CHAPTER 9
Chet squinted at the pulsing orange disc, watching the sun settle into a blood hued sea. A vague wariness tickled at him, but after another day of hefting stones onto the ever growing camp perimeter wall, he couldn't tweak the feeling into full blown alarm. For whatever reason, he and a dozen of his fellow prisoners had been separated from the others as the day ended, prodded toward the beach rather than the barracks. He'd seen a few other groups similarly led away at night and they mainly returned before dawn, so investing too much worry in it wasn't worthwhile.
Five minutes later, the small group halted on the coarse-gritted black sand. Six militia members accompanied them, four of those quickly looping rope through the cuffs on each young man's ankle and anchoring it to a stout palm tree. That done, they departed, leaving two gunmen to stand guard. A half hour passed in silence, Chet shifting foot to foot, trying to ease the aches of the day. Eventually a distant hum percolated into the fading light.
The hum became recognizable as an approaching engine out on the ink-dark water, then halted off shore. A smattering of clangs, bangs, and voices followed, culminating in muted splashes. A few minutes more and small inflatable boats skidded onto the sand, piled high with supplies.
Chet quickly found himself unloading boats by torchlight, while five of the boys were pressed into service pulling wooden carts back and forth to the wall building sites. He finally flopped onto the sand hours later, panting and staring up at the stars as the ant stream of ferried items ceased, the last box heaved into the wagons.
Exhausted as he was, Chet realized he'd gotten the better end of the deal. The five youths used as pack mules all sported a vicious crop of new bruises and one of them failed to get up after the short lived water break. A guard prodded the kid a few times with a sandaled foot, then shot him when he wouldn't stand. By the time the imprisoned souls were led back to the huts they called home, periwinkle daybreak streaked the sky.
Chet didn't bother to lie down, aware the slop of breakfast was mere minutes away. The long night compounded his ever growing weariness, and the missed dinner was no longer a good thing for a diminishing Chet Morton. Gathering the energy to face another day of laying block on no sleep was proving extraordinarily challenging.
Shifting to ease a cramp in his leg, Chet heard the chain on his ankle clank. The sound triggered a wisp of tenuous thought; some significance to the jangling that lurked right below the surface of awareness. The night had passed with a rope tethering his leg, not the now replaced metal links. He'd spent the dark hours praying he'd never see the supply work detail again, but the elusive thought in his head suddenly congealed, and he found himself praying exactly the opposite. Fingering the sliver of bone he'd hidden in his pallet weeks ago, he felt the honed edge prick at the pad of his thumb. It just might be sharp enough. A rare smile graced the grime streaked face.
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Joe stretched, shifting his chair sideways so Connor's wife could deposit a tray of sandwiches and fruit on the paper strewn table. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." She nodded at the half empty water pitcher. "Would you like anything else to drink?"
Seeing the small shake of his head, she looked across the table. "How about you, Fenton?"
"Oh, no thank you. We're fine." His answer was distracted, attention already split between reading in the dim light and watching Joe shield his notes.
"All right then. Connor should be home in about an hour if you need anything. I'm going to make an early night of it."
As soon as the reed-woven door slid closed behind her, Fenton shot a curious glance at his son. "Hiding your paperwork, Joe?"
"What? No, I was just..." Joe's answered trailed off at his father's raised eyebrow. "Yeah, guess I was. Don't you think she's a little, I don't know, weird?"
"Weird how?"
He shook his head, blonde waves trailing over his forehead. "I don't know. She's nice enough to us, but she makes me fidgety somehow."
Fenton continued to gaze at his son, waiting.
"Sorry, Dad, it's just a vibe. I take it you don't agree."
"Actually, I do." Fenton poured himself another half tumbler of water, tipping the contents back and forth as he thought. "I think what you're sensing is that she makes Connor nervous. I noticed it more yesterday when her father was here."
"So you think it's some marital in-law thing between them? Nothing to do with us being here?"
"It's definitely something between them, but that's no guarantee it doesn't involve us. Can't hurt to be careful with our information, anyway." The older detective gazed at the other half of the table, studying the highlighted lines. Ever since their realization that Elias had provided them with a list of ships, they'd been scanning the shipping logs for other trips made by those particular vessels. Several had quickly been eliminated as legitimate trading ships; a few were easily identified as government vessels still in the harbor.
