The Malacca Conspiracy

Don Brown

AUTHOR OF THE NAVY JUSTICE SERIES

This novel is dedicated to my three fabulous children:

Mary Claire Brown, born August 2, 1988,
at Mercy Hospital, San Diego, CA

Caroline Mitchell Brown, born March 6, 1992,
at Bethesda Naval Hospital, Bethesda, MD

Graham Hardison Brown, born January 8, 1996,
at Presbyterian Hospital, Matthews, NC

Special thanks to

US Army veteran Jack Miller of La Mesa, California and
Maydelé Jorge of Charlotte, North Carolina,
for their superb editorial assistance

He who controls the seas controls the world.

Sir Walter Raleigh

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Preface

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Black Sea Affair

Also By Don Brown

Copyright

About the Publisher

Share Your Thoughts

Preface

The Strait of Malacca is located between the long, Indonesian island of Sumatra and the west coast of the Malaysian Peninsula.

At its northwestern entrance, the shorelines of Indonesia and Thailand are separated by two hundred miles of open water.

Five hundred twenty miles to the southeast, near the city-state of Singapore, the strait narrows into the shape of a funnel. At its narrowest point, eight miles of water separate Indonesia and Malaysia. The strait ends at Singapore, where it flows into the Singapore Strait.

The Singapore Strait, 3.2 miles wide at its narrowest point, begins at Singapore, the busiest port city in the world. Stretching sixty-five miles to the northeast, it empties into the South China Sea, and from there, the Pacific.

The linked Straits of Malacca and Singapore form the shortest sea route between the Indian and Pacific Oceans.

Most of the world’s oil supply is transported on tankers, from the Middle East through these straits.

Prologue

The Malacca Strait
Near the mouth of the Malacca River

The early twenty-first century

Under the bright glare of the midday sunshine, the cigarette boat sliced through the tropical waters to the east. Glistening like the stainless-steel blade of a sharp dagger, the boat, a thirty-eight-foot “Top Gun” model with twin 600 horsepower engines, carried three passengers plus the pilot.

Approaching the coastline at fifty miles per hour, bouncing across light swells and passing several slower boats, it raced by a navigation buoy a half mile offshore.

Houses and storefronts grew visible as the boat approached the shoreline. Cars could be seen moving along coastal roadways. Two single-engine airplanes buzzed the skies.

A second navigation buoy issued warnings in red and white to inbound nautical craft. The warnings were in both English and Malay.

Slow!

No Wake!

The pilot throttled back the powerful twin inboards, morphing their rocketlike thrust into a chugging putter, slowing the boat to a floating crawl.

The general waited for a moment until the boat leveled off. Then, from his jump seat behind the pilot, he unholstered his pistol. He worked the action, chambering a nine-millimeter bullet into firing position.

“Doctor, ready your weapon,” he ordered.

“Yes, General.” The man sitting next to him retrieved an identical pistol, pointed it in the air, and pulled back the firing clip.

In a foreign land, even a foreign land so close to Indonesia, prudence required being armed—especially when the lines between friend and foe were blurred…and where his hosts had a track record of murder.

What was their agenda?

To warn President Santos to abandon his Western-loving ways or face a fate like former Pakistani Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto?

Perhaps.

General Perkasa smiled. Bhutto had gotten what she deserved. He couldn’t be so lucky with Santos, could he?

Initially, General Perkasa had declined the hosts’ invitation.

Then they padded the general’s offshore bank account as a measure of good faith. Overnight, the general and the doctor had become wealthy men, without even speaking to their hosts yet.

But why?

Why remained a mystery.

He would know why soon enough.

General Suparman Perkasa, Army of the Indonesian Republic, was certain of only one thing: a weapon seemed prudent at the moment, and he would fire that weapon without hesitation if necessary.

The boat planed down. Perkasa flipped the gun’s safety switch and reholstered it.

Cruising through calm waters, they passed a third buoy, just at the mouth of the Malacca River. Then they puttered under a bridge, just inside the river’s mouth.

The river narrowed.

Panoramic colors and the salty smell of a small, Asian seaport greeted their senses. Several small craft, mainly single-engine skiffs, glided up and down the river in both directions near the shoreline.

Automobiles crawled along a small, urban street parallel to the right bank. To the left, bright, rainbow-colored houses and apartments scrunched up to the riverbank. Laundry hung from clotheslines behind the houses and apartments.

Perkasa extracted a cigar from his shirt pocket and offered it to his companion. The doctor declined.

The general lit the cigar and sucked satisfying tobacco smoke into his mouth. He swirled the warm smoke around his tongue and teeth.

His young Malaysian escort began to drone on like the tour guide he was. “For hundreds of years, Malacca was the busiest port on the Malaysian peninsula. The Portuguese, Dutch, and British have all seized this port. Now Singapore, just 180 miles to the south, has taken away most of the shipping traffic. But Malacca will always be the birthplace of Islam in Malaysia. Arab traders brought Islam here in the 1400s.”

The general, a short, middle-aged man with a thirty-eight-inch waistline, cocked his head back, basked his face in the warm, overhead sunshine, and opened his mouth into a round circle. Concentric smoke rings rose into the tropical air, then dissipated in breezy wisps. He flicked ashes over the side of the boat into the calm waters of the river.

“Now it is a quiet place,” the fellow babbled. “Small among Malaysian cities. This peaceful harbor is inaccessible to oceangoing vessels.”

He should pull his gun on this babbling idiot just to shut his mouth. But he needed the fool to guide him to the rendezvous point and, afterward, to get them out of the country again.

“Our dock is there.” The guide pointed to a pier just past a bend in the river.

The pilot throttled the engines into idle and steered the wheel to the right. The boat floated toward the dock. Two men, one Asian and the other with Middle Eastern features, stood at the edge of the dock.

“Our ride awaits us, General,” the guide said, tossing a rope to the Asian man.

The general stood, and as the boat inched to the dock, stepped off to the outstretched hand of the Middle Eastern-looking man.

“Ah, General Perkasa,” the man said. “I am Bander Omar, chief assistant to Farouq Al-Fadil.”

“Mr. Omar.” General Perkasa withdrew his hand and motioned to his companion. “This is Dr. Guntur Budi.”

“A pleasure, Doctor,” Omar said. “I have heard of you and also your father. He was a great man.” Two jeeps were parked on the street just behind the docks. “Come. Our Malaysian hosts await us.”

The general got into one jeep. The doctor sat in the jeep behind him. They pulled forward, and in a few minutes turned left across a bridge spanning the Malacca River.

On the north side of the river, the jeeps turned left, driving a short distance down a street paralleling the water. They turned right off the river street and stopped in front of a small hotel. The white stucco building with ornate exterior features suggested a bygone era.

“Welcome to the Hotel Puri,” Omar said. “It dates back to the 1800s, and has about fifty rooms. My boss has rented them all for our meeting.”

“Yes, I know this place.” The general took a drag from his cigar, which had burned down about half an inch. “Your boss is expecting many guests?”

“No, General. Just you, the doctor, and a select few others.” Omar nodded at the hotel. “Shall we?”

“After you.” Perkasa tossed his cigar onto the lush green grass beside the sidewalk. He stepped out of the jeep, waiting for Dr. Budi.

“Follow me, gentlemen.” The Arab motioned for the general and the doctor to follow. As Omar pushed open the front glass door of the hotel, Perkasa felt the grip of his pistol. He switched off the safety, readying the pistol to fire.

The lobby was cool from the air conditioning. A large, sparkling chandelier hung down over a round table. Six chairs with red velvet cushions were positioned in a circle around the table.

“Please be seated, General.” Omar motioned the visitors to their seats. “Farouq will be with you shortly.”

Classic subliminal power play, the general thought. Make your guests wait.

No one made Suparman Perkasa wait. He was the chief of staff of the Indonesian army, and as such, its most powerful officer.

He would not wait long.

Perkasa handed another cigar to the doctor.

“No thank you, General.”

“Take the cigar, Doctor,” the general ordered. “Strike it, and do what I do.”

“Yes, General.”

Perkasa lit a second cigar and took a long drag.

A slender Arab in white, who looked to be in his mid-forties, descended the oval staircase into the lobby. He was followed by two younger men. One looked Malaysian. The other looked Arab.

“General Perkasa.” The man extended his hand. “I am Farouq Al-Fadil.”

Perkasa rose, opened his mouth, and blew cigar smoke toward the Arab. “A pleasure, Mr. Al-Fadil.” Perkasa nodded at Dr. Budi, who blew a second wave of smoke. “Thank you for your invitation.”

“We’re both on foreign soil, General.” Al-Fadil smiled. “Thanks to our Malaccan hosts, whose common mindset is the same as ours.” He nodded at three Malaysian officers standing around the table, their arms folded.

“Really?” Perkasa sucked and then swirled more cigar smoke between his teeth. Smoke wafted from his mouth as he spoke, rising into a cloud around the chandelier. But he did not blow smoke at the Arab. He had made his point. “And what is this common mindset of yours?”

“General, meet Admiral Chahava of the Royal Malaysian Navy. To his left, General Kersen of the Royal Malaysian Air Force. To his right, General Pramana of the Malaysian Army.”

“Gentlemen.” Perkasa nodded.

“These officers are natives of Malacca, and all three—like you and me—are members of the Great Faith.”

Another drag from the cigar. “Mr. Al-Fadil, many Muslims serve in the militaries of both Malaysia and Indonesia. Your point?”

“Please be seated, gentlemen.” Al-Fadil motioned them to their seats.

They sat, exchanging awkward glances. Al-Fadil broke the silence. “How is your friend, President Santos?”

“My friend, you say?” Perkasa smirked. “Ask Dr. Budi. The doctor is the president’s personal physician.”

“We know of Dr. Budi, and his father’s sacrifice for our cause.”

“Thank you,” Dr. Budi said. He looked over at General Perkasa, as if unsure of what to say next.

“I am a busy man, Mr. Al-Fadil,” the general said. “My time is valuable. What is your point?”

The Arab smiled. “My point is this: we have watched Indonesia for years.” Al-Fadil motioned to one of his assistants. “Bring us drinks, please.”

“Right away.” A servant wheeled in a silver tray displaying bottles of Indonesian and Malaysian hard liquors and wines, along with an assortment of fruits, cheeses, and breads.

“General?” the servant asked.

“No.” The general waved his hand and eyed Al-Fadil. “I am sure you did not bring us here to discuss international politics or to sip wine and eat cheese. You did not answer my question.”

“Your finest red wine, please.” Al-Fadil nodded at the server, who uncorked an expensive bottle of Malaysian merlot. “Ah, yes. My point…” He sniffed a splash of wine in his glass and took a sip, nodding approval at the server, who filled his glass. “We know your background, General. We know your fervent devotion to the faith. We know that under the circumstances your power is limited. The problem is not you. The problem is with your president.”

Perkasa chomped his cigar between his teeth, studying the man’s face.

“You are an Arab, Mr. Al-Fadil. And you are Islamic. Indonesia is the world’s largest Islamic country.” A drag from the cigar. “More than one hundred eighty million Muslims live in Indonesia. We are the fourth largest nation in the world. What is your problem with Indonesia?”

Al-Fadil sipped his wine. “Your country is like Pakistan was. A great nation full of Muslims, but with lukewarm leadership that is Muslim in name only, leadership that embraces our greatest enemy, the United States.” Another smile. Another sip. “We took care of the problem in Pakistan.”

“Bring me an ashtray.” Perkasa waved to the servant.

“Yes, General.” A sterling silver ashtray appeared on the table.

Perkasa put the stogie into the ashtray. “Yes. I heard that your organization was helpful in the elimination of Bhutto. If that is true, accept my compliments.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny any such thing,” Al-Fadil laughed. “Nevertheless, I accept your compliments.” He raised his glass, as if to celebrate a great accomplishment. “Are you sure you do not wish to drink, General? Perhaps a toast to the unfortunate demise of Benazir Bhutto?”

“Perhaps later,” Perkasa replied. “Bhutto sided with the Americans. So does Santos. Both purport to be Muslim.” Perkasa took a drag from the cigar. “What are you getting at? You wish to assassinate Santos too?”

“Not so fast, dear General.” Al-Fadil set the glass on the table. “Since you are unwilling to drink with me, perhaps I could smoke with you?” His eyes locked onto the stogie, casting a longing look upon it. “Would you share one of those with a brother of the faith?”

“Why not?” Perkasa slid a cigar, a cutter, and a lighter across the table.

The Arab cut the cigar with the ease of an experienced aficionado, lit it, and exhaled smoke off to the side. “This is not as simple as you would suggest, General. Indonesia and Pakistan are different nations.”

“Not so fast, my friend.” Perkasa flung his hands in the air. “I suggested nothing. And I by no means proposed or suggested the assassination of Santos.”

“Of course you did not, General,” the Arab said. “I was addressing the great geographic and political differences between Indonesia and Pakistan.”

“Very well,” Perkasa said, having set the Arab straight. Not that he would mind seeing Santos dead, but no one would ever be able to say that an assassination was his idea. “Please proceed.”

“As I was saying,” Al-Fadil nodded, “unlike Pakistan, Indonesia controls, or at least has the potential to control, the most strategic sea lanes in the world. Your islands stretch across the waters from east to west in a distance greater than New York to Los Angeles. Your country, unlike any other Islamic country in the world, has all that is necessary to become the world’s first Islamic superpower.” The Arab took another drag from the Cuban stogie. “Except for one thing…”

General Suparman Perkasa let that sink in. “And that would be?”

“Leadership,” Al-Fadil said, without hesitation. “And related thereto, courage and vision.”

Perkasa flicked a segment of white ashes into the silver tray. The Arab was correct. “Look, you know that I am no admirer of our president, or you wouldn’t have gotten me here. But as you have pointed out, Mr. Al-Fadil…”

“Please, General, call me Farouq,” Al-Fadil interrupted.

“Very well,” Perkasa continued, “as you have pointed out, Farouq, Indonesia, because of her geography, possesses a greater geo-strategic importance to the world than Pakistan. Control of those sea lanes means billions of dollars to America. You cannot do in Indonesia what you did in Pakistan. The Americans did not step in there. Here, if you moved against Santos, they would send their navy. Perhaps their marines. They would use force. And remember that President Williams likes to play John Wayne with the US Navy.” His cigar had gone out. With a single flick, a blue-and-orange flame leapt from the lighter.

“Ahh, the all-powerful Americans.” The smiling Arab sipped more wine. “Good. Our thinking is congruous.” He put the glass down and motioned for more. “What if I told you, General, that we have a plan for Mack Williams and the Americans? What if I told you that we have a plan to make you the most powerful Indonesian in the world? And what if I could show you a plan that will work to make Indonesia the first Islamic superpower, with you at the historic forefront of this great awakening?”

Perkasa glanced at Dr. Budi, who was raising an eyebrow and sipping a glass of water.

He looked back at the Arab.

Silence.

“You know, Farouq,” Perkasa said, “you have succeeded in piquing my curiosity. I will have that drink now. Red wine will be fine.”

“Excellent,” Farouq said, motioning the servants to attend to the general’s request. “Let us drink, General, to a new alliance…a new strategic alliance that will change the history of the world.”

“That,” General Suparman Perkasa said, “I will drink to.”

Chapter 1

One year later
New York Mercantile Exchange

1:04 a.m.

The headquarters of the mammoth New York Mercantile Exchange, located in New York’s World Financial Center and fronting the Hudson River, was sixteen stories high and more than five hundred thousand square feet.

From his office on the eighth floor, in the dark hours of the morning, Robert Molster enjoyed sipping cappuccino and watching the lights on the river and the sparkling shoreline across the way in New Jersey. The clear, cold night, even more biting because of the six-inch snowfall that had blanketed the city earlier in the day, leaving mounds of snow piled up along the concrete barricades down by the waterfront, seemed to magnify the lights shining on the other side of the river. A few boats, barely visible under blinking red-and-green navigation lights, glided back and forth along the dark river. Molster shook his head, still amazed that he sat here, in this job, at this very moment.

Two years ago, Molster was finishing his MBA at the University of Virginia’s Darden School of Business. He had hoped to land a job with a midsize brokerage firm in downtown Richmond. Any regional firm would do, he had thought at the time, as long as he stayed in Virginia.

He’d already decided that he had no interest in becoming either a broker or a trader. But the thought of being a stock analyst had intrigued him since his days as a junior in college, when a business professor had introduced him to The Wall Street Journal. Becoming a stock analyst would have been prestigious and would have guaranteed excellent pay. Plus, in Richmond he could’ve bought a decent-sized home, perhaps in the prestigious West End or fashionable Shockoe slip. He had thought he would meet a nice, well-bred, well-mannered young Southern belle from Sweet Briar College, or the University of Mary Washington. Either would do. Then he would raise a family in a town with lots of history, without the hustle and bustle of big-city life.

All that changed one day just before graduation, when a young woman, a recruiter from the New York Mercantile Exchange, appeared on the Charlottesville campus.

“Ever think about being a commodities analyst?” she questioned him.

Commodities had never crossed his mind.

“You’d work the night shift, watch commodities trading on the overseas markets, and feed data to the media, the wire services, and then to floor traders who start work at 9:00 A.M. But—and this is where you’ll make contacts that will help you write your own ticket—you’ll give a daily briefing to the chairman of the Mercantile Exchange or one of his assistants about overnight trading activities. You’ll learn everything there is to know about oil. You can become an analyst for one of the private commodities firms and make so much money you can retire before you’re forty.”

She reviewed his résumé, and raised a huge selling point.

“I see that you’re an officer in the navy reserve. If you’re worried about your navy obligations, don’t be. Our chairman, Mr. Goldstein, is ex-navy. You’ll have no problems doing reserve duty on the weekends or in the summer.”

Some high-paying employers were against his naval reserve obligations, which required him to be in Washington one weekend a month and who-knows-where in the world for at least two weeks each summer.

“Lieutenant Robert Molster. What does this J–2 mean?”

“That’s the intelligence section of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” he responded. “It’s in the Pentagon. I go one weekend a month and help them sort through boring data.” He figured that would blow over her head.

“The Pentagon”—a look of awe crossed her face—“Impressive, Lieutenant Molster.” She smiled. “Come to Manhattan for an interview. All expenses paid. Overnight at the Waldorf-Astoria.”

Three weeks later, he got the job. And he got an added bonus.

The young lady who interviewed him, the intriguing Wellesley graduate named Jane Morgan…well…she had accepted his invitation to dinner upon his arrival in New York. Two years later, they were still dating.

A Virginia gentleman and a Connecticut Yankee.

So much for settling down in Richmond with a debutante and a membership in the Country Club of Virginia.

At the Exchange, “Janie,” as he later learned that she was called, held the same job that he did. Except Janie worked the day shift. He worked nights. Then there was his time away in the reserves. Sometimes that made dating a challenge.

Somehow, they managed.

Overall, life was good. Plus, he was still able to keep his toes in the waters of the US Navy.

Enough reminiscing.

The cappuccino was gone now. His five-minute break was over.

No rush.

Trading in light, sweet crude oil futures had been halted at 1:00 A.M. due to a limit move upwards of ten dollars in the market. That would slow things down for about five minutes before trading resumed. He had to get back to his screen. Probably, he’d see a big sell-off of profit taking after the move, with prices dropping back down. He’d need to document the data for his morning briefing.

Back to work. He tossed the paper cup in the wastebasket and walked across the hallway to his monitor.

He sat down and a cacophonous buzz rang from his computer speakers. What now?

Limit Alert…Limit Alert…Trading in January Light, Sweet Crude Calls halted due to limit move of $10.00. Trading to resume at 130 A.M., EST, 630 A.M., GMT.

A second trading halt in less than fifteen minutes? He’d never seen this before. Somebody would make billions in short order.

What was going on out there?

Should he call the chairman? Would waking the chairman make him look like an overanxious greenhorn?

He flipped out his cell phone and hit “1” on the speed dial.

“Good morning,” Janie Morgan’s velvety, if sleepy, voice said.

“Sorry to call so early. Something’s up.”

“Mmm.” The sound of sheets fluffing. “What?”

“Crude oil. Two limit moves in an hour. Light, sweet crude. Just got a second trade halt in the last fifteen minutes.”

A second passed. “Wow.” Janie sounded wide awake now. “Two in fifteen minutes? I’ve never heard of that.”

“No kidding,” he said.

“What’s going on?”

“Dunno. Think I should call Chairman Goldstein?”

“Hmm. I’m not sure,” she said. “Let me think.”

“I don’t want to look panicky, but still…”

“Hmm. Know what?”

“What?”

“I’d call. Better safe than sorry.”

That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but it confirmed his gut instinct. “I thought you’d say that. I’ll call him right now. If he gets hacked off that I ran him out of bed, so be it.”

“He won’t,” she said. “If he does, blame me.”

“No chance,” he said.

“Call me later. Love you.”

“You too.”

Robert hung up, then picked up the phone again. He punched the speed dial ringing directly to the residence of the chairman of the Merchantile Exchange. After two rings, a groggy voice answered.

“Mister Chairman…Robert Molster at the sweet light crude desk…Sorry if I woke you…Yes, sir…I think we may have something strange going in the futures markets.”

USS Reuben James
The Strait of Malacca

Two hours earlier

The sun beat down on the slate-gray steel, heating the deck near the bow of the guided missile frigate. From his station at the forward lookout post, Boatswain’s Mate, First Class Elliot Cisco swiped perspiration from his forehead, then positioned his binoculars off the port side of the ship.

