It was a solid plan that should take only a matter of minutes to execute.
“What’s the task force status, Stone?” MacIntyre demanded from the number-five car’s rear seat, which he shared with Christine and Tran.
“They had to wax a bunch of Boghammers, but they’re clear now, sir. Minimal damage,” Quillain reported, riding with his phone still to his ear.
“Captain Garrett was correct in her assessment,” Nguyen Tran commented. “Your actions are driving Harconan to adopt increasingly desperate measures.”
“That’ll sound a lot better when we’re back aboard ship,” Christine replied. She was twisted around in her seat, peering back through the rear window.
“Is she still back there?” MacIntyre demanded testily.
“Still hanging in, sir.”
The Toyota executed a dry-pavement skid as it snaked around a tight corner on the narrow two-lane. The motorcade was thundering through a semirural area with truck-garden patches and palm groves interspersed with the close-set houses and shops of roadside villages. They were still out of the coastal resort strip, and lights and other vehicles were few and far between.
MacIntyre looked over his shoulder into the glare of the trailing headlights. “Damn it, Stone, why’d you let her take the trail car? That wasn’t in the plan!”
“I know it, Admiral, and I wasn’t happy about it either. If somebody had just given me a four-grade bump to brigadier general, I woulda been happy to do something about it.”
“Then you should have called me, dammit!”
“Maybe so, sir. But we were kind of tight on time back there. Anyway, we’re comin’ up on Panjer village. Six more klicks and we got it beat.”
But they didn’t.
As they shot past a side road MacIntyre caught a glint of chrome from a blacked-out automobile. An instant later the headlights of Amanda’s car were occulted as the black car cut it off. The crash of crumpling steel was cut through by Christine’s scream.
“Brake!” Quillain roared, and the Toyota’s tires sobbed on the pot holed pavement. He caught up the P-90 and was rolling out of the passenger door before the sedan had reached a full stop.
“I’m coming with you,” MacIntyre yelled, starting to open his door as well.
“The hell you are, sir.” Quillain shouldered the door shut. He’d screwed up once tonight; he wasn’t doing it again. “Take off, O’Malley, and don’t you stop for anything, especially admirals!”
The sedan shot away, its tires smoking.
Standing six feet away, Nguyen Tran slid his Glock automatic out from under his evening jacket. “Will you permit me to assist you, Captain Quillain?”
Quillain wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand. “More’n that Mr. Tran, I’d appreciate you. Let’s go!”
Their car had halted a good hundred yards from the crash site and the two men separated, working up the road through the scrub cover on either shoulder. Their instinct was to race back, but their wisdom said that would only lead to disaster. There would be waiting guns covering their approach, and stealth was their only chance.
But stealth took time.
The scent of hot metal and steam told them they were close. The Toyota had center-punched a large and elderly Mercedes-Benz station wagon. There were no other vehicles immediately in sight, but less than a minute later a rattletrap farm truck appeared, coming in from behind the wrecks. The illumination of its single headlight revealed no activity at all around the crash site.
Stone bit the bullet and charged.
Nothing.
The Toyota’s air bags had worked, but the Marine driver was still sprawled behind the wheel, unconscious. The shattered driver’s side window and the bruise on the side of his head resembled rifle-butt work far more than it did a collision injury. As for Amanda Garrett, there was nothing except for her shoulder bag lying on the car floor.
“Elegantly done,” Tran commented. He returned his pistol to its holster and went to calm the startled driver of the farm truck and to arrange for a lift.
Badung Strait
1025 Hours, Zone Time: August 20, 2008
With the PGACs deployed in an anti-small-craft screen, the task force steamed to the northeast, seeking for the open waters of the Bali Sea. The lights of the Bali coast faded to port as did those of Penida Island to starboard.
The green and red sparks of the Sutanto’s running lights trailed astern. The Indonesian warship, noteworthy in its uninvolvement in the fight at Benoa Port, had hastily sortied after the task force and resumed its shadowing. To the Sea Fighters, its presence served only to magnify the sensation of being run out of town.
Stone Quillain stared down at the untouched mug of coffee on the wardroom table. “It’s my fault, sir. I accept the responsibility for the loss of Captain Garrett.”
Reembarked aboard the Carlson, the task force’s senior command officers had immediately gone into an emergency operations group to assess their current catastrophe.
“No, cancel that, Stone.” Passing behind his chair, MacIntyre clapped the Marine lightly on the shoulder of his dust-stained uniform blouse. “It’s not a matter of anybody’s fault. We thought we had all the bases covered, but Harconan got ahead of us. I gather we all agree that the gentleman is responsible for this action.”
“Given the sophistication of the operation and the speed with which it was organized and executed, I would say almost undoubtedly,” Tran replied. His evening wear also showed the signs of his brush-busting. “To the good, this was obviously not an open attack on the officers cadre or an assassination attempt. It was a kidnapping, targeted specifically against Captain Garrett. Thus we can assume she is still alive and a hostage, no doubt with the intent of using her as a bargaining chip of some nature.”
Commander Ken Hiro, as the new Sea Fighter TACBOSS, scowled up at the inspector. “Okay, the captain’s alive and that’s great. What do we do about getting her back? Shouldn’t we be on the horn to the authorities on Bali about this?”
Tran shrugged. “That’s one of the conventional acts we can perform, Commander. However, I doubt we can expect much from that sector. As you had your evacuation route preplanned, so will Harconan. It’s questionable if Captain Garrett is even on Bali any longer. Besides, it’s apparent that any networking done with the local authorities will benefit Harconan more than us.”
“He’s right, Ken,” MacIntyre said, continuing his slow pacing path around the table. “I’ll be filing a report with the Indonesians concerning the attack on the task force. As an aspect of that, I’ll put in a request that a search be made for any U.S. personnel who might have accidentally been left behind in our rapid departure. For the moment we’ll keep Amanda’s disappearance to ourselves and we’ll work the problem ourselves. The moment we bring the governments in, theirs or ours, we’re going to lose control of this. The more red tape we get snarled up in, the more it will work in Harconan’s favor.”
“Then that brings us back to my original question, sir,” Hiro said hotly. “What do we do about getting the captain back?”
“We work the problem with our own secure assets, Commander. We count on what we can count on.” Maclntyre’s features were expressionless as he continued his slow, deliberate orbit of the table, as was his voice. Whatever he was feeling at the moment was locked within, as if he were fearful of letting it out. “We are going to find where he’s taken her, and we are going to get her back, and to hell with everything else.”