“Yes, ma’am.” The legalman handed Diane the briefcase. She opened it and retrieved a file that she had quickly started assembling last night. From the accordion file, she pulled out a sub-file containing several eight-by-ten glossy color photos that had been taken on board USS Reuben James.

She laid one photograph on the table and compared it to the Indonesian identification card. She looked at Zack, who was standing to her right. “What do you think?” she asked him.

Zack picked up the color photo and studied it under the bright fluorescent lights. Bruce Dejardins crouched to Zack’s right, put on his reading glasses, and also peered at the photo.

“A little hard because it looks like a fifty-caliber round must’ve glazed part of the guy’s skull. But from the nose down, the mouth, I think we’ve got a match.”

Diane nodded her head.

“Bruce?”

“Agree.”

“I agree too, guys,” Diane said. “So that gives us a potential identification on one of the two non-Americans who tried to attack the SeaRiver Baytown.” She looked at Commander Dejardins. “But why would this Indonesian sailor’s ID be in Moore’s seabag?”

“Good question,” Zack said. “My experience has been that criminals can be both brilliant and stupid at the same time. The Indonesian must have given it to Moore at some point. Maybe they were trying to keep his identity anonymous for whatever reason.”

“Hmm.” Diane scratched her chin. “And we’ve searched and haven’t found anything in either of the two seabags that would give us a clue about the other guy?”

“Nothing, other than this one identification card,” Dejardins said.

“Well, the identification card is a start,” Zack said. “The more we learn about this cat, the better.”

“Agreed.” Diane turned to the Lieutenant Commander. “Bruce, could you arrange for me to use the ship’s message center to send a top-secret flash message to our embassy in Jakarta? I’d like to see if we can get the cooperation of the Indonesian military to get some background on this guy.”

“Consider it done,” Dejardins said.

“Then I need a flight back to Jakarta ASAP.”

“Oh, I’m sure we could find a few pilots lounging around here who would be happy to volunteer for that duty.” Dejardins smiled. “I’ll check with the air wing commander.”

“Appreciate it, Bruce.”

“Mind if I tag along?” Zack raised an eyebrow, a curious puppy-dog look on his handsome face. “Can’t leave a lady in a plane alone with some rugged, uncivilized flyboy.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Well, this is an Indonesian matter, and I’m the attaché to Indonesia and you’re the attaché to Singapore.” Of course she wanted him to come. But she couldn’t make it appear too obvious.

“You don’t think what these guys did affected Singapore? Did you see the beaches and the straits when you flew out this morning?”

That was a good point. “Okay. But won’t you have to get permission from Ambassador Griffith?”

He just shook his head, with a When will you ever learn? half-grin now on his face.

“Okay, I forgot. The great Zack Brewer never has to ask permission,” she said. “Sure. Tag along. But just remember. You’ll be a guest at the embassy at my invitation. Promise to behave yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, with a wink.

USS Abraham Lincoln

Indian Ocean

One hour later

Zack Brewer stepped up the small stepladder and onto the wing of the EA-6B Prowler Jet. The Prowler, a four-seater with highly sophisticated technology and used for electronics jamming against enemy radar, would serve as their ride to Indonesia.

The pilot, a navy lieutenant, and the copilot, a lieutenant juniorgrade, already in their flight helmets and sitting side-by-side in the cockpit, turned and saluted Zack.

Zack saluted back, then reached down and grabbed Diane’s hand, pulling her up onto the wing behind him. They stepped into the back two seats of the cockpit, Zack first, and then Diane.

Two navy petty officers, aviation specialists, climbed onto each wing and helped Zack and Diane with their flight helmets and oxygen masks. They buckled the JAG officers in and pulled on the shoulder harnesses, tightening them in preparation for takeoff.

A moment later, the petty officers closed the canopy, bolted it down, and were exchanging thumbs-up signs with the pilot and copilot. The petty officers backed away from the plane, and the whine of jet engines crescendoed from under each wing.

Plumes of steam rose off the carrier’s runway. Jet engines reached a near-deafening pitch.

“Stand by, Commanders.” The pilot’s voice came over the headset. “We’re clear for takeoff.”

Adrenaline rushed through Zack’s body. Being shot out over the water in an airplane by a steam-powered steel catapult that served, essentially, as a giant slingshot, was more thrilling than riding the Space Mountain roller coaster at Disney World. Every carrier launch that he’d experienced made him regret turning down the opportunity to go to Aviation Officer Candidate School in Pensacola.

Diane, on the other hand, had never relished the experience. She reached over and grabbed his hand, squeezing it as if about to have a shot of Novocain stuck into her gums.

Outside the jet, a navy petty officer crouched down in front and just to the right of the plane’s nosecone. The petty officer, known as the “shooter,” wore a protective helmet, goggles, and a yellow jacket. He kneeled down on one knee and gave a thumbs-up to the pilot. The pilot returned the thumbs-up. Then, like a hunting dog that had sniffed a trapped fox, the shooter turned and pointed straight out over the end of the flight deck.

Whooosssssssssshhhhhhhhh.

The jet moved forward faster, accelerating, and then shot off the front of the carrier, with a slight dip downward as the pilot pushed the jets to full throttle.

Up, up they climbed, with G-forces from the rapid ascent pushing Zack and Diane deep into their seats. Zack tried containing the exhilaration flowing through his body, which became almost impossible when he looked over at Diane and saw her expression.

Why did her nauseated look make him want to laugh? In the whirl of the moment, he was overcome with a long-lost boyhood mischievousness that drove him to play pranks on girls back at Washington Street School in his hometown of Plymouth, North Carolina-like the time in the fourth grade that he got into trouble for sneaking a frog into Sally Swain’s lunchbox. He smiled at the distant memory.

A minute later, the Prowler leveled out, and Zack remembered that he was a naval officer, indeed, the world’s best-known naval officer, and that he was thirty-some years removed from Mrs. Dunning’s fourthgrade class in Plymouth.

He kissed Diane’s hand, gave her a reassuring smile, then closed his eyes and prayed for the Lord’s favor as the jet banked and set a course to the northeast.