Out to the left, about a thousand yards from the Reuben James, the tanker SeaRiver Baytown, her belly full of Persian Gulf crude oil, churned low through the blue waters of the Malaccan Straits.

About a thousand yards beyond the Baytown, but not visible from this vantage point, the USS Kauffman, another Oliver Hazard Perry-class guided missile frigate, guarded the other side of the tanker.

If anything went wrong, Cisco hoped it would come from the other side—and that the Kauffman would have to deal with it. Swinging his binoculars out in front of the bow, he knew that wasn’t likely.

USS Kauffman was guarding the waters between the tanker and Malaysia.

USS Reuben James, on the other hand, was guarding the waters between the tanker and the Indonesian island of Sumatra.

Naval Intelligence had warned that radical threats to maritime shipping, and thus the world’s economy, would likely be launched from the heavily populated Indonesian islands of Sumatra and Java.

Clear seas appeared in the binoculars out in front of the ship. Cisco took in the morning breeze that was whipping in from the southwest. Swiping his right hand across his forehead, he brought the high-powered glasses back to his eyes and swept the horizon to the right, out toward Sumatra. Slowly, he scanned in a clockwise turn, stopping his sweep at the three o’clock position.

Nothing but blue waters and a mountainous shoreline.

Moving his view to the left again, back toward the bow, a flash swept across the seascape.

He stopped the binoculars and angled back to the right. Nothing. Were his eyes deceiving him? That could happen at sea.

What was it? Reflection off glass? The engine of a boat? A whale? Where was it?

Whatever it was, it was too low in the water for the ship’s radar to detect.

He readjusted the powerful binoculars.

Nothing but blue water.

There! Again!

The inbound flash bounced off the water, perhaps a mile out to the starboard.

Cisco held the binoculars in place and adjusted the focus ring, bringing the image into focus. The sun was reflecting against the windshield of a speedboat!

He picked up the watch telephone.

“Chief, small craft at three o’clock! Inbound at high speed! One mile and closing, sir!”

Rasa Sentosa Resort
Sentosa Island, Singapore

11:16 a.m.

Sweet strains of violin music blended magically with the single cello, filling the air with a classical melody that blanketed the mumbling voices nearby. Swooshing water streams jetted from a half-dozen indoor fountains, muffling the clicks of bellmen’s leather shoes traipsing across the expansive marble floors.

Behind the reservations desk in the main lobby, Ashlyn Claire hardly noticed the typical midday sounds of the luxurious Rasa Sentosa, Singapore’s only beachfront resort.

At the moment, her agenda was single-minded—to coordinate with housekeeping to ensure that more than fifty rooms were cleared out in time for check-in, which was still two-and-a-half hours away.

At a world-class resort like the Rasa Sentosa, nothing could prove more disastrous to the career of an aspiring young hotel management intern than to send a well-paying guest to a room that had not been properly prepared.

A small smudge on an obscure portion of a mirror or a window.

An overlooked thumbprint on a faucet in the sink.

A slight wrinkle on a comforter.

Not acceptable.

Ashlyn checked the screen again. Still nothing open. Not yet anyway. Except for the block of rooms reserved for the British prime minister’s advance team.

Therein lay the problem.

British Prime Minister John Suddath was in Singapore for a controversial summit with the president of Singapore over the future of Changi Naval Base. The Brits and the Americans were pressing Singapore to expand the base to accommodate more ships for the Royal and US Navies to patrol the Strait of Malacca. The Americans would pay for the upgrades. That’s what Singaporean television was reporting, anyway.

But Malaysia, Indonesia, and China had protested the deal.

Protests erupted all over the region, and someone leaked that Suddath’s advance team was staying at the Rasa Sentosa. Then two days ago, rumors flew that Suddath himself was staying at the hotel.

That rumor ignited the picketers. Yesterday, more than two hundred paraded in front of the hotel, clogging the main entrance and blocking guest registrations.

Last night, the British and Singaporean governments issued joint communiqués that the PM would be staying at Istana Merdeka, the Singaporean presidential palace, during his stay in the city.

That thinned out the picketers. But even this morning, about twenty of them still strutted in an oblong circle, bobbing their signs deriding the US and the UK.

Ashlyn checked her watch. Twelve-thirty. Nothing to do but wait.

A whiff of alluring cologne took her focus off the terminal. A smiling, olive-skinned gentleman stood behind the reservations desk.

“May I help you, sir?” she asked.

“You don’t look Singaporean.” The gentleman’s eyes danced at her. “Australian? South African?”

His friendly expression and sparkling black eyes exuded an immediate, spellbinding charm.

Was he Indian? Pakistani? Middle Eastern? He sported an amazing British accent, wherever he was from. And the white suit enhanced his dark, handsome features.

“I’m British,” she said, with pride in her voice.

“That’s a brave admission considering those lunatics out there.” He nodded toward the hotel entrance, with a dubious half-grin.

“Yes, well…” She glanced outside at the picketers, then back at the man. “Could I help you with something, sir?”

“I’m Ahmed.” He cleared his voice. “Edward Ahmed. Doctor Edward Ahmed. I’m here for check-in.”

“Let’s see if I can find you, Dr. Ahmed.” Ashlyn clicked the Enter key. “Got it.” She looked at him. “Do you have a passport that we could copy?”

“Certainly.” He handed her his Yemeni passport. The name and photograph matched.

“I’m sorry, Doctor, but we don’t have any rooms yet. Check-in is at three. I can call you if something opens earlier.”

“Fine,” he said. “I could take a stroll on the beach. Where may I leave my luggage?”

“The bellman will store your bags here in the lobby area until your room is ready.”

“Fabulous.” The man’s black eyes sparkled. “I look forward to seeing you again, Miss…I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

“Claire. Ashlyn Claire.”

“Yes, Miss Claire, and may God save the Queen.” The man turned and walked off with a smile on his face.

Or was it a sneer?

No matter, Ashlyn had work to do. The first members of the prime minister’s advance team were due any minute.

USS Reuben James
The Strait of Malacca

10:18 a.m.

Skipper, forward lookout reports inbound craft! Approaching at high speed at three o’clock! Range one mile!”

“Where?” The skipper of the Reuben James moved to the starboard side of the bridge. Junior officers and enlisted crew members on the bridge were pointing their fingers over the water.

“There! I see it!” the executive officer said.

The captain saw it through his binoculars. The boat crashed through the waves, racing toward his ship, or more likely, toward the tanker he was guarding.

“Issue a no-approach warning, followed by a shot across the bow. If she closes within five hundred yards, take her out. Sound general quarters.”

“General quarters, aye, Captain.” The XO picked up the 1MC, the public address system that broadcast all over the four hundred, forty-five-foot warship. “General quarters! General quarters! Small craft approaching at three o’clock. Possibly hostile. General quarters! Man battle stations!”

Alarm bells rang throughout the ship. Crew members scrambled up and down steel ladders and across the decks to take their positions. The XO’s voice boomed again over the loudspeaker, broadcasting simultaneously over the open maritime radio channels.

“This is the USS Reuben James. To the vessel approaching: turn back or you will be fired upon.”

No reaction.

“Repeat the warning, XO.”

“This is the USS Reuben James. This is your last warning. Turn back or you will be fired upon.”

The boat sliced through the swells, straight toward the ship.

“Weps, fire one warning shot across the bow!”

“One warning shot across her bow! Aye, sir!”

Boom!

White smoke rose from the barrel of the Oto Melara 76/62 naval cannon in the forward section of the ship.

A second later, splash! Water sprayed across the boat’s bow. No reaction.

“Fire another!”

“Fire! Aye, Captain.”

Boom!

This round splashed just in front of the boat. Again, no course change. The roar of the boat’s engines could now be heard on the ship.

“That’s enough,” the captain said. “Open fire! Take her out!”

“Aye, sir.” The weapons officer picked up a telephone to the two gunner’s mates manning the fifty-caliber machine guns mounted along the starboard side of the ship. “Open fire. I repeat, open fire!”

Chit-a-chit-a-chita-a-chita-chita-a-chita-chita-a-chita-chita-a-chita.

Like dueling jackhammers shaking and pounding the deck, the fifty-caliber machine guns sprayed a wall of lead over the sea, splashing a straight trail in the water toward the boat.

Flames and smoke erupted. Boom! The sound of the explosion traveled across the water and rocked the Reuben James. The boat, now a flaming hulk, drifted listlessly on the sea.

“Get a rescue party out there,” the captain said. “Let’s see what we can find.”

Chapter 2

Singapore-Changi International Airport

12:00 p.m.

The United States naval officer, wearing his summer white uniform, plucked his suitcase off the luggage conveyor, turned, and stepped through the sliding doors onto the sidewalk. The whoosh of the warm wind brought a sweet floral smell, mixed with a slight scent of salt air from the sea.

Car horns honked and blared as the officer waved down one of the dozen limousine taxis that were lined up outside.

“Where to, Commander?” the driver asked.

“Sentosa Island, please,” the naval officer said. “Rasa Sentosa Resort.”

“Of course.”

The taxi rolled into the bright, equatorial sunshine, which cast an electrical glow onto grass, palm trees, and pink, red, and yellow flowers.

“Your first trip to Singapore?”

“First trip.” The officer slipped on a pair of Oakley shades. “It’s beautiful. So much greenery.”

“This is East Park. These flowers and these palm trees”—the driver steered with his right hand and gesticulated out the window with his left—“Singapore wishes to impress visitors leaving the airport. Lots of locals come down here to have a picnic or sit and watch the water. We’ll take the East Coast Parkway along the waterfront, then take the causeway across to Sentosa. It’s less than five miles. You’ll enjoy the ride.”

The officer looked to his left as the taxi sped west along the parkway. A few yards beyond the grassy banks, past the seawall, the blue waters of the Singapore Straits sparkled under the midday sun. Three ships, large, black tankers, were passing in the straits just a few hundred yards from them. Two of them, headed to the east, churned low in the water. Probably full of Middle Eastern crude.

“We get navy visitors from many countries,” the cabbie said. “US, UK, Canada. More and more Chinese too.”

Car horns blared. Brake lights flashed.

The cab slowed to a stop in the traffic jam. The officer rolled the window down. A fresh sea breeze blew in from over the strait.

“You look familiar, Commander.” The cabbie’s black eyes darted into the backseat through the rearview mirror. The cab started rolling again.

Oh, great. I can’t get away even here in Singapore. He glanced at the dashboard. A name tag was screwed onto the panel just above the central air conditioning duct. Your Driver—Victor Yang Loon. “So I’ve been told.”

“Have I seen you before?”

“I don’t know.” Just drive.

“Aren’t you Commander Zack Brewer?”

Should I get into this? “My mother calls me Zack. The navy calls me Commander…Actually that’s Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer.”

“I saw you on TV. You were great in that court-martial against those chaplains! A few years ago.” The cabbie, whose eyes were now on the rearview mirror more than on the road, was referring to the case called United States of America v. Mohammed Olajuwon, et al., which brought Zack Brewer international fame when he prosecuted three US Navy Islamic chaplains for treason and murder.

“Thanks,” Zack said.

“And then you were on television again with those other two cases you handled!” This time, he was referring to Zack’s prosecution of two US Navy fighter pilots, both Islamic, who had used their navy jets to launch terrorist strikes—and his successful defense of a US Navy submarine commander on trial for war crimes in Moscow.

“It’s amazing what they put on TV, isn’t it?”

“I am Victor Yang Loon. It is a pleasure, Commander Brewer.”

“The pleasure is mine, Victor,” Zack said.

Yang Loon babbled on. Zack ignored the driver and gazed at the colorful sights of the bustling, tropical Asian city by the water.

The cab swung left, crossing over the causeway from Singapore’s main island to Sentosa Island.

Would she be there? She promised. But it had been so long.

They’d fallen in love. Or so he thought. How was a guy supposed to know? And then, like that, she was gone.

Time.

Distance.

Misunderstandings.

The navy pulling them in different directions.

These warred against him, it seemed. He tried staying in touch in the aftermath, but most of his emails and letters went unanswered in the months that followed. Silence prevailed.

Long-distance relationships were rife with misunderstandings.

He had been the victim of such a misunderstanding. Or, perhaps, of his own idiotic decision making?

He was sent to Australia by the navy to get him out of the limelight. The loneliness at times was heavy.

A British naval officer—a woman stationed at the British embassy in Australia when he was at the US embassy—found out that his birthday was approaching. When the woman asked him to dinner for his birthday, he politely declined.

Then, she asked again.

And again.

And one or two more times.

“Oh, come on, Zack,” she said. “We’ll have a jolly time. No worries. We’ll just go as friends, you know. There’s a great little restaurant over on Marcus Clarke Street,” Leftenant Emily Edwards had said, in that magnetic, cheery British accent reminiscent of Princess Diana. “The Cougarette. The service is slow, but the food is mouthwatering.”

Her repeated invitations were friendly enough, casual enough, and nonthreatening enough.

Finally, he relented.

Big mistake.

They went out three times, a dinner and two lunches. They did nothing taboo by most Southern Baptist Sunday school standards. But Leftenant Edwards had apparently seen it all differently.

She found Diane’s cell number. The international call roused Diane from bed.

“Did Zack tell you about me?” Edwards was purported to have asked. “Did he tell you that I took him out to dinner for his birthday?”

It was downhill from there.

Diane called, scolding him harshly for the first time. “Friends don’t lie to each other,” she had said. “Zack, I don’t need women calling me. I won’t be coming to see you. You can call me every six months to let me know how you’re doing.”

Then Diane had hung up. What was up with all that?

He’d spoken with her, emailed her, or text messaged her every day for over a year, and after Edwards’ call, she had just hung up. Then, silence.

The package arrived a few days later. It was a sentimental family Bible that was his grandmother’s. He’d given it to Diane. It showed up in the mail with her return address. No note, no nothing. The body blow left him breathless.

Ambiguity had reigned in their on-again, off-again relationship. “You should date other people,” she had told him several times in the past. “I need time to heal. You shouldn’t wait for that.” She had never recanted from that position.

What? Had she been joking? What?

Women.

Who could figure?

Pitfalls and personal hardships were part of navy life, and long-distance relationships were a navy pitfall. Diane came from nowhere—out of the blue. They had been through the fire together in San Diego. And then, she was gone.

Wrestling with himself for months, finally he surrendered to the reality that he had fallen for her.

Now she had agreed to meet him, once more, just for a couple of days before reporting to her new duty station in Indonesia.

But would she really show?

USS Reuben James
The Strait of Malacca

11:15 p.m.

Commander Adam Shugert, skipper of the Reuben James, stood aft of his ship’s superstructure, arms folded, watching his crew at work.

At this instant, the smoldering speedboat dangled in the air over the sea, suspended on chains under the sixteen-ton deck crane located on the ship’s fantail.

“Easy does it. This way,” the officer of the deck was saying.

“Gotcha, sir,” a petty officer said.

“Slow and easy. Bring her on around,” the OOD ordered.

“Here we go,” the crane operator announced. The steel crane hummed and squeaked. The boat swung under it like a pendulum in the whipping wind. The crane rotated clockwise, bringing the hulk over the steel deck.

“Clear out! Bringing her down!”

Sharp, metallic squealing pierced the air, as the crane inched the boat down to the steel deck.

Thud.

“Good job!” the OOD said.

“Everybody back,” the master at arms said. Four armed guards quickly set up a perimeter around the boat.

Captain Shugert, the XO, and two agents from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service stepped through the perimeter.

Shugert winced.

Four shot-up bodies, their white T-shirts and blue jeans splattered with blood, lay sprawled in the bottom of the boat. All four looked Asian.

“XO, get some corpsmen up here. Pull those bodies out and check for identification.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

“Good. Where are my EODs?” Shugert glanced at his watch as he asked for the explosive ordinance disposal team assigned to his ship.

“We’re here, sir.” EODC Elbert Tarkenton, the senior enlisted demolitions specialist on board, was walking through the perimeter of armed guards. “We’re ready to take a look, sir,” Chief Tarkenton said, “but we need to have those bodies pulled out so we have room.”

Two hospital corpsmen arrived with four single-sheet canvas stretchers, stacked one atop another. Bungee cords strapped blankets and body bags on the top stretcher. The blankets whipped in the warm breeze blowing across the back of the ship.

“You guys get those bodies off that boat,” Shugert ordered. “Watch for detonation devices.”

“Aye, Captain,” one of them responded. Another unleashed the bungee cords and separated the stretchers on the deck just in front of the boat. Two others strapped on latex gloves and approached the boat with a stepladder.

A moment later, two corpsmen in the boat pulled the first body out and laid it on the ship’s deck.

Three minutes later, all four bodies lay on the stretchers, a gruesome sight of blood and flesh glistening in the midday sun. Two young sailors vomited over the side of the ship.

“Check ’em out,” Shugert ordered.

“Skipper,” a corpsman said, “we found two US Navy identification cards.”

“What?” Shugert stepped forward and took the cards. “Unreal.” He turned around. “XO, notify Seventh Fleet. Advise attempted attack on convoy unsuccessful. Perpetrators killed. Four bodies on board USS Reuben James. Two bearing US Navy identification cards. Request permission for port stop in Singapore.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Rasa Sentosa Resort
Sentosa Island, Singapore

12:40 p.m.

The cab swung into the circular driveway in front of the hotel and stopped. A greeter opened the back door, and Zack stepped into the warm air.

A small stream of picketers was marching along the street holding anti-American and anti-British signs. Zack donned his naval officer’s cover and reached into the cab to pay the fare. He wanted to go punch out the protestors, but more important matters were at hand. A bellman grabbed his luggage, and he stepped into the sleek modern lobby.

Tourists, wearing an assortment of bathing suits, tennis outfits, and casual summer outfits, milled about the main entrance.

Where was she?

She promised she’d be here.

Zack craned his neck, looking up and down the moving escalators and all around the lobby. Nothing.

A young, fair-skinned woman at the front desk who looked to be in her early twenties greeted him with a smile. “May I help you?” Her accent was pleasantly British.

“I’m Lieutenant Commander Brewer, US Navy. I have reservations. Has Lieutenant Commander Colcernian checked in?”

The woman checked her computer screen. A moment passed.

“No sign of Commander Colcernian.”

“May I go ahead and check in?”

“Let’s see…” More typing on the screen. “We’re very tight, but we have some spaces already open for diplomatic personnel who are staying with us, if you don’t need a king-size bed and if you’re willing to forego a sea vista view.”

Zack smirked. “I don’t care if it’s a king-size bed or a sleeping bag. It’s just me in the room.” He glanced around the lobby. “I’ll take it.”

“Very well, sir. Room number 4035. Take the lift to the fourth floor, turn left, fourth room on the right.” She handed him a magnetic key card.

“Thank you, Miss Claire,” Zack said, reading the woman’s name tag.

Suddenly, something felt odd to Zack. Call it his sixth sense.

He turned away and surveyed the lobby once more.

The dark-skinned, Middle Eastern man in the white suit stood about thirty feet away, just in front of the revolving exit doors. The man was staring. Zack locked eyes with him. Something cold and hard seemed to pass between them.

A blazing hatred seemed to burn in the man’s eyes and face. Zack forgot about Diane for the moment and stepped toward the stranger.

The man turned, swiftly exiting through the revolving doors.

Zack quickened his pace, rushing through the doors. The man jumped into the very cab that Zack had ridden in from the airport.

The cab sped off.

The man turned, locking eyes with Zack once more, as the cab disappeared around the bend in the palm-tree-lined Silosa Road.

Victor Yang Loon’s taxi
Sentosa Island, Singapore

12:47 p.m.

Victor glanced in the rearview mirror at the white-suited passenger.

“What’s your rush, my friend?”

“I have a flight to catch.”

“What time is your flight?”

The man checked his watch. “Ninety minutes.”

“Which airline?”

“Saudi Air.”

“Don’t you have any luggage?”

“No luggage,” the man said.

Odd.

“You are my third passenger today from the Rasa Sentosa to the airport with no baggage.”

No response.

“What is it with the Royal Saudi Airlines?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You are my third Saudi passenger today going to the airport with no bags. Not many day commuters on Royal Saudi Airlines.” Victor swung the cab around the last traffic circle on Sentosa Island. They approached the causeway bridge leading to the Singaporean mainland.

“What makes you think I am Saudi?”

“You are flying Royal Saudi Airlines. I assumed—”

“—lots of people fly Royal Saudi Airlines. I am Kuwaiti.”

“Ah…my apologies…”

“Does Singapore make it a crime to have no luggage, my friend?”

The cab crossed the causeway. Victor veered onto the East Coast Parkway.

“No crime, my friend. Just wondering.”

They headed east. Victor thought something was strange about this fellow.

“You know, my friend”—the man donned dark shades—“I was thinking of bringing my wife and children back to Singapore for a holiday. We have plenty of time before my flight. Please stop at East Coast Park so that I might get out for a moment and shoot a few pictures for my family. I will reward you handsomely.”

Why did this seem odd? But if the man was going to pay him… “Of course.”

They sped around the East Coast Parkway, crossed Marina Bay, then sped past Marina City Park on the right. Crossing another bridge, they entered the area of East Coast Park.

“Turn here,” the passenger ordered.

Victor took exit 12, the Fort Road-East Coast Park exit. They passed Marine Cove, Kite Runners, and Raintree Cove on the right.