That left about two dozen boats that appeared to be private and had been in and out of port multiple times in the weeks before and after the coup. Joe had been searching owner registries, seeing if any of them were directly owned by government officials or military officers, while Fenton correlated the names with local markets, assuming many of the vessels would belong to area fishermen. Gathering as much information as they could in town during the day, the past few evenings had found them sitting on this veranda overlooking the sea, comparing notes and crossing out ships no longer deemed suspicious.
The list finally pared down to four boats that seemed to have unexpected time lapses between their arrival at offshore destinations and their return to the capitol harbor. None of them directly belonged to any of the missing government officials, or to anyone on Fenton's original hotel list, but that didn't necessarily signify anything. There had to be hundreds if not thousands of minor government employees and military personnel who were unknown to the Hardys.
Both detectives returned to reading, unconsciously finishing the food as they worked. Fenton eventually stood, crossing the broad planked floor. "I think we need to decide something before we go any further, Joe."
Joe jerked his head up, startled by the intrusion of his father's voice into the salt air. "What?"
"We came over here with two objectives and I'm not certain that's the case any longer. You know I've spent part of my time in the city trying to track down Elias Dahl as well hanging about fish markets?"
In spite of the situation, Joe had to grin. "That's not how it smelled when you got back here..."
Fenton let out a half-hearted chuckle, grateful for his irrepressible younger child, appropriate timing or not. "Be that as it may, there's no sign of him anywhere and none of the embassy staff in Jakarta have heard from him either. So it seems any commitment I owed Elias has taken a backseat to searching for Chet."
"Dad, you've gotta know this has been about Chet from the beginning for me." Joe was all for honoring obligations, but he hadn't promised the Network agent a thing. The jerk shouldn't have put a price tag on helping Dad in the first place...
"I know that, and if I'd come back here strictly to keep a promise to Elias, I wouldn't have brought you along." Fenton paused, searching for the best way to word his concerns. "We're working on the assumption that finding these ships means finding the remaining rebels, and that means finding Chet, correct?"
"I think it's more than an assumption-"
Fenton idly waved a hand, forestalling the remainder of Joe's comment. "I didn't mean otherwise. Once we know where he is, though, we can't simply charge in there and grab him."
Joe nodded, having concluded the same thing days ago. He firmly resisted an urge to roll his eyes. If he had been talking with Frank, he would have. "I know. You've been putting this conversation off because you thought I might try that, haven't you?"
His father looked slightly chagrined. "Something like that. I guess somewhere in the midst of watching you plow through research for a week solid I should have remembered you're not that impetuous little boy anymore, huh?"
A mischievous smile lit Joe's face. "Oh, he's still in here, I just installed a few safeguards before I run off pell mell now days - can't rely on you or Frank to be my common sense forever." Seeing that Fenton appeared more melancholy than amused, Joe dimmed the wattage on his grin and adopted a more serious tone. "It's ok, Dad. I can look before I leap, promise."
"I know you can, Joe, and I never wanted to imply you wouldn't use common sense. I just keep seeing what these people did to your brother, and I'm afraid to have you anywhere near them."
"I don't see how we can avoid getting near them, but I will be careful. I have no desire to be their new punching bag, either." Joe hesitated, then added a soft question. "You think Frank's ok?"
"And I'm the one who keeps reminding Laura you're growing up..." Fenton's quiet mutter remained under his breath, never reaching his son's ears, before he offered a louder reassurance aimed as much at himself as Joe. "I'm sure your brother's fine, ok? I'm worried about him, too, but he's going to be fine."
He shook off the momentary foray into worried fatherhood and returned to meticulous detective. "You're right, we can't stay away from the militia and rescue Chet at the same time, but we can recruit some help. I think we've got two options."
Joe shifted back into work mode too, nodding as he started to speak. "So, you want to go with the Network agents in Jakarta or the Raneian government guys?" The options in question seemed obvious to him as well. And there's a chopped liver versus brussel sprouts choice if there ever was one...
"Ordinarily, I'd say the Network, but Nicholas Shuman's defection throws a curve into that. We know he turned double agent, but we don't know if he corrupted anyone else in the staff and I'm not personally familiar with the agents in the area."
"But we don't know the Ranei officials any better to decide which of them to trust..."
"True, but Connor does. We'll have to rely on that to some extent. Besides, the Raneian officials should be more motivated to eliminate the rogue soldiers before they can take over again." Fenton paced the length of the porch, pausing at the corner where the sea breeze could ruffle his hair.
