The gnarled limbs of large hibiscus trees arced overhead, forming dark roomlike spaces in the jungle. Coconut palms gave way to thick walls of mountain banana, towering beech and merbau, and razor-sharp pandanus trees that reminded Chavez of a cross between a yucca and a palm. Insects and birds droned and chirped among the foliage. Abundant flowers perfumed the hot and sticky air.

They’d made it a half-mile up the slope when they heard the first shots.

Adara stopped beside the smooth trunk of a tall merbau tree to catch her breath. “Idiots,” she spat. “You told them. How’s your wrist?”

“This running isn’t helping,” Chavez said, reaching out to touch her forearm. “I need to tell you something.”

Adara reached out and took his arm, careful not to torque the wrist. “You should let me splint this.”

“Later,” Chavez said. “Listen to me. Those guys did a number on me back at Suparman’s. I’ve got a roaring headache. I feel like I’m about to puke. And I can barely see.”

Adara went into full medic mode in a flash, using her thumb to lift Ding’s brow so she could get a good look at his pupils. “Yeah,” she said, keeping her tone calm. “Your eyes are all wonky.”

“Give it to me straight, Doc,” Chavez said. “None of those big medical terms like wonky.”

“I’ll keep an eye on you. At least take this,” she said, digging in the first-aid pouch she kept on her belt for some Tylenol. “I don’t want to give you ibuprofen with a head injury. Too much of a risk for bleeding.”

Ding washed it down with a bottle of water he’d brought from the plane. He couldn’t very well call in sick. He pointed to the vegetation behind them. “Our trail isn’t going to be hard to follow in this foliage. We need to keep moving. Our exfil boat is supposed to be here in four hours. We may need all of that to make it up and over — and that’s if those guys don’t catch us first.”

* * *

Commander James “Jimmy” Akana, United States Navy, had been in command of the USS Fort Worth for a total of twenty days, a month earlier than his normal rotation. USS Fort Worth, or LCS 3, was one of several littoral combat ships that worked under what the Navy called the 3-2-1 Rule. Three crews, rotating every four months, would keep two ships maintained, and one deployed at all times. The previous skipper had been stricken with a burst appendix while on port call in Darwin. Akana, previously of the patrol vessel USS Rogue, and now part of the Rough Rider Crew, had been temporarily assigned to shore duty in Singapore as part of Destroyer Squadron 7 for Seventh Fleet forward operations, when he was dispatched to take command of LCS 3. He hated that his fellow officer had taken ill, but Jimmy Akana had not joined the Navy to sit in an office. Command of any vessel at sea was a gift.

USS Fort Worth was a Freedom-class littoral combat ship, three hundred eighty-seven feet in length, with a fifty-eight-foot beam. Purpose built for patrolling near-coastal waters, she was fast, maneuverable, and handsome. Though not equipped with the weapons of a destroyer or cruiser meant for sustained Naval battles, she was well-armed for her size with a Bofors 57-millimeter deck gun, rolling airframe missiles, and Mark 50 torpedoes. Twin .50-caliber machine guns rounded out the firepower. Her surface warfare package included, among other things, a Sikorsky MH-60 Romeo Seahawk and a remotely piloted helicopter called a Fire Scout.

Akana planned to steam northward, meandering through the islands of Indonesia as part of a joint antipiracy operation with that country, Malaysia, and Singapore. His father had been a policeman in Honolulu and antipiracy duty made him feel like he was channeling his law enforcement bloodlines.

The message came in directly from Admiral Jenkins, Akana’s boss with the Seventh Fleet in San Diego. The communications specialist handed him the headset so he’d be able to hear over the hustle-and-bustle noise of the bridge.

The orders were clear, and according to the admiral came directly from the President. Not that that would have mattered. Akana was a Navy man. As far as he was concerned, an order was an order, whether from a captain or the commander in chief.

Akana ended the call and handed the headset back to the radio operator before motioning his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Nicole Carter, to the chart table.

“Bird’s Head Peninsula on the northwestern shores of New Guinea. Take her up as close to flank speed as you can without breaking something.”

“Our mission, Skipper?” the XO asked.

“Rescuing a couple of operatives,” he said, leaning forward so only the XO could hear. “And possibly a tiny invasion of Indonesia.”

<p>51</p>