“Turn here,” the passenger ordered, as they came upon the C-4 parking lot, just a few hundred yards from the water. Victor swung the car to the right. A few cars were parked in the lot, but not a soul was in sight.

“Park here.”

Victor found an empty space and threw the cab in neutral.

A powerful hand clamped his nose and mouth from behind. Another gripped his Adam’s apple, yanking his head against the headrest. Victor squirmed, but the man’s overpowering grip clinched harder against his throat.

“Mmmmmmm.”

“You talk too much, my friend.”

Victor flailed, reaching for the man’s hair. Nothing. Heaving, pushing, Victor twisted. Turned. Squirmed.

The man’s powerful fingers dug into his esophagus.

Coughing.

Gagging.

“Perhaps life would have served you better had you learned to keep your mouth shut.”

Wheezing.

Choking.

Water streamed from Victor’s eyes, trickling down his cheeks.

The windshield.

The dashboard.

The cabbie’s vision blurred. Thoughts flashed by of his wife and two teenage daughters. His arms fell limp.

Then a gasp…yes, a sharp intake of air…the hand was gone! Victor widened his eyes.

A sharp blade slashed his throat. His world spun. Warm blood gushed from his mouth and throat.

“Shhhhhhhhhhhh…” The faint sound of his attacker shushed Victor to sleep.

Then…

Blackness.

Rasa Sentosa Resort
Sentosa Island, Singapore

1:15 p.m.

Wearing a pair of dark blue swim trunks and a light blue-and-white North Carolina Tar Heels T-shirt, Zack stepped from the lobby into the warm afternoon. Two aqua-colored pools with outdoor verandas and thatched huts sparkled between the palm trees just outside the Rasa Sentosa.

Zack slipped on his Oakleys. The polarized lenses gave everything an extra glow under the bright sunshine. He took in the sight and walked toward the pool closest to the white sands of Silosa Beach.

He sat in a white lounge chair facing the water. Dozens of beachgoers were sunbathing and splashing in the gentle surf. Beyond that, two oil tankers were moored low in the water perhaps a quarter of a mile offshore. Beyond the tankers, boats and ships of all sizes and types crisscrossed in both directions.

Two Royal Navy frigates flying the British naval ensign and Union Jack steamed to the east. The frigates made Zack long for his days as staff judge advocate aboard the supercarrier USS Ronald Reagan, where he served before they sent him to Australia.

His cell phone vibrated. He felt around the pocket of his swim trunks, fished out the phone, and flipped it open.

“Commander Brewer.”

“Zack?” The voice set his chest pounding like a battering ram. “Where are you?”

“At the hotel, out by the pool. Are you at the airport?”

“I’m in the lobby of the hotel.”

“You’re in the lobby? Why didn’t you call me from the airport?”

“You know I like surprises,” Diane said.

“I’ll be right there.”

“No, just stay there,” she said. “I’ll come out. I can’t check in yet and they’re holding my bags. Maybe you could order us a drink?”

“Sangria?”

“You remembered.”

“How can I forget?”

“Be right there. Can’t wait to see you.”

“You too.”

Can’t wait to see you. He pulled himself up and headed over to one of the Kon Tiki huts. “I need one lemonade and a sangria for my lady friend.”

BOOM!

Screams erupted from the beach.

Zack whipped around to see panicking swimmers scrambling out of the water. Sunbathers pointed out to sea. An orange fireball billowed from the front of the ship. It was the tanker!

BOOM!

Another explosion. Fire engulfed the second tanker.

Zack watched in horror. It was like the World Trade Center on water.

BOOM!

Screams now came from the hotel as shattering glass smashed against concrete.

Zack turned. Flames and smoke billowed through gaping, jagged holes in the glass of the hotel lobby.

“Diane!”

He sprinted to the burning hotel, passing coughing staffers and guests who were stumbling outside.

Zack stepped into the lobby. Flames lapped up silk draperies near the left wall.

The smoke-filled lobby was already like an oven on low heat. Guests gasped and choked, stepping over themselves, frantically grasping for the outside. Others lay on the floor moaning. Some were motionless. Sunlight poured into the lobby through open areas, but the smoke was thickening, making it difficult to breathe. Sirens from the harbor police blared.

“Diane!” The crackling flames absorbed Zack’s scream.

“Everybody out!” a voice blared over a megaphone. “Get out now!” the voice announced in English, then switched to Mandarin.

“Diane!” Zack put his face into his T-shirt, plunging through the smoke.

“Out! Out!”

Pockets of warm air shrank under thickening smoke. Images grew opaque.

His hands found a counter. Squinting, he realized he had found the front desk. A woman was on the floor behind it. Zack crawled over the counter, bent over, and pulled the woman’s arms over his shoulder.

As the heat sapped his strength, he lifted the woman onto his back. She gave him no help. Only dead weight. He laid her down on the floor, then repositioned her body and lifted her, cradling her in his arms.

She coughed.

Good. At least she was alive.

He stumbled through the mix of smoke and air toward the light streaming in from where the revolving doors stood just an hour earlier.

The bright warmth of sunlight crested his face. Fresh air. Sirens closed in on the building.

Zack collapsed on the grass, the woman still in his arms.

Chapter 3

Singapore Changi International Airport

2:05 p.m.

The Royal Saudi Airlines Airbus A340 rumbled along the concrete runway of Singapore’s Changi International Airport. Bander Omar finished his call, then turned his cell phone off, leaning back against the headrest for takeoff.

A moment later, the plane’s nose lifted skyward, its rubber wheels breaking contact with the runway. The giant bird banked to the right, presenting a panorama of the city jutting into the blue waters of the straits. It was like Allah had provided a cinematic view of his divine handiwork.

In the straits, just off Sentosa Island, white-orange flames raged into the sky, morphing into black smoke rising from two oil tankers moored just offshore. Harbor police in fireboats sprayed long blasts of white water through fire hoses onto the decks of the tankers.

Just a few yards inland, rising from the cove of lush green palms, smoke plumed from the Rasa Sentosa Resort. The wind was sweeping the billowing white columns in the direction of the burning tankers.

Cheering erupted from the back of the plane.

Bander turned and looked over his shoulder. A number of his fellow citizens, Saudi nationals, were glued to their windows, peering with delight at the sight below them. Farouq would be pleased.

The Airbus rolled back in the opposite direction, bringing into view a deep blue sky, then continued its climb into the sun on its journey to the Saudi homeland.

Bander pulled the shade, closed his eyes, and felt a satisfied smile cross his face. Un hum del Allah. Praise be to God. The Council of Ishmael had prevailed. It had begun.

The White House

2:06 a.m.

Colonel?” the navy commander said, as Colonel Abraham Rogers, United States Marine Corps, stepped from the West Wing corridor into the small communications office just down from the Oval Office.

The navy commander, intelligence officer Bob Gleason, handed his boss a white, steaming mug with the gold-and-red globe and anchor emblem of the United States Marine Corps emblazoned upon it.

“Thanks, Bob,” Abe Rogers said. He accepted the black coffee and took a refreshing swig. “What’s going on tonight?”

Commander Gleason finished his own sip before answering. “Not much, Colonel. All’s quiet on the western front.”

“Music to my ears, Bob.”

Abe Rogers was a Marine’s Marine. His cool head and bravery under fire in Iraq had led the commandant of the Marine Corps to nominate him for this job in the White House. “Abe, you’re just the man to run that job in shipshape fashion,” the commandant had told him. He’d taken command of the White House Communications Office just three weeks ago. So far, none of the world’s hot spots had even percolated. Not yet anyway.

Rogers had just taken his second swig of black coffee when the secure line rang from the Pentagon.

“Commander Gleason.”

Rogers watched Commander Bob Gleason’s mouth drop open. “Aye, sir, the colonel’s right here. Yes, sir.” Gleason held his hand over the receiver and looked at Rogers. “Colonel Evans over at J–2. He says it’s urgent.”

Rogers set his mug on Gleason’s desk and took the phone. “What’s up, Joe?…How many were hit?…Did they get past our destroyer escorts?…Oh, they got past the Brits?…And SECDEF wants me to wake the president? Very well…Understood.”

Rogers hung up the phone and looked at his deputy, now standing with widening blue eyes and raised eyebrows.

“We’ve got two oil tankers ablaze in the Singapore Straits, Bob. They tried striking a third, but your navy guys on the USS Reuben James blocked ’em.”

“Holy Toledo…” Gleason said, as if he were Robin responding to a pronouncement by Batman. “Reuben James is commanded by Adam Shugert. He’s an Academy classmate of mine.”

“Well, your buddy Captain Shugert earned his pay,” Rogers said. “Looks like a suicide boat made a run at the tanker SeaRiver Baytown. The Reuben James took ’em out. Can’t say as much for the Brits.”

“What happened?”

“Two freighters they were escorting are burning right now. Along with a resort hotel on Sentosa Island. Looks like coordinated terrorist strikes. The problem is we don’t know where it’ll stop.”

“Scary,” Gleason said.

Rogers polished off his coffee. “The Singaporean president wants a carrier task force sent into the Malaccan Straits. That’s drawing protests from Malaysia and Indonesia. Secretary Lopez wants the president awakened.” Rogers checked his watch. “Better get rolling. Bob, notify the Secret Service duty officer. I’ll need to get an initial briefing prepared for the president.”

“Aye, Colonel.”

Hotel Al Nemer
Dammam, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

9:08 a.m.

Mr. Omar just called before boarding his plane,” the security chief said. “He reports total success in Singapore. The hotel is on fire, two tankers are burning, thousands of gallons of black crude saturates their beaches, and overnight oil futures are skyrocketing. We have made billions on this day alone!”

“Excellent! What about in the straits?”

“No news yet. The American navy was escorting the target tanker there.”

“Let me know when we hear about that.”

“Yes, sir.”

Farouq extracted a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it, inhaling a cloud of sweet nicotine. He knew his trust in Bander, his second-in-command, had been well-founded. “Is the council ready?”

“Yes, sir. The council is assembled.”

The top floor of the hotel had been reserved for this briefing. Soon, however, Farouq Al-Fadil would, for security purposes, need to relocate the Council of Ishmael headquarters.

A door opened into the ornate hallway from a large conference room. A voice blared from inside the room, “Rise for your new leader, Farouq Al-Fadil.”

The security chief stepped into the hallway and looked at Farouq. “They are ready for you, my leader.”

Farouq put out his cigarette and followed the chief and two security guards into the ornate room. The guards followed on his footsteps.

“Be seated,” Farouq said. Twelve Arab billionaires, dressed in extravagant suits with traditional Arab white kaffiyehs on their heads, sat at his command. “Un hum del Allah!”

“Un hum del Allah!” they responded in unison.

“I am pleased to report to you that today…it has begun.”

Cheering and applause from the billionaires seated around the conference table.

Farouq called for silence. “Each of you has pledged a good portion of your fortune, now sequestered in a network of secret accounts around the world.” Several nodded in agreement. “Today, your financial support has launched phase one of our operation. On this day alone, the billions that we reaped from futures contracts from our strikes against the tankers off Singapore have doubled the five-billion-dollar investment that you collectively placed into our organization.”

More applause and cheering.

“Part of that money will purchase the weaponry to achieve our objective, which I will now reveal.” He nodded. His assistant flipped the switch on a projector, dimmed the lights, and tapped on a laptop computer. The screen lit up.

The Vision
AN ISLAMIC SUPERPOWER
The Council of Ishmael Plan for
World Dominance

“There is a nation awaiting us, gentlemen. A nation we shall rule, one that has already accepted the teachings of the Great Prophet. From it, we shall control the sea lanes of the world, and thus the world.” He nodded at his assistant.

“Gentlemen, I present to you, the next great Islamic superpower!”

A new image appeared on the screen.

“This, gentlemen, is Indonesia. It is the most populated Muslim nation on earth and fourth most-populated country in the world, behind China, India, and the US. Eighty percent of its population is Muslim, meaning that two hundred million Muslims live here.

“From Medan, on the island of Sumatra in the west, to Jayapura, on the island of New Guinea in the east, Indonesia stretches farther from east to west than even the Great Satan, the United States.

“Yet, despite its Muslim population, Indonesia cozies up to the United States and takes US military assistance.

“And no wonder America wants it. Indonesia is the most strategically located maritime nation in the world, controlling the Malaccan Straits, the Java Sea, the Timor Sea, and the Celebes Sea, all making up essentially the gateway from the Pacific and Indian Oceans.”

All eyes were transfixed on the map, as Farouq tapped at the various islands and waterways with a pointer. “Working with our Muslim brothers in the Indonesian military, we shall take this nation for Allah!”

“What plan has Allah given us for how we are to accomplish this takeover of Indonesia?” one of the moneymen asked.

Farouq wagged his finger in the air. “Insightful, my friend. I was just about to go into that. The nation of Indonesia consists of over seventeen thousand islands. Of those, six thousand are inhabited. But the key to controlling all of Indonesia is first to control one island and one only.” He nodded again at his assistant, and another map flashed up on the screen.

“This map gives a better picture of our targets. To the left”—he tapped a pointer against the screen—“we have the island of Sumatra. This island is roughly the size and shape of the American state of California.

“Sumatra would give us control of the most strategic choke point in the world for the flow of oil by freighter from the Indian Ocean to the Pacific.” He pointed to the Strait of Malacca, a funnel between Sumatra and the Malay Peninsula.

“But the key to toppling Sumatra and the other seventeen thousand islands of Indonesia is to assert control of this island.” He pointed to the island just to the right of Sumatra. “Java.”

He took a sip of water.

“Roughly the size and shape of the Caribbean island of Cuba, Java is the key to Indonesia. One hundred twenty million people live here. That’s half the population of the entire nation.” Another sip of water. “And the key to Java?” He tapped again at the map. “Jakarta. The capital city. Our plan is simplistically brilliant. We will launch a coup against the government from within. We will take control of the government, and we will use money raised from our tanker attacks to purchase weapons and transform Indonesia into an Islamic superpower.”

Farouq folded his arms and surveyed his council.

“What about President Santos?” a Kuwati named Sabir asked.

“What about Enrique Santos?” Farouq asked.

“Will we kill him?”

“We have forged a strategic alliance with powerful men in the Indonesian military. These men are our brothers in the faith. And their faith, unlike the bastardized lip service to Islam that was paid by those like the traitorous Benazir Bhutto and the current Indonesian president, is unadulterated.

“They will be rewarded for their courageous leadership in this endeavor, which we have called the Malaccan Agreement. These men will be in place to carry out our strategic objectives, including the problem of the Indonesian president.”

“What will become of Santos?” another council member asked.

Farouq lit another cigarette, then took a satisfying draw. “Santos calls himself Islamic. Yet he sleeps with the American dogs and their president, Mack Williams.” He inhaled again and squinted his eyes. “Tell me, brother. What sayeth the Koran about the fate of infidels?”

The nicotine saturated his bloodstream, giving him an exhilarating kick, more potent and satisfying than the bland cigar he had taken from General Suparman Perkasa during their first meeting over a year ago. No one made cigarettes like the dog Americans.

“The Koran calls for death to all infidels.”

Farouq stuffed the cigarette into an ashtray. “And what are Williams and Santos?”

Even in the dimmed lighting, Sabir’s black eyes sparkled.

“They are infidels.”

Farouq nodded. “Then you have answered your own question, my friend.”

“Will the Americans not send their navy and marines to interfere? Do not they consider these sea lanes strategic to their interests?”

“Let’s say, shall we, that we have planned some distractions for the Americans.”

Chapter 4

Alexandra Hospital
Singapore

2:15 p.m.

The woman, her long, red hair pinned in a bun, wore the summer white uniform of a United States naval officer.

She glanced out the tinted window from the back passenger’s seat as the black Jaguar stopped in front of the white, sprawling building.

“The architecture is colonial. Beautifully landscaped, isn’t it?” The silver-haired man in the navy pinstripe sitting in the backseat beside her was engaging in peripheral chitchat.

“Yes, sir, it is,” she said, barely paying attention. The uncertainty was killing her.

“This was the old British army hospital in Singapore,” the man said. “The Brits built it in 1938. More than six hundred flower species are growing in the gardens surrounding the building. Hard to believe this was the scene of one of the bloodiest massacres of World War II.”

That riveted her attention. “What happened?”

“Battle of Singapore. 1942. The Japs came here and butchered British patients and medical staff. There’s a plaque over on the grounds commemorating it. Barbarians. Violated all the rules of civilized warfare.”

That sank in for a second. “Yes, sir. They violated all the rules of civilized warfare, just like whoever hit the Rasa Sentosa and those British tankers.” She inhaled deeply. “So we’ve come full circle.”

“After that,” the man continued, “they changed the name from the British Military Hospital, Singapore, to Alexandra Hospital.”

For a man reputed to be politically astute, good at putting others at ease, this talk was not helping unknot her stomach.

“Don’t worry,” the man went on, as if sensing he’d said the wrong thing. “I think if it was life-threatening, they would’ve taken him to Singapore General.” He took her hand. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine.”

Why did his face look so worried? Did he know something she didn’t?

“Thank you, sir.”

“Let’s go, Jim,” the man said.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Ambassador.” The United States Marine Corps sergeant, dressed sharply in his service dress-blue uniform, got out of the passenger’s front seat and opened the door for the United States ambassador to Singapore, the Honorable Gary Griffith. The ambassador stood, and the marine flashed him a sharp salute.

A second marine, the car’s driver, got out and opened the door for the woman. The corporal snapped to attention and snapped a salute. “Ma’am.”

“Thank you, Corporal.” The woman stepped out and returned the salute. Eight armed Singaporean police officers were lined up, four on each side, forming an armed human corridor from the car to the entrance of the hospital.

“This way, sir.” The sergeant motioned for the woman and the ambassador to follow him inside the main entrance. Just inside, a Caucasian man in a white physician’s jacket approached the ambassador with his hand extended.

“Welcome, Mr. Ambassador,” the doctor said.

“Doctor Shelton McNair, I’d like to introduce Lieutenant Commander Diane Colcernian, United States Navy.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Commander.” The doctor extended his hand. His accent was American. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Dr. McNair is chief medical officer for the US embassy here in Singapore,” Ambassador Griffith said. “I’ve asked him to personally oversee Zack’s medical care.”

“Is he okay, Doctor?”

“He’s suffering from smoke inhalation. He’s on oxygen, but I think he’ll be fine.”

“Can we see him?”

“He’s been under sedation, but sure. Why not?”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Diane said.

“My pleasure, Commander. Follow me.”

McNair led them through a back hallway to the staff elevator. They rode to the fourth floor.

“Follow me,” McNair said.

They walked past the nurses’ station to a hospital room door that was cracked open. Two voices having a slightly heated discussion poured out. One, female with a Singaporean accent. The other, Diane recognized with relief.

“But, Commander, you have not been released by your doctor,” the female voice said.

“Ma’am, I’m telling you, I’m fine. I’ve got work to do,” the male voice with a slight Southern accent retorted. “I can’t be stuffed up in here with a war going on out there. Pass me my shirt, please.”

Diane traded glances with Dr. McNair and Ambassador Griffith.

“Stay here a minute.” Dr. McNair stepped into the hospital room. He closed the door, but voices still poured under the door.

“What’s the problem, Commander?” Dr. McNair said.

“Doctor, I appreciate what you’ve done”—cough…cough—“but we’ve undergone attacks on two tankers and the Rasa Sentosa. All this appears to have been coordinated and”—cough…cough—“I work for Ambassador Griffith, and he’s going to want me on this”—cough…cough—“ASAP…”

Diane winced. The coughing was bad.

“Oh, really? Well, Ambassador Griffith can order you to stay in bed.”

“That’s my cue.” The ambassador looked at Diane and winked. “Stay here.” Griffith stepped through the door and into the hospital room.

“Mr. Ambassador!” A surprised tone came from the Southern voice.

“What’s this I hear about my naval attaché arguing with the nurses?”

“Sir, I”…cough, cough…“I’ve got to get back to the Rasa Sentosa.”

“What’s the hurry, Commander?”

Cough…“To be honest, Mr. Ambassador, I’m afraid Lieutenant Commander Colcernian may be out there. I’m worried about her, sir.”

“We’re trying to find her, Zack. In fact, I’ve got someone with me who has information that might help locate her.”

*****

“Really?”

Diane recognized her cue. She pushed the door open slightly.

The Carolina blue T-shirt hugged Zack’s trim torso, and his navy blue swim shorts revealed a rich tan on his legs. That slight cleft was still in his chin, and a small dash of gray had set into his sideburns. She melted when his green eyes met hers.

“Thank God!” He threw his arms open and jumped off the bed. Their embrace would not be denied by any doctor or ambassador.

Their lips met.

Diane traced the bulge of his muscled biceps. The kiss…it was nuclear…then suddenly shortened when he pulled away to cough again.

“Commander, please. Back to bed,” Dr. McNair said.

“That’s an order, Zack,” Ambassador Griffith followed.

“Yes, sir.” He backpedaled and plopped onto the hospital bed, but he did not relinquish Diane’s hand.

“Feeling better now, Zack?” The doctor smiled.

“What?”

“Do you feel better?”

“Oh, yes, sir.” His eyes wouldn’t relinquish their gaze on hers. Nor would his smile fade. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

“Good.” Dr. McNair looked at the nurse. “Let’s get some O_2 in him, please.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Zack,” McNair said, “we’re holding you another day as a precaution against pneumonia. We’ll run tests. You should be good to go soon. Meantime, I’ll leave the three of you to visit for a while.”

