“I think it’s fairly obvious that the President’s aggressive foreign policies and blank check treatment of the Armed Forces has
spawned a dangerous ‘Rambo’ attitude among our military leadership. Hyper-aggressive risk-takers such as
the Garrett woman are allowed to come to the fore, individuals willing to
subvert the will of Congress and the American people in their hunt for personal
glory.”
“I must point out, Senator, that Captain Garrett is a two-time winner of the Navy
Cross and the recipient of a Special United Nations Medal for Peacekeeping.”
“I don’t mean to belittle this young woman’s legitimate accomplishments – but it is also obvious she has now exceeded even the loose mandates of the
Childress administration. Justifiably, she must be brought to book.”
“The press statement issued by US Naval Special Forces still only mentions a
nonspecific Board of Inquiry.”
“We are clearly being stonewalled by Admiral Elliot MacIntyre, the NAVSPECFORCE
commander. He’s using the old bugaboo of National Security in a flagrant attempt to shield
Garrett, but I can promise you, Larry, the truth will come out …”
Diego Garcia
The Central Indian Ocean
2323 Hours; Zone Time, Oct 2, 2008
Diego Garcia was not near anything. It was a desolate flyspeck of coral lost in a vast waste of open sea. The only real value rested in its location. From this particular set of geographic co-ordinates, one could dominate the entire Indian Ocean basin.
Nominally, Diego was a British possession. However, it had been given over to the United States under a long-term lease, the only tenants being the American armed forces. You did not go to Diego unless you’d been invited and you were not invited unless you had specific and approved business there.
A single, huge air base complex took up the bulk of the main island, its runways, parking aprons and servicing facilities capable of handling the largest aircraft in existence. Naval patrol planes, military transports and tankers shuttled through routinely, going about the Pentagon’s affairs. The heavy hitters of the Air Combat Command – the B-52 BUFFs, the B-1 “Bones” and the B-2 Spirits – had also staged out of Diego for the conflicts in the Gulf and the ’Stans.
More heavy hitters could be found moored in the island anchorage, the great gray ships of the Military Sealift Command. The Diego Garcia Maritime Pre-positioning Force stood ready to race to any potential hotspot along the Asian or African coast. Its fast transports were packed solid with the equipment kits of an Army Mechanized Expeditionary Force, a Marine Expeditionary Brigade and an Air Force Combat Wing – along with the munitions, fuel and supplies required for a month’s worth of war. There, the equipment could be mated with troops airlifted in from the continental United States, vastly reducing the response time to a potential crisis.
The world’s military communities readily recognized that Diego Garcia was the linchpin of US military power in Asia. Any stirrings of the giant would be reflected by events on the little island. Accordingly, Diego had become one of the most thoroughly spied upon locales on the planet.
For the past six months, military reconnaissance satellites had noted something
new and puzzling added to the facilities at Diego. For lack of any better name,
it was referred to as “The Cocoon.”
A gigantic floating dry dock, easily large enough to handle an American Nimitz-class aircraft carrier, had been towed to the island and positioned in the anchorage. It was a reasonable addition to the island’s naval support facilities. However, this particular dry dock had been roofed over with a white geodetic canopy, obviously intended to conceal whatever it contained from the prying eyes of the fleet of orbital voyeurs.
Of course, using some of the more esoteric forms of infrared photography, it was fully possible to “see” through the walls and ceilings of a building, granting a fair view of the interior. A couple of millimeters of fiberglass construction fabric shouldn’t constitute a difficulty.
But what looked like fiberglass construction fabric, wasn’t. It was an infrared absorbent stealth material as impermeable as a mountainside.
If infrared wouldn’t work, then perhaps passive microwave would. If the cocoon contained a large metallic object, such as a ship, said ship would radiate a minute but detectable electromagnetic emission. When scanned by a properly equipped satellite, the ship would literally draw a radiant picture of itself.
But, when such a satellite was maneuvered into position, it was found that an array of broad-spectrum microwave emitters sprayed the sky above the cocoon, washing out all effective passive imaging.
Grumbling, the orbital reconnaissance specialists withdrew. The United States had developed satellite surveillance and they were still the undisputed masters of the craft.
