“Lost Prize, Lost Prize,” Ken Hiro’s voice replied from over the horizon. “This is Blackbeard. We show green boards. All elements on station. All elements on time line. All elements report ready for mission commit. We show no situational changes on Crab’s Claw. Ready to execute on your command.”
There was no sense in waiting to see if he’d made a fool of himself. “Understood, Blackbeard. Transmit UNODUR notification and initiate primary Freebooter time line. Commit the attack.”
“All elements initiating primary time line,” Hiro replied. “Good luck, sir.”
“To us all, Commander. To us all.”
Washington D.C
2200 Hours, Zone Time: August 24, 2008
Literally halfway around the world from Crab’s Claw Cape, teleprinters in the Pentagon and the State Department began to hiss out priority flagged hard copy at the same instant.
***URGENT ***URGENT ***URGENT ***URGENT ***URGENT ***
***TIME CRITICAL MESSAGE FOLLOWS***
***AUTHENTICATOR IRONFIST NOVEMBER ZERO-TWO-ONE
***FROM: CINCNAVSPECFORCE***
***TO: CNO/SECSTATE***
***HAVE LOCATED HOSTAGE CAPT. A. GARRETT AND STOLEN INDASAT 06 VEHICLE ON WEST COAST NEW GUINEA. UNLESS OTHERWISE DIRECTED AM INITIATING RESCUE AND RECOVERY OPERATION. DETAILS IN ATTACHMENT FILE***
Somehow, such UNODIR (UNless Otherwise DIRected) notifications never got sent in time to be otherwise directed.
Bridge of the Frigate Sutanto
0801 Hours, Zone Time: August 25, 2008
MacIntyre lifted his finger from the communications pad. “Miss Nichols, take us in, please. You have the helm.”
Labelle Nichols, still at the helm station she had claimed since the boarding, spun the Sutanto’s wheel hard over, starting the frigate’s bow on its arc toward the mouth of the inlet.
“Going in, sir.” The young woman sounded incredibly cool and collected for her first act of barratry. “Lee helm, all engines ahead emergency.”
The enlisted hand at the engine controls rolled his throttles forward to their stops.
MacIntyre strode across the bridge, past the helm stations and past the lounging bulk of Stone Quillain, to the ship interphone. Lifting the handset from its cradle, he rang through to the main engine control.
“Engine Room, this is the bridge. This is it. Lock it all down and get the hell out of there!”
“Engine Room, aye!” the voice answered from the belly of the doomed ship.
“Eddie Mac’s taking us in!” the engineering CPO bawled down the narrow passage between the thundering pair of Hyundai marine diesels. “Haul ass, you guys, haul ass!”
The three other members of the skeleton black gang needed no urging. They were the last hands below the frigate’s waterline. They raced forward to the ladderway that led up to the comparative safety of mid decks.
The veteran chief petty officer counted them up the ladder, three in with him, three out ahead of him. Before he followed, instinct made him pause for a last second for a look at the gauge banks on the main engine control boards.
Some needles were already starting their climb into the red zone. Whoever had been running coolant and lubrication maintenance on this plant needed to be taken out and shot after he’d been hung. Oh, well, it wasn’t as if it mattered all that much.
He started to climb.
Two levels above, he unlatched the ladder trunk hatch and slammed it shut, kicking the locking dogs solidly into place. All watertight doors and hatches below the frigate’s waterline had been tightly closed, just as all doors and hatches above the waterline had been securely wedged open against the risk of their freezing shut from frame distortion.
The central passageway of the main deck, one level below topside, was a rank and crowded place that smelled heavily of both heat and tension sweat. Spalling mats had been run down either side of the passage with the intent that the Kevlar armor combined with the steel ship’s hull would keep the space bullet- and fragmentation-free. Or such was the theory. Battle lanterns had also been spaced down the passageway. They were now being switched on in preparation for the loss of the internal lighting.
All hands, Marine and Navy, had their spot staked out. The CPO had left his combat gear parked at his. Hastily he dragged the MOLLE harness and flak vest on over the green utilities he wore. Donning his K-Pot helmet, he sank down with his back to the bulkhead and tried to remember the loading and clearing drill for his twelve-gauge combat shotgun.
From the feel of the hull, they had completed their turn and were reaching flank speed. Not long before the show starts. Crazy damn way to do things! Hope the admiral knows what he’s doing. Hope the main bearings on Number Two hold out. Probably they’re red-hot by now. Too late to worry about it. Hell of a way to treat a ship.
The chief glanced at the three youthful Motor Macs huddled together against the bulkhead across from him. Two guys and a girl, all three of them just out of high school. Good kids and good sailors. They’d all volunteered for this job, practically begging for it, but they were looking scared now. Just about as scared as the CPO felt.
He gave them the slightest nod of his head and a bored smile that indicated that this was just another day leading to twenty and out.
That’s part of a chief’s job.
Fantail of the MV Harconan Flores
0803 Hours, Zone Time: August 25, 2008
Amanda saw the massive gouts of smoke stream back from the frigate’s side hull exhausts. It was readily apparent the ship was tacking on more speed. Defining her intent was less easy.
The Sutanto’s hull seemed to shorten as she wore around. Reversing course? No. Her helmsman met the turn as she came in line with the tip of the cape. She was standing on straight for the mouth of the inlet, her bow wave building rapidly as the lunatic on her bridge piled on the revs.
“What the hell…?” she heard Harconan’s perplexed whisper. “He can’t be thinking of entering the inlet. Not at that rate of knots.”
What the hell, indeed, Amanda agreed silently. That Indonesian skipper was bringing his ship in like…
“… Like the Campbeltown.” Amanda said it aloud.
She knew who the “lunatic,” was now. Her train of thought jumped across to meet his with admiration and awe. Boldness countered by boldness. Brilliant, Elliot!
Amanda lowered the binoculars and looked at Harconan. He had turned to study her in return, seeking for some clue, disbelief and bewilderment warring across his handsome face. He had been found out and he knew who must be responsible.
“You didn’t have a chance, Makara,” she said with genuine regret, not for what was going to follow, but for its necessity. Also for all of the possibilities that might have been had Harconan been content to be merely a man instead of a king. “There was never a chance.”
USS Cunningham, CLA-79, on Buccaneer Station
0803 Hours, Zone Time: August 25, 2008
In the Cunningham’s Combat Information Center, the tactical operations officer spoke from the master fire-control console.
“Sir, T minus thirty seconds to ATACMS launch by time line.”