“You know, of course, the facilities on Nusa Funata have been captured and destroyed. I’m afraid that some of the smallpox virus may have leaked from the ruptured containers during the fighting. Our forces have been evacuated and the island is quarantined.”
Unblinking, Captain Balewegal stared back contemptuously, “Captain, it is you who are the criminal. You attacked my ship without provocation in Indonesian territorial waters. I do not recognize the ones that you call the lawful authorities. I demand that you release my crew and me immediately!”
The short, paunchy Captain raised his fist and attempted to rise. The COB slammed Balewegal forcefully back in his seat, again.
“Captain,” Hunter continued dryly, “I don’t think that you fully understand your position. We will happily release you within swimming distance of Nusa Funata. You can go there and share the fate of your fellow terrorists. I already know that your crew was not part of this plot. They will stay here and be turned over to your Navy.”
In a more conciliatory tone, he continued, “If you choose to help us, maybe I can arrange for our senior people to intervene on your behalf. As I understand Islamic Law. That’s what the Indonesian law is based on, didn't you say? The penalty for treason is death by beheading. Sounds pretty final. Think it over. If you want to talk, tell your guard. He will get me.” Hunter turned and stepped toward the door.
“Wait,” the Indonesian Captain started hesitantly. “I’ll help you. What do you want to know? Just don’t turn me over to them.”
All right, start talking,” CDR Hunter said, taking a seat across the table from the Captain. “I want to hear everything.” Captain Balewegal began to relate a tale of deceit, bribery, terror and treason.
24 Jun 2000, 0647LT (23 Jun, 2347Z)
“Captain, message from Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. It’s marked “Personal for” and addressed to you. I’ll bring it to the bridge,” Chief Tyler announced over the 21MC to the bridge cockpit.
“Very well, Chief. Lay to the bridge,” Hunter replied.
Chief Tyler made the long climb to the bridge and handed the Commander a stainless steel clipboard prominently labeled “TOP SECRET, SPECIAL CATEGORY” in inch high red letters.
The Commander flipped up the front cover and read the flimsy message form underneath.
TOP SECRET, GOLDEN DAWN, Special Handling required
EYES-ONLY: CO USS SAN FRANCISCO
From: Chairman, JCS
To: CO USS SAN FRANCISCO
Subj: Survivors INS SAWAL, LIMDIS
BT
Proceed best surfaced speed to vicinity 114.30E 07.45S to rendezvous with units of Indonesian Navy for transfer of survivors. Advise expected ETA soonest.
Transfer Captain Balewegal in prisoner status to Senior INS Officer Present.
Transfer LCDR Jones for treatment. Advise any other immediate medical requirements for transfer.
Well Done!
General Schwartz sends
BT
24 Jun 2000, 0620LT (0320Z)
The cell phone began its annoying buzz, disturbing Mustaf from his reverie. He angrily grabbed the offending device and growled a greeting. Who would dare call him on this number? Only three people had access to it.
“Mustaf, this is General Schwartz.” The gravelly voice was unmistakable. “Your operation has been totally destroyed. Have you made your peace with Allah?”
How did he get this number? What did he mean by totally destroyed? None of the operatives had reported in. The silence was most disturbing, and now this mysterious phone call.
“What do you mean, General? I have no operation. I am a peaceful businessman dealing in the trading of commodities. I have always been faithful to the teachings of Allah, why do you ask?" Mustaf countered calmly, but his mind was racing.
“That’s good,” the General responded, “because if you step outside that tent and look to the East over that anti-aircraft gun emplacement guarding your commodities, you will see your trip to Paradise coming over the ridge about now. Good-bye, Mustaf.” The line went silent.
Mustaf stepped outside as the General had suggested just in time to see four small, low flying missiles clear the horizon. All were pointed directly at him. He stood rooted in place, unable to even shout a warning. They rapidly grew from hummingbird size until they seemed to fill his entire vision. Three of the missiles made minor course corrections and crashed into other parts of the encampment, causing tremendous explosions. The last one continued directly at him. His mind told him to run, but his legs would not respond. It was too late, no time to run. What was that horrible screaming? What coward feared death so? His last conscious thought, just before the blinding flash, was that it was his own voice.
General Schwartz replaced the receiver and noted with grim satisfaction that the satellite intercept of Mustaf’s cell phone was located exactly in the center of his tent. Too bad that he was such a creature of habit. The first flight of four Tomahawks launched from the PITTSBURGH would be arriving right now. The next four would follow in thirty seconds and the final four would be thirty seconds behind them.
29
13 Jul 2000, 0630LT (1730Z)
The sun was just peeping over Koko Head, the ancient volcano marking the windward end of Oahu. The lights of Honolulu shone brilliantly from Waikiki up the twin mountains of Tantulus and Round Top. Jon Hunter was alone with his thoughts, sitting on the ice cap for the number one BRA-34 antenna, on top the sail of SAN FRANCISCO. Jeff Miller stood in the cockpit, a few feet forward of him and directed the ship toward the entrance to Pearl Harbor, a couple of miles ahead.
They had surfaced shortly after midnight and steamed through the remnants of a beautiful, star-filled tropical night. Hunter usually relished this time, alone under the stars,