“Thanks, Doc,” he said.

McNair stepped out of the room.

“Hold your head still, Commander,” said the small-framed Singaporean nurse. “The oxygen will make you feel better.”

“Sure.”

She strapped a small, clear oxygen tube to a mask and strapped it on his face. “If you’ll cooperate with us, Commander, maybe the doctor will release you soon.”

“Thanks, Nurse.”

The nurse smiled and stepped out of the room.

“So what happened?” His voice was muffled by the mask, but still audible. “You phoned from the lobby, and then…”

“I was standing in the lobby, but as soon as you told me you were by the pool, I couldn’t wait to see you, so I rushed outside. The bomb went off maybe five seconds after I stepped outside. We must’ve missed each other in the chaos.”

“Thank God you’re alive.” Zack squeezed her hand. “I hoped we could spend more time together before you shipped to the States. But now…”

Ambassador Griffith broke into a smile. “Zack,” he said, “Diane has some news for you.”

“News?” He raised a curious eyebrow. “Come on, tell me. I can’t stand surprises.” Cough.

“Well…” She exchanged glances with the ambassador. “It turns out that you’re not the only navy JAG officer to be appointed as a naval attaché.”

“Let me guess. I’ve been fired and the ambassador is hiring you?”

“How’d you guess?” she chuckled.

“Not hard. You’re a ton prettier than me.”

“You’re right about that, Zack,” the ambassador laughed. “But you’re not getting off the hook with me that easy. Actually, my pal Ambassador Martin Stacks over in Indonesia just lost his attaché. I knew the two of you might not object to being just an hour away from each other by plane, so I recommended Diane for the job. And what do you know?”

“Really?” Zack smiled through a couple of wheezes. “Congratulations! So how far is that from here?”

The ambassador answered, “Well, Commander, that’s 561 miles by the flight of the crow, or more to the point, by the flight of the C–130.”

Zack released her hand, but not his smile. “So when do you start your new job?”

“In about fifteen minutes. We just got word of an attempted attack against the tanker SeaRiver Baytown. USS Reuben James took out the suicide boat, and they found at least two Indonesians on board. Reuben James is bringing the bodies into port here in Singapore. I’m going down to meet the ship.”

His smile vanished. “I’m going with you.”

“Later, Commander,” the ambassador said. “I’ll make sure Commander Colcernian apprises you of everything.”

“Aye, sir.” His voice deflated.

Diane leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “See ya soon, Zack.”

Changi Naval Base
Singapore

2:45 p.m.

The new Changi Naval Base, home port of the Singaporean navy, was a panoramic splash of red-and-white, as the stars and crescent moon that graced the red-and-white, broad-striped flag of the tiny republic fluttered from every ship moored in the piers, from every building facing the piers, and from flagpoles on the piers themselves.

There was one exception.

The 450-foot gray warship, which only minutes ago inched slowly alongside Pier One, flew off her fantail the red, white, and blue of the Stars and Stripes of the United States of America.

At the end of Pier One, Lieutenant Commander Diane Colcernian, in the summer white uniform of a US Navy JAG officer, stood next to a Singaporean naval officer and watched as Singaporean sailors standing on the pier tossed lines back and forth with sailors on the American warship.

Moments later, the ship’s crewmen erected a portable catwalk between the ship and the pier, then unfolded a white-and-blue banner. The banner stretched horizontally along the catwalk and proclaimed in blue lettering: USS Reuben James FFG-57.

“Follow me,” Diane told her Singaporean naval escort. They stepped through the whipping breeze onto the catwalk, quickly marched over the water, and crossed the threshold onto the ship’s quarterdeck.

Adhering to naval tradition, Diane turned sharply to her left and saluted the national colors flying off the stern, then saluted the officer of the deck.

“Lieutenant Commander Colcernian. US naval attaché to the Republic of Indonesia. Request permission to come aboard, sir.”

“Permission granted, ma’am.” The OOD, a US Navy lieutenant, sharply returned the salute. “The skipper’s expecting you. I’ll escort you to the bridge.”

“Very well.”

They walked along the starboard gunwale, then left, up another ladder, to the entrance of the bridge. “Skipper, Commander Colcernian has arrived.”

“Commander.” The handsome sea captain nodded. “I’m Captain Shugert. Welcome aboard. Congratulations on your new job.” He reached out to shake her hand. “I hear your buddy, Commander Brewer, has a similar post here in Singapore.”

“Thank you, sir. For Zack, the job’s been in the works for a while. For me, it was late-breaking. Three days ago, I was headed to the Naval Academy to teach military law. Now, well, you know our mantra. We go wherever and whenever the navy calls.”

“You’ve got that right, Commander,” Captain Shugert said. “Well, I know you’re not here to tour another Hazard-class frigate. So let’s get down to business. I understand we’ve got some bodies you wanted to see before they’re off-loaded.”

Diane nodded. “Yes, sir. I understand two are Indonesian.”

“Right.” The skipper lifted a mug of black coffee just under his nose and took a whiff. “And the other two, well, put it this way. I think you’ll be in for a big surprise.” Shugert raised his black, bushy eyebrows and took a swig.

“You’ve aroused my curiosity. Could we see?”

Shugert set the mug down. “You sure? They’re shot up bad. If you want, we can bring out the evidence bag. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

It was still a man’s navy. The rugged, handsome sea captain, offering to protect a lady, even a lady officer, from a gruesome sight.

“Thanks, Skipper. I’ve seen worse. Remember? I was once a hostage. I’ve seen it all.”

Shugert nodded. “Fine, Commander. Suit yourself.”

A few minutes later, they entered the ship’s sick bay. Diane’s stomach twisted. All four were laid out on stretchers. Their faces were only somewhat recognizable.

“Odd,” the skipper said. “They all had IDs on them. Like they wanted us to know who they are.”

“Terrorists love taking credit for murder,” Diane said, “even in death.”

“The two on the left are Indonesian,” Shugert said.

“I can see that,” Diane said. “They look southeast Asian.”

“But the two on the right. Guess their nationality?”

“Not sure,” Diane said. “A bit brown-skinned, but definitely not African. Maybe Indian or Middle Eastern?”

“Check this.” Shugert handed Diane two plastic cards, about the size of a standard driver’s license.

United States Armed Forces
Service Member Identification Card
Moore, Rahim
SR, USN
241-97-5910

United States Armed Forces
Service Member Identification Card
Abdul, Shamu
AN3, USN
241-97-5910

“They’re ours!” Diane said.

“Apparently so.” Shugert winced. “Here’s what we know from NCIS. They’re both stationed on board USS Abraham Lincoln. Both have thirty days’ leave. Both just started their leave.”

“Where’s the Lincoln now?”

“The Indian Ocean,” he said. “Near Diego Garcia.”

Diane checked her watch. “Skipper, a marine courier from our embassy here in Singapore will come and collect the evidence. I just spoke with Ambassador Griffith, and I’m recommending that we hold all four bodies and the evidence at the US embassy here until Washington gets this sorted out. Since Lieutenant Commander Brewer is the new naval attaché to Singapore, he’ll be your point of contact while you’re in port.” She extended her hand. “Sir, I appreciate the hospitality, but it looks like I need to catch a flight to the Indian Ocean.”

She released the captain’s firm grip, then as they stepped out onto the ship’s fantail, popped a sharp salute. “Permission to go ashore, sir.”

“Permission granted.” He dropped the salute. “Take care of yourself, Diane. And be safe.”

The Altair Voyager
Near the Strait of Malacca

1:50 p.m.

How strangely quiet it was—blue-green, a white hue at the horizon, stretching forever eastward.

A gull hovered in the sky, a visible reminder that the endless water would soon give way to the jagged contours of the Indonesian coastline and the mammoth island of Sumatra. A school of dolphins leaped in graceful unison about a hundred yards off the starboard. There was little breeze.

The weather was as it was centuries ago, when sailing ships of old got stuck in the water, in the midst of a vast ocean, paralyzed by windless doldrums, their crews fighting scurvy, needing fresh water, with nowhere to go. If his were a sailing ship, he would be dead in the water. But his was an oil tanker.

At this moment Captain Fred Eichenbrenner wished that the ship he was piloting was a sailing ship—that they could stop, at least for a moment, here in the Andaman Sea, in the eastern sector of the Indian Ocean, and wait.

With only sails and no wind, he’d have a legitimate excuse for stopping. His employers could not complain.

But it wasn’t to be.

The news had spread all over the ship-to-ship radio networks. Two tankers burning off Singapore. Another attack attempted in the straits. As captain of a Chevron oil tanker, he was a prime target.

The US Navy had promised him an escort through the Malaccan Straits, courtesy of the guided missile frigate USS Ingraham.

Here though, in the Andaman Sea just outside the straits, he was vulnerable to strike by small craft. It would be a reach, but still, they could strike from Sumatra, from the Andaman and Nicobar Islands to his west, or more likely, from the tip of Muslim Sumatra to his south, or from anywhere on the Malay Peninsula to his east.

He would be safe on the open seas, they said.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe they weren’t.

Eichenbrenner brought his binoculars down. Why was he in this business? This was no place for a family man. The sea was a jealous mistress.

He’d lost his wife in a divorce five years ago. Her name was Sadie. He’d loved her with all his being.

It happened while he was out on a four-month cruise traversing the Pacific. Sadie found a younger man, an accountant, of all people, while working out at the gym. But the marriage was not a total failure.

Dana and Laura. They had come by surprise. Eight years ago. The twins were named for each of their grandmothers. Born carrot tops, each bore haunting blue eyes and rosy smiles.

When he brought them porcelain dolls from Shanghai, stuffed kangaroos from Australia, and handmade beaded jewelry from India, their eyes sparkled like the stars of the Milky Way on a clear, moonless night.

He would’ve given up the sea for their sake. He had struggled. The decision was hard.

The sea was who he was.

The sea made him unique as a father.

The sea was part of what they loved about him.

And despite his ex’s obsession with Mr. Bleach-Blond, Part-It-Down-the-Middle Man, the silver lining was this: her self-absorption with Charles Atlas meant more time for Fred with his twins. Though Sadie was too proud to admit it, fact is, the kids imposed on her time with her new lover.

That meant quality time with the girls when he was ashore.

They were the lights of his life. Last summer, they’d spent a week at Disneyland, camped at Yosemite, and visited San Diego. They took in Sea World, the Wild Animal Park, and the San Diego Zoo.

Enough reminiscing.

“How far to the rendezvous point with USS Ingraham?” The captain shouted this question to his first mate, between two satisfying drags of nicotine-saturated tobacco smoke.

“About two hours, Skipper.”

Eichenbrenner cursed, then dropped the cigarette.

They were out there.

Somewhere.

He knew it in his gut.

This day reminded him of 9/11. That day, they were after airplanes. Today…they were after ships.

Eichenbrenner struck another cigarette. “Steady as she goes,” he said. The smoke in his lungs calmed his nerves, but not his stomach. If he were a praying man, this would be the time to bow his head. But the sea dog was not into prayer. Maybe his luck would hold out for a couple of more hours.

New York Mercantile Exchange

2:55 a.m.

Robert Molster sat back and sipped more coffee. Had he done the right thing? He had called the chairman, but his boss hadn’t seemed overly concerned, just told Bob to call again if anything else developed.

Yes, the two limit moves were unusual, but it could’ve been anything. Probably coincidence. Things were calm now.

Robert took a pinch from the whole-grain muffin to help quell the late-night munchies.

He decided to check his email. He tapped the keyboard on the computer attached to the internet. The screen awakened. AOL headlines streamed across the screen. Multiple Attacks Against Oil Tankers in Singapore! Luxury Hotel Burning! US Navy Foils One Attack!

He clicked on the links and started reading.

“Wait a minute,” he said.

He went back and checked his tapes to compare the time of the attacks against the graphs showing the start of the two limit moves.

The timing was odd. Coincidental? Maybe. Maybe not. It was as if someone knew about the attacks and bought oil futures just beforehand to profit from the run-up in prices. He went back to his computer and called up the AP version of the breaking news story.

The Associated Press is reporting attacks overnight on oil tankers in the Singapore Strait. Also, word out of Singapore is that a luxury hotel has been hit, and a planned attack on an oil tanker in the Malacca Strait region was evidently foiled by the US Navy. Stay tuned for further developments…

“What?” The cold sensation running down his spine drove him immediately to the flat-screen TV, and he flipped on CNN. An aerial shot of an oil tanker billowing smoke flashed across the screen. It was like someone had dumped a bag of ice on him. Was he the only person in the world who was connecting the dots of what was going on here?

His buzzing monitor broke the silence. “Not again!” He cursed and rushed back to his computer, sending a splash of black coffee onto his starched white shirt.

Limit Alert…Limit Alert…Trading in January Light, Sweet Crude Calls, and Brent Crude Calls halted due to limit move of $10.00. Trading to resume at 3:15 A.M., EST, 8:15 A.M., GMT.

“A third limit move. Oil tankers attacked.” Something was definitely happening here. Robert picked up the phone, punching the direct line to his boss’s bedside.

“Mr. Chairman, Robert Molster here. Sorry to wake you again, sir, but we’ve got a major-league problem brewing.”

The Altair Voyager
Near the Strait of Malacca

2:00 p.m.

Captain! Small craft approaching!” “What? Where?” Captain Eichenbrenner lifted his binoculars toward the horizon.

“Zero-nine-zero degrees. Off the starboard, sir,” the first officer said. “He’s approaching fast!”

“I see him.” Eichenbrenner cursed. The speedboat was racing inbound. “First Officer, empty the small arms locker! Get a rifle team down to the starboard gunwale. Be prepared to open fire.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Captain!” The ship’s navigator was pointing out to the right. “There’s another one.”

“Where?”

“Just right of the first one, sir! Inbound!”

Eichenbrenner adjusted the focus ring on the binoculars and found the second inbound speedboat. “I knew it!”

“There’s a third one, sir. Now a fourth!”

“Lord, help us!” Eichenbrenner uttered his first prayer in more than thirty years. “Radio officer, open emergency channel to USS Ingraham. Tell ’em we’re under attack. Multiple small craft approaching. Intentions hostile. Estimated time to impact, three to five minutes. We need air cover! ASAP!”

“Right away, Captain!”

“First Officer, I want every small arm on this ship firing at these suckers!”

“Yes, Captain!”

USS Ingraham
Near the Strait of Malacca

2:02 p.m.

Radioman First Class Michael Griffin had assumed his post only five minutes before the shrill static crackled across his headset.

“USS Ingraham…This is the tanker Altair Voyager. We are under attack! Estimate five speedboats approaching at high rates of speed. Repeat, tanker Altair Voyager under attack! Request air cover! USS Ingraham, acknowledge!”

Griffin reached to the control panel and switched the radio to the transmit button. “Altair Voyager. USS Ingraham. Acknowledge. Stand by!”

Griffin punched several buttons to triangulate the source of the radio signal. Got it. He switched to the ship’s internal intercom system. “Radar. Radio. I’ve got a distress call from the tanker Altair Voyager. Please confirm coordinates.”

Two seconds passed. “Radio. Radar. Altair Voyager coordinates currently at zero-niner-four degrees, thirty minutes, fifteen seconds east longitude; zero-six degrees, twenty-five minutes, ten seconds north longitude. Course bearing one-two-zero degrees.”

Griffin penciled the numbers on a legal pad, then compared them against the triangulation numbers showing the source of the transmission.

“Bridge! Radio! We have a distress call from tanker Altair Voyager. Triangulation and radar confirm source of distress call! Altair Voyager is under attack by unidentified speedboats. Altair Voyager requesting immediate air cover. Repeat, Altair Voyager requesting immediate air cover.”

“Roger. Acknowledge!” The voice of the ship’s executive officer boomed over the ship’s loudspeakers on the 1MC. “General quarters! General quarters! Tanker Altair Voyager is under attack by multiple small craft. General quarters! Man battle stations.

“Helo deck! Bridge! Get both birds airborne! Immediately. Set course for Altair Voyager. Force authorized to defend against attacks and stand by for possible rescue ops.”

Two seconds passed. “Bridge! Helo deck. Roger that! We’re rolling both birds out now. Estimated time to launch bird one, four minutes!”

The Altair Voyager
Near the Strait of Malacca

2:05 p.m.

The arms locker of the Altair Voyager had been furbished with a total of six M1 Garand rifles, World War II surplus, that were purchased by the Chevron Corporation in the rare instance that they might be needed on the high seas.

Additionally, four 9-millimeter Beretta pistols had been furnished, one for the captain and three others for whichever officers the captain assigned them to.

Each weapon had been issued to every available deckhand. Ten gun barrels, six rifles, and four pistols were at that moment being aimed out to sea from the side of the ship.

Eichenbrenner couldn’t shake the images of the Alamo, of Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie and company aiming their rifles out of the Alamo at Santa Ana’s overpowering forces.

“Gentlemen, be ready to fire on my order!”

Suddenly, the boats slowed, about a quarter of a mile off the bow and just over to the right. They began circling like sharks in the water.

The crewmen started talking.

“What’s up with that?”

“Maybe changed their mind.”

“Could be our lucky day.”

“Quiet!” The captain held his hand in the air. The boats kept circling like buzzards over a carcass.

They did this for about a minute, until one of the boats slowly broke from the circle.

Then another.

Then a third.

They lined up one behind the other, all five speedboats, the sound of their revving outboards thundering across the water. They positioned themselves in a straight line, their bows pointed straight toward the ship.

“God help us,” someone said.

“They’re gonna try to hit us in the same spot to break our double hull,” the first officer said.

Eichenbrenner spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Bridge. Captain. Where’s our air cover from the US Navy?”

A squeak from the walkie-talkie. “Captain, we raised the Ingraham. Two choppers on the way!”

The engines of the first boat revved. It planed up and began plowing through the water, its bow aimed straight at the Altair Voyager.

The sound of more thunder. The second boat revved its engines. Its bow shot up as it charged like a bull in the wake of the first. The third fell into the fast-moving line. Then the fourth. And the fifth.

Like a bright lightning bolt flashing in the sun, the kamikaze flotilla cut the water in a vertical column, one behind the other, engines roaring, bearing down on the starboard gunwale just behind the bow.

“Open fire!” Eichenbrenner yelled.

The sharp crack of rifle volleys echoed across the steel superstructure of the ship. The smell of burnt gun powder filled the air.

An orange fireball burst from the fuel tank of the lead boat, followed by black smoke. Cheering erupted.

The burning hulk veered to the right as the second boat charged through its wake.

“Fire again!”

Shots splashed around the hull, spraying seawater in the air. Its windshield exploded in a shower of glass. Blood gushed from one of the terrorists’ heads. The pilot ducked down under the dash. The second boat, now the lead, charged on.

“Keep firing!”

Thirty yards.

Twenty yards.

“Keep firing.”

Ten yards.

“Shoot the gas tank!”

Bang…bang…bang…bang…

Five yards.

BOOM!

The speedboat crashed into the side of the ship’s hull at full speed. The explosion rocked the Altair Voyager, knocking men off their feet. Flames lapped up the right side. Captain Eichenbrenner stumbled against the steel protective cable surrounding the ship’s perimeter.

BOOM!

The third speedboat had now made it through the token rifle fire and crashed into the ship. Another explosion.

Eichenbrenner grasped the cable and looked up in time to see two of his men falling into the sea.

“Man overboard!” Eichenbrenner screamed into his walkie-talkie. “Execute man overboard drill! All engines stop!”

BOOM! BOOM! Two more heavy blows to the hull. More men splashed into the water.

“Everybody move aft!” Eichenbrenner motioned his men away from the leaping flames. The ship’s engines threw the propellors into reverse. The sudden halting of the ship’s forward movement knocked a few more men off their feet, but fortunately, this time no one flew off the deck.

“Toss life rings to those men!”

Five white life rings spun like Frisbees over the water, spinning, spinning, and finally splashing down into the Andaman Sea.

“Bridge!” Eichenbrenner yelled into the walkie-talkie. “Get a fire team down on those flames. Throw everything you’ve got at it. All fire extinguishers. All the water hoses on the ship. Get that fire out fast or it’s all over.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Blocking the sun with his hand, Eichenbrenner looked down over the side of his ship, squinting to see if the life rings had reached his sailors, flailing in the water below.

The rings bobbed on the water in a straight line over perhaps seventy-five yards. One man reached a ring in the center of the line. Two others were swimming toward the rings floating over to the right. The last two sailors were nowhere to be seen.

Fire shot skyward from the upper right gunwales of his ship, producing a rising heat that made it impossible to stand pat and search.

Eichenbrenner turned and sprinted toward the stern, away from the leaping flames.

US Navy SH–60B Seahawk (“Rover 1”)
Near the Malacca Strait

2:15 p.m.

At five hundred feet above the water, Lieutenant David Carraway surveyed the seascape below. The chopper’s shadow rushed across the sunlit waters, as the tropical green of the Malaccan Strait gave way to the blue waters of the Andaman Sea.

His sister chopper, code name Rover 2, the other Seahawk from the USS Ingraham, flew two hundred yards off to his side, tracking a parallel northwesterly course at one hundred thirty knots. Carraway gave a thumbs-up to Rover 2, then switched his radio frequency for a direct link with the other chopper.

