“Unidentified is not a valid sighting report, Captain!”
The CoS gulped. “There’s a group of Bugi coasting vessels maneuvering in an unusual manner across the
main channel, sir.”
“Show me.”
They turned to the large theater chart. The black wax marker squeaked on the Plexiglas sheet laid across it. Ketalaman seemed to flinch at the sound.
“Here, sir. Between Cape Buku and Cape Jabunk. Half a dozen Bugi pinisi are sweeping south and north in a regular series of narrow boxlike patterns.”
“Mines,” Ketalaman murmured. “They’re laying mines.”
“It might almost look like that, sir. The maneuvers do have a resemblance to a
mine laying pattern, but the Bugi have no deep-water mines.”
“But Kediri’s forces have such weapons, as do the Americans.”
“Sir, it is difficult to conceive of the Americans sanctioning the mining of a
major international waterway.”
“They’ve managed to conceal their meddling quite well so far, Captain,” Ketalaman spat. “Their smart mines have been put to use against us already. Has our
reconnaissance uncovered anything else?”
The Fleet signal intelligence officer responded to the question. “Our search aircraft are reporting unidentified transmissions coming from
somewhere in the straits sector. The signals are definite but there’s nothing we can clearly identify as to source, intent or exact point of origin.
They match up to nothing we know of in either the government or the American
inventories.”
Ketalaman’s fist came down on the chart, the bandage on his hand smearing the crayon
marks. “We know nothing of what the Americans actually have! They’re setting up some kind of ambush! They intend to draw us into a minefield keyed
to destroy our ships. Kediri’s forces will finish off the survivors and take the credit!”
The Chief of Staff moistened his lips. “That is a possibility, sir. But we have minesweepers with the task force.”
“What about the Sebangka Strait?”
“The Nala’s Sea Lynx is scouting the passage now, sir. So far, they’ve detected no sign of enemy activity.”
Ketalaman turned away from his Chief of Staff to face the Task Force Commander. “Commodore, order the task force to change course. We will proceed through
Sebangka strait at best possible speed.”
“Admiral, I must protest!” The commodore stepped forward from the rear of the plot room. “We won’t have any room to maneuver in that channel.”
“Nor will we have an American ambush waiting for us. Now order the course change,
or I will have your successor in command do it!”
Admiral Ketalaman turned and strode from the flag plot. The other officers clustered there lowered their eyes, refusing to meet one another’s gaze.
Ketalaman’s CoS gave a shuddering sigh. In a way, Ketalaman’s abrupt departure was a relief. Had the Admiral remained the Chief of Staff,
sense of duty would have forced him to ask, “But what if someone desires that we go through Sebangka Strait?”
The USS Shenandoah
2015 Hours; Zone Time, November 20, 2008
“They’re doing it, Boss Ma’am. The rebel task force has committed. They’re going for Sebangka.”
“Thank you, Chris. Mr. Beltrain, secure from aviation stations. Bring the ship
about to two six zero degrees, all engines ahead full, civil power.” Amanda paused. “Attention all hands, this is the Captain. Early tomorrow morning we will be
taking the Shenandoah into what will possibly be the decisive engagement of this conflict. In
approximately one hour, we will be clearing for action. Prepare to rig the ship
for close range surface engagement and special attack operations. That is all.”
Sebangka Strait, off the North Coast of Lingga Island
2247 Hours; Zone Time, November 20, 2008
Sitting in the top of a tree in a rainstorm with a disgruntled Army ranger was not one of the things Stone Qullain had ever planned on doing in his life, but the Sea Demon commander was adaptable if nothing else.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I gotta say this is just plain crazy.”
“Oh hell no, sergeant.” Stone hitched himself to a slightly less uncomfortable position straddling the
tree branch. “This kind of deal is old business for the corps.”
“You’re kiddin’, sir? You mean somebody’s tried this before?”
“Why sure,” Stone nodded, water dripping from his helmet brim. “Ain’t you ever heard of Lou ‘the Honker’ Diamond?”
“Uh, no sir, I haven’t.”
“And here I thought they taught you somethin’ about the military in that Ranger School of yours! Anyways, the Honker served
back in the Old Corps and he was the model God used to make the Marine Gunnery
sergeant. He went ever’where and did ever’thing and wore out more sea bags then most men do socks. When he was sixty years
old, the Honker could still drink a case of beer at one sittin’ and pitch a no-hit baseball game afterwards.”
“Uh yes sir, I’m sure he could,” the rather dubious reply came back. “But what does that have to do with the NATO Alliance?”
“It has everything to do with it. You see, the Honker was a mortar man. Probably
the best one to ever draw breath. He used to sleep with a battery of 81
millimeters set up around his bunk. Once, durin’ the Guadalcanal campaign, he saved the whole damn Tulagi landin’ by driving off a Japanese destroyer squadron with mortar fire alone. Like I
said, Sergeant, this is old stuff for the Corps.”
“Begging the Captain’s pardon, but did this Honker guy also hand-carve the Marine memorial with a
bayonet?”
“Naw, Chesty Puller done that thing.”
The banter was interrupted by a hissing voice issuing from a Leprechaun
transceiver hung from a nearby tree limb. “OP West to Director One. We have trade in the channel. Small surface warship.
Heading zero niner eight degrees. Range eleven hundred meters.”
Instantly, Stone and the Ranger Forward Observer swung their thermographic binoculars onto the bearing. For a moment they saw nothing. Then a glowing became apparent on the cool darkness of the sea, a misty cloud of exhaust heat hovering above it.
“I got him!” Stone commented. “Length, ’bout a hundred and eighty feet. A single stack. Three gun tubs, over ’n under autocannon, ’fore, aft and amidships.”
