To the left, a US Navy helicopter, a gray, carrier-based SH-60F Seahawk, was sitting on the tarmac about fifty yards away with its engines running. On the fuselage of the Seahawk, painted in black, was the word NAVY. Painted in smaller letters, also in black, was the name of the ship to which the Seahawk was assigned, USS Abraham Lincoln.

A few sailors wearing blue baseball-style caps, white T-shirts, and blue jeans were milling about down on the tarmac at the bottom of the portable staircase and over near the helicopter.

Where was her escort? She impatiently checked her watch.

The JAG officer from Abraham Lincoln, Lieutenant Commander Bruce Dejardins, was supposed to escort her onboard the aircraft carrier. But where was he?

She started to descend the staircase, and when she was about halfway down, she noticed a US naval officer step out of the helicopter. He was trim and physically fit in his well-cut khaki uniform, and he was wearing dark shades.

A gold oak leaf on his collar, showing that he bore the rank of lieutenant commander, glistened brightly in the afternoon sun. The officer was walking from the chopper in the direction of the C-130. He looked familiar from a distance, she briefly thought. She took her eyes off him to descend the rest of the aluminum staircase. Probably Lieutenant Commander Dejardins.

Good.

About time.

“What’s up, Diane?” a familiar voice called out as she stepped onto the concrete. She looked up and saw that the handsome officer, still approaching on foot and with a huge grin on his face, was now close enough to her that his identity was no longer in question.

“Zack!” she shouted instinctively. A rampant fluttering rocked her heart. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve got friends in the British military. Remember?” A wider grin crossed his face. He pointed at the Royal Air Force C-17 sitting on the tarmac.

That response prompted her to pop him on the arm, half angrily yet half playfully. His reference to the British military was a joking reference to the British Royal naval officer in Australia. Zack could joke about it easier than she could. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital recuperating. Remember?”

He laughed. “Doc said a tropical environment would be the perfect antidote for my smoke inhalation.”

“I won’t ask.”

“Don’t,” he said. “Just let me kiss you.”

“Zack,” she uttered a sheepish protest. He pulled her to him. “The navy has rules against public displays of affection,” she whispered.

“I’m a JAG officer. You don’t think I know the navy’s rules? The heck with the navy. For now anyway.” He ripped his sunglasses off.

Bolts of lightning shot through her body at the touch of his lips. Oh, dear. What had she been missing all these years? The heck with the navy, he had said, and he was right. At this moment he was right. And the heck with everything else. For now…

“Excuse me, ma’am.” She looked around, prompting Zack to roll his eyes to the tropical sky. The copilot of the C-130, a lieutenant aviator type, was standing there, holding her bags in both hands. “Where would you like these?”

Zack spoke up. “You can take them over to the chopper, Lieutenant. He’s going to shuttle us over to the Abe.”

“Yes, sir, Commander,” the copilot said. He started walking toward the roaring chopper with Diane’s briefcase in one hand and seabag in the other.

They followed, holding their heads down as they stepped under the rotating chopper blades. A petty officer took Diane’s hand and assisted her into the cargo bay. Zack stepped in and announced to the pilot, “Let’s do it.”

With the cargo bay door still open, the rotors revved faster, and the chopper lifted into the sky, about a hundred feet off the ground. It rotated fully around, as if at the center of a merry-go-round, then dipped its nose and flew over the lagoon, where the mighty aircraft carrier USS Abraham Lincoln was at anchor.

The chopper flew perhaps a half mile, if even that, and hovered over the anchored aircraft carrier. Within less than a minute, the Seahawk was feathering down onto the massive gray flight deck of the carrier.

Flight deck crew members, clad in multicolored motorcycle-style helmets and dark shades, were giving hand signals as it touched down.

The pilot cut the engines, and the rotor blades whirled to a stop. A tall naval officer approached the chopper. Two sailors flanked the officer and were walking slightly behind him. “Zack, Diane, welcome aboard the Abe,” Lieutenant Commander Bruce Dejardins said, approaching the open bay door of the helicopter.

“Glad to be aboard,” Zack said. He stepped out of the chopper and onto the deck of the aircraft carrier. He offered Diane his hand. She took it and stepped onto the sun-drenched deck.

“Thanks for having us.” Diane extended her hand to shake the commander’s. “Anyway, I wish we had time for pleasure. Unfortunately, whatever’s happening out there, we’re trying to shut it down before it goes much further. We’re hoping that we can pick up some clues from the guys stationed on board the Abe.”

“Understood,” Dejardins said. “If you’ll both follow me, let’s get to work.” He turned and led them on a brisk walk across the breezy deck.

Ding-ding. Ding-ding. Loud bells pealed over the Lincoln’s PA system. “Abraham Lincoln. Departing,” a voice on the loudspeaker said, indicating that the commanding officer of the Abraham Lincoln was at that moment leaving the ship.

“The skipper apologizes for not being able to personally welcome you aboard,” Dejardins said. “He’s got a meeting with the CO of the naval station, and we’re shuttling him over there by motor launch.”

“No problem,” Zack said.

“Anyway, Bruce,” Diane spoke up, “what can you tell us about these two wayward sailors that were on board the suicide boat?”

“This way.” Dejardins opened a door to a passageway leading inside the carrier’s “island.” They stepped into an elevator, and he punched the down button. “Both were loners.” The elevator doors opened and the officers stepped in. He punched the button for four decks below the flight deck. The doors closed, and the elevator started descending. “Muslim. Educated in Muslim schools in the Detroit area.

“Both kept their noses clean. No trouble from either one. Both took thirty days’ leave, which they were entitled to do. Then they go on this crazy suicide mission, and now, you guys show up.”

The elevator doors opened. “My office is to the left.”

They stepped into the passageway, turning left. Dejardins kept talking. “We’ve got their seabags and papers available for your inspection. But we found something in Seaman Moore’s locker that you might find interesting.” He stopped. “Here we are.” They stepped into the JAG offices.

“You’ve got my curiosity up,” Diane said. “What do we know about Moore?”

“Rahim Moore, Seaman Recruit. US Navy. From Dearborn, Michigan. Kind of a loner. Apparently of Middle Eastern origin, but we’ve heard that his father changed the family’s last name for whatever reason.”

“Wonder why,” Diane said.

“Who knows? Could be anything,” Dejardins said, then turned to one of his men. “Petty Officer Jones, lay the contents of Moore’s seabag on the table.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clothes, shoes, boots, ball caps were spread out in front of them-the typical belongings of a sailor in the US Navy. In the middle of all the clothing, Dejardins reached down and picked up a small plastic card and handed it to Diane.

The card had a photograph on it, and the red-and-white flag of Indonesia.

“Unbelievable,” Diane said. “I don’t read much Indonesian, but we’ve got an Indonesian Armed Forces military identification card on our hands. Service member by the name of Susilo Mulyasari.”

“Susilo Mulyasari.” Zack repeated the name. “Can you tell which branch?” Zack asked.

“Looks like navy.” She looked at the card again. “Yep. I’m pretty sure the phrase Angkatan Laut is a reference to their navy.” She held the ID up against the fluorescent light. “Why’s this familiar?” She looked over at her bags. “Petty Officer, pass my briefcase, please.”