“I don’t think Ketalaman will use the northern channel. That would swing him off his
course and add several steaming hours to his transit to Java, hours that he can’t spare. Berhala Strait to the south would be his best, safest bet.”
Amanda tapped the central channel with the nail of her forefinger. “Somehow we’ve got to play cowboy again and herd Ketalaman into this narrower central
channel, into Sebangka Strait. I think that’s going to be our best killing ground.”
MacIntyre leaned over the chart with her, his chest lightly brushing her
shoulder. “That’s the least likely of the three. Sebangka Strait looks to be barely ten miles
wide at the throat. And with shallows, reefs and those smaller secondary
islands lining the passage, the blue water shipping channel will be more
confining yet.”
“It’s a meat grinder. Once he’s in there, he won’t be able to turn away. He’ll have to keep coming.”
MacIntyre glanced at her. “That’ll apply to us as well.”
She shrugged. “You know what the Eskimos say about hunting polar bears. The bigger he is and
the more scared of him you are, the closer you get before taking your shot.”
*
At a word from her captain’s cabin, a metamorphosis was launched aboard the Shenandoah. Not of caterpillar into butterfly, but more caterpillar into a different caterpillar.
Air horns blared, topside work lights blinked out and night-vision-equipped work crews sprang to their carefully orchestrated tasks.
The Shenandoah’s jackstaff mast disappeared, retracting into its recess in the hull. Power wrenches buzzed at a score of locations around the decks. Panels were reversed along the edges of the MacGregor hatches, changing the hatch trim from black to yellow. Hatch access ladders were unbolted and shifted to new hard points. Mock-up fiberglass ventilators and deck fittings were stricken topside and tacked down on empty deck areas.
Around the superstructure, the blue and white galaxy funnel badges were replaced by a yellow and green winged horse. False structural panels folded outward or were lifted and bolted into place. The two side-by-side exhaust stacks merged into a single squat funnel. Deckhouse windows became portholes and portholes and exterior hatchways disappeared altogether.
Yellow decal strips were applied around the boot tops of the lifeboats, while atop the wheelhouse a large white plastic bubble was inflated into a distinctive but phony radome.
With the physical modifications complete, the wash crews took over with their pumps, hoses and chemical compounds. Streaks of artificial rust drooled down from the hawse holes and a layer of dinge was added to the white upper works.
Many of the false and reversed panels had been coated with radar absorbent Retinal Schiff-based paint. The Shenandoah would now produce a somewhat smaller radar return. She also became a single screw ship, with one of her propellers stopped and feathered. Underwater hull speakers scrambled her audial pattern to any listening hydrophone, and intermix blowers in her engine exhaust system altered the density of the thermal plume streaming behind her.
Lastly, the name boards at her bow, bridge railing and stern were changed – and a new national flag rose to her masthead.
As this conversion took place, an odd ripple radiated outward through the global internets from an obscure location somewhere in the western hemisphere. It was a computer virus, a carefully crafted but minute affliction that invaded only a few dozen systems worldwide and was of such a trivial nature that it would be disregarded and eventually corrected as an annoying but minor data glitch.
But for the next forty-eight hours, should an internet inquiry be made about a certain, specific merchant vessel, said vessel would be listed as being somewhere in the Java Sea instead of placidly loading cargo in a Chilean nitrate port.
By morning, the grimy Greek bulk carrier Andronicus, sailing out of Athens under the house flag of the Pegasus Shipping Combine, plodded slowly westward toward the Straits of Malacca.
*
The thin gray light of dawn slotted through the blinds. Both the Captain’s and owner’s cabins displayed the wreckage of a marathon planning session: charts, reference books, ruffled stacks of hard copy and a multitude of empty tea and coffee cups.
From his position sprawled on the cabin settee, MacIntyre looked on as Amanda spoke into his desk phone.
“Any situational updates, Dix? Very well then. Tie on a full Operations Group for
one hour from now. All division heads and Mr. Harconan. You may also pass the
word that we are heading into a big show tomorrow night. As of right now, we
are on maximum effort. All divisions are to set taut and stand by for orders.”
She returned the phone to its cradle and stretched a luxurious dancer’s stretch, lifting her arms over her head. “Lord but I’m getting too old for this.”
“That’s my line,” MacIntyre replied.
She came out of her stretch and padded across to the settee. Dropping into it beside him, she tucked her bare feet under her. In last night’s explosion of activity, she had never gotten around to donning shoes; she still wore her rumpled merchant mariner’s uniform, her hair tousled out of its usual impeccable neatness and her face untouched by makeup.
And yet she still managed to be infinitely desirable.
That connecting thought triggered the return of the complex emotions he’d been dealing with lately, his concerns, his embarrassments, his determinations. But somehow, possibly because of his adrenaline inspired lack of sleep, it all seemed detached, a separate kind of thing. What was real and immediate was that, for the moment, he was alone with this unique woman, seated a mere foot away.
They had worked together at their grim, demanding craft all through the dark hours. And now, for a time, that work had been cut off, leaving them suspended with nothing but the bond they’d created.
What in hell was she feeling? For the moment, she seemed to be studying him thoughtfully with those striking golden eyes, as if she was content to simply look at him.
Somehow, they had been granted this one quiet bubble of time and intimacy. Get on with making a fool of yourself, MacIntyre. He knew he ought to end it, one way or another, before the world intruded again.
“Amanda …”
“Why not, Elliot?” she smiled.
Her statement derailed him. “Why not what?
“Our having a relationship could be a perfect adjunct to the whole Phantom Force
security program,” she replied practically. “Everyone knows that male and female officers in the same chain of command are
not permitted to become romantically involved. Such a relationship could only
publicly emphasize the fact that I’m no longer in the Navy or serving with you in any capacity.”
“Amanda …”
“Of course, we’ll have to be rather flagrant about the whole thing,” she continued, her smile deepening. “We’ll have to see a lot of each other whenever we’re in the same port. We’ll have to spend leave time together – and there must be numerous public displays of affection, kissing, hand holding,
that sort of thing.”
“Amanda!”
“And presents, of course. I’ll have to be sent lots of presents, on the lavish and intimate side. Perfume,
jewelry, lingerie. I’ll give you a list of sizes, colors and so forth. That won’t be a problem.”
MacIntyre sat up straight. “God damn it to hell, woman!”
Amanda exploded with laughter, collapsing against him. “Oh, Elliot, you have to admit, it’s going to make a wonderful excuse.”
His arms were around her then and he was gathering her close as he had wanted to do, holding her as he had not held anyone in such a painfully long time. He felt her head settle on his shoulder in a comforting nestle and his hand ranged down her warm, strong flank. MacIntyre felt his self-built barriers begin to collapse.