“Rover 2, Rover 1. I’ve got you off my left wing, over.”

“Roger that, Rover 1,” said Lieutenant J. G. Edison Towe, Rover 2’s pilot. “You’re in my sights too, sir.” Towe flashed a thumbs-up back at Carraway.

“Very well,” Carraway said. “Maintain course and speed. ETA to targets five minutes.”

Static burst over the emergency frequency.

“Mayday! Mayday! This is the tanker Altair Voyager. Be advised we are on fire and are taking on water! Mayday! Mayday! This is the Altair Voyager. We are on fire and listing! Coordinates at zero-niner-four degrees, thirty minutes, fifteen seconds east longitude; zero-six degrees, twenty-five minutes, ten seconds north longitude. Mayday! Mayday!”

Carraway looked at his copilot. “Give me the mike.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

“Altair Voyager. This is US Navy helicopter. We copy your mayday. ETA less than four.”

“Roger that, navy chopper. Please hurry. They’ve busted our hull! We’ve got crude leaking. The sea’s on fire! We’re taking on water fast!”

Carraway clicked the send button again. “Roger that, Altair Voyager. Are you still under attack?”

Static. Then a response. “That’s a negative. No longer under attack. Preparing to abandon ship! The sea to the starboard of the ship is on fire, and we’ll be abandoning ship to the port side. We’re tossing life rafts into the water now.”

“Copy that, Altair Voyager. Hang tight. We’ll be right there.”

Chapter 5

The White House

3:20 a.m.

Mack Williams, the president of the United States, was not in the best of moods.

In the last year of his second administration, Mack faced a lameduck Congress full of howling Democrats who wanted to crow about everything from legalizing homosexual marriage to unconditional amnesty for every illegal alien to socialized medicine for all. Add to that the constant series of international crises rooted in the global problem of radical Islam, and Mack was feeling the heavy weight of office upon his shoulders.

Like his predecessors, Clinton, Bush, and Obama, his hair had morphed from mainly brown, to salt-and-pepper, and finally, by this last year of his administration, to mostly salt. His forehead, as smooth as a baby’s bottom when he had raised his hand and taken the oath of office that cold January morning on the West Front of the US Capitol, had grown crisscrossed with lines, carved by the burden of his position.

The international crises and foreign threats had carved the deepest grooves.

His presidency had seen radical Islam attempt to infiltrate the US military, an attack on the Dome of the Rock in Israel, a daring military operation which he had ordered into Mongolia’s Gobi Desert to rescue an American naval officer, and a secret naval operation into the Black Sea to attack a Russian freighter suspected of transporting stolen nuclear fuel.

More than once, his administration had found America on the brink of nuclear war. The responsibility was astronomical. As a devout Christian, Mack had gotten through much of it by quoting the verse in Philippians that told him to be “anxious about nothing, but in all things bring your petitions and requests to God…and the peace of God that passes all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”

He needed God’s supernatural peace. Otherwise, the pressure of the job, especially in these trying times of being at war with radical Islam, could kill a man.

Last night, he had hoped for a respite from it all. He had looked forward to watching his beloved Kansas Jayhawks host the hated Missouri Tigers in a Big 12 game at the historic Allen Fieldhouse. The Jayhawks were ranked number one and looking to pick some flesh off the Tigers.

But the team in crimson and blue never showed up, losing 101–100 in double overtime. Mack had flipped off the television and crawled into bed beside the First Lady at 11:00 P.M.

He shouldn’t get so wrapped up in college basketball or the basketball fortunes of his alma mater. He should have been praying or reading the Bible or doing something to advance democracy around the world.

But everybody, including the president, deserved a diversion. Didn’t he? He wrapped his arms around his wife and dozed off.

The phone rang. Mack looked over at the digital clock. 3:30 A.M.

Mack reached for the receiver. “Yeah.”

“Sorry to wake you, Mr. President,” his chief of staff, Arnie Brubaker, said. “But the national security advisor wants an emergency meeting of the NSC.”

“What for?”

“Suicide attacks on oil tankers, sir. The Malaccan Straits. And a terrorist attack in Singapore.”

“All right, Arnie. I’ll be down in ten minutes.”

“What now, Mack?” Caroline Williams mumbled.

“Shhhh.” The president reached over and kissed her. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tiptoed across the presidential bedroom, stepping into a walk-in closet. He closed the door, flipped the light on, and put on a pair of khakis and a blue, button-down Oxford shirt, then slipped into a pair of brown penny loafers.

He flipped off the light, opened the doors, and walked through the dark bedroom toward the light shining under the bedroom door to the hallway.

“Morning, Mr. President.” Two Secret Service agents, posted in the hallway just outside the presidential bedroom, stood as the president stepped into the second-floor hallway.

“Gentlemen.” Mack nodded.

“Jayhawk on the move,” one of the Secret Service agents announced into his sleeve mike. Jayhawk was the code name that the Secret Service used when referring to the president. Mack liked the code name, except at the moment it reminded him of the results of last night’s game. He dismissed that thought.

Arnie Brubaker, in a brown suit and brown tie, and shadowed by two other Secret Service agents, approached down the hallway. “Good morning, Mr. President,” Arnie said.

“You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for three-forty in the morning, Arnie.”

“That’s why you pay me the big bucks, sir.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Mack said. “Ready to go?”

“Yes, sir,” Arnie said. “The National Security Council is already assembling.”

“Let’s go,” Mack said.

US Navy SH–60B Seahawk (“Rover 1”)
Near the Malacca Strait

2:30 p.m.

With orange flames and black smoke billowing high into the late afternoon sky, the location of the Altair Voyager was easily visible as the choppers approached. The scene reminded Lieutenant Carraway of pictures he had seen from the Persian Gulf War, when Saddam Hussein had intentionally set oil fields on fire in Kuwait. Altair Voyager was a burning oil well, surrounded not by sand, but by water.

“Rover 2. Rover 1. Go to one hundred feet. Stay on my wing and stay out of that smoke.”

“Rover 2. Roger that.”

Carraway brought Rover 1 down to one hundred feet and slowed his airspeed to thirty knots.

The ship was burning on her starboard side and was listing in that direction. Flames from the ship and from the sea were leaping perhaps a hundred feet into the sky. A massive slick of burning oil oozed into the sea from the ship’s starboard. But the problem wasn’t so much the flames or the oil.

The problem was the smoke.

Black plumes billowed from the right side of the sinking ship. The wind, blowing from right to left over the top of the ship, was spreading it like a black blanket above the water.

The ship’s crew was in the water opposite the flames, but under the black smoke. The choppers were designed to fly through air, but smoke was another matter. Carraway and his crew had to breathe. Plus, even if he were to descend into the smoke he would be operating blindly and blowing the deadly stuff into the lungs of those poor souls who were floating in the sea below.

Carraway picked up his microphone. “Ingraham. Rover 1. Altair Voyager is on fire and sinking. Survivors believed to be in the water, but thick smoke cover makes air recovery impossible. We need surface vessel support. The situation is critical down there.”

Static on the radio. “Rover 1. Ingraham control. Copy that. Maintain your position until further notice. We’re preparing to broadcast on universal frequencies.”

“Roger that, Ingraham.”

Static over the speakers. “To all ships and aircraft in the area. This is the USS Ingraham. Be advised that the tanker Altair Voyager is on fire and sinking in the Andaman Sea. Approximately one hundred miles east of the Nicobar Islands. Coordinates at zero-niner-four degrees, thirty minutes, fifteen seconds east longitude; zero-six degrees, twenty-five minutes, ten seconds north longitude. Request any surface vessels or aircraft in the area respond accordingly. Repeat. Request any surface vessels or aircraft in the area respond accordingly. This is the USS Ingraham.”

The White House

3:45 a.m.

Ladies and gentlemen, the president.” Arnie stepped into the Situation Room just ahead of Mack.

The group of six men and women, which included the vice president, the defense secretary, the secretary of state, the national security advisor, the director of national intelligence, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, all rose to their feet.

“Sit down,” Mack said. “It’s not like Judge Judy stepped onto the bench or something.”

That brought a few chuckles, as US Navy stewards in black dress pants and white chef’s shirts pushed silver trays with steaming coffee and fresh blueberry muffins about the room.

“Cyndi.” Mack looked at his fifty-year-old, red-haired national security advisor, Cynthia Hewitt, who was seated just to his left. “You called this meeting. What’s up?”

“Terrorist strike in Singapore, Mr. President,” Hewitt said. “Multiple strikes on oil tankers in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore. Oil futures prices rocketing out the roof. The markets are teetering on the brink.”

“Spell it out.” Mack sipped a cup of the hot coffee that had just been poured by a navy steward. “What’s been hit in Singapore?”

“A bomb in the lobby of the resort hotel Rasa Sentosa. Preliminary count showing dozens dead and injured.”

“Any of our people?”

A wince crossed Cyndi’s face. “Sir, Commander Zack Brewer had just arrived as our naval attaché reached the rendezvous point wi to Singapore. He was at the hotel when the bomb went off.”

Mack felt his stomach drop. Over the past five years, Zack Brewer had become something of a national hero and the navy’s most famous officer for his prosecution of three Islamic US Navy chaplains accused of treason.

“Please don’t tell me we’ve lost Commander Brewer.”

“He’s in a hospital in Singapore. That’s all we know right now.”

Mack passed a hand over his face. “Tell me about these strikes on oil tankers.”

Hewitt adjusted her reading glasses. “Four attacks in the last four hours. One was foiled by the navy, sir. USS Reuben James intercepted and destroyed a suicide boat full of explosives trying to ram the tanker SeaRiver Baytown.

“Two other tankers guarded by the Royal Navy in the Singapore Straits weren’t so lucky. Both were hit by suicide boats and are aflame even as I speak.”

“How bad?” Mack nervously sipped coffee.

“Bad, sir. South Singapore is in chaos. They’re dousing water on the burning tankers, but it’s hard to get burning oil under control. Meanwhile, the oil that hasn’t caught fire is slicking all over the Singapore Strait, and it’s lapping on the beaches around Singapore and Sentosa Islands. Dead birds and fish are washing onto the beaches. Smoke clouds from the oil are already rising over the city.”

Cyndi Hewitt whipped off her reading glasses and paused. “We’ve got an environmental disaster on our hands, Mr. President. Think the Prince William Sound in a major metropolitan area.” She was referring to the 1989 mammoth oil spill in Alaska, when the tanker Exxon Valdez ran into a reef, spilling millions of gallons of crude in one of the most devastating environmental disasters in human history.

“And the fourth tanker? Where’d they hit it and how bad?”

Hewitt readjusted her reading glasses. “Mr. President, the Chevron tanker Altair Voyager was just attacked a few minutes ago in the Andaman Sea, right outside the entrance to the Malaccan Strait. She was to be escorted through the strait by USS Ingraham, but she was hit before she reached the rendezvous point with the Ingraham. She’s on fire and sinking. Oil is leaking into the sea, but they’re over a hundred miles from shore. Nearest city is Banda Aceh, Indonesia.”

“Banda Aceh. Why’s that familiar?”

“Mr. President,” Secretary of State Robert Mauney spoke up, “Banda Aceh is the city that took the biggest loss from the 2004 Boxer Day tsunami that devastated the region. Over one hundred sixty-five thousand died there.”

“Those poor people,” Mack said. “Wiped out by a tsunami. Now they’re at risk of a mammoth oil slick reaching their beaches.”

“That’s correct, Mr. President,” Hewitt said, “and all the environmental hazards that go with it, unless we can stop it.”

“We’ve gotta try,” Mack said. “Any Americans on board that tanker?”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Roscoe Jones, responded. “Mr. President, the Chevron tanker is flying under a Panamanian flag. But the captain is American, along with several members of the crew. We’ve got two Seahawks from Ingraham out there right now, sir, but they can’t do much.”

Mack rubbed his temples. “Why not, Admiral?”

“Thick smoke clouds from the burning oil. Choppers can’t fly through ’em.”

“Do we have any ships in the area that can help?”

Admiral Jones ran his hand through his hair. “USS Ingraham is steaming that way and should be on site within a couple of hours. One of our fast attack subs, USS Boise, is in the area. Also, the president of Singapore has requested that we dispatch a carrier task force to the area immediately.”

“What’s our closest carrier operating in the area?”

“USS George Bush is operating in the South China Sea, sir.”

“Then that request is approved. Get the Bush as close to Singapore as you can. Plus, I want all available military resources dispatched to help that burning tanker. Save lives.”

“Aye, Mr. President.”

“Cyndi, what’s going on in the international markets?”

“Mr. President, someone’s making tons of money off this. I’ll defer that question to Admiral Jones.”

Mack raised his eyebrow. “I didn’t realize the admiral was an economist.”

“I’m not, Mr. President,” Jones said. “But we may have correlation between skyrocketing crude oil futures prices and these attacks.”

Mack rubbed his chin. “Explain, Admiral.”

Jones, wearing his service dress-blue uniform with the massive gold sleeve bands of a four-star navy admiral, steepled his fingers together. “Sir, one of our reservists, an intelligence officer assigned to J–2, works as a commodities analyst at the New York Mercantile Exchange. This officer alerted the chairman that huge limit moves in the price of crude oil took place at roughly the same time as the attacks. The verdict is still out, but someone could be making billions from these terrorist actions. Perhaps someone with advance knowledge.”

“Hmm.” Mack stood up, crossed his arms, and paced back and forth. “Who’s making billions? And what are they doing with the money?”

“Good question, Mr. President,” Hewitt said.

“I need an answer to that question…and fast.” The president turned back to Admiral Jones. “Admiral, if I catch your drift, you’re suggesting…possibly…that there is a correlation between huge limit moves in oil futures and these attacks?”

“Quite possibly, sir,” the admiral said, “at least that’s what the reservist I mentioned to you believes. He thinks he detected a correlation in the overnight limit moves and the attacks around the Malaccan Strait. This is certainly worth monitoring.”

“This reserve officer. What’s his name?”

“One moment, Mr. President.” Admiral Jones checked some notes in his file. “Molster. Lieutenant Robert Molster.”

“Robert Molster.” The president instinctively repeated the name. “Well, Admiral, I want you to call this Lieutenant Robert Molster, send him greetings on behalf of his commander in chief, and inform him that as of”—the president looked at his watch and calculated—“nine o’clock this morning, he is officially called up to active duty in the United States Navy, to serve at the pleasure of the president and the Joint Chiefs of Staff until further notice.”

The Altair Voyager
Near the Strait of Malacca

3:00 p.m.

The aft of his ship was rising into the air like the back end of a seesaw. The bow section, which was flooding rapidly, was aflame and sinking into the sea.

Captain Eichenbrenner grabbed the steel cable surrounding the perimeter of the deck and looked down over the port side into the water below, which was growing darker under the black cloud of oily soot spreading overhead.

All of his men had jumped into the water, somewhere below.

He looked, one last time, at the flames leaping from the forward section of the Altair Voyager.

The thought crossed his mind that as captain, he should go down with his ship. There was a certain chivalrous lore about this time-honored maritime notion.

To go down with a ship was one thing. Being burned alive on it was quite another. Heat rolled in oppressive, hundred-plus-degree waves from the front of his ship. His body and clothes were drenched in perspiration from scorching flames.

The helicopters were out there, somewhere, and by the roar of their engines, they had to be nearby.

But where?

And how would they possibly rescue his crew?

The late afternoon sun was shining on the horizon, but the sky over the ship was black, as if a solar eclipse had darkened the sea.

“Attention! This is the US Navy!” Loudspeakers blared from helicopters somewhere above the smoke. “If you are in the water below, swim away from the ship in the direction of the ship’s aft!”

Eichenbrenner looked off the stern. The smoke cover extended a couple of hundred yards behind the ship, and perhaps five hundred yards to the left. The navy was urging his crew to swim out from under the smoke cloud so they could start rescue operations. Aft of the ship was their best chance. But that was a long shot. The smoke cloud was spreading in every direction, probably faster than his men could swim. They needed a miracle from the wind.

“Swim away from the ship in the direction of the ship’s aft! Repeat, this is the US Navy!”

“Skipper! Jump in the water!” a voice called from below.

Despite the heat, he felt frozen, alone on the great vessel that was under his command. A captain must never abandon his ship, even at the moment of death.

“Jump, Skipper!”

He looked back toward the flames.

And then, he saw them.

Dana and Laura.

Their red hair was blowing in the wind. Teardrops beaded in their blue eyes. Was it a hallucination? He heard that people had hallucinations before death. Or maybe they were angels. Maybe angels were real.

“We love you, Daddy,” Dana said.

“Daddy, please come home,” said Laura.

The smoke was affecting his breathing. His mind was playing tricks on him.

“Jump!”

He stepped onto the ship’s ledge. “God, let me see my girls again.” He leapt into the air, his stomach in his throat, as he flew down, down, toward the dark waters below.

USS Boise
The Andaman Sea

3:02 p.m.

Wearing his wash khaki uniform and a navy blue ball cap with the emblem of his submarine and the initials “CO” stitched in gold on the front, Commander Graham Hardison walked across the control room and put his hand on the shoulder of the enlisted man who was seated at a control panel just in front of the skipper’s seat.

“Got any more of that black stuff, Mr. COB?” Mr. COB was the acronym that submariners often used to refer to the chief of the boat, usually the senior enlisted man on board a US Navy submarine. In this case, the COB was Radioman Senior Chief Fred Gimler, a tall, balding South Dakotan who was approaching thirty years in the submarine service.

“Yessir, Captain,” the COB said. “Just brought a pot up from the galley.” Gimler turned around with a knowing grin.

“I thought I saw you tiptoeing onto my bridge with steaming contraband in hand,” Hardison joked.

“Guilty as charged, Captain.” The COB twisted the plastic top off the insulated thermos. The scent of fresh coffee permeated the control room, and Commander Hardison felt a jolt to his senses just from the scent of it. “Your mug, sir?”

Hardison held his white, porcelain coffee mug, with coffee acid rings circling the bottom—a badge of honor among submariners—out to the chief. “Mug looks a little clean, sir.” The COB grinned as steaming, black, battery-acid strength coffee oozed into the skipper’s mug.

“Maybe in my next life, I’ll come back as a navy chief, Mr. COB,” Hardison joked. “That way, I’ll always make sure there’s something growing in the bottom of my mug.”

“Trust me, Skipper, the pay’s better in your seat,” the COB chuckled.

Hardison laughed. “Thanks for reminding me, Chief.” He took a refreshing sip of the strong stuff. The kick was immediate. “Ahh. Good stuff.”

Hardison returned to the captain’s chair. “XO, report our updated position, please.”

“Aye, Captain,” the executive officer said. “Currently eighty-three miles east of Nicobar Island. Speed ten knots,” the XO said. “Course zero-nine-zero degrees.”

“Very well,” Hardison said. “Steady as she goes.”

“Steady as she goes. Aye, Captain.”

“Conn. Radio.” The radio officer’s voice blared over the intercom.

“Radio. Conn. Whatcha got?”

“Sir, we’ve got an all-frequency distress call from USS Ingraham.”

“The Ingraham?” Dear Lord. The Ingraham was one of the US Navy frigates assigned to tanker escort duty in the Malaccan Strait. “Don’t tell me another terrorist attack.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

Hardison sloshed his coffee. “What is the position of the Ingraham?”

“The Ingraham is not under attack. She’s relaying a distress call for the tanker Altair Voyager. The tanker’s on fire in the Andaman Sea, near the western entrance to the Strait of Malacca. She’s taking on water. They’ve abandoned ship. Two choppers from the Ingraham are in the area, but rescue efforts are being hampered by a smoke cloud. They need assistance on the surface, sir.”

Hardison stood. Adrenaline was starting to kick in.

“Navigator. Plot a course to Altair Voyager. Advise on ETA at full power.”

“Aye, Captain.” The navigator punched the coordinates into the sub’s navigational computer. “Estimated time of arrival at full power…twenty-two minutes, Captain.”

“Very well. Radio. Contact Seventh Fleet. Mark it. USS Boise requests permission to surface to assist USS Ingraham in rescue efforts of tanker Altair Voyager.”

The Andaman Sea

3:14 p.m.

Captain Eichenbrenner lay back in the warm sea water, trying to stay afloat.

Where was his crew? Perhaps they were swimming aft, trying to get out from under the thickening black smoke.

“Skipper! Over here!”

Eichenbrenner pulled his arms through the salt water and saw two of his men clinging to a single donut flotation device.

The flotation rings were designed to hold one man, not two. “I’m okay!” he shouted. “You men keep that ring. I’ll be fine.”

“Skipper. You better get over here!”

The men kept motioning for him to swim in their direction. “Hurry, Skipper!”

Instinct took over. If he didn’t get away from the ship, he’d be sucked under when it went down. He started swimming in the direction of their voices.

“Swim away from the ship in the direction of the ship’s aft! Repeat, this is the United States Navy!”

He pushed his arms through water and pulled down, beginning a backstroke. The sky blackened by the minute. If the cloud came much lower, it would cut off their oxygen.

“Hurry, Skipper!”

He pulled his hands through the water, then pushed water down from over his head to his sides.

“Over here, Skipper!”

A hand snatched his forearm, pulling him under. He popped up and found himself with two of his crew members, Seamen Tommy Grimes and Dennis Basnight. Each hung on the life ring.

