Power and Empire

He did not recognize the number. The men who would call this phone rarely used the same phone more than a few times. Still, he knew Dazid Ishmael would be on the other end of the line. He could almost feel the man’s uncanny energy coming through the handset.

Mamat had seen Ishmael behead four different Abu Sayyaf captives, each time with an American Ka-Bar knife. The commander’s resolve and devotion against the infidels was nothing short of amazing. He’d begun to think of Ishmael as a father figure and prayed for the moment he might prove himself.

That moment had come with this satellite phone call.

“Are you ready?” the commander asked.

Mamat looked at the six men sitting in the shade on either side of him along the deserted length of beach. Some stared out at the water; others sipped fruit juice as they pondered their coming fate.

“We are all ready,” Mamat said.

“Very well,” Ishmael said. “AIS shows that a likely vessel departed Ambon four hours ago, sailing southwest. Her present bearing leads me to believe that she is trying to reach Wakatobi.”

Mamat nodded. The Wakatobi reserve was a popular yachting destination. Rich infidel tourists had sailed past his father’s fishing boat many times.

Ishmael provided the AIS identifier. “Can you intercept?”

Mamat logged in to the satellite connection on his tablet computer and pulled up a marine traffic tracker. He found the vessel immediately. A simple click gave him a complete description of the vessel and its call sign, along with direction of travel, speed, and previous track. It amazed the young man how much information a modern sailor made available to anyone who knew to look for it — all in the name of safety.

“We are less than fifteen kilometers away.”

“That will work,” Ishmael said.

“The tracker does not show the U.S. Navy vessel,” Mamat said. “I am unsure of its whereabouts. What if it has passed?”

“Have you seen it sail by your position?”

The Indonesian man shook his head despite being on the phone. “I have not.”

“I anticipate it will pass to your west,” Ishmael said. “But it should be near enough. You must proceed quickly, within the hour. Understood?”

“Understood,” Mamat said.

“Go with God,” the Abu Sayyaf commander said before breaking the connection.

Mamat folded the antenna and shoved the satellite phone into a waterproof bag at his feet. Shouldering the bag, he walked toward the long wooden runabout bobbing in the green water. His men followed him unbidden. They needed no one to tell them it was time to go.

Awang, a man five years older than Mamat, waded into the sea at the stern of the nineteen-foot open boat, checking the single 250-horse Honda outboard motor. Speed was of the essence, and Mamat would have preferred two such motors, but two big motors on a wooden skiff was considered evidence of piracy. The AK-47s and RPGs secreted under the orange tarps on board would be enough to confirm suspicions if they were boarded by Indonesian authorities. Awang had gone so far as to rub mud over the Honda’s cowling to make it match the sorry state of the wooden fishing skiff.

Mamat and the other six pushed the boat deeper into the lagoon before climbing over the gunwales and taking up their respective seats. Most of the men were in their late teens and early twenties. Osman, the de facto second-in-command — because Awang refused to accept the position — sat on a wooden bench beside Mamat.

Hydraulics whined as Awang lowered the Honda into the water. The motor started with a burbling growl, and a moment later the skiff arced gracefully over the emerald-green waters of the lagoon. Awang sat at the helm, Mamat’s tablet on his knee for navigation.

He looked up at Mamat. “Lucky Strike?”

“That is correct,” Mamat said.

Awang frowned. “A sailing vessel seems a poor target.”

Osman turned and looked at him, shaking his head but saying nothing. Awang was trustworthy enough, but his periodic indiscretions with alcohol made him a leaky vessel when it came to important information. The rest of the men had kept the true nature of the mission from him. It didn’t matter. His job was to drive the skiff.

Mamat smiled. “Do not worry, my friend. Lucky Strike is not our target. She is the bait.”

• • •

Karla Downs sat with her feet up on the cockpit bench, her back against a dazzlingly blue cushion that matched Lucky Strike’s hull paint. Glancing down, she noticed a bit of errant sunscreen and rubbed it into her chest. They were sailing west on a close reach, and the huge sails provided welcome shade from the evening sun. A steamy breeze caressed her body, which had never been so tan. The smell of salt water and coconut oil swirled across the fiberglass deck.