“I daresay there is wisdom in that position, sir.”
The taipan took a bite of the fruit and frowned as a thought caught at him. “In relation to that, what in the hell is going on down in Bali?”
“In respect to what, sir?”
“The religious unrest we’ve been getting reports on. None of our agents or units are involved, are they?”
Lo shook his head. “No sir. None of our cells are undertaking any operations at all on Bali. As per
your instructions, all of our clan chiefs and ship’s captains have received orders to maintain a low profile and to perform no
provocations of any kind.”
“Well, some idiot is starting trouble of a kind even we don’t want. I need chaos, but not a Muslim-Hindu blood jihad.”
Lo nodded. “Indeed. But it must be recognized that any time of unrest might be viewed as an
opportunity by the power hungry. That may be what we are seeing here. We know
that there are any number of Islamic racialist factions maneuvering for
positions of power within the archipelago. No doubt one of them is seeking to
prove his power by provoking a confrontation with the followers of Agama Tirta.”
“He picked a damn poor place for it.” Harconan slowly chewed a second slice of mango. “If this kind of vandalism and harassment continues, the Balinese Muslim minority
could become extinct very abruptly.”
The Chinese gave the slightest of shrugs. “One shouldn’t expect rational thought from a man who believes that the Gods hold him in
extraordinary favor.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, Lo. Put Intelligence Group Bali on this. I want to know who’s behind these disturbances. Possibly an over-enthusiastic Mullah or two
requires an early return to Allah.”
“At once, sir.” Lo took no notes. He required none. But this morning, he did bear a single
hardcopy file with him. “Sir, there is something else I believe you might wish to see.”
Lan Lo was an impassive man in the extreme – but Harconan had a great deal of experience at reading his minute leakages of emotion. His factotum was concerned about something and on a personal level.
“What is it, bapak?”
Silently the Straits Chinese passed the file folder across the table. At the front was a news file download photo from CNN, a picture of a soberly attractive red-haired woman in an American “Blue Baker” naval uniform.
Harconan read the first paragraphs of the attached hardcopy and scowled.
COURTMARTIAL CONSIDERED FOR FAMOUS WOMAN WARRIOR
Dateline Washington DC: Informed sources within the Pentagon are reporting that
America’s most decorated female combat officer, Captain Amanda Lee Garrett, has been
relieved of command as part of a secret Department of Defense investigation
into charges that include ‘Dereliction of duty and conduct unbecoming an officer.’
In recent weeks, Captain Garrett and her command, the elite Sea Fighter Task
Force of US Naval Special Forces, have been deployed to the waters off
Indonesia, involved in what have been described as ‘anti-piracy operations.’ However Congressional critics of the Childress administration have called them
a ‘flagrant intrusion in the domestic affairs and responsibilities of a foreign
power.’
Details concerning the investigation have not yet been released and Department
of Defense spokesmen have no comment beyond a statement that Captain Garrett is
being recalled to NAVSPECFORCE headquarters in Hawaii for “a debriefing on recent events in Indonesia …”
“I warned you, Amanda,” Harconan spoke aloud to someone not present. “I warned you that, even if you won, you would lose in the end.”
He shook his head, musing at the past and at himself. Amanda Garrett was the woman who had shattered his meticulously developed multi-million-dollar piracy cartel and who had placed his plans for the future of Indonesia at risk. She had also come within a hair’s breadth of seeing him dead.
Yet he could also recall seeing her walk naked and unashamed on the beaches of his family’s island stronghold, and of feeling her arch in piercingly sweet passion beneath him. At one and the same time, she was his enemy – and yet also the one woman he had ever found worthy of the title Radu Samudra, the Queen of the Seas.
Kismet could be both sardonic and perverse.
What of it, Amanda? Has this betrayal by those you’ve served broken you? Are you ready to try a new way?
Harconan paused for a moment, considering. Or could it be that you are already trying a new way?
“It would seem that Captain Garrett has fallen in the eyes of her superiors,” Lo said with circumspection. “We may take comfort in the nullification of a potent foe.”
Harconan had long ago come to accept the fact that Lo could read his thoughts, including those he had concerning Amanda Garrett.
“Possibly, Lo. It is conceivable that the American authorities are indeed this
stupid.” He slid the folder back across the table. “Then again, possibly they are not. Get on with Intelligence Group Amanda about
this. I want everything that can be acquired on this theoretical court-martial.
Also I want a real-time track placed on Captain Garrett. I want to know where
she is and what she’s doing at all times to the limits of our capacity.”
“As you wish, sir.” There was the briefest instant’s hesitation. “May I ask, Mr. Harconan, is this concern in relation to our operations within
the archipelago or is it of a more … personal nature?”
Harconan smiled. “You may ask, but I’m afraid I don’t know the answer myself.”
The Pacific Ocean
Somewhere South of Tasmania
0551 Hours; Zone Time, October 7, 2008
She still smelled fresh from the builder’s yard, the paint unmarred on her bulkheads, her fittings still tight, polished and new.
Lieutenant Commander Dixon Lovejoy Beltrain worked his way through the empty, echoing holds and compartments, ensuring that every watertight door and access hatch had been wedged securely open. The crew was all off. The main engines were silent. Only a single auxiliary generator maintained the internal lighting. The great ship was adrift in the trough, the roll of the light-riding hull exaggerated, the steel of her frames creaking softly. It was as if she were deep in a sleep from which she would never awaken.
Once more, Beltrain felt the dull ache of regret – and, for the dozenth time, the Alabama-born naval officer brusquely told himself to not be a damn fool.
And yet, you don’t usually become a naval officer unless a love of the sea and of ships has been born or bred in you, along with an instinctive sense that ships are more than just mere artifacts, that there is a life there. With it comes a sadness at seeing one die, no matter how necessary.
Beltrain made his way aft, hurrying to have done with it, stepping carefully over the ominous gray cords snaking down the passageway.
Hunching through a final hatch, he emerged onto the second level of the main engine room. Below him, under the shadowless glare of the work lights, the huge diesel generator sets and mammoth electric motors gleamed. There also was a single man. Rangy and tall in his middle age, he was clad in an engineer’s coveralls and he knelt beside a partially disassembled coolant pump, the wrench in his hand glinting as he worked over it.
“Hey, chief,” Beltrain called, “it’s time to go.”