“It won’t hold us all, Skipper,” Basnight said, blowing sea water from his nose, “but it helps. Just kick a little. Maybe we can hang on long enough to get out from under this smoke so the chopper can throw us a line.”

Eichenbrenner looked around. They were about fifty yards from the burning, smoking relic of the Altair Voyager. “Forget the smoke!” he said. “We’ve got to get away from the ship or we’ll get sucked down with it. Where are the men? Did they swim aft?”

Basnight bobbed under the water, then bobbed back up. “The situation isn’t good, Skipper.”

“No kidding!”

“No, Skipper. I mean with the men. It’s not good.”

“Skipper! Behind you! Watch out!” Grimes said.

Eichenbrenner looked over his left shoulder.

A dark gray triangular fin cut through the water in a flash. It disappeared. Eichenbrenner groaned.

“Another one!” Basnight said. “Opposite direction! Get your legs up!”

This one was swimming from their right. Eichenbrenner pulled his knees to his chest as the shark bore down on them.

Twenty feet…

Fifteen feet…

Ten feet…

The fin vanished.

“Where’d it go?” blurted Basnight.

“Maybe it’s gone,” Grimes said.

A moment passed.

Something slammed their legs. The jolt knocked the three men away from the life ring.

Eichenbrenner went under and came back up splashing, gasping for air. Grimes and Basnight flailed in the water nearby.

The life ring drifted off to the left, maybe ten feet away. Eichenbrenner started a breast stroke toward it.

“Watch out!”

The fin surfaced again, about fifteen feet to his right. It made quick, violent circles in the water, then disappeared.

Eichenbrenner swam and instinctively prayed that he would reach the ring without being bitten in half.

A few seconds later, his hand reached the flotation device.

The shark resurfaced, maybe twenty-five feet away. It set a course directly for him. Angry white teeth like glistening sharp razors bore straight at him. Its black eyes blazed fury. It swirled in the water, then slowly started a death swim in his direction.

“Dear Jesus!”

Suddenly, the shark jumped. It splashed down to his right, spraying sea water in his face. Eichenbrenner grasped the life ring and looked around.

Gone again. The shark was toying with him before the kill.

“Skipper!” Basnight yelled from about twenty feet away. He and Grimes were floating close to each other. Hooking the raft in one arm, the captain paddled toward them.

“You okay, Skipper?” Grimes asked.

“Fine,” Eichenbrenner lied. Panting and breathless, he pushed the donut toward the men.

“Sir, they got several of our crew members already,” Grimes said.

“They?”

“Skipper, four of our guys tried to swim aft. We saw the fins surface, and they disappeared under the water.”

“Who disappeared?”

“The men, Captain,” Basnight said. “The sharks got ’em!” Terror crossed the man’s face. Almost a delayed reaction.

The shark surfaced again.

This time, fifteen feet to their right.

Making a wide loop, the fin orbited their position in the water, its wet skin reflecting the leaping flames from the ship in the background.

“There’s another one!” Grimes shouted.

Eichenbrenner looked over his left shoulder. A second shark had joined the first.

Basnight swore and pointed. “Another.”

Over his right shoulder, a third fin cut through the water in the circle.

Like bloodthirsty savages circling a defenseless wagon train, the sharks circled their prey slowly, in an inexplicable ritual of cruel, psychological torture.

“I wish they’d get it over with,” Basnight groaned.

“You boys believe in prayer?” Eichenbrenner asked.

“Never believed in it. Not gonna start now,” Basnight said. Cold fear filled his voice.

“If there was a God, why would he put us on a burning ship and then throw us out to the sharks?” Grimes muttered.

“There may or may not be a God,” Eichenbrenner said, “but I’m going to try it.”

“Try what?”

“Prayer. I suggest you do the same.”

USS Boise
The Andaman Sea

3:25 p.m.

Range to target one thousand yards,” the chief of the watch said. “All ahead one-third,” Captain Hardison said.

“All ahead one-third,” came the reply.

“Very well. Up scope!”

“Up scope. Aye, sir!”

The commanding officer moved over to the periscope station as mechanical motors inside the stainless-steel cylinder whined and clanked, raising the top of the scope to a position just a few feet above the level of the surface.

“Scope’s up, Captain,” the chief of the watch announced.

“Very well.” Captain Hardison stepped up to the eyepiece, grabbed the handle bars, and peered through the scope. Nothing but open water and late-afternoon horizon.

Rotating clockwise, he turned slightly to his right.

Still nothing.

He turned a bit more. Orange smoke and black flames billowed into the sky. Below the smoke, the silhouette of a ship lay low in the water. He hit the magnification button, bringing the ship in full view in the viewfinder.

Hardison squinted, meticulously searching for any signs of life still aboard the ship. His eyes quickly swept twice from the smoking bow to the stern area.

Nothing.

He’d seen enough.

“Down scope. Prepare to surface.”

The Andaman Sea

4:05 p.m.

They had drifted another fifty yards away from the burning ship, perhaps just far enough to avoid getting sucked down when the Altair Voyager went under.

But getting sucked down was the least of their worries at the moment.

Like a hangman tightening a noose, the gray fins continued to swirl angrily in a concentric ring about ten yards from the tiny flotation device. They were so close now that the men could see the shadows of the sharks’ bodies swimming by.

Against the chopping roar of helicopter motors, which remained invisible above the black smoke, Eichenbrenner silently prayed.

Basnight and Grimes cursed that they had no effective means of committing suicide.

“Look!” Basnight suddenly pointed outward. “One of them is leaving.”

One of the sharks had left the circle and seemed to be swimming away, toward the direction of the burning ship.

“It’s turning around!” Eichenbrenner warned.

“It’s headed back!” Basnight unleashed a string of profanities.

“It’s coming fast!” Grimes yelled.

“Lord, help us,” Eichenbrenner blurted. The shark slid through the circling perimeter of fins, then disappeared.

A moment passed.

“Aaahhhhh!” Basnight screamed. “My leg! Aaaaahhh!” Basnight’s face contorted. Blood bubbled and gushed up around his neck. He cocked his head to the heavens and released the raft, drifting in his own blood.

The shark surfaced a few feet to Grimes’ left, then submerged again.

A second later, with a violent jerk, Basnight was snatched under the water. More blood pooled on the surface.

Grimes swore. “We’re dead, Captain.”

“Pray.”

Basnight’s blood excited the circle of sharks. They swam faster now, splashing at the surface violently, as if in a war dance.

A second shark broke away and swam toward the burning ship. Like the one that got Basnight, he turned and started swimming toward Eichenbrenner and Grimes.

The fin disappeared. “God have mercy!” Eichenbrenner said.

A second passed.

Then another.

Nothing.

Five seconds.

Still nothing.

Maybe God had heard his prayer.

“No!”

The shark’s powerful jaws clamped around Grimes’ arm. Grimes screamed, flailed, splashed in the water, and tried punching the creature on the nose with his fist. The shark dragged him across the surface of the water, away from the life ring. “Help me! Help!” Grimes’ screams even drowned out the sound of the helicopters.

With a jerk and a splash, Grimes vanished with the shark under the surface. Blood bubbled up from the spot where he had disappeared.

Eichenbrenner grasped the life ring hard. Coiling into a human ball, he tucked his knees tightly against his chest, as if that would somehow give the monsters less of a target to sniff.

Two fins circled his position now, in equidistant spots, each about ten yards from the life ring.

“If anyone is in the water, please swim aft of the ship! We need you to clear that smoke cover! This is the US Navy!”

Eichenbrenner cocked his head back, gazing at the spreading smoke cloud.

If God would part that cloud…

Still scrunched in a ball, he felt cramping set into his calves. He instinctively kicked his feet down into the water to relieve the pain. The sharks were circling faster now.

One of the sharks broke away, and just as before, began swimming away, toward the ship. Then the second also broke away. Both swam away from him.

They were now at least twenty yards away.

Then, as if choreographed by a trainer at Sea World, both sharks pivoted, one a time. Their vicious snouts took aim at him.

Swirling and splashing their tail fins, they started swimming back toward the life ring.

Fifteen yards. Ten yards.

His life flashed in front of him. His marriage. His divorce. His girls.

This was it.

Fred closed his eyes and remembered words his grandmother once taught him: “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come…Thy will be done…”

Chut-ah-chut-ah-chut-ah-chut-ah-chut-ah-chut-ah-chut-ah-chut-ah!

The wall of water sprayed from left to right in a line right in front of the sharks.

The sharks went limp on the surface. They floated on their stomachs for a second, then rolled over, belly-up, limp and bleeding.

Eichenbrenner looked over his shoulder.

The rubber boat was bobbing in the water, perhaps twenty feet behind him.

Crouched in the front of the boat in a black wet suit, holding a black submachine gun with white smoke billowing from the barrel, the man with the rugged chin sported a triumphant grin.

Rambo had risen from the sea!

“I can nail the suckers if they’re close to the surface,” the man said. “But no guarantees if they’re under the water. Now we’ve got to get you out of there.”

“Dear Jesus!”

“Nope. I’m not him. But you can thank him if you want. Lieutenant McKinley Kennedy, US Navy SEALs, at your service, sir,” the man said. “This is Senior Chief Comstock.” Eichenbrenner had not noticed the other man in the back of the boat. “Give me your hand, sir.”

Eichenbrenner reached up. The SEAL’s grip was an iron vise. The SEAL heaved, and instantly, Eichenbrenner was lying on his back in the bottom of the rubber boat.

“Any other survivors?” Kennedy asked.

“I don’t know. The sharks got several of my crew. Some tried swimming out from under the smoke. I was the last off the ship.”

“You the captain?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry, sir. We’ve got three other squads out on the water looking. If anybody’s out here, my men will find ’em. You sound American, Captain.”

“Born and raised in Southern California.”

“Well, sir, I want you to look back there.” The SEAL pointed across the stern of the raft.

It was long, black, and sleek, floating just above the surface of the water.

Toward the front of it, a black, square-shaped superstructure rose into the air. Off the back, lit by the orange glow of the sun setting on the horizon beyond the edge of the cloud cover, the flag of the United States of America flapped in the late afternoon breeze.

“That, Captain, is the USS Boise. We’re going to take you there now, and then we’re going to take you home. Chief, let’s do it.”

“Aye, sir.” The chief revved the electric motor. The boat turned in the water and cut a course directly for the submarine.

Eichenbrenner took one last glance over his shoulder at his sinking ship. The stern was rising off the water like the high end of a seesaw. It would not be long now until she slipped under the sea. He looked away, never to look back.

The sight of the Boise, of the flag draped in the afternoon sunlight, of his ship burning and sinking, then the realization that he would see his girls again, that his desperate prayer had been answered…Tears began rolling.

“It’s okay, Captain.” Kennedy put his hand on Eichenbrenner’s back. “We’re going home.”

Chapter 6

New York Mercantile Exchange

6:00 a.m.

Robert Molster sat back in his chair and looked at the electronic clock on the wall. 6:00 a.m. Two more hours to go. What a night. He took another sip of coffee, leaned back in his chair, and looked up at the screen that flashed continual news from the Associated Press. He had been monitoring it since he saw the first reports of the attacks on the tankers. Now word was coming in that there had been another tanker hit, this time in the Andaman Sea. Robert shivered.

The phone rang. “What now?” He picked it up. “Light, Sweet Crude Section. May I help you?”

“Lieutenant Molster?” a woman’s voice inquired.

Lieutenant? This was odd. Why was he being referred to by his military title? “Robert Molster speaking.”

“Lieutenant, this is the White House switchboard. Could you hold, please?”

“The White House? What the…”

“Lieutenant Molster?” A deep, resonating voice came on the phone.

“Lieutenant Molster speaking.”

“Lieutenant, this is Admiral Roscoe Jones, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

Was this a joke?

“Are you still there, Lieutenant?”

“My apologies. How may I help you, sir?”

“Well, Lieutenant, it’s not me who’s asking for your help. It’s the president.”

“President Williams?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. He was still president as of zero-four-hundred hours this morning, when the National Security Council was concluding an emergency meeting.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“We’ve heard from the chairman of the New York Mercantile Exchange that you’ve had some concerns about the overnight movement of oil price futures. The president has ordered me to inform you that as of this moment, you are being recalled to active duty in the United States Navy.”

“Immediately?”

“Immediately. I want you to go home. Get packed. Throw on your service dress blues, and be at Newark Airport by ten-hundred hours. BUPERS”—the admiral was referring to the Bureau of Naval Personnel—“has already cut your orders and made flight arrangements. Your flight leaves Newark at eleven-hundred. Your tickets will be waiting for you at the US Airways counter. Just show your Navy Identification card. We’ll pick you up at Reagan National at noon. From there, you’ll be driven to the Pentagon, where you’ll report for duty at the JCS.”

Robert let that settle in. This was happening so fast. “But, sir, I’m scheduled to brief the chairman of the New York Mercantile Exchange in just about an hour.”

“Son,” the admiral said with a tinge of impatience in his voice, “at fourteen-hundred hours this afternoon, you’re scheduled to brief the president of the United States. The chairman of the Mercantile Exchange can wait. We’ll take care of all that. As of now, your commander in chief is in need of your services. Any questions?”

“No sir, Admiral, but…” He hesitated.

“But what, son?”

“Well, sir, I’ve been monitoring the news about these tanker attacks in Singapore and now the Malacca Straits. And I’m concerned that….” He hesitated again.

“You’re concerned that there might be a linkage.”

Robert exhaled. “I can’t prove it, sir, but as an intel officer and as a commodities analyst, yes, sir, I do have that concern.”

“We’re concerned about that too, Lieutenant. That’s part of the reason you’re being called to active duty. You might be a reservist, but you’re the only intel guy we’ve got with the breadth of commodities experience to give us a briefing on this. Now then, do you have any other questions?”

“Negative, Admiral. No other questions.”

“Very well. Then get your stuff packed, get in your uniform, and get your tail down to the airport. Understood?”

“Understood loud and clear.”

St. Stephen’s Catholic Church
Jakarta, Indonesia

5:05 p.m.

It had seemed so right in one sense. She was, after all, a woman, with all the needs and wants of any healthy, trim, and fit female in her late thirties.

They called her “beautiful,” “lovely,” and “stunningly gorgeous.” Such praise had been lavished upon her all her life from friends, family members, and the men she had been with over the years.

Yet despite the beauty they claimed she possessed, she had been living with a chasm of emptiness within her soul.

So lonely.

God hadn’t meant for her to feel this way, had he?

Years had passed since she was last in this place. Would she still know what to do?

She closed the door of the confessional and sat. A small wooden table supported a single lamp with a dim bulb burning. On the wall hung a single picture of Jesus. His eyes were sad and his face compassionate.

Just under the picture, and also on the table, lay two black, Catholic Bibles, one in English and one in Indonesian. She allowed her fingers to caress both of them. It had been years since she had touched a Bible. Perhaps it was her imagination, but something like a surge of electricity ran down her back as her fingers touched the leather.

She stared at the bell next to the veiled window. Should she ring it? Perhaps she should leave now.

Could she trust that her darkest confidences would remain secret? They would place her head on a chopping block if her confessions got out.

The risk was too great. She stood to leave. But the twisting in her soul forced her back into the chair.

For a few seconds, her hand hovered over the bell.

God, if you are still there, tell me what to do.

No answer.

Her hand struck the bell. The single, brassy chime echoed throughout the room.

From behind the wall, the voice of a man came. “How may I help you?” The voice was warm and friendly.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she said.

“That would make you human, my daughter,” the voice said. “For the holy Scripture proclaims that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. And also, that if we confess our sins, then he is faithful and just, so as to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all iniquity.”

Her eyes found the picture of Jesus on the wall. It was only a picture, but his eyes seemed so real. So alive. “I feel that I need this, Father, that I need purification.”

“You are Catholic?”

“Yes, Father.”

“It has not always been easy to be Catholic in Indonesia. Especially not on Java.”

“No, Father, it has not.”

“When did you last come to confession?”

Embarrassment caused her to hesitate. She thought about lying. But confession was about telling the truth, wasn’t it? “Over twenty years ago. I was eighteen. I have been away from the church since.”

“The Lord is pleased that you have returned. He says, ‘My sheep know my voice.’ Surely you are responding to his voice.”

“I hope that is right.”

“What is your sin, my daughter?”

Her stomach knotted again. “My sin, Father, is with a man.”

“A man? What is your sin with this man?”

She hesitated. Should she tell him everything? “To tell you the truth, Father, it is not just one man. It is more than one man.”

There was a pause. “Oh, I see.” The voice of the priest remained calm. “As I said, Jesus died for your sins. He paid the price for all of our sins, even before we were born. There is no end to his compassion. Please. Relax. Bask in the warmth of his love, and release the secret of your innermost sin from your soul.”

The words of the priest were warm, but the sweat on her forehead was cold.

“Father, I am not ready for this. I must go now.”

“Wait! Do not leave!”

She stood. “Thank you, Father.” She reached for the door and ran outside, down the hallway to the exit. The warm evening air felt good to her face, but her stomach clenched tighter than ever.

Ronald Reagan National Airport

12:00 p.m.

Only a Virginian would understand it, Robert thought. The tingle of exhilaration, deep down, somewhere within the soul.

Lieutenant Robert Molster had been gone for two years now. But he felt the spark, each and every time he returned to the native soil of his blessed Virginia.

He had often wondered why. Why the little tingle every time he returned home?

Deep down, though he could not fully articulate the reason, he knew why.

No, he had not marched with Washington into Trenton, nor been there when Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown, nor stood with the sons of Virginia under the command of the immortal Robert E. Lee in the moment before Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg. Yet, in a sense, he was there.

He was feeling it now. No, he had technically not set foot on his native soil, but sat in row 17C of Continental Flight 1240, which had just touched down and was taxiing down the runway at Ronald Reagan National Airport. Robert gazed across the banks of the Potomac, from the soil of his native Virginia to the green, flowered banks of the District of Columbia, where the white marble of the Washington Monument and the US Capitol dome gleamed against the noontime sun.

Virginians felt a special kinship with the District, and rightly so. With that thought, Robert remembered that in two hours, he would be in the White House, briefing his commander in chief, the president of the United States.

Surrealistic. That was what kept coming to mind. Was he dreaming?

The plane rolled forward slowly, then came to a stop.

Ding. The sound of the electronic double bell on the airplane’s PA system.

Passengers stood, crowding into the aisle. Why did some people cram themselves into the aisle of an airplane like sardines when the door hadn’t even opened yet? Robert stayed seated by the window until the crowd cleared.

He stood, resplendent in his service dress-blue uniform, and grabbed his white uniform cover from the overhead compartment. Then he exited the plane and headed toward the baggage claim area.

“Lieutenant Molster?”

Robert turned around and saw another US Navy lieutenant, also in a service dress-blue uniform, standing just behind him. This lieutenant, bearing a name tag that said Sellers, wore a gold, corded armband around his shoulder, indicating that he was an aide to an admiral.

“I’m Lieutenant Mike Sellers. I’m on Admiral Jones’ staff. Welcome to Washington.”

“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant,” Robert said. “I guess you’re my ride to the Pentagon?”

“Actually,” Sellers said, “there’s a slight change of plans. I’m your ride to the White House.”

“The White House?” Robert gulped. “I didn’t think that was until fourteen-hundred.”

“You’re right,” Sellers said. “The president changed his mind. He wants to see you now.”

“Now? I was hoping for a few minutes to get my thoughts together. And what about my bags?”

“Senior Chief Fryermier here will take care of your bags.” Sellers gave a hitchhiking reverse thumb maneuver back over his shoulder, and Robert saw that a navy senior chief petty officer, a submariner, was standing just a few feet behind him.

“Let’s roll,” Sellers said. “The president and the National Security Council are waiting. You can prep in the car as we cross the river.”

“The National Security Council too?”

“You’re in high cotton, Lieutenant. Whatever you’re serving, the big brass wants some of it.”

Lieutenant Molster followed Sellers out to a navy blue Ford Taurus with US government tags. The car hugged the banks of the Potomac River as it sped north along the George Washington Parkway from Reagan Airport.

Passing under Interstate 95 and Robert’s future duty station, the limestone monstrosity that is the Pentagon, the car bore to the right, rolling onto Memorial Bridge, where traffic slowed as the car headed straight toward the Lincoln Memorial.

With the blue waters of the Potomac gently flowing under the cars jammed on the bridge, the sight of the great memorial dedicated to the life and service of America’s sixteenth president reminded Robert again that in just a few minutes, he would be standing in front of America’s current president.

Perhaps a little conversation would calm him down.

“Isn’t the North Portico blocked off?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lieutenant Sellers said, “but we’re not going that way.” Traffic cleared, and the Taurus sped by the Lincoln Memorial and headed left onto the broad, tree-lined expanse of Constitution Avenue. They passed various government buildings, mostly three- and four-story stone and limestone structures from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, including historic buildings which housed part of the Department of the Interior.

To their right, the long, black V-shaped wall of the Vietnam Memorial, sunk into the grass of the Mall, hosted curious seekers and visitors placing flowers next to the names of loved ones who had died in that war.

The black sheen of the Vietnam Memorial was in stark contrast to the gleaming white obelisk that was the Washington Monument, which rose triumphantly in the very middle of the long, famous Mall that began at the Lincoln Memorial and ended at the US Capitol.

Robert closed his eyes and uttered a quick, silent prayer. Lord, give me strength, courage, and wisdom for whatever it is you are calling me to do.

