“Kaboom!” Christine Rendino vividly put the punctuation to the thought.
“God,” Van Lynden whispered. “And Indonesians thought they were in trouble before. Half a million people were killed in the 1965 anti-Communist purges. This would trigger a bloodbath that would dwarf that. How can we stop this thing?”
Amanda’s jaw tightened. “Find and kill Makara Harconan,” she said tonelessly. “Fast. That’s the only way. He’s the linchpin to the entire operation. Pull it, and things might decouple, at least to a controllable level.”
“I’ll pass your recommendation on to the Indonesian government,” Van Lynden replied. “How much time do you think they have?”
“Not long, Mr. Secretary. Not long at all. Harconan won’t wait. We’ve broken the piracy cartel he was using to finance his operation, and we’ve knocked out his legitimate business holdings. The Indonesians have been tipped about his plan, and he knows he’s not going to get any stronger. He has to go with what he has now… and he will.”
Following her part in the conference, Amanda Garrett spent the rest of the afternoon caught up in a whirlwind of work. Rations and fuel were pouring aboard both the LPD and the Duke, along with whatever replacement parts and munitions could be matched out of Australian military stocks.
The task force’s more exotic and specialized needs were on the way as well, being flown in from the U.S. Fleet bases in Hawaii, Singapore, and Guam. So were the living spare parts for the Table of Organization, new Navy and Marine personnel to replace those lost in the recent campaign.
Within the task force hulls, crews labored, watch on watch, swearing at Eddie Mac and the Lady. Australia was known within the Fleet as the greatest shore leave in the world. There would be none, however, until all battle damage had been repaired, all onboard maintenance and servicing programs had been brought up to date, and the Sea Fighters were ready in all aspects for an immediate combat sortie.
Amanda had stoically issued those orders, along with a knife-edged command for all elements to expedite their readiness preparations. She knew that their next order for sailing would be for a war cruise.
The disintegration of Indonesia would simply be too big an event for the United States to ignore, nor could half a dozen other sea powers around the Pacific Rim. All would be involved in one way or for one reason or another.
Repeatedly, when she was topside, Amanda found her gaze drawn northwestward across the shimmering waters of Port Darwin and the Beagle Gulf beyond, her mind’s eye extending her vision across the Timor Sea to the Indonesian archipelago. The raja samudra was there, safe among his seaborne subjects and his thousand-island strongholds, moving his plans toward fruition.
She would find him again. Somehow she would find him. She sensed that she and Makara Harconan were locked in some strange, fated ritual like the Balinese dance they had watched together. The music had not yet ended and they each had steps left to perform.
So be it. She was a dancer and she would dance this one “right to the ground,” as her Celtic ancestors would phrase it. And if the gods were choreographing this, let it be that the last movement would leave her eye to eye with Harconan one more time.
Amanda crossed back and forth between the Carlson and Cunningham half a dozen times that afternoon, consulting with her officers and making it plain to all hands that there would be no stand down for her, either, until the Sea Fighters were ready to fight again. The stars glittered in an otherwise lightless sky when she crossed the pier tarmac to the LPD’s gang way for the last time, a cooling wind from the sea drying her perspiration damp shirt.
She found herself suddenly looking forward to a shower, a long hot pier-side one. And after that, midrats and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before turning in.
No, cancel that. Captain’s privileges: She’d have the steward run her up a steak sandwich… and french fries. She was suddenly ravenous.
“Hey, Boss Ma’am. Hold up!”
Clad in shoreside whites, the little intel ran breathlessly to Amanda. “Begging the Captain’s pardon, but may this lowly one, pretty please, ask a flagrant personal favor of the TACBOSS?”
“Anything’s possible, Chris,” she said, smiling at the thought of how they were back to comparatively normal. “What is it?”
“Relating to your no-shore-leave order, would it be possible for a little bitty exception to be made? Inspector Tran’s leaving with Secretary Van Lynden’s party, and I’d like to see him off at the airport.”
Glancing over Christine’s shoulder, she noted the dark, hawkish policeman leaning back against the fender of a staff car parked under a pier light. He nodded in silent acknowledgment, awaiting the decision.
“The inspector is going with Van Lynden? What’s up, Chris?”
“It seems that Singapore has given Tran an indefinite leave of absence so he can serve as a regional adviser to State on the Indonesian and piracy problems. I gather that Tran’s been made a kind of ‘company’ temp, if you get my meaning.”
“Hmm, interesting. I’m glad we’re going to have him on board.” Amanda’s brows suddenly knit. “But wait a minute: the Secretary of State’s party isn’t leaving until tomorrow morning.”
Christine endeavored to look innocent and failed miserably. “Well, I was kinda going to help him buy some toothpaste and a good book for the trip… and stuff.”
Amanda rolled her eyes and smiled. “Permission granted… for stuff.”
“Thanks, Boss Ma’am. Much appreciated.”
“Are you two…?”
The little blonde shrugged and grinned. “We’re running together for a little while. We’re the same breed of cat. You understand?”
“I do. Very well.”
Christine studied Amanda’s face. “How are you doing?” she asked, lowering her voice.
“I’m fine, Chris. I can’t really explain what happened to me back there. I guess I met the same breed of cat, too. But he was on the other side of the fence.”
“You told me once about your teenage fantasy of meeting a bold, swashbuckling buccaneer and running away to the South Seas with him. Sorry it kind of got all screwed up.”
“It’s all right.” Amanda glanced away toward the northwest again. “Maybe, once upon a time, when all of the world’s ills could be solved with one bright, clean slash of a sword, it would have been fun to run away to play pirate but not now.”
“Understood. ’Night, Boss Ma’am.”
“Have fun, Chris. Say so long to the inspector for me.”
Climbing the Carlson’s gangway, Amanda honored the flag aft, and after exchanging a few words with the OOD, she made the climb to her quarters. Maybe, when the task force was ready to sail again, she’d hit the beach for a day or two. She’d check into an ultra-plush hotel room and spend an entire afternoon soaking in a steaming bath. Then she’d just sleep for hours and hours in a huge, soft king-size bed. She was still mentally luxuriating when she nodded to the sentry outside of her cabin door and entered her office.
Elliot MacIntyre startled her for a moment as he stood up at her entry. “Sorry about intruding like this, Amanda,” he said diffidently, “but I had to pick up some hard copy I left in your desk.” He nodded toward the briefcase leaning against the desk leg.