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RMSTRONG STARED IN DISBELIEF at Bud Cooper, captain of the Wasp . “In broad daylight?”
    Cooper nodded as he leaned back on his heels, trying to seem authoritative. But he did not have the confidence in his orders he would like. “We don’t know what they’re doing. We can’t wait until dark.”
    The Wasp was the center of the other half of the Nimitz Battle Group, the amphibious half. The Amphibious Ready Group, the ARG. The half that carried the Marines, the helicopters, the SEALs, and the people who wore green and went ashore with guns. The Wasp was the newest amphibious assault helicopter ship in the Navy. Its design was unique. Not only could it operate Marine Corps AV-8B Harrier jets, the CH-53 and CH-46 helicopters, but the aft end of the ship contained a well deck in which hovercraft or landing assault craft could be launched and recovered. When the time came, the back of the ship was flooded and the assault craft went ashore carrying the Marines, trucks, and occasionally tanks. Armstrong’s SEAL platoon operated off the Wasp in support of the ARG.
    “We?” Armstrong frowned. He wore his distinctive SEAL insignia on the left breast of his camouflage uniform, the insignia affectionately called the “Budweiser” because of its resemblance to the symbol on a Budweiser can. His uniform was perfect, and his tan highlighted hisrugged appearance. He had been interrupted in an inspection of his men, something that occurred only once during each tour at sea, and always with only twenty-four hours’ notice. He was not in a good mood.
    As the Officer in Charge, the OIC, of the SEAL platoon on the Wasp , he expected hard problems. But nothing like this. They usually had days to plan an operation. Now they were expected to leave in half an hour.
    “We just got a good position on the ship,” Captain Cooper continued. “An F-14 found it. Here’s the lat/ long.” He crossed to a chart of the western Java Sea on the bulkhead tack board. He pointed to a spot sixty miles north of Jakarta. “They’re still heading north, but seem to have slowed.”
    “Where are we?”
    “Right here.” The captain pointed. “Just north of Bawean.”
    “That’s three hundred miles,” Armstrong said, rubbing his do-it-yourself buzz cut.
    “Right.”
    Armstrong studied the chart and thought. He looked at the overhead and thought some more. Finally, he turned to the ship’s intelligence officer, Lieutenant Commander Tyler Lawson, a black officer and graduate of The Citadel. “What do we know about numbers?”
    Lawson was widely respected by the SEALs. He was a former SEAL who still wore his “Bud” on his chest. After breaking his back on a parachute jump three years before, he was no longer fit enough to be a SEAL. He applied for a change of designator to intelligence and now worked as an intelligence officer, specializing in amphibious warfare, special operations, low-intensity conflict—the use of SEALs. The SEALs trusted him, which was more than could be said for other intel officers who had no warfare specialty and treated intelligence like academic work.
    “All we know,” Lawson began slowly, “is that there are at least twenty, maybe thirty terrorists.” He looked upat Armstrong. “Maybe more. Everything’s based on one call from a radio operator. We got a photo from the F-14 that the Constitution scanned and sent to us over the satellite, but you can see only a few men on the bridge.” He tacked the photo onto the wall next to the chart. He put his hands on his hips and looked at the chart, then the ship. He stared at the Pacific Flyer ’s position, where the captain had stuck a pin. “Where the hell are they going?” he asked no one in particular, noting the position and direction of travel. “Why out there in the blue water instead of near the coast?” He shook his head as he pondered his own question. “They’d have a lot more leverage and a lot more options if they’d anchored in Jakarta harbor…. I