One foreign power, a theoretical ally of the United States and a fellow member of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, had not been satisfied. Launching out of a base in the Seychelles, it attempted to sidle an unmanned, instrument-laden reconnaissance drone in close enough to Diego Garcia to get a look at the mysterious dry dock.
The last image transmitted back from the drone was of a Patriot III interceptor missile flaming in for the kill. Treaties that might count for something in the North Atlantic did not necessarily apply in the wastes of the Indian Ocean.
For the past week there had been a massive upsurge of activity around the cocoon, but the outside world was unaware of the development. Diego Garcia’s “Captain Kirk”, the orbital traffic officer, had been playing a deft and elaborate game of strategic peekaboo. Whenever the skies above Diego were empty, a steady stream of barges, landing craft and cargo lighters shuttled between the shoreside base facilities and the anchored dry dock. But whenever a suspected reconnaissance satellite popped above the horizon, the support craft were either huddled under the shelter of the dock’s protective hood or dispersed elsewhere around the anchorage.
On this night, the support craft withdrew for the last time, their tasking complete. Aboard the dock and aboard what it contained, crews stood to their stations, waiting for a gap in the orbital surveillance.
At exactly 23:24 Hours, the Japanese Self-Defense Force Reconsat Shiun 5 sank below the northern horizon. Following a final check with Space Command Headquarters beneath Cheyenne Mountain, “Captain Kirk” gave the final clearance.
Warning klaxons blared within the cocoon. Line handling details flipped down their night-vision visors as bank after bank of the interior work lights blinked out. In the darkness, compressed air hissed and powerful engines cranked into life.
The klaxons blared once more and the mammoth forward gates of the dry dock edged open, displaced waves sucking and swirling around them. Python-thick nylon mooring lines splashed free of mooring bitts and the waters roiled beneath a towering counter as multiple propellers began to turn.
A great angular shadow crept out into the night, tropic phosphorescence burning coldly along its waterline. Running blacked out, it turned with ponderous grace toward the anchorage channel and the open sea beyond, the doors of its secretive home closing on its wake.
Forty-five minutes later, the Canadian Commercial Earth Surveillance Satellite,
Red Eagle Alpha, swept over Diego Garcia. On behalf of a number of different
governmental and private subscribers, a photo series was taken of the complex.
Nothing out of the ordinary was noted.
The Moluku Island Group
The Indonesian Archipelago
0756 Hours; Zone Time, October 4, 2008
The air was rich with the scent of cloves, vanilla and the sea. The breakfast table on the lanai of the old East Indies Dutch plantation house had been decorated with a bowl of forest orchids picked by one of the servants. It was an incongruous centerpiece for a war room. Likewise, the chatter of the wild parakeets made an odd background note for the topic of conversation.
“We need to start ramping up the air isolation phase of the campaign, Lo,” Harconan said to his factotum. “I want to start the disruption of the inter-island air traffic.” The taipan was clad in safari jacket and slacks while the Straits Chinese seated across from him wore his inevitable black business suit.
“We have several vessels available with man-portable surface-to-air missile
systems,” Lo replied. “They can be positioned in the flight paths of some of the major coastal
airfields.”
Harconan shook his head, his dark hair still wet from his shower. “We might consider that for the military transports but not for Garuda and the
other civilian airlines. I want to use sabotage teams on them. Overt,
direct-action sabotage. I want those aircraft taken out on the ground, not in
the air.”
Lo frowned lightly. “I must point out that the terror factor of mid-air losses would expedite the
isolation process.”
“True enough, bapak,” Harconan replied, using the affectionate Indonesian term for father. “But it will hold down the casualty count a little. God knows it’s growing fast enough as it is.”
“We recognized the inevitability of this factor when we launched this enterprise, Mr. Harconan.” An individual well-acquainted with the Lan Lo might have recognized and understood the slight softening of his voice.
“I know, I know.” Harconan took up the silver fruit knife beside his plate. Without much interest, he cut a slice from the mango he had selected. “We went into this thing knowing we must be bastards, but there is no sense in being any bigger a bastard than we have to be.”
