The squall line was passing and the tropic air stank of picric acid, raw diesel and charred flesh. Amanda Garrett fought down the urge to vomit. She was aware of Makara Harconan standing close beside her in the dimness. She could feel the war weariness in him as it was in her. He too had seen enough of big ship war.
It was time to put an end to it.
Amanda spoke into her headset. “CIC, stand by torpedoes. Get me a firing solution for the Teluk Surabaya, a full
four fish salvo.”
“Wait!” She felt Harconan’s hand on her shoulder. “Save your taxpayers your torpedoes. Ketalaman is doing the job for you. Watch.”
Amanda lifted her binoculars. She could see the big Ivan Rogov, fires dotting her decks. The ship was hurt. She was hurt badly. Its bow turret guns were still firing, but the shells were falling nowhere near the Shenandoah. The Indonesian vessel was like a battered, defeated boxer lashing out blindly before collapsing.
Then Amanda could see the silhouette lengthen. The Teluk Surabaya was turning away, reversing her course northwestward up the channel. She was trying to run.
“Wait,” Harconan repeated softly. “Wait.”
MacIntyre’s voice was sounding in her headset. “We have a firing solution. Bridge, I repeat – we have a firing solution on the Indonesian flag. Range is closing! Standing by
for firing order! Amanda, dammit! Fire!”
“Wait!” came a whisper.
“Wait,” she echoed.
Amanda kept her glasses trained. The Teluk Surabaya was halfway through her turn, then three-quarters of the way; then she stopped dead in her own length, her bow lifting and the entire outline of the ship distorting.
Amanda lowered her binoculars. She could imagine the scream of tearing buckling
steel and the roar of the inrushing sea. “Combat Information Center, stand down torpedoes and secure the moon pool. We’re not going to need them. The target has run aground.”
“I told you there was a reef line out there to the north,” Harconan said smugly.
The Bridge of the Teluk Surabaya
2334 Hours, Zone Time, November 20, 2008
The dead ship lay across the reef like a corpse draped across a log. Solidly impaled, she was an artificial island now, the men aboard her no longer crew and passengers but castaways. On the battle-damaged bridge, the sweating radio operator nodded. They had emergency battery power to the Talk-Between-Ships.
The Chief of Staff lifted the hand microphone.
“Attacking force. Attacking force. Hold your fire! Hold your fire! This is
Captain Amadari of … of … the Indonesian Navy speaking from the Teluk Surabaya. We surrender. We are hard
aground and we surrender. All our surviving ships surrender! Hold your fire!”
There was a ship out there. Unidentified and unidentifiable, it held in deep water off the stern of the ruined amphib. Where it had come from, the Chief of Staff didn’t know. The only vessel they had detected before the holocaust had been a harmless freighter.
A voice, a woman’s voice – firm, decisive and speaking English – replied, “This is the attacking force commander. We are receiving you, Teluk Surabaya. Be
advised, your surviving transports have been targeted but we are holding our
fire.”
“This is Captain Amadari to Attacking Force Commander. What are your terms for
surrender?”
“Immediate and unconditional. I repeat, immediate and unconditional. We will
guarantee the lives of all rebel faction personnel as Prisoners of War under
the Geneva Convention – but only if all orders and instructions are obeyed to the letter. Is that
understood, Captain?”
The CoS took a shuddering breath. “Understood. We will comply.”
“Very well, Captain. There is a small island off the Lingga coastline approximately six miles astern of your current position. Your two ferry transports will proceed at slow speed to a point in mid-channel directly opposite this island and they will drop anchor. Your ships will shut down their engines and power down all radar and communications systems. They will maintain full illumination on deck at all times.
“You will be kept under continuous observation until the arrival of Government
naval forces. If these orders are violated in any way, or if any attempt is
made to put boats over the side and land your troop contingents, the attack
will be resumed and continued until you have been wiped out. Is that
understood?”
The Chief of Staff glanced out into the night. “Attacking Force Commander, we understand and will comply – but we have many people in the water. Very many people. We request permission
to conduct rescue operations.”
“Permission granted,” the woman replied promptly. “Each of your surviving vessels may put one motor lifeboat over the side with a
minimum rescue crew aboard. The rescue boats may not land ashore. They must
return to your ships after each sweep. We are dropping life rafts to your
survivors as well.”
“It is understood. We will comply. Thank you.”
“We will also be dispatching a boarding party to your vessel. We require that
Admiral Ketalaman surrender himself to the authority of the Indonesian
government.”
The Chief of Staff moistened his lips. “I regret we will not be able to deliver Admiral Ketalaman into your custody.”
“Why not, Captain?” the woman’s voice demanded.
“Because Admiral Ketalaman is dead.” The CoS looked at the dark huddled mass lying in the corner of the wrecked
bridge. “We can only hand over his body.”
There was a long pause at the other end of the circuit. “Surrendering his body will be satisfactory. How did Admiral Ketalaman die?”
“By self-inflicted gunshot. The Admiral has committed suicide.”
“Understood, Captain Amadari. Prepare to receive our boarders. We regret the loss
of your ships and personnel.”
“As do I.” The Chief of Staff returned the microphone to its clip.
Something rasped oddly underfoot as he moved and he looked down into the shadows. Kneeling, he picked up something from the deck.
It was a piece of stone.
Tengah Air Defense Force Base
Singapore
