“Uh, yes, sir, the Cunningham, sir. As for the large bodies of men, we have them located inside the warehouses on the mast-mounted sighting systems, FLIR mode.”
The Marine switched imaging systems, accessing the Forward Looking Infrared scanners.
This set of cameras did not see images of light but of heat: Focusing on the thermal radiance of the environment, they could look through visual impediments like darkness, smoke, fog, and, to a degree, walls.
The front of a warehouse appeared on the screen, the outline of its facade and doors hazy and almost ectoplasmic in nature. A large number of amorphous blobs of light could be seen within the structure, some of them moving intermittently.
“We’ve spotted four groups of about fifty men each, not one of whom has let himself be seen.”
“Anything on the radio watch?”
“We aren’t sure, Captain,” the OOD replied. “Signal intelligence indicates there may be something in the citizens-band ranges. Maybe just random make-and-break static of some kind, or maybe somebody doing a carrier click code on a number of walkie-talkies.”
Another captain, such as Amanda Garrett, would have asked opinions at that stage, but not Carberry. His subordinates had given him the required data; it was up to him as senior-officer-on-station and captain under-God to make the decision — in this case an effortless one. A false alarm would merely provide for a good training exercise, of which in Carberry’s opinion there could not be too many.
“Officer of the Deck, bring the task force to general quarters. Hush mode. Prepare to repel boarders.”
No alarm Klaxons clanged. No bellowing voices thundered over the MC-1. lnterphones and command headsets buzzed all over the ship, and call to arms was passed by word of mouth, division officers swarming down from officers’ country and CPOs from out of the goat lockers, yelling to seamen as they ran.
It was somewhat slower than a standard battle-stations call, but outwardly it left no sign of the explosion of activity within the hulls of the task force. On the Carlson’s bridge, the cruising watch stormed up the access ladder and manned their workstations. Light patterns began to shift on the consoles, going from the yellow of in-port standby to the green of ready for sea. Rows of monitor screens lit off, displaying ship’s status of not only the Carlson but also the Cunningham as the Cooperative Engagement interlinks came up.
The standard deck patrols, alerted through their headsets, maintained their even pacing as per the ops plan, but other Marines appeared topside. Fully armed and armored, they snaked up through the vertical hatches and belly-crawled to their posts in the superstructure and along the deck edges, staying low and out of sight.
On the bridge, as per the call to general quarters, all hands had grabbed Kevlar helmets and combat/flotation vests en route to their battlestations. Now a female rating hurried forward from the arms locker, burdened with pistol belts and side arms. Distributing them, she went back for a second load of shell bandoliers and combat shotguns.
The task force bristled, awaiting assault. Any force launching a surprise attack on it would be met with a very nasty surprise. Which was the entire intent of the exercise.
“The task force is at general quarters, sir,” the OOD stated from behind the master helm console. “Ships are ready to repel boarders and are ready in all aspects to commence power up and to get underway.” He glanced over at a Marine demolition specialist standing by in the corner of the bridge. “Ready to execute emergency unmooring procedure.”
“Very good, Mr. Johnson.” Carberry stood stolidly, his hands clasped behind his back, helmet and flak vest stacked on the chart table beside him. “I think it’s time we advise the task force commander about the situation.”
Taman Werdi Budaya Art Center
1910 Hours, Zone Time: August 20, 2008
Makara Harconan shot a careful glance down at his wristwatch. Soon… it would be soon. Seeking divertissement to keep himself relaxed, he returned his attention to the stage and the performance.
In honor of the guests from the task force and the accompanying government officialdom, the current resident troop at the center was performing the Legong, the most difficult and dazzling of the Balinese women’s dances. Glittering costumes of silken brocade and gold leaf blazed on the stage as the youthful performers spun the tale of the beautiful kidnapped princess Rangkesari and her evil and arrogant suitor, the king of Lasem.
Even after a life lived in the archipelago and a hundred performances seen, Harconan could still lose himself in the elegance and perfection of the Balinese dance and the discordant yet flowing percussion of the gamelan orchestra. The woman beside him was totally enthralled.
Amanda Garrett leaned forward, eyes wide and intent, catching every gesture, every nuance. As a dancer in her own right, she must appreciate even more than the average patron the skills and training involved in developing this precision.
“God, I wish I could learn some of this,” she whispered, never shifting her eyes from the stage.
“For the Legong, I fear it is too late,” he replied under his breath, studying the fine line of her jaw and undercurl of her hair beneath it. “A Legong dancer begins her training when she is five and must retire with her first menstruation.”
Amanda made a slight face. “I’m an inch too tall to be a ballerina, too.”
“There is training you could take in other schools of the dance,” Harconan encouraged. “It could be arranged with the proper instructor. It would take time — two years at a minimum.”
“That would be nice, but the Navy doesn’t provide for dance training sabbaticals.”
“You aren’t going to be in your Navy forever, Amanda.”
“That’s true,” she answered absently, “but by the time I retire, I’ll be too old for anything more demanding than a foxtrot.”
A court-martial for losing your command could expedite that retirement, Harconan added silently. But would that be something she could ever forgive him for?
He sneaked another look at his watch. Two minutes more to the jump-off.
Abruptly, Amanda sat erect in her seat. Her hand darted into the bag at her side, drawing a cellular phone. Harconan realized that she must have received a prompt from a silent pager concealed somewhere on her person. He had to suppress the urge to slap the phone from her hand.
“This is Garrett.” She held the phone tightly against her ear, her hand cupped around the mouthpiece to seal in her words and seal out the sound of the orchestra. And then she was looking at him, every hint of the dreaming dancer stricken from her face. Those molten gold eyes narrowing in rage like a mother whose child has been threatened.
“Execute immediate departure! Extraction Bravo!” Her voice lifted. “Get those ships out of there now!” She was on her feet, lifting her voice again, yelling over the orchestra. “Sea Fighters! Back to the task force! Move!”
The Gamelan musicians stalled and the dancers hesitated. Around the amphitheater white-uniformed naval officers and blue-jacketed Marines were hastening from their seats to the exits.
What the hell had happened? Had his people launched the attack early, or had they been spotted? Harconan had known the Americans would be alert, but he’d hoped for a few minutes of surprise or confusion. She must have been holding them coiled and poised to counterstrike like an angry cobra.
As she had been holding herself. Her face was cold and her eyes unreadable, her hand in her shoulder bag again as she stared down at him. “Call them off, Makara,” she commanded. “For their sake, call them off!”