Mamat bin Ahmad sat on an overturned wooden crate with his back to the trunk of a tall coconut palm, gazing out to sea, when the satellite phone in his lap gave a startling chirp. He and his men were on the southern shores of the Indonesian island of Buru, within easy pouncing distance of any passing pleasure craft—if one would only pass. The window for their operation was small. He’d already received an earlier call informing him that the USS Rogue had passed Timor-Leste hours before. The American Cyclone-class patrol ship was steaming north from a recent stop at HMAS Coonawarra, the Australian naval base in Darwin, where it would join the Philippine and Malaysian military vessels in a joint antipiracy patrol of the Sulu Sea.
Mamat had been expecting the second call and kept the satellite phone’s plastic antenna extended and oriented toward the sky. Even so, the sudden noise made him jump and he very nearly dropped the device in the sand. All his men were jumpy—it was understandable, considering their mission—but they needed leadership and, mercifully, did not seem to notice his fumbling.
Mamat was a young man, not yet twenty-five years old. Had he been a happier sort, his intensely white teeth would have shone through a broad smile. But since his father had died, his family had known nothing but poverty. His older sister had run off with a Dirty Joe—one of the older American or European men who came to Southeast Asia looking for a wife. His mother cleaned hotel rooms for wealthy tourists in the Indonesian city of Manado—but she was perpetually sick. Mamat’s father had fully expected his son to follow his path. Men in his family had fished for generations. Mamat learned about boats and became a better-than-average sailor, but the tenets of Jemaah Islamiyah lured him away while he was in his teens. JI provided stability—and, even more important, a cause higher than living hand-to-mouth as a simple fisherman. Mamat’s parents were both devout Muslims, observing a strict Ramadan or meticulously making up missed days when illness made fasting impossible. But even they saw things in moderation.
Moderation bored Mamat almost as much as fishing did. The leaders of Jemaah Islamiyah taught him that the one path lay in complete devotion—a religious zeal that allowed no room for moderation or compromise. Yes, Mamat knew boats, but his true skills lay in other areas. Recent interactions with members of Abu Sayyaf had made him witness to enough bloodshed that a surprise chirp should not have startled him—but it did, because this was no ordinary call.
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.”
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