When he opened his eyes, the car was turning left off Constitution Avenue and onto 17th Street. Now, as the car slowed, the Ellipse and the South Lawn were suddenly to their right, and Robert’s eyes fell on the White House itself. At the sight of it, a remarkable calm fell over him.

The car slowed more and turned right from 17th Street onto E Street, where it stopped in front of four blue-uniformed US Marines who were standing guard at a gate blocking the E Street entrance to the White House grounds.

Sellers rolled down the window as a marine approached the car and saluted. “May I help you, sir?”

Sellers flashed an Armed Forces identification card. “I’m Lieutenant Sellers with Admiral Jones’ staff.”

The marine examined the card. “Ah, yes, sir. My apologies that I didn’t recognize you, sir.”

“This is Lieutenant Molster.” Sellers nodded to Robert, who by now was flashing his Armed Forces identification card also. “He’s scheduled to brief the president and the NSC.”

The marine took Robert’s card. “Yes, sir.” He popped another salute, then crisply dropped it. “We have you on the list. Pull forward, please, then make your first left. You’ll have to stop at the next gate and pass through security.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Sellers said. The car rolled forward, then swung left slowly onto the oval portion of West Executive Drive, headed straight toward the White House. The entrance into the inner portion of the south lawn was blocked by a row of marines and several black-suited Secret Service personnel.

“This is the Southwest Appointment Gate,” Sellers said. “The West Wing is right up there, just to the left of the main building.” Two marines and a uniformed Secret Service agent approached the car. “They’ll take us through metal detectors, just as a precaution; then they’ll escort us in.”

“Lieutenants, if you would step out of the car and follow me,” the marine said. They got out of the car. A woman, a naval officer bearing the rank of lieutenant commander, was walking from the White House toward them.

“That’s Lieutenant Commander Beth Murray,” Sellers said. “She’s an intel officer, attached to JCS. I’m sure you’ll be working with her.”

“Roger that.” Robert opened the door, put his cover on his head, stepped out, and was immediately greeted by the faint scent of perfume carried by the gentle southerly breeze. He looked up, and there she stood: Lieutenant Commander Murray, her smile revealing perfectly white teeth, and her blue eyes seeming to dance under the light of the overhead sun.

He came to attention and snapped off a sharp salute. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

“Lieutenant,” the commander said, returning an equally sharp salute. “I’m Beth Murray, with J–2.”

“A pleasure, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Beth. And follow me. We can talk on the way to the briefing.”

“Sure thing, Beth. I’m Robert.”

“I’ll accompany you to the cabinet room, where the NSC is meeting with the president, and I’ll be there to support you in your briefing.”

“You know commodities, Beth?”

“Not exactly, Robert,” she said. “But since I’m an intel officer, somehow I got picked to be your support in the briefing. Lucky me, huh?” She smiled, and as she did, two cute dimples appeared on each side of her face.

“Commander…Excuse me, Beth. To be honest, this morning I’m minding my own business. Now I’m suddenly called to active duty, flown to the White House to brief the president of the United States, of all people, and I don’t even have a briefing prepared. Can you give me a hint on what they want?”

A marine, again in full blue regalia, came to attention, saluted, and opened a door leading into the West Wing.

“They’re interested in the theory that these…what do you call them…limit moves?”

“Right. Limit moves,” he said, as they stepped into an ornate hallway.

“That these limit moves may be in some way tied to terrorist activity.”

“It’s possible,” he said. “The timing is suspicious.”

“I’m armed already with charts and PowerPoint presentations. Anything you need. I have a timeline sequence, which I figured you may want to illustrate your briefing, that shows times of limit moves in relationship to real-time events in the Malaccan Strait and Singapore.

“They’ve concluded that you understand this stuff better than any officer in the navy. And you’re an intelligence officer. In addition to my real-time chart, we’ve got an overhead projector, audio visual stuff, maps of the area, and even stock charts if you want them at your fingertips. Just let me know, and I’ll call up any chart or map you want. But right now, Robert, the stars are aligning in your favor. You’re the expert they need. You are the man.” She stopped in front of large, ornate double doors, which were guarded by four marines and four Secret Service agents. “We’re here. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

She nodded at one of the Secret Service agents. The double doors slowly opened, and faces that he had seen only on television came into view.

There was the vice president, the secretary of state, the secretary of defense. Next to the secretary of defense sat the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Roscoe Jones. Beside Admiral Jones sat one of the most glamorous figures in America, National Security Advisor Cynthia Hewitt, who was the first in the group to speak up in her famous velvety voice. “Mr. President, I believe he’s here.”

A man, whose salt-and-pepper hair was only visible from the back, but who sat at the end of the table closest to Robert, stood and turned around.

“Welcome to the White House, Lieutenant Molster.” The president of the United States, Mack Williams, speaking with the native twang of his beloved Kansas homeland, extended his hand. “Sorry to interrupt whatever you were doing up there in the Big City.”

The commander in chief’s grip was firm, and he exuded charisma. In a blue pinstripe suit and red tie, President Williams seemed more imposing in person than on television.

“Not a problem, Mr. President,” Robert heard himself saying. “I’m a native Virginian, and I’m always grateful for a free trip back home.”

The president released his hand and gestured him to his seat. “Always happy to accommodate the members of our armed forces, and especially the navy,” the president said as he settled back into his chair. “Secretary Lopez over here has to call me down for playing favorites. Claims my navy roots come to the surface too often.”

“Yes, sir,” Robert said, surprised at the sudden ease with which he was conversing with the most powerful man in the world.

“So, Lieutenant.” The president sipped from a glass of ice water. “We understand you had an eventful morning.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Well, you’re here because you’re the one intelligence officer in the navy with an expertise in the area of oil futures. Word has it that you’re concerned about a possible linkage between these limit moves that you’ve observed and some terrorist activity going on right now in Southeast Asia.”

“Last night, I grew concerned about several rapid spikes in the price of crude oil futures. We had three limit moves during the night. I felt there was a connection as soon as I became aware of this terrorist activity going on in Singapore and the Malacca Straits. At first, all I knew was that someone was making billions from these limit moves. Then I learned of the attacks on the tankers, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. I voiced my concern to Admiral Jones.” Robert’s eyes met with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, whose poker face returned a hard stare. Robert looked back at the president. “I think there may be a linkage, sir.”

“You do, do you?”

I’m sticking my neck out with an unproven theory. Suppose I’m wrong? The end of my career, for sure. “Yes, sir, Mr. President. I can’t say for sure, but I have a strong feeling this may be the case, sir.”

The president looked around the room. “All right, Lieutenant. Let’s get down to business. Tell us why you suspect this.”

He took a deep breath. “I cannot say for certain that the events are related. But two factors here give us reason to pause. The first is volume. The second, and closely related to volume, is timing.

“First, volume. Up until the last twenty-four hours, ladies and gentlemen, the greatest daily volume in light, sweet crude contracts was 800,731. And that occurred on November 1, 2007.

“In the twenty-four hours before the first limit move, light, sweet crude experienced just over a million trades. That’s a record of over two hundred thousand more trades than was ever experienced in any twenty-four-hour period since we started keeping statistics. About two-thirds of those trades were buys. In other words, the buys mean that someone is expecting the prices to jump. Now, all that buying occurred just before these attacks in Singapore and again in the Malaccan Strait. I believe Commander Murray has a timeline chart to illustrate. Commander?”

Beth Murray nodded her head and clicked a switch. The timeline that he had not yet seen himself illuminated from a PowerPoint projector onto the screen just behind his seat.

Timeline
Oil Futures and Malacca Strait Attacks

Note: 12-Hour Time Difference Between Washington and Singapore

1. Massive trading activity leading up to limit moves and attacks. 1,000,051 trades of light, sweet crude contracts in 24 hours before 1 A.M. EST [1 P.M. Singapore] [702,289 buy orders “long” position].

2. 1 A.M. EST [1 P.M. Singapore] Trading halted first time because of limit move to $110.

3. 1:20 A.M. EST [1:20 P.M. Singapore] Market resumed; immediate limit move to $120 a barrel. Trading halted second time.

4. Trading resumed at 1:30 A.M. EST [1:30 P.M. Singapore].

Terrorist Attacks in Singapore and Malacca Straits

Between 1:30 A.M. and 3 A.M. EST.

(Between 1:30 P.M. and 3 P.M. Singapore time).

Attempted attack on tanker SeaRiver Baytown; foiled by USS Reuben James.

Attack on Rasa Sentosa Resort, Singapore [shortly before British Prime Minister John Suddath’s advance team scheduled to visit].

Attack on Belgian Tanker Hellespont Alhambra [Singapore Strait].

Attack on Belgian Tanker Hellespont Tara [Singapore Strait].

Attack on Chevron tanker Altair Voyager [Andaman Sea, near northwestern entrance to the Malacca Straits].

5. 3 A.M. EST [3 P.M. Singapore] Price Soars to $140 per barrel. Limit move at 3 A.M. halts trading. Trading halted third time.

6. 3:15 A.M. EST [3:15 P.M. Singapore] Trading Resumes. Price rises and stabilizes at $148 per barrel.

“Thank you, Commander,” Bob said, taking a moment to study the PowerPoint slide for the first time. Beth Murray had done her homework. The timeline, the prices, all seemed on mark.

“As you can see, Mr. President and distinguished members of the council, we start with a massive run on light, sweet crude oil contracts, breaking the record by two hundred thousand, and then at one o’clock this morning, we have our first trading halt. Almost immediately, twenty minutes later, as soon as the market opens, it shuts down again from a second move.

“The market reopens at one-thirty, after having risen twenty dollars per barrel in a period of half an hour.

“Then, in the period between of ninety minutes, between one-thirty and three o’clock Eastern time, which is the afternoon in Singapore and along the Malaccan Straits, we see five attacks in the region. Four of the five attacks are successfully carried out. Four of the five are against supertankers carrying crude oil. Thanks to the US Navy, one attack against the oil tankers is foiled, but three are deadly effective. I’m told that we’ve got an environmental disaster in the Strait of Singapore right now, and there’s no telling what kind of environmental problems might arise from the Andaman Sea attack.

“Now going back to your question, Mr. President.” Robert turned and looked at the NSC members, still studying the PowerPoint chart. “While we don’t have direct proof that someone out there was actually buying futures contracts based upon some type of foreknowledge that these attacks would occur, I suppose my answer is this: as an intelligence officer, given the rapid sequence of events within this timeframe, I would definitely be concerned.”

There was silence.

“I have a question,” National Security Advisor Cynthia Hewitt spoke up.

“Yes, ma’am,” Robert said.

“Lieutenant, how much money was made on all this last night?”

“Goodness.” He rubbed his chin. “The profits are staggering.”

“How so?” Hewitt asked.

“Well, let’s say, for example, that someone purchased one hundred thousand contracts just before the beginning of the run. If you bought one contract just before the run, and sold when crude leveled out at one hundred and forty-eight dollars this morning, you would make a gross profit of forty thousand dollars on one contract. Now remember, more than one million contracts were traded in the period.

“But for the sake of being conservative, I’m just giving an example of a hundred thousand contracts, on the assumption that some terrorist organization could have swung a purchase of this amount.” He looked at Beth Murray. “Commander, could you please switch back to the overhead?”

“By all means.”

Robert took the grease pencil.

“Okay. Let’s do the math. One hundred thousand contracts times a forty-thousand-dollar profit per contract.”

100,000 contracts
x $40,000 $4,000,000,000

“Now if I’ve done my math right, nine zeros is four billion, count it, four billion dollars. And that’s on one hundred thousand contracts. Remember, more than a million contracts traded, mostly buying low and selling high. So when you considered that more than a million contracts traded, that’s probably at least forty billion dollars made in one swoop alone.”

Shocked murmuring came from the members of the council.

Then, silence.

Admiral Jones spoke up. “Someone could buy a fleet of two hundred B-1 bombers for that kind of money. The pricetag for the B-1 was two hundred million a pop.” The admiral scratched his chin. “Or they could buy a couple of B-2 Stealth Bombers.”

Silence.

“Or nukes,” Secretary of Defense Erwin Lopez added.

“That’s right, Mr. Secretary,” Admiral Jones said. “They could buy a ton of nuclear weapons for forty billion bucks.” The admiral ran his hand through his thinning hairline. “If somebody was willing to sell. And my guess is for that kind of money, they could find a seller.”

More silence. The president stood and reached his hand out to Lieutenant Molster. They clasped hands and the president said, “Lieutenant, I personally appreciate your service to the navy and to our country.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

Chapter 7

Residence of General Perkasa
Jakarta, Indonesia

3:00 a.m.

With the excited voices and sounds of clinking glass intermixed with the droll hum of the large ceiling fan over their bed, Kristina thought that she had been dreaming. Perhaps one of the servants had neglected to turn the television off.

She rolled to her right and reached out for the warm body of her man. When she felt only the fluff of a pillow, her eyes opened. Light seeped under the door from the hallway outside.

The voices were not from the television. They were real. Some were familiar voices.

She felt for her robe, stood, pulled it over her shoulders, and tied it. She put on the slippers that he had bought her and crept across the dark floor toward the door.

Laughing. Cackling. Backslapping. The sounds of a drunken boys’ club.

“The General,” as he demanded to be called, was among the voices booming outside the doorway. His friend and sidekick, Dr. Budi, was another. The others she did not recognize.

Perhaps she should just get dressed now, slip out, and go home.

But what if he discovered she had left without his permission?

Suppose he became angry and tracked her down? He was already one of the most powerful men in the nation, next to the president himself. His minions could find her. And where could she go except to her small, government-subsidized apartment in South Jakarta?

How would she support herself without his help?

Her meager income as a ceramic maker along the streets of South Jakarta had ended in the name of the governor’s “urban beautification” project. Flower vendors, ceramic makers, poor women embroidering on the roadside for visiting foreigners who offered pennies for their handiwork—they had become a “public nuisance” in the governor’s eyes. The police had showed up in riot gear with billy clubs and high-pressure water hoses. “You are operating without legal licenses,” a policeman with a bullhorn announced. “Leave now, or you will be removed.”

A moment later, a torrential blast of pressurized water knocked them off their feet and swooshed the fruits of their labor onto the sidewalk and into the gutters.

Most lost everything.

Kristina got lucky.

A British woman, a pretty blonde lady in her thirties named Elizabeth Martin who was married to a British Petroleum executive, had purchased a few items of ceramic from her over the years. By happenstance, they had met on the streets a few weeks after the cleansing. Elizabeth mentioned that she wished to hire another member of the household staff. Technically, the job description was seamstress. But Kristina wound up doing almost everything—taking the Martins’ kids to school, shopping at the market for groceries, watching the children in the evenings while her employers attended social events.

Elizabeth, who was nearly twenty years younger than her husband, was closer in age to Kristina. The two women became friends.

Last August 17—Indonesian Independence Day—another twist of fate had changed Kristina’s life.

Elizabeth’s husband Tom, who was friends with the British ambassador to Indonesia, was invited to attend the hoisting of the flag at Merdeka Palace.

Hosted by President Santos and Vice President Magadia, and attended by top military officials, government dignitaries, and special guests of those dignitaries, it was the most solemn annual event in Indonesia, an event that Indonesia’s poor could only watch on television, if they were lucky enough to get to a television.

But by a stroke of fate, the British Embassy had allotted Kristina’s boss five tickets. Four of the tickets would be used by her employer, his wife, and their two children. She was offered the fifth.

Their seats were in front of the fountain, on the lush green grass of the National Monument Gardens. The white-columned Merdeka Palace, the presidential palace of Indonesia, stood majestically just across Medan Merdeka Utara Avenue.

The wind was whipping that day, and she felt occasional mist from the gushing fountains behind her.

The crowd rose for the entrance of President Santos, who took a seat at the center of the large portico amidst the white columns, no more than one hundred meters from where they were sitting. Decorated military officers and a host of other dignitaries, officials of the Indonesian government, surrounded the president.

Crack troops of the Indonesian army marched along the parade grounds to brass and percussion. As they marched by, she noticed one of the officers in the presidential entourage, a stout man in the green army uniform with all the glistening ribbons and sparkling medals. Was he looking at her? His eyes returned to her several times. Perhaps he was looking at something else, she had decided at the time.

After all the troops had marched in and filled the parade grounds, and after President Santos made a short speech about the greatness of Indonesia, a group of schoolboys dressed in the national colors of red and white had done the honors of raising the giant flag against the solemn music of the national anthem played by an army band.

Confetti, elation, applause, and tears of pride flowed freely among the masses as the Indonesian flag, furling in the tropical wind, reached the top of the flagpole.

Kristina could not believe that she was actually here, at the presidential palace, at a magnificent time and place with the eyes of the nation watching. Tears flowed. Only weeks before she had been knocked off her feet by the powerful blast of water hoses. Now this.

Perhaps there was a God. Perhaps that moment had been evidence of it.

Her parents, who had been devout Catholics and who had raised her in the church, had taught her that there was a God, and that he was a God of redemption.

She thought of her parents, who had been killed in a car crash, and of her brother, Asmoro, from whom she was partially estranged.

Asmoro had rejected Christianity and embraced Islam. Then he had rushed off to join the Indonesian navy. His conversion to Islam had separated Asmoro from her, and from her parents while they were alive. Although she rarely saw him anymore, she occasionally received a letter, but he kept Kristina at arm’s length. He kept quiet about his assignment with special forces of the Indonesian navy. He was stationed in Sumatra, she had heard, at a naval station along the Malaccan Strait.

Asmoro certainly didn’t believe in her parents’ God, but maybe Kristina did. Perhaps she had now been redeemed.

With fireworks crackling and cannons booming and the throngs of the masses cheering, someone tapped her shoulder.

Perhaps the tap of an angel.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” She turned and saw a young, slim Indonesian army officer. At least she thought he was an officer. “General Suparman Perkasa would like to meet you.”

“General who?” she had asked.

“I am Captain Taplus,” the army man had said. “General Perkasa is chief of staff of the Indonesian army. I am on the general’s staff.”

She looked up into the presidential box. The rotund army man in the green uniform was looking down her way, smiling and slowly nodding. And then, a wave of his hand.

“The general would like to meet you and requests the honor of your company for a private lunch at his quarters.”

She had turned and glanced at Elizabeth Martin, whose blonde hair blew softly in the warm Indonesian breeze. “It is up to you,” Elizabeth said with both a raised eyebrow and a smile. “If you would like to go meet the general, your job will wait. It’s entirely up to you, my dear.”

In retrospect, she knew Elizabeth was trying to give her a way out. And a voice had screamed on the inside of her that she should decline the invitation at that instant and return to her domestic duties at the Martin household. But there, at that moment, in the tropical sunshine of her native land, she stood on the precipice of a decision. It was as if her feet were upon two cliffs, and the cliffs were inching farther apart, leaving below her a deep chasm from which she would never survive if she did not choose. And indeed, it had proven to be a decision between two worlds. She had glanced back into Elizabeth’s eyes one last time, but when the breeze brought an alluring whiff of the handsome young captain’s cologne, she turned back and looked at him, so utterly manly in his uniform, and then across the street at the general, still nodding and smiling and sitting next to the president. She knew in that instant that, both her country and the prospect of an exciting new life were calling her.

She had stood, and in an oxymoronic moment of nervousness blended with the starry-eyed excitement of a schoolgirl first in love, accompanied the captain to a private dining room at a nearby military base. Thirty minutes later, the rotund man in the green uniform came through the doors and began a relationship in which he could simply snap his fingers and have her there at his powerful whim, and then send her away for days until he needed her again.

Not that she totally objected. The benefits had in some respects been mutual. A poor girl transformed overnight by the trappings of power and luxury!

Despite it all, the emptiness in Kristina’s soul was not fulfilled. She felt like a part-time concubine, switching back and forth from the luxurious trappings of the general’s quarters to her meager government apartment.

She had tried mustering the strength to talk to the priest about it, but ran away, as she had done all her life.

She shuffled over to the door, cracking it slightly open. Light poured in from the hallway. She looked and saw no military servants on the second floor. The voices came from downstairs.

Hugging the wall, Kristina tiptoed slowly toward the spiraling staircase. She reached the open area by the top of the staircase and peeked around the corner of the wall for a look down.

All the lights were on—the great chandelier hanging over the main entryway of the house was burning brightly. Lamps were burning on tables on each side of the foyer.

The two military aides who normally stood guard in the first-floor foyer were nowhere to be seen.

A silver rolling tray, with an assortment of bottles filled with liquors and wines, had been parked beside the door opening into the general’s study. Some of the bottles were empty. Others looked half-empty. The tray had not been there when the general had summoned her to bed two hours ago.

General Suparman Perkasa’s voice boomed loudest. He was laughing and kept saying, “We’re rich.” The other voices were not as clear.

She took one step down the staircase. Then another. An invisible magnet was drawing her, inexplicably, closer to the foyer. She did not know why, but she sensed that danger lurked behind that door. Yet something would not let her turn around.

Her foot touched the bottom step. The cold chill of the tile sent a prickle up her calf and leg.

“Let’s get some more liquor!” the general said. The door, now just three feet from her, started to move. She darted into the black crevices of the dark dining room, just across the foyer from the study.

A creaking sound, the sound of the door to the study being slowly pushed open, cut through the foyer. Kristina wedged her body into the front, upper corner of the dining room.

The clicking of leather shoes across the tile floor.

