Maclntyre’s dark eyes shifted to Stone Quillain. “That’s not a valid option at the moment. Chances for amphibious or landside assault?”
Quillain’s usual scowl deepened as he mulled the problem. “Not good. There’s nothing in the way of a decent landing beach anywhere on Crab’s Claw. The lowest cliff side indicated is ninety feet. The shallowest slope gradient is about seventy degrees. All of it mean black-rock lava. Like the Rangers said at Point du Hoc: ‘Three old ladies with brooms could hold us off.’”
The Marine traced a line to the neck of the cape with his fingertip. “We could come in overland and bunker-bust our way up the peninsula. Maybe we could do it with enough gun support. It would be pure hell, though: direct frontal assaults on heavy fixed defenses. It would also be way slow. A day bare minimum to work that half mile to the tunnel entrances, and no sayin’ how many men we’d have left alive to go inside.”
“That’s another nonvalid option,” the admiral said flatly. “How about a small-team SOC infiltration?”
“Like underwater through the sea entrance?” Stone shrugged. “Sir, I honestly can’t say. The success possibility of any kind of Special Forces operation depends on how much intel you have on the target in a direct ratio. The more you know, the better chance you have of pulling it off. We have no idea what our guys will be facing in those tunnels, and Admiral, telling ’em to just go in and wing it likely won’t get the job done!”
“Understood, Stone. Steamer, you and the Three Little Pigs are our last chance. A high-speed assault through the sea entrance. Hey diddle diddle and straight up the middle.”
“It depends, sir,” the ex-surfer replied.
“On what?”
“From what I can see, on dumb-ass luck. Our best bet would be to divvy the assault force up between all of our fast-boat assets, Labelle’s RIBs, my Sea Fighters, and the LCAC. As we do the run in, the helos and the big ships put all the fire onto the clifftops overlooking the inlet and the gun emplacements up there, ceasing bombardment at the last second.
“If enough emplacements get taken out, and if the bad guys don’t have anything too nasty mounted in the mouth of the sub pen itself, and if nobody gets shot up too bad, well, then we’ll be inside fast and kicking butt. If it doesn’t break our way, though, we’ll be trapped outside in a killing ground with no speed and no room to maneuver. We’re pretty much going to be massacred. Roll the dice, sir.”
“So it would appear.”
“Sir,” Christine Rendino said, forcing the words past the dryness in her throat, “there is another factor that must be considered: The task force is being kept under continuous surveillance by an Indonesian war ship. In all probability, every move we make is being relayed directly to Harconan. If we move against the pirate base at Crab’s Claw, or if we so much as start to close the range with the New Guinea coast, he’s going to know about it.”
The members of the operations group awaited the call from their commander. Elliot MacIntyre sat with his eyes closed and his forehead resting against his steepled hands. To Christine Rendino, even though the admiral sat in the very midst of his officers, an aura of isolation, of aloneness, surrounded the man.
She found a tremor threatening to ripple through her. Beneath the shield of the table, Tran’s steadying hand rested lightly on her thigh.
MacIntyre looked up. “All right. Here’s how it stands. Harconan is probably preparing to deliver the captured INDASAT to his buyers, and he wants us out of the way. We have roughly twenty-three hours before we hit the deadline he’s given us. After that, if the task force does not withdraw from the Indonesian archipelago, Captain Garrett, in theory, will be killed.”
MacIntyre lifted his head. Christine found the bleakness on his expression terrifying. “Ladies and gentlemen, when I discuss these developments with our superiors tonight, I intend to state in the strongest possible terms that this task force must not retreat. There will be no precedent set for the United States Navy to yield one inch, one millimeter, of the free oceans of the world to any criminal or tyrant, for any reason. I believe Amanda Garrett would approve of this policy and sentiment.”
MacIntyre came to his feet, his hands braced on the tabletop, “With that policy set, let’s investigate ways to get Captain Garrett back — alive. Return to your respective staff and start working the problem. “Work it until you come up with some answers! There will be another 0 group at oh-six-hundred tomorrow morning. I want an assault plan to crack Crab’s Claw. This is a blank-check operation, ladies and gentleman, no holds barred! Feel free to think and fight as dirty as you please. If you come up with something too outrageous, we’ll do it UNODUR and tell the bean counters in D.C. about it afterwards!”
Task Force Commander’s Quarters,
USS Evans F. Carlson
0330 Hours, Zone Time: August 24, 2008
Admiral Elliot MacIntyre paced the length of the office cabin and back, a path he’d repeated a good hundred times or more already that night. He had come to this cabin to think. This had seemed the place for it. As Amanda Garrett was at the center of this conflict, it seemed right to do his own planning here in the space marked with her lingering aura.
A hundred times also he mentally replayed his conversation with Harconan, those carefully guarded words that implied so much but gave away so little.
Harconan had her. There was no question. Just as there was no doubt he had the INDASAT. They knew where. Even in captivity Amanda had managed to point an arrow dead on at the enemy complex. But the fix on Amanda, on the satellite, and on the proof Harconan had stolen them both, was transitory. Within days, if not hours, it would melt away, leaving them nothing once more. If Harconan was to be stopped, it had to be done now.
MacIntyre had the assets in place to do the job. Also, Harconan could have no idea his security had been breached. The raid itself would provide all the evidence needed to justify the attack and to convict the raja samudra in the eyes of Indonesia and the world.
There was one problem, a problem that should, by rights, be insignificant if not flatly irrelevant to the equation: the life of a single hostage American naval officer. The life of Amanda Lee Garrett.
Harconan’s implication was clear. Take any further action against the Bugis cartel and Amanda’s life was forfeit. Oddly enough, the probable intent of his threat wasn’t to directly shield himself or his cartel; it was merely to force the Sea Fighter Task Force out of his waters so he could move his INDASAT prize safely. Harconan himself had no idea that it served as a double-edged dagger.
MacIntyre paused in his pacing. Why the hell not simply back off? With the departure point known, it would be easy enough to use satellite and drone recon to track the ship carrying the INDASAT to whatever destination Harconan intended. Try for the takeout later, under more controlled circumstances.
MacIntyre grimaced. Nice sophistry, Eddie Mac. Let somebody else make the blood call. The only problem is, we have all of the pieces now! We can end it now! We can move in and take incontrovertible evidence while it’s aboard one of Harconan’s own ships. Let this strike window close, and this tactical setup might never come together again.
All that was required was for MacIntyre to say Amanda Lee Garrett had to take her chances like any other member of the United States Armed Forces.
And, to his despair, he found that he couldn’t.
He imagined Amanda standing before him. He could visualize the stark fury in her eyes at even the suggestion the task force back off for her sake. He could hear the angered scorn in her voice and feel the sting of the enraged slap that, difference in rank or not, would have been delivered.