“I believe we’ve already met, Commander.”
Commander Rendino had been a member of the Sea Fighter Task, the Naval Special Forces unit that had broken the Harconan piracy cartel and revealed his anarchistic intents to the world.
At the time of their entry into Indonesian waters, Goodyard had considered them,
loudly, to be a “needless provocation.” He had named their capable but controversial commander, Amada Garrett, a “cowgirl” and a “Rambo.”
“Yes, sir. At the Harconan reception on Bali.”
The memory of that event and of things said there were yet another lash across Goodyard’s memory. Once again, there was no one to blame but himself.
Abruptly, he stood and extended his hand across his desk. “Welcome to Jakarta, Commander Rendino. I wish I had talked a little less and
listened a little more at the occasion of our last meeting.”
Rendino smiled and accepted the handshake. “Mr. Ambassador, my Sea Daddy – who happens to be a woman – has taught me that making mistakes is part of the human condition. What you do
about it afterwards is what counts.”
In spite of the circumstances, Goodyard felt the corner of his mouth quirk up. “Captain Garrett?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A remarkable woman, I understand. I wish I’d availed myself of the opportunity to get to know her better. I … regret hearing about her recent difficulties. Please have a seat, Commander.”
“The fortunes of war, sir. Thank you.” The Intel sank gracefully into one of the brocade chairs facing the desk. There was something odd in the demeanor of the Intelligence officer. This woman had been a friend of the legendary Captain Garrett, yet there had been no tension generated with the mention of her recent forced retirement. Instead, there was almost an amused glint in her blue-gray eyes.
Goodyard settled back into his own chair. “I’ve been in communication with the Secretary of State. He advised me that I would
be receiving a liaison officer from the military command being assembled to
deal with the developing crises here in Indonesia. I gather that will be you,
Commander.”
“Yes, sir,” Rendino nodded. “My unit is one of the Intelligence gathering assets for the Regional
Intervention Force. Part of my job will be to keep you in the loop with the
developing situation.”
“You say you are one of the assets being deployed. I may assume then that there
are others?”
“Yes sir,” the young woman replied carefully. “You may assume that Intelligence gathering operations are underway on a number
of levels within the archipelago.”
“And these Intelligence gathering operations are being performed in preparation
for a military intervention in the Indonesian crisis?”
Again, the slightest hint of a smile brushed across Commander Rendino’s face. “The command authority of the Regional Intervention Force is preparing a series
of contingency plans for a wide range of possible scenarios at this time, sir.”
“And will I be advised on these ‘contingency plans,’ Commander?”
“Mr. Ambassador, I assure you that you will be fully informed of the Intervention
Forces intents as the situation develops and the appropriate courses of action
become clear.”
Goodyard understood. This moment of diplomatic fencing had cleared the air and
told him his place in the upcoming scheme of things without the necessity of
having it spelled out. There was a third presence in his office at that moment.
Some invisible personage stood at Commander Rendino’s shoulder, silently stating in no uncertain terms, “Mr. Ambassador, we have a battle to fight here and it will be fought our way and
not yours.”
For a moment, Goodyard tried to assess the identity of this personage. MacIntyre of NAVSPECFORCE? He had been present at that much regretted reception as well. Or could it conceivably it be someone else who might have taken a step backward into convenient invisibility?
Whoever might be responsible, Goodyard could accept this unspoken ultimatum in only two ways: anger or humility. And anger, at this late date, would assuage nothing, not even his own ego.
“Very good, Commander. You may rest assured that I am ready to render any
assistance I can to your operations.”
The Intel, who really had a most charming smile, relaxed in her chair. “We never conceived of anything less, Mr. Ambassador. Would you care for the
latest sitrep at this time?”
“Sitrep?”
“Milspeak for situation report, sir. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize, Commander. I need to start learning the tongue of this new
land I’m venturing into.”
Part Three
First Contact
West of the Pulau Seribu Island Group
30 Miles North of Jakarta, Indonesia
1312 Hours; Zone Time, September 19, 2008
It was a frequent sight at many Third World ports, merchant ships loitering at anchor offshore, waiting. Waiting for pier or warehouse space to open up. Waiting for a dockworker’s strike to end. Waiting for a cargo to be delivered or for shipping documents to clear.
Or waiting to see if their intended port of call was still going to be there come morning.
On the lee side of the Pulau Seribu, a small mixed bag of container ships, roll-on-roll-offs and break-bulks flying the flags of half a dozen nations, huddled together like a herd of wary elephants. Nervous anchor watches scanned the cloud-streaked horizons and nervous skippers watched CNN, mentally flipping nickels, pence or yen about cutting the owner’s losses and getting the hell out of Dodge.
As the vivid green of the islands beyond the anchorage faded in the tropic heat haze, a newcomer joined the herd, a big, handsome bulk carrier coming in from the Sunda Strait. The Talk-Between-Ship channels crackled.
“Dottier av Dalarna, Dottier av Dalarna, this is Galaxy Shenandoah, do you read, over?”
“Galaxy Shenandoah, this is Captain Bolstad of the Dalarna. We read you, over.”
“Good afternoon, Captain Bolstad. This is Captain Garrett of the Shenandoah. I’ll be coming in to anchor about half a kilometer astern of you if you have no
objections. Over.”
“I have no problem with that, captain. That will be plenty of swing room. We have good holding ground here. Over.”
