MacIntyre smiled frostily into the screen. “Yes sir. We can. We can not only confirm that she is alive, Mr. Secretary, but she has given us her location, the location of the hijacked INDASAT, and the location of the primary pirate base.”
In spite of the situation, Van Lynden laughed softly. “I should have known, I should have known. All right, Eddie Mac, what do you propose we do about this?”
“Mr. Secretary, we are working the problem at this time.”
“I understand that, Admiral, but I want a preliminary briefing I can run past the President, just to get him ready for what you have planned.”
“Mr. Secretary,” MacIntyre said, emphasizing his doublespeak carefully, “we are working the problem at this time. May I have a few additional hours to prepare a full situational update for the National Command Authority? I feel we will be able to present the President with a… valid resolution to the situation.”
MacIntyre locked eyes with Van Lynden. After a pause, the Secretary of State spoke again: “How long will you require to prepare this briefing, Admiral?”
“Approximately twelve hours, Mr. Secretary. At that time we will be prepared to answer any questions you may have.”
“Understood, Eddie Mac. Twelve hours. We’ll be standing by.”
The Milstar link was broken from the Washington end.
The admiral pushed himself back from the screen and reached for the officer’s cap he’d left balanced in the brow of the console. Crumpled soft, salt-stained and oil-spotted, its once polished bill was roughened and green from long exposure to the Persian Gulf sun. It was a relic from another time and another Eddie Mac MacIntyre, the fraying braid denoting a lieutenant commander’s rank.
MacIntyre had carried it for years, tucked away in his at-sea luggage. He’d never really known why. Now he did.
Donning the cap, MacIntyre gave it a decisive tug down over his eyes. It still felt pretty good after all these years; maybe it was the most comfortable hat he’d ever worn.
He stood and turned to face the others who shared the flag plot with him: Captain Carberry, Christine Rendino, Stone Quillain, Nguyen Tran, and Labelle Nichols. The policeman, the Marine, and the special boat woman loomed as shadows within the shadows, being clad in black utilities.
“Ladies and gentlemen, that’s as much authorization as we’re going to get.”
Indonesian Navy Frigate Sutanto
2330 Hours, Zone Time: August 24, 2008
The phone over the head of Captain Basry’s bunk buzzed over the whirr of the air conditioning. The Indonesian groaned and reached for it once more. “Yes?”
“Captain, this is watch officer Kodi. The Americans have resumed low-grade radar jamming once more.”
Basry muffled his second groan. “Any difference from other times today?”
“No, sir. We have received the same notification from the American flagship that they are systems testing.”
“Any interference with our station keeping?”
“No, sir. We have a clear visual plot on the running lights of both targets.”
“Any alteration of course and speed or any other unusual activity on the part of the Americans?”
“No, sir, nothing noted.”
“Then, Lieutenant, advise me when something unusual is noted.”
“Yes, sir. My apologies, Captain.”
Basry slammed the phone into its cradle and buried his face back into his pillow.
The operative phrase in the watch officer’s statement had been Nothing noted. The Sutanto’s lookouts had been too far away to note the two shadowy shapes that darted away from the flanks of the Carlson or the small Cipher reconnaissance drone that lifted off from the LPD’s flight deck. Likewise, the degraded Indonesian radar failed to detect the minute radar cross-sections of the three objects.
Half a mile out on either side of the line of advance of the Indonesian vessel, the seaborne shadows went inert, their wakes fading behind them as they powered down. Thermally stealthed as well, neither emitted enough infrared radiation to be discernible through a night-vision system.
The Sutanto swept between them, unaware of their presence.
The Cipher drone swung wide around the Indonesian frigate. Dropping in behind the ship, it crept up from astern, a black dot skimming the wave tops.
“Lieutenant Kodi,” one of the lookouts called, “something is taking place aboard the American vessels, sir.”
The lieutenant swept up his binoculars, aiming them at the distant clusters of running lights that marked the positions of the American ships. The helipad strobe lights on both U.S. vessels had begun their dazzling pulse, and the red flush of night work lights could be made out aboard the LPD as her hangar-bay doors opened. The Americans might be preparing to launch helicopters.
Kodi glanced at the bridge phone and hesitated. The captain had stated he wanted to be notified only if the Americans were up to something out of the ordinary. Would an air operation come under this definition? Perhaps if the Americans actually launched their helicopters…?
The watch officer chose to be conservative.
“Lookouts, stay alert,” he called to the men on the bridge wings. “Keep an eye on what the Americans are up to.”
He meant the American vessels ahead of them. As yet, no one aboard the Sutanto was aware of the U.S. craft behind them.
Heavy-duty Velcro parted and the anti-IR shroud split overhead down the length of Raider One. A puff of hot, fetid air was released as the insulated shroud peeled down to either gunwale.
Stone Quillain palmed the sweat from his face, resmearing the thick coat of black camouflage cream he wore. “Damn, that’s better,” he muttered. He was one of the dozen people aboard the eleven-meter RIB; half were handpicked SOC Marines, the others Special Boat Squadron hands. “Hey, Labelle. How we doin’?”
Lieutenant Commander Labelle Nichols stood beside the raider’s coxswain at the helm station, peering down at the dimly glowing lines on the miniature Cooperative Engagement tactical screen. Even with her naturally dark features, she, too, wore black camou paint to kill the sheen of her skin. “Looking good, Stone. Raider Two is on station and the Carlson reports no situational changes aboard the Sutanto. It looks like we climbed in their back pocket okay.”
“Good enough. Then let’s bite ’em in the ass.”
“Doing it.”
Nichols typed the execute command into her terminal and dispatched it via microburst to Raider Two and the CIC of their mother ship. Then she murmured a command to the coxswain at the helm station. Engines kicked over with a muffled rumble. With mufflers full on, the diesels were no louder than the hissing hydrojets they drove. Such quieting cost horsepower, but the raiders would still have more than enough speed to pursue and overtake the Sutanto.
The Cipher drone popped up astern of the Indonesian frigate. Station-keeping over the Sutanto’s wake, the drone’s onboard cameras provided an overview of the warship’s decks and the events unfolding around it.
Two miles ahead, in the Carlson’s Combat Information Center, Christine Rendino stood at the shoulder of the drone’s systems operator. Studying the low-light images feeding from the little RPV, she coached the raider force in over a voice communications channel.
“Looking good… the fan tail appears clear… the only lookouts appear to be forward on the bridge wings…. No reaction…. No reaction….”