara Limited, sir. Just a little bitty bit of a score, but it’s given us six critical names.”
She opened a hard-copy file and selected a sheet from it, passing it across the desk to MacIntyre. “Dr. Chong Rei,” he read aloud. “Mr. Hiung Wa, Mr. Jamal Kalil, Mr. Hamad Hammik, Professor Namgay Sonoo, and Dr. Joseph Valdechesfsky.
“Who are these gentlemen when they’re up and dressed?” MacIntyre inquired, looking up from the paper.
“Aerospace specialists, sir, satellite operations, cybernetics, space industrialization, the best their respective corporate entities can field. Rei and Wa are with the Yan Song combine out of Korea. Hammik and Kalil are with the new Falaud Industrial Development Group based in Saudi Arabia and the UAE, and Sonoo and Valdechesfsky, an expat Russian, are with India’s Marutt-Goa. All of these guys have enough of a reputation in their technologies to be worth the NSA keeping an eye on them. All six of them have arrived in Singapore within the last seventy-two hours.”