With a headset settled over his close-cropped brush of dark hair, Stone Quillain brought up a regional area map of western Sulawesi and its maritime surroundings on the main bulkhead flatscreen. Using the joystick controller with only a hint of unfamiliarity, he highlighted the key points amid the sprinkling of civilian traffic hacks on the 120-inch display.
“Well, we got us a maritime polisi launch at Parepare. That’s a good forty miles to the south. She’s currently off patrol and standing down at her slip. I don’t think we have to worry about her much. The nearest Indonesian air is a C-160 transport over the Makassar Strait about thirty miles to the west in the standard ATF corridor to Balikpapan. Nothing to worry about there, either. The nearest major surface element is a training frigate, the Hajar Dewan… something or other, way down here off Selayar Island. No helo embarked at this time. Another no-problem.”
“How fresh is this intel?” Amanda inquired.
“JIC says it’s hot out of the oven, skipper. They’re direct linking with both the Global Hawk we have over the target area and the Oceansat recon net. If somebody steps outside of his hut to take a leak, we’ll hear the splash.”
“Do tell,” Amanda replied wryly. She sank into the chair behind the adjacent workstation and plugged her command headset into the communications hardlink. “Stone, do you ever feel obsolescence sneaking up behind you? I like to consider myself innovative, but the technology just keeps pulling away.”
The Marine cut his eyes at her and chuckled, a baritone huh, huh, huh in his chest. “That’s for you button pushers to worry about. I’m still a bayonet-and-bullet man. They’re going to be needing me around for a long time to come.”
“Hmmm, consider where you’re sitting at the moment, Stone,” Amanda smiled back. “Consider where you’re sitting.”
The big shadow beside her grumbled something about women under his breath.
There was a flicker of corridor light in the cool CRT-lit dimness as the blackout curtain in the operations center entryway was brushed aside. Amanda felt a cluster of people pressing close behind her and her nose cataloged the scents added to the limited space: Admiral MacIntyre’s old fashioned bay rum, Christine Rendino’s slightly musky cologne, and the clean lime bite of another aftershave that she didn’t recognize at first. Then she recalled the scent signature of Nguyen Tran.
“Status?” MacIntyre inquired at her shoulder.
“The microforce is positioned,” Amanda replied. “We should be getting the active link from the Queen momentarily.”
As if prompted by her words, a second large screen display lit off, filling with the low-light image of the Queen of the West’s cockpit interior, the face of Steamer Lane’s executive officer centered in the screen.
Ensign Wilder’s lips moved. “Possum One, this is Royalty. We are at point of team departure, commencing live data stream. We are on the time line with green boards. Tactical situation appears nominal.”
More flatscreens activated.
One was a computer-graphics overhead simulacra of the engagement area, a composite image built from the information flow from both the Sea Fighter’s sensors and those of the orbiting Global Hawk drone, combined with the geointelligence database on the Adat coastal region.
Another screen filled with the low-light vista drawn from the Queen’s Mast Mounted Sight cameras.
Amanda lifted her voice. “Give us a pan across the village area.”
A systems operator in the console row ahead accessed a system override and manipulated a miniature joystick.
Seven hundred and fifty miles away, the Queen of the West’s sensors responded to the command.
The village of Adat Tanjung lay before them, its fleet of oceangoing pinisi riding at anchor offshore, its smaller craft beached or moored alongside an accumulation of spindle-legged piers that extended into the estuary. Bare masts swayed with the wave action, and an occasional light glowed in a cabin or on a deck.
Extending to the northwest and southeast along the inlet beach was a further spidery entanglement of fish and crab farming pens, while beyond the piers were the streets of the village itself. Rows of traditional thatch roofed Bugis dwellings, set high on stilt foundations, extended back into the verdant palm groves. Interspersed among them were a few low Western-style buildings, their corrugated-metal roofs catching and reflecting the starlight.
Many homes were fully illuminated, and lanterns and even torches burned in the streets.
“There’s a lot of activity over there tonight.” Amanda could hear the scowl in Maclntyre’s voice.
“No,” Tran replied from behind her other shoulder. “This was to be expected. It works in our favor.”
“How so? What’s happening?” Amanda asked over her shoulder.
“Ships have returned from a raid with lost crewmen,” Tran answered softly. “The clan mourns. As with their neighboring people, the Toraja of the Sulawesi highlands, their feasts for the dead are quite elaborate and will last for several days and nights. All will attend, including the crews of the raiders. The ships should be unmanned.”
For a moment Amanda considered the Bugis pirates still secured below-decks aboard the Carlson. How would it be to return home to find yourself declared dead?
Christine Rendino had taken over the workstation on the far side of Stone Quillain. Now she conjured a targeting box around two of the schooners lying rafted together well off the beach. “See these guys? These are our two friends from the Piskov.”
A second targeting box blinked up around a second rafted pair of ships. “These fellows also belong here: They base out of Adat Tanjung as well. These dudes”—a third set of schooners were designated—“came from a little farther up the coast. They came in and anchored here yesterday. See how all six of these schooners are larger than the other pinisi in the moorage? How they’ve tied up together, and how they’re set off a little to one side from the other craft? That suggests an organization pattern.”
“Teamed fighting units,” MacIntyre replied.
“Uh-huh,” Christine agreed. “All day today we’ve been seeing a lot of activity around these six ships, refueling and replenishment. There’s something else kinda special as well.”
“Which is?” Amanda inquired.
“According to our prisoner interrogations, standard operating procedure for the Bugis raiders is to download all armament at a weapons hide before returning to home base. Now we’ve been sitting right on top of the Piskov pair ever since we picked them up and they’ve come straight home. They haven’t diverted anywhere or downloaded anything. They still have their guns aboard.
“The Piskov raiders must have received instructions en route to stay armed,” Amanda murmured.
“Uh-huh. Betcha a pretty we’re going to find these other guys have picked up their heat and are running heeled too.”
“Somebody’s assembling a strike force.”
“You got it, Boss Ma’am. And I bet this tune is being replayed at just about every Bugis colony up and down the archipelago. These guys are gearing up for a fight.”
Stone Quillain snorted. “You think these little pissants might be figuring on coming out after us? That’d be crazy.”
“I don’t know, Stone,” Amanda replied in the darkness. “Remember our old General Belewa? That outboard motor navy of his gave us quite a fight off West Africa. As we don’t know what Harconan is planning, we’ll take this threat seriously.”
She considered the prospects with the unique personal insight she had gained from her day with Makara Harconan. She strongly suspected there was nothing this man might not dare. And the motto of Great Britain’s Special Air Service pointed out a great truth: “He who dares, wins.”