“Stop daydreaming,” she said, seemingly to no one. “You’ve had just one cup of coffee together.”

Yet she knew better.

It was more than just a cup of coffee.

In his dark, black eyes, she had seen the look. She knew.

Surely he had noticed hers. They had both felt electricity as their hands brushed in the kitchen and the hallway. The chemistry was undeniable.

And now he had asked her to one of the most romantic places in Indonesia, a beautiful secluded island to view the sunset with no one else around.

The doorbell rang.

She sauntered into the foyer, passing the general’s study on the right, and opened the door.

Three Indonesian men, two middle-aged with pot bellies, and the third, who was slim and fiftyish, stood at the door. “We’re from TVRI,” the older man said, referring to the state-run Indonesian national television network, Televisi Republik Indonesia. “We have orders to bring in some broadcasting equipment to set up in General Perkasa’s study.”

“Broadcasting equipment? What kind of equipment?”

“Television cameras. Lights. You know, equipment if someone goes on television.”

“I know nothing about it,” she said. “Normally, Colonel Croon or Captain Taplus would be here to approve.”

“Colonel Croon signed the work order himself,” he said, then thrust the paperwork forward. She examined the work order. It appeared to have the colonel’s signature.

“What have we here?” A woman’s chirpy voice came from high and above. She turned and saw Kristina, the general’s lover, descending the staircase. She was in a yellow sleeveless dress, like a chirping canary, and was smiling and beaming as if she were the general’s wife.

Although she and Kristina were nearly the same age, the general had insisted that staff members call her “Miss Kristina,” as if they were indentured servants, and “Miss Kristina” was the mistress of the house. Oh, Kristina was a mistress all right-one who had slept her way into the halls of power. That much was obvious.

“They want to put television cameras in the house. In the general’s study,” Madina said.

“Oh, they do? I know nothing of it,” Kristina said. “I’ll see you sometime, Madina. I’ll be gone for a while.” The human canary smiled and stepped around the television crew, then walked outside, swiveling her hips in an obvious attempt to catch the attention of other men while the general wasn’t looking.

“Good-bye, Miss Kristina.” No answer from the canary. Madina looked back at the TVRI crew. She had no time for this. She had to get ready to go and meet her captain.

Perhaps the canary had left some spiffy little sundress upstairs that would fit the evening’s occasion.

“Very well,” Madina said. “The general’s study is right through there. Take your time, but I may have to leave before you finish. Just close the front door when you are done.”

“Thank you, madam,” the man said. “It may take a few hours.”

“Fine,” she said, waving her hand at them in a dismissive gesture, then heading up the stairs to the general’s quarters.

There was no telling what delightful delicacies the canary may have left behind.

US Navy C-130

Over the Indian Ocean

10:30 p.m.

We’ve got a great view of Diego Garcia if you’d like to come up to the cockpit, Commander.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Diane unbuckled her safety harness and made her way into the cockpit. The magnificent crystal-blue vista of sun-sparkled waves on the open ocean was splendid, a revivifying contrast to the oil-drenched environmental disaster on the beaches at Singapore.

The sight of God’s panoramic masterpiece made her forget, momentarily, that she was on a mission to investigate and combat the modern scourge of the twenty-first century: international terrorism.

I wish Zack could be here.

“Where’s Diego Garcia?”

“Look to the left, Commander. About ten o’clock.”

She did. “Wow. It looks like the outline of a giant footprint in the ocean.”

“This your first visit to the Rock?”

“I’m afraid so, Lieutenant.”

“Welcome to the middle of the Indian Ocean.”

The plane banked to the left, and Diego Garcia was now visible, almost in front of the aircraft, but just slightly to the left. Lush palm trees and vegetation glimmered in the sunshine. “It doesn’t look like a rock,” she said. “It looks like an atoll.”

“That’s right, ma’am. I’m not sure where it got that name. But it’s really a huge tropical atoll. From the air, it looks like a giant footprint. The Brits own it and provide a token presence, including a provisional government. But the US Navy leases it, and we’re the main occupant.

“The whole place is only about seventeen square miles,” the pilot continued. “But the water in the middle of the lagoon is hardly like an ordinary lagoon.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, the water in the middle of it is so large and so deep that we could bring the entire Seventh Fleet in there if we wanted. In fact, the water is so deep around the place that those huge tsunamis that swept across the Indian Ocean in 2004 barely caused any damage at all.”

“Wow.”

“Wow’s right. This place is America’s best-kept secret in this part of the world,” the pilot said. He pushed down on the yoke and the plane nosed down. “You say it looks like a footprint,” the pilot continued. “Well, the British and American navies have for years called it “The Footprint of Freedom.” We’ve even let the Air Force borrow it to launch B-2 and B-52 airstrikes from here against Iraq and Afghanistan. President Bush visited back in 2007.”

The pilot banked the C-130 again to the left. The Footprint was in the middle of the sparkling blue ocean, right in front of the nose of the plane.

“Amazing that a place so far from everything, a place that most Americans have never heard of, would have so many names,” Diane said.

“True, Commander,” the pilot said. “Diego Garcia. The Footprint of Freedom. The Rock.” He took a swig of bottled water. “But know what the best one is?”

“What’s that?”

“Well, a few years ago, Stars and Stripes ran an article about it and called it Gilligan’s Island with Guns. That nailed it. That’s exactly what that place is-a beautiful tropical island with white sands, clear water, coconut and palm trees, multicolored fish, and enough firepower to single-handedly take out most nations on the face of the earth. In fact, USS Abraham Lincoln is moored there now. Just waiting for your arrival.”

Diane let that thought sink in. She would have no time for picking coconuts or fun in the sun.

“We’ve just been cleared for landing, ma’am,” the pilot said. “You may want to strap in.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Diane moved back to her jump seat and clicked the aluminum buckles of her shoulder harness. She tightened the belt and then sat back and closed her eyes.

In her stomach, she felt the plane descending more rapidly now, but it was an easy descent, free of turbulence, indicating smooth, warm air and no cloud cover.

A moment later, the plane bounced slightly on touchdown, its rubber wheels hitting the concrete runway a little too hard for comfort. The pilot threw the props in reverse, and the reverse wind drag slowed the plane on the runway.

“Sorry about the bump,” the pilot said. “Got a little wind shear just as we touched down.”

“Not a problem.” Diane unbuckled her shoulder harness. The plane was in a slow taxi now. A few minutes later, the plane stopped rolling. The engines whined down and cut off.

A moment later, the copilot stepped back out of the cockpit area and opened the outside door of the airplane. Bright sunshine, a warm, tropical breeze, and the roar of helicopter engines all rushed in.

“Commander, we’ll get your bags.”

“Thank you,” Diane said. She donned a pair of shades and stepped onto the ladder, where she stopped to enjoy the tropical ambiance before beginning her descent. Swaying coconut and palm trees surrounded the inside of the runway. Off to the right, a giant British C-17, one that looked just like the one that had taken off ahead of them in Singapore, was parked on the tarmac.