Then why haven't they done it yet... "That makes sense, but it seems like they should have come up with this information on their own by now. And we're going to have to notify the embassy in Jakarta at some point since most of our suspected rebel locations are in Indonesian territory." Joe frowned as he turned that last thought over.
"There will have to be a formal notification, but I doubt it will be a high priority communication on either side. Seven or eight thousand of the Indonesian islands are unpopulated and their government can't babysit all of them."
"Ok, I concede that point, but what about the Ranei folks? Why are they being so slow cleaning their own house?"
The elder detective contemplated that before answering. "Maybe they're not. They may have located the rebels already and be waiting on the best time to strike. Or perhaps they're too busy unearthing the city to do anything else. I admit it's peculiar, but we won't have an explanation unless we officially take our information to the what remains of President Moluki's government."
Joe sighed, still uncomfortable. When in doubt, stall. "So, why's the Network here anyway? Sounds more like CIA business to me. This was an internal overthrow attempt, not terrorism."
Fenton tilted his head, aware of the diversionary tactic and opting to answer anyway. "Not yet. Ranei sits among the eastern islands of Indonesia, but culturally it's pretty different, so there's always been a bit of tension between the two. Right now, they're both secular democracies, but Indonesia is an up and coming player in world trade, has modern cities and a large, multicultural population. Ranei is small, insular, and conservative to the point of being archaic throughout most of the country. A radical government here could easily export terrorism throughout the area."
"And Indonesia would be vulnerable to that just on the basis of being decentralized and being a young country. It declared independence from the Dutch in 1945, right? Although the Japanese had actually been in control for several years by then, I guess." Contrary to rumor, Joe was a more than passable history student, especially if he expected to find himself in the nation in question.
"Right." Fenton studied his son's expression. "You didn't need that little recap. What's still bothering you, Joe?"
The younger Hardy joined his father at the hand-hewn railing, staring out at the shimmering silver caps on the night-black ocean. "They don't already know."
"What?"
"You said maybe the Ranei government already knows where the rebels are. They don't." Joe plucked at back of his damp shirt, turning into the soft wind. Even long after sundown, it was insufferably hot. "We're staying with a mid-level bureaucrat, who happens to be the son-in-law of a senior government secretary. We haven't shared our notes, but they both know we're searching for rebel militia hideouts. If they already know where those are, why let us dig around for a week?" Unless they're intentionally wasting our time...
Fenton rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly tired. "A valid point. Although you have to bear in mind that Connor is only a mid-level player. He might not be privy to the information."
"And Minister Mejki?" The mid-level argument certainly didn't apply to Moore's father-in-law, who basically held a position in the Raneian government equivalent to Secretary of State.
"Maybe he doesn't trust us." Fenton stifled a yawn. "It's late. Why don't we both get some sleep and let this roll around a little more before we decide what to do. In the morning, I'll go see Mr. Mejki and try to get a feel for him."
"You sure that's a good idea? We could go together."
Fenton shook his head. "The possibility that it's not a good idea is why you're not going. I doubt there'll be a problem, though. He does already know what we're doing, so that won't be of any surprise, and I don't intend to divulge the details yet. I can always tell him I was at the wharf again and wanted to thank him for his hospitality in person since he's not staying here on the estate."
"Plausible, I guess." Joe shrugged. "And what am I supposed to be doing while you hob-knob with him?"
"Head back to the harbor and see if any of our ships are back."
The soft murmur of the surf deftly covered a faint click from the door behind them.
"Ok." Joe covered a yawn of his own, reluctantly admitting he was asleep on his feet. "I'm turning in."
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The morning was beautiful, light sparkling off turquoise waves as a variety of deep green turtles baked themselves on the sand. Fenton had already departed when Joe woke up, so the younger Hardy grabbed some date bread and opted to make breakfast a beach picnic affair.
"Good morning."
Hastily swallowing, the youth squinted up into the sun. "Hello, Mr. Moore."
"Connor's fine, Joe. Your dad said you were heading back to the harbor this morning." The older man settled into the sand, kicking off his sandals.
"Yeah. Dad doesn't need me to do anything until afternoon and I thought I'd goof off awhile." Joe leaned back on his elbows, doing his best to appear disinterested. "Maybe I could go out on one of those fishing boat tours. Get a different look at the coastline."
"I've got a surf board you can borrow if you'd rather stay here. I don't think any of the tourist outings have resumed since the coup attempt."
"No, thanks though. I can always walk around and see the sights that way if none of the fishermen are taking passengers out."
