Goodyard shook his head. “No, Sharon. Things are bad now and they’re only going to get worse. I want you and the other dependents out of here,
now, before things go completely to hell.”
“And what about you?”
The Ambassador’s features hardened. Always a spare man, the strain of the last few weeks had
driven him into gauntness. “I’ll stay until I’m forced out or until they recall me. I may have made a hash of things out here
but, by God, I won’t run from my responsibilities.”
Tears glinted in his wife’s eyes. She knew this man. She knew he was a politician and, by necessity, he had played all of the politician’s games in his struggle to climb the ladder of government. But she also knew that, in all essentials, he was a good man with a heartlander’s love of his nation.
She caught at his arm. “Darling, please! This isn’t your fault!” she repeated with urgency.
Goodyard smiled and drew her close. “I know. This was coming long before I ever got the Ambassadorship. I suppose I
can also take comfort in the fact that Harconan made fools out of far better
men than me. I just wish I could have done … something.”
There was a light knock at the door of the office.
“Come in.”
The young Marine officer commanding the standing Embassy detachment appeared in the doorway. It was still odd to see him bulked out in camouflaged combat utilities and an interceptor vest, instead of his usual, crisp high collared blues.
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Ambassador, but the extraction flight is inbound and on
final approach. Sir, we’d like to make as fast a turnaround as possible, so if Mrs. Goodyard …”
“We understand, lieutenant. My wife will be down presently. Thank you.”
They waited until the door had closed before slipping into a fierce farewell
embrace. “No sense in you coming down, darling,” she murmured. “I’ll say goodbye here. But please, if things start to get really bad, don’t wait too long. To hell with duty.”
He ran his hand down her back in a comforting caress. “I’ll be fine, Sharon. They’ll take be taking good care of us. You just relax and have a nice vacation in
Australia.”
His wife snorted derisively and kissed him once more. Then, slipping out of his arms, she took up her shoulder bag and suitcase, forcing herself to move quickly to the door.
When she was gone, Goodyard turned back to his office window, his face tight. Beyond the glass, the droning roar of the inbound evacuation flight could be heard.
The camouflaged MV-22B Osprey appeared beyond the compound wall, diving in fast in a combat approach and landing. The engine pods on the tips of its stubby wings swiveled upwards, its two huge propellers transmuting into helicopter-style lift rotors, and the big Marine tilt-rotor flared out like a hunting hawk. Swiveling about a hundred and eighty degrees, it aimed itself outward for a fast departure before settling onto the embassy helipad. Then, bouncing lightly on its undercarriage trucks, the VTOL’s engines faded back to idling power, its airscrews feathering to kill the prop wash.
The Osprey’s tail ramp dropped and a dozen or so men and women disembarked, clad in a mixed bag of dungarees, khaki, and camouflage. Sea bags, personal weapons and a number of hard-sided aluminum equipment cases were offloaded from the aircraft as well, making room for the outbound evacuees.
Goodyard recognized the incoming military personnel as yet another aspect of the building crisis. They were an Intelligence unit of some nature that would be using the embassy as a listening post.
Abstractly, Goodyard noted a small blonde woman in a summer weight naval officer’s uniform among the newcomers. There was something oddly familiar about her, but before the Ambassador could place it, the departing embassy dependents were herded across the helipad to the aircraft.
His wife was among the little group of luggage-burdened civilians and Goodyard had attention to spare only for her. She waved from the tail ramp before disappearing into the Osprey’s shadowed interior. The ramp closed and the turboprops spooled up to flight power, filling the embassy courtyard with a tornado-like flurry of dust wind and kerosene haze.
Lifting off, the VTOL swept over the compound wall, climbing away through the smoke of the burning city. Precautionary anti-infrared clusters rained flarelike from its countermeasures pods as it gained speed, converting from helicopter to fixed wing mode. Then it was gone, racing north for the comparative safety of the sea and the long, looping flight around Java to Australia.
Goodyard and his wife had been forced to say farewell on a number of occasions over the years. For the first time, the Ambassador wondered if this was for the last time.
Moving aimlessly, he drifted back to his desk. Sinking down into his chair, he cradled his head in his hands
Harconan.
Goodyard had once considered himself a fairly canny individual, well versed in the murky infighting politics and nobody’s fool. But Makara Harconan had made him one.
When Goodyard had received the Indonesian ambassadorship, Harconan had been standing there, practically at the door of the aircraft, with his hand outstretched in greeting. Sophisticated, vastly wealthy, and well versed in the complexities of Indonesian politics and culture, the half Dutch, half Bugi merchant trader was one of the men of power within the archipelago. He had seemed a worthy asset to cultivate, to befriend, even to defend.
Then the bomb had exploded in Goodyard’s face.
Makara Harconan, his confidant and comrade over the dinner table, was not the trade and industrial magnate that he had appeared to be.
Like the Makara, the mythical Indonesian sea beast the taipan had been named after, the amiability of the dolphin had concealed the soul and teeth of the shark.
Harconan had proven to be the organizer and leader of a international piracy cartel responsible for hundreds of millions of dollars in shipping losses and hundreds of deaths throughout the waters of South East Asia.
He was also the driving force behind a plan to not merely overthrow the government of Indonesia but to destroy its very national structure.
The piracy cartel had been broken by the intervention of the United States Navy. But the second phase of Harconan’s master plan, the destruction of the Indonesian State, was now in full play and apparently close to success.
Being America’s last ambassador to Indonesia was a distinction Goodyard didn’t particularly desire. But it seemed the dubious honor was about to be forced upon him.
His brooding thoughts were disrupted by the attention tone of his intercom. He tapped the key for the speaker.
“Commander Rendino from the tactical Intelligence group is here, sir.” The rough, youthful voice of the Marine sentry standing guard outside his office was a considerable change from that of his secretary.
“Very good. I’ll see the Commander.”
A moment later, the office doors opened and Goodyard felt the jolt of surprised recognition. He had already made the acquaintance of this particular military officer.
Only, on that occasion, she had been wearing a most revealing gold sequined mini dress.
Setting down a hard-sided aluminum computer case, the attractive little blonde came to an easy parade rest before the Ambassador’s desk.
“Lieutenant Commander Christine Rendino, at your service, Mr. Ambassador.”
