“And position.” Harconan had joined them at the wall screen. “If you want to do this thing and keep your people alive, you’re also going to need a favorable position to stage your attack from.”
“What would you suggest?” Amanda asked.
“Here.” Harconan stabbed a finger at an extended cluster of islands at the eastern
mouth of the Straits of Malacca, immediately to the southeast of Singapore. “The Riau and Lingga island groups. We call them the Thousand Islands. That’s where you need to engage Ketalaman.”
“What’s so special about those particular islands?” MacIntyre said curiously.
Harconan shrugged and stroked at his moustache with a fingertip. “My people have been sinking ships there for centuries. Why argue with success?”
“I can see what he’s talking about, sir,” Arkady added slowly. “If we had a little terrain cover, some radar shadows to work with, we could do
some good business.”
“And if we could catch him in restricted water … like in a narrow channel,” Amanda mused aloud, her thoughts already projecting ahead, merging with that of her CAG and the taipan.
“Uh, excuse me,” Christine said, squeezing closer to the chart. “At the moment, all of the bad guys are still way up here.” She pointed to the northwestern tip of Sumatra. “How are we going to make sure they go down there?”
“Oh, that’s quite easy, my dear,” Harconan replied, dropping an arm companionably around the Intel’s shoulders. “Convoys are like cattle. You merely have to know how to herd them.”
The Indian Ocean, South of Sumatra
1425 Hours, Zone Time: November 19, 2008
The oceanic horizon was empty and the sea rolled undisturbed, save for the occasional flash of a whitecap. Then, a broad ‘v’ of submarine turbulence smoothed the wave tops. At its apex, a periscope broke water. Trailing a narrow feather of wake, it rotated with deliberation, surveying the local environs. A few moments later, an electronic warfare pod and a communications mast broke surface as well.
Sixty feet down, the USS Hampton swam close to the surface to “answer the phone.”
The “bottom gun” patroller of NAVEX 7.2, the Los Angeles class nuclear attack submarine, had been covering the westward flank of the Regional Intervention Force. Then she had received a coded signal by water penetrating ultra-low-frequency radio, ordering her to periscope depth to accept a new tasking.
In her control room, the Hampton’s Captain and Executive officer each read and reread the message. By the philosophy of the submariner, they were being asked to commit the rankest heresy.
“Proceed northward toward the Sumatran coast at periscope depth with masts
extended. Transmit intermittently on standard radio bands.” The exec looked up from the hardcopy. “I don’t get it, skipper. Transmit what to who? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, Don. It’s almost as if they want someone to know we’re out here.”
The USS Cunningham
Benoa Port, Bali
1427 Hours; Zone Time, November 19, 2008
The stream of orders rolled over the 1-MC circuit. “All sea and anchor details, lay to on the double! Power rooms, light off all
turbines! Stand by to answer bells! All hands, set Condition Zebra in all
compartments! Make all preparations to get underway! Expedite!”
“Status, Mr. Winfield?” Captain Ken Hiro strode onto the Duke’s bridge, settling his command headset over his short brush of hair.
“Capstan room standing by to heave ‘round, captain. Ready to maneuver in …” Hiro’s exec checked the Lee Helm power displays, “… four minutes.”
“Very good. Any word yet on where we’re supposed to be heading?”
“No, sir. Just the emergency sortie order from the Carlson. Wherever it is, though, the Shiloh must be going with us.”
Across the anchorage, dark smoke was jetting from the stacks of a Ticonderoga class Aegis cruiser. One of the escorts assigned to the NavEx 7.2 Group, she was obviously powering up to get underway as well.
Hiro’s headset activated. “Captain, this is communications. Signal incoming from the Carlson. It’s Captain Carberry.”
“Put him through.”
A few moments later, the voice of the Sea Fighter’s new TACBOSS sounded in Hiro’s earphones. “Captain Hiro, this is Carberry. What’s your situation?”
“Emergency sortie order received, sir. Ready in all aspects to get underway. What are your orders?” Hiro knew that Carberry was a man who preferred brevity.
“You are being temporarily detached from the Sea Fighter Task Force, Captain. The
USS Cunningham and the USS Shiloh are being formed into an independent Surface Action Group under your command.
You are to proceed to sea immediately and you are to conduct a high-speed
anti-shipping sweep inshore to the westward, paralleling the southern coasts of
Java and Sumatra.”
Hiro frowned. “Is that it, sir? I mean no further information on objectives, mission duration,
rules of engagement, anything?”
“You’ve been given as much as I have, Captain,” Carberry replied dryly. “We both must presume that further orders will follow. Pending their arrival,
proceed and good luck with whatever it is that you’re intended to do.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The link broke and Hiro muttered, “Christ,” under his breath.
Almost immediately, the voice of the duty sparks came on-line. “Skipper, another ‘Captain’s ears only’ coming in for you.”
“Put it up.”
“It’s one of those special ‘Ladyline’ calls, sir.”
Hiro hesitated only an instant. “Right, I’ll take it in my quarters. Mr. Winfield, take us out of the harbor. Make a
signal to Shiloh. ‘Form up with us in line astern. Further orders to follow.’”
Hiro dropped down one deck from the Duke’s bridge level into officer’s country and to his cramped cabin. This had to be those “further orders to follow.” The Cunningham’s stocky Japanese-American captain found himself moving faster than his personal decorum usually permitted. Not only would this be his first Task Group command, but it was apparently a job involving Amanda Garrett.