"I suppose. You know, all vessel outings that leave the harbor itself have been under military control since the army regained control of the port, but the guy in charge is a friend of mine. He could probably tell you when it's all going to get back to normal, maybe even arrange a ride. Your dad thought you might want to talk to him."
"If he's in charge of the only commercial port in the country, I doubt he has time to chat about fishing and joy rides." Joe pondered the offer.
"Maybe, maybe not. I bet he'd enjoy an excuse to take a lunch break, truth be told." Connor shrugged, then pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his shorts, fumbling about for a pen and scrawling a name. "Here you go. I'll call him and tell you might stop by."
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Two hours later, Joe hadn't spotted any of the vessels he was seeking, and it was looking more and more like the morning really was going to be mere sight-seeing. Not that the shelled buildings and fire blackened rubble were typical vacation fare. Drawing the rumpled paper from his pocket, he checked the name and address, confirming it was the bullet scarred office building in front of him.
Col. Argo Manado... Not sure what the good Col. Manado can tell me about my missing boats, but maybe the morning won't be a complete waste...
Joe entered a stone floored atrium, welcome relief from the tropical heat, and approached a young soldier seated at the central counter. Somehow the door closing behind him set off an unexpected wave of unease. Pull it together, Joe, Dad trusts Connor. Not like you're here to join up, anyway... "Hi. I'm Joe Hardy. I think Col. Manado might be expecting me?"
The ebony haired private consulted a list on his desk and smiled, apparently perfectly comfortable with questions in English. His reply was only slightly accented. "Yes, you're on the visitor list. Take the stairs to the third floor and go all the way to the end of the hall. His office is the last door on the left."
Joe climbed up the dim stairwell, emerging in a formal corridor with narrow, scrollwork windows. The cross breeze was heavenly. Dark teak doors contrasted with the pale stone of the walls, the final one neatly lettered with the colonel's name.
A voice from within instantly responded to his knock, and Joe entered, arriving in a small foyer occupied by a young, uniformed clerk. The colonel's office stretched beyond an open door.
Joe glanced into the other room just as the clerk moved to stand behind him, the color from his face instantly puddling in his toes.
"N-no. You're Colonel Manado?" Joe wished his voice hadn't come out as a breathless rasp. No, no, not happening... I didn't go anywhere I wasn't supposed to, stuck to the areas Dad and Connor approved... tried to play it safe, Dad... really... some days it doesn't pay to get out of bed...
"Mr. Hardy, charming to meet you again! Your nose has healed nicely, has it not?" The army officer rapidly closed the gap to the stunned youth, open hand extended. "Do come in and quit skulking about, I have not had the opportunity to extend my condolences regarding your brother."
Joe backpedaled until his spine rammed into the soldier behind him, effectively blocking his exit.
"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not." Joe snarled out the words even as he slammed his elbow back and up, striking the other boy mid-stomach and doubling him over. Ducking below the crumpling form, Joe shoved him sideways and kicked out at the older man, sending his knee in a direction it was never meant to go.
The colonel managed to lurch back to his feet before Joe could scramble out the door, landing a hard punch along the blonde youth's jaw. Joe's answering hook fell several inches short when the recovering aide wrapped both arms around his chest and yanked him from behind.
Struggling to free his arms, Joe rocked backward to launch both legs at the officer in front of him, the clerk serving as a convenient fulcrum. His feet planted in the colonel's chest, flattening the older man.
Joe nearly succeeded in breaking free, but the noise of the scuffle brought reinforcements from the hall. Straightening as he threw the young soldier off his back, Joe found himself at the center of a circle of camouflage clad men. A very well armed circle of men.
Manado smiled, but there was nothing pleasant about the expression as he composed himself and waited for breath to return to his bruised chest. "I will pardon you for visiting on short notice, Joseph, but your manners are unforgivably atrocious. Now sit down and make some pretense at civilized behavior.
"No."
The protest didn't do Joe any good. One of soldiers backhanded him, knocking him into a chair whether he intended to sit or not.
Joe swiped blood from his now split lip with the back of his hand, his eyes never swerving from where Col. Manado stood above him. "I seriously doubt you'd recognize civilized behavior if it hit you over the head, Clipboard."
"Ah, yes, I had heard you gifted me with a nickname during your last visit to our island." Manado accepted a gun from one of his underlings and lifted Joe's chin with the barrel. "I do not care for it. You would do well to remember that."
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to be continued...