“I will try some more of that Russian vodka!” a voice demanded. Clinking. Clanking of bottles and glasses.

“Then vodka it is!” The voice of the general.

“How nice of you to give your staff the night off, General!”

“They are members of the army,” General Perkasa said. “Their loyalty may still be with Santos. For now, he is still their commander in chief. We cannot risk having anyone outside of this circle hear anything. They will all know soon enough. There’s plenty of vodka. Anybody want rum?”

“Scotch, please,” a voice said.

“Coming right up,” the general said.

“Thank you, General.” The voice of the doctor.

“Thank you, General.” An unfamiliar voice.

“We can discuss the Santos problem later. But for now, I propose we have a toast,” the general said. “To one hundred million dollars apiece!”

“To one hundred million dollars apiece!” said another voice.

“And to millions and billions for our cause!” another voice said.

“To millions and billions!” More clanking glasses. More laughter and revelry.

“Yes, to our cause!”

“To the Islamic Superpower of Indonesia!”

The clanking of glasses. More laughter. A moment of silence.

“General.” The voice of Perkasa’s sidekick, Dr. Guntur Budi, struck a solemn tone.

“What is it, Guntur?”

“I know that we had agreed to discuss this later, but an overwhelming foreboding compels me to bring this up now.”

“My dear Guntur. You sound disappointed that you have become one of the richest men in Indonesia.”

“I am a physician, my general. My commitment is to a greater cause. I wish to give my money to our cause.” A pause. “Perhaps we could close the doors again.”

Thank God. The doors creaked, and she heard them shut. Perhaps she should scurry back up the steps. But she could not go. Not yet.

“You were saying, Guntur.” The general’s voice was muffled, but still audible.

“I was saying, General, that I am aware of the strategic military plans to attack the presidential palace with our own forces, but I wish to present a better alternative.”

“A better alternative?” Perkasa raised his eyebrow. “Doctor, I know that you are brilliant, but in addition to being Indonesia’s finest physician, are you now telling me that you have also become a military strategist?” Perkasa asked this in a half-mocking tone, chuckling as he appeared to pause and swig down liquor, and eliciting the laughter of others at his mock indignation.

“My dear general,” Budi was saying, his voice solemn, obviously not acquiescing to the collective joviality of the moment. “The problem is that if military action is taken directly against the presidential palace, and you ascend to power in the wake of such action, then you will be viewed as the head of a military junta that could damage your credibility with a number of nations around the world.”

“Doctor,” the general shot back, “if you are suggesting that my credibility would be damaged in the eyes of the Americans and the nations of the West, well not only do I not care about that, but I would think that this would bolster my allies among the only nations that count, namely our Muslim brothers.”

“Perhaps,” Budi said, having sucked the general from frivolity to at least a serious conversational mode. “But what about in debates involving nations of the third world in the forum of the United Nations and other forums? Would it not be better to preserve as much credibility for you as we can upon the international stage?”

There was a slight pause. “Bring me another drink,” Perkasa snapped. “Ahh, Guntur, I see that not only are you a physician, but also a military tactician, and now a diplomat. To Dr. Budi!” Perkasa said, and from what she could hear, they appeared to be drinking a toast. “Now then, Guntur, since you have become not only a physician, but also a military tactician, and now a diplomat, I must confess that you have piqued my curiosity. So tell me…what is this better way that you would propose? Hmm?”

There was a pause, and then the doctor spoke up again. “General, I wish not only to give my money to our cause. But I also wish to give of my body.”

Grave silence followed that comment. “Are you suggesting martyrdom, my friend?”

“I am. And I am ready.”

More silence.

“No one has asked you to do this.”

“No one but Allah the Merciful.”

“Well.” The general’s tone grew somber and deliberate. “Not even a general of the army can argue with Allah.”

“No, General.”

“Tell me, Dr. Budi, has Allah given you specific guidance on how you are to sacrifice your body?”

“He has,” the doctor said slowly. His voice trembled with emotion.

“And how has he directed you, my friend?”

Another pause.

“I now see the reason he has given me direct access to the president. This…my destiny…was preordained from the beginning of time. The president has had many opportunities to repent of his ways and return to the Great Faith. I have access to him at will. He has a physical scheduled in only a few days.

“My brother is also a physician, a surgeon, here in Jakarta. We are of like mind. He will assist me. A trust will hold my money after my martyrdom. Funds from it shall be used to buy weapons of freedom for our cause.”

Kristina’s stomach knotted. Were they talking about murder? About murder of the president?

“That is noble of you, Dr. Budi, but we shall consider your offer as a group—”

“But, General, I—”

“As a group, Doctor. We have come this far as a group. We will decide together. But I thank Allah for your bravery.”

“General.” This was another voice that she did not recognize.

“Yes, Colonel.”

“I also commend the doctor for his bravery. But that begs another question. What about the vice president? Should we not make plans for him as well?”

There was a pause, as if the men had not thought of this question.

“Actually, I have been thinking about the vice president,” the general was saying. “The vice president is weaker than the president. It seems that the vice president could be useful in legitimizing the new government. I believe he can be persuaded to throw his support behind our cause and to declare us as the new ruling government.” A pause. “Do you know what I mean?”

There was laughter.

The general continued. “Vice President Magadia is vacationing at Istana Bogor for the next ten days. Once this operation begins, we sequester him there. If he decides not to cooperate…Well, that will be his unfortunate choice.”

“I agree.”

“Excellent idea, General.”

The general spoke again. “Colonel Croon, you are in charge of that phase of the operation.”

“Yes, General.”

Kristina could not listen to any more of this. If someone even suspected that she had heard this information, not even General Perkasa could protect her. In fact, he would probably kill her himself.

She covered her ears, prayed that God would send an angel to bar the door to the study, and then stepped into the hall.

She started to run back up the stairs. “Did you hear something, General?” the doctor asked.

She turned the corner at the top of the stairs and ran toward the bedroom.

“I’ll check,” the general’s voice boomed.

She heard the door open, the sound of the squeaking hinges echoing up the staircase.

Kristina jumped into bed and pulled the covers over her head.

Click. Click. Click. The sound of patent leather boots echoed against the tile foyer. A pause. Click. Click. Click. Now the sound of boots coming up the staircase.

Another pause.

“I don’t see anything,” the general’s voice boomed. Click. Click. Click. The sound of boots stepping from the wooden staircase to the tile floor of the foyer.

Creeeak. A door closed.

Kristina buried her head in the pillow. She felt her pulse pounding against the silk sheets.

She closed her eyes, turning and twisting. Had she just overheard a plot to assassinate President Santos?

Turning again under the covering, it was as if someone had dumped bags of ice all over her body. She felt clammy under the sheets.

Lying there, under the covers, the images in her mind faded in and out. President Santos that day at Merdeka Palace…The first time she saw the general sitting near the president…Policemen with fire hoses…Bleeding knees and crying children…Elizabeth Martin’s kind face…

“Jesus,” she whispered, though she had not been to Mass in years, “please help me get out of here safely.”

A supernatural peace of sorts fell over her. She closed her eyes and soon began drifting off to sleep.

A while later, her eyes opened to the sound of the general’s loud snoring. She squinted at the digital alarm clock beside the bed.

Four A.M.

She’d been sleeping a little less than an hour.

He’d probably just come to bed. He had not touched her. Good. That usually meant he had drunk at least four glasses. Sometimes she would pour another glass to make him leave her alone.

She pulled sheets from over her legs and slipped off the side of the bed. Tiptoeing across the floor to the bathroom adjacent to the master bedroom, she conducted her business, but did not flush for fear of awakening him.

She finished and stood at the door looking toward the bed.

The snoring stopped. Perkasa rolled over. A cough. Another cough.

A deep swallow.

The sound of the general licking his chops, like a bulldog about to pounce on a piece of raw steak. And then, even louder.

She looked at the clock again. He would be up at five o’clock, if he didn’t awaken before then. That’s when he always woke up. She had less than an hour.

Kristina slipped on a bathrobe, then quietly tiptoed toward the nightstand on her side of the bed. She unplugged the cell phone and stuck it in her bathrobe pocket. Moving noiselessly across the floor, she pushed the bedroom door open and stepped into the hallway.

The house was dark, except for dim light from the stars streaming in through the windows high in the foyer. She flipped open her cell phone. Using its pale, incandescent glow as a dim flashlight, she headed down the winding staircase.

The rhythmic sounds of the general’s deep snoring reverberated throughout the house, but when her feet again touched the cold tile floor of the first-floor foyer, the snoring was more distant.

Kristina held her cell phone in the direction of the general’s study. The ghostly light revealed that the door was closed. She placed her hand on the brass doorknob. The cool sensation of it against the palm of her hand seemed to wake her a bit, and to embolden her.

She turned the knob and pushed the door. Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak!

Woof. Woof. The bark of the general’s German shepherd, Salim, cut through the outer stucco walls of the house. Kristina pressed her back hard against the dining room wall, then eased down onto the floor in a sitting position, wedging her body into the corner.

BaWoof. Woof!

Then silence. Kristina exhaled.

She crept from the dining room back into the foyer. The soft light from her cell phone reminded her that the door from the study was still partially open. The squeaking from the door had set the dog off.

Holding her breath, she pushed the door open and stepped into the spacious study. This time no squeaking.

The computer’s screen saver, which featured a photograph of the Merdeka presidential palace, cast enough light in the room to reveal a slew of empty and half-empty liquor bottles, shot glasses, and wine glasses.

The only noise within the room was the hum of the computer.

Kristina walked toward it and sat down on the leather swivel chair. She tapped the space bar. The image of Merdeka Palace disappeared.

A word processing file materialized.

THE MALACCA PLAN
TOP SECRET

Overview

The Strategic Alliance-Purpose

Strategic Alliance with Council of Ishmael

Plan for Revenue-Raising By Purchase of Oil futures

Strategic Attacks Upon International Shipping and Oil Tankers

Plan for Purchase of Geo-strategic Weaponry

Plan for Indonesian Transition of Statehood

The Elimination of President Santos

The Sequestration of VP Magadia

Plan for Neutralizing and Defeating Anticipated Military Interference by the United States of America

Plan for Strategic Diversionary Attacks on United States Cities

Plan for Strategic Use of Nuclear Weapons Against Select American Cities and Assassination of U.S. President Williams

TOP SECRET. So this is what they were talking about.

I need to get out of here! Now!

But she could not. She scrolled down to the next page of the document.

Was she dreaming? Rubbing her eyes in the dark, she squinted again at the screen.

She scrolled down to the section entitled “Plan for the Elimination of President Santos.”

Background: Enrique Santos, President of the Indonesian Republic, has for many years masqueraded as a Muslim in name only. In recent years, Santos has brought Indonesia into an alliance of loose cooperation with the United States, whose capitalistic interests have been clearly in alliance with the rogue nation of Israel and in opposition to the manifest destiny of worldwide Islamic interests.

Parallels with Situation in Pakistan: In many respects, Santos has tracked the traitorous career of the late Pakistani Prime Minister, Benazir Bhutto, whose pro-Western ways fostered upheaval in her own country, necessitating her assassination.

While the use of assassination to eliminate a political leader is in many ways unfortunate, the brutal truth is that Islamic law forbids incestuous political relationships with infidel nations opposed to Islam, and demands death for such infidels.

In the case of Pakistan, history has shown that in the aftermath of the Bhutto assassination, the Islamic Republic of Pakistan has become a nation purer in her Muslim roots, with a political leadership whose international alliances support Islamic causes and other Muslim nations rather than America and Western interests.

Pakistan’s recommitment to her rightful Islamic heritage can be traced to the assassination of Bhutto, who, prior to her slaying, had attempted to lead that nation into an incestuous relationship with the West and with America, and had in fact allied herself with former American President George W. Bush’s illegal invasion of Iraq and his so-called “War on Terror.”

The Indictment Against President Santos

Indonesia today mirrors the Islamic Republic of Pakistan in December of 2007. Like Prime Minister Bhutto of Pakistan, President Santos, while professing Islam, has allied the world’s largest Muslim nation, Indonesia, with the West. He has permitted United States and British warships to routinely enter Indonesian territorial waters in the Malaccan Strait. These narrow waters are rightly within the umbrella of Indonesia and the nations of the Malay Peninsula, including Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand, and Burma.

By so doing, President Santos has embraced, endorsed, and normalized the practice of foreign navies patrolling these waters which the Alliance considers to be territorial.

Santos has shared valuable strategic intelligence with the Americans. He has allowed Indonesian military forces, particularly the navy, to engage in joint military operations with the US and British navies, further legitimizing the presence of Western navies in Indonesian territorial waters.

Removal by Assassination: Regrettably, the Strategic Alliance has concluded that the only solution for the future of Indonesia, a future in which Indonesia will reach its manifest destiny as the world’s first Islamic Superpower, is the removal of Santos by assassination.

The Alliance hoped for the legitimate conversion of Santos and his repentance from his sinful ways. Santos forewent opportunities to bring his policies in line with an Islamocentric agenda.

In reaching this decision, history should record that the Alliance has considered the option of removal by political means, as opposed to the assassination of Santos. However, having considered all options, the Alliance has concluded that removal by political means is not guaranteed, and thus unworkable.

Operational Plan for Assassination

The Strategic Alliance adopts and endorses an assassination plan against President Santos designed to minimize risk, insomuch as possible, to the lives of others. Therefore, the optimal means of assassination calls for a plan to be carried out inside the Merdeka Palace, by certain members of the president’s inner circle…

BA-WOOF…BA-WOOF.

She backstepped at the sound of the bark, gasping for breath, her eyes still on the computer. BA-WOOF.

Probably just a rat outside. The dog barks all the time at night. She tiptoed to the foyer again.

What now? The report was several hundred pages. She could never finish reading it before five o’clock. Plus, the general’s military aides would arrive before then to prepare breakfast and give him his daily briefing.

Sweat formed on her palms.

She walked back to the computer and reset the report back to the first page. She felt in the desk drawer just under the computer. Pens, pencils, paperclips, and a small memory stick crossed her fingertips. She pulled the flash drive out and held it against the light from the computer screen. Two gigabytes.

She inserted the flash drive into the USB port. The orange light flashed off and on. The computer beeped.

A message flashed, indicating that a “Removable Disk E” had been inserted into the computer. Quickly, she saved the file onto the flash drive.

A light came on downstairs. Probably in the kitchen.

Kristina yanked the memory stick out of the desktop and dropped it into the pocket of her bathrobe.

A gurgling, bubbling noise—the sound of the coffeepot starting to heat up for breakfast. Then, footsteps coming down the hallway…

Kristina punched the power button. The screen went black. Total darkness fell over the study.

Click. Someone turned on a lamp. The lamp cast a soft, incandescent glow from the foyer into the study. Kristina crouched down into a dark crevice of the room, away from the direct stream of the light.

The silhouette of a woman stood there, in the doorway, staring into the room. Was the woman watching her?

As her eyes adjusted, Kristina recognized the svelte figure as Madina, a civilian woman and a new member of the general’s kitchen staff.

Chink, chink, ching. Keys jingled against the front door. Madina walked off to the right, out of sight, toward it.

There was a creaking and the rush of light wind as the front door opened.

“You are early, Captain,” Madina said, in a voice that carried a certain excitement.

“The general had a very late-night meeting.” This was the voice of Captain Hassan Taplus, the slim, ambitious young officer the general had first sent to fetch her. “I need to clean up his study and prepare him for his morning meeting.”

************

Kristina held her breath and prayed.

“You look so tired, Captain.” Madina’s voice was a bit needy. Kristina sensed that she liked Taplus. “I’ve just put on coffee,” she said. “Could I interest you in a fresh cup before you start?”

Please.

“Well, I really need to get the general’s study organized,” Taplus said, not convincingly. “Perhaps another time.”

“Oh, just a cup. Please? I’ve got it brewing in the kitchen. Why don’t you come back? I won’t hold you long.”

Taplus would not take the bait. Kristina was as good as dead.

“That would be great,” Captain Taplus said. Kristina exhaled and thanked the God that she had not been faithful in serving. “But I cannot linger. The study is a mess, and the general is leaving for Pakistan later today.”

Kristina waited as the sound of their footsteps reverberated down the hallway, fading slightly as they approached the kitchen. She heard the sound of ceramic clanking.

She stood and tiptoed into the fully lit foyer, then quickly up the staircase, as the sound of flirtatious laughter floating up from the direction of the kitchen gave way to the loud snoring in the bedroom.

Her gentle touch had been surprisingly electric, Captain Taplus thought as he slipped out of the kitchen from his unplanned earlymorning rendezvous with Madina.

She was a looker.

Now as he switched on the overhead lights and entered the general’s study, he was beginning to have second thoughts. Madina could have waited. The general could not.

Taplus checked his watch.

The general would be up in forty-five minutes. Part of the reason for the mess was that the general had ordered everybody, including Captain Taplus, to drink, to celebrate the first successful stage of the Malacca Project. Being the good soldier that he was, the captain naturally obeyed his leader.

Besides, the captain was part of the general’s inner circle, and had been promised by the general that he himself would see the rank of brigadier general in the new Islamic Republic of Indonesia—becoming one of the youngest general officers in the history of the army of the Republika. But all that would depend on him continuing to do his job in a professional manner, without any glitches. The drinking and the celebration had put him behind schedule.

First order of business would be to get these liquor bottles and food trays up.

He stepped out of the study and went back into the kitchen, where he was greeted by the scent of freshly brewed coffee and the sight of Madina’s attractive figure from the backside.

“Excuse me, Madina.”

She turned from kneading the general’s bread and smiled. “Back so soon? Want another cup?”

“Perhaps later. I need a few trash bags.”

“Certainly, Captain.” She reached into one of the cabinets below the sink. “Here’s a brand new box for you,” she said, with a smile and a wink.

“Thank you.” He took the box and quickly headed back to the study, where he removed a green trash bag from it and started dropping liquor bottles in it.

He noticed a hum coming from the computer. But the screensaver was not on. In fact, the screen was black.

“Strange,” he mumbled to himself. Maybe it was in hibernation mode. He pressed the space bar. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

The screen. The power button. He punched it. The screen came alive. In bold, black letters, THE MALACCA PLAN stared at him.

“What in the name of Allah!”

“Is everything all right, Captain?” Madina called from the kitchen.

“Yes, of course,” Taplus lied. “Just a little spill.”

“Need some help?”

“No, I’ve got it.”

The truth was, his eyes were witnessing the potential downfall of his career. Perhaps even worse. Perhaps even a court-martial for dereliction of duty.

His mind raced as he imagined the worst-case scenarios. Stripped of his command. Stripped of his rank. Perhaps even execution.

This started last night when Dr. Budi volunteered his new suggestion for the assassination of Santos. The general and others proclaimed Budi’s plan to be “brilliant.”

After toasting the doctor and his bravery and his genius, the general had ordered Captain Taplus to open the Malacca file to record the modification of the plan. No longer would Perkasa loyalists stage a military coup against Santos. Budi would do it himself. Taplus had recorded the change just as the general had ordered.

But apparently, the file had not been closed out. Under no circumstances should that file have ever been left open. This was a security breach of unforgivable magnitude. Even though the general had ordered him to open the file, he was responsible for closing it and locking it down with the proper security codes. The general might not be so understanding.

How did this happen? Taplus racked his brain, trying to retrace the events. Another toast to Budi was proposed as soon as the entry had been transcribed and read back to the members of the Alliance.

Taplus himself had stood up and turned around to raise his glass to toast the doctor. Liquor flowed. The general launched into a longwinded speech, praising the doctor and bragging about what they would do with the many millions of dollars they all now had.

The long speech was punctuated by several more toasts, Taplus recalled, all of which he was required to drink to, to the delightful merriment of the group.

Perkasa had then slapped everyone on the back, adjourned the meeting, and sent everyone home. But because the general was slurring and staggering by this point, Taplus walked with him up the stairs, guiding him, just to make sure he did not fall.

By that time, the screensaver must have come on the computer, and Taplus forgot that the top-secret file had been left open, lurking just a space bar’s tap under the screensaver.

What to do?

“Think quickly, Hassan!” Protocol required that all breaches of top secret information be reported immediately.

But had there really been any leaks of information? Who would ever know? No one had been in the house since he left.

Except…

Except Madina.

Madina? She would never go into the general’s study. Or would she? Did she not just volunteer a second ago to help him clean it up?

No way could she have seen the report. If she had, her voice would not have been so naturally flirtatious. She could not be that good of an actress. Or was this the reason she was getting so frisky? What if she was a double agent working for Santos?

He sat at the computer, closed the file, and typed in the security codes to block its access.

What the general did not know could not hurt him.

As for Madina, he would have to decide how he was going to deal with her.

Chapter 8

Paya Lebar Air Base
Singapore

8:00 a.m.

The US Navy C–130 Hercules taxied to the staging area at the end of the runway. Its four propellor engines spun in a shrill whine.

From her jump seat behind the cockpit area, Lieutenant Commander Diane Colcernian looked out the window at the rising sun, floating as a large, orange ball just inches over the horizon. A giant Royal Air Force C-17 Globemaster, the outline of its fuselage reflecting an orange tinge, was just in front of the Hercules.

“Strapped in, Commander?” the pilot’s voice squawked in her ear.

Diane pressed the Talk button. “Roger that, Lieutenant,” she said to the pilot.

“Got your life jacket, ma’am?”

“Check,” she said. “Not worried about anything, are you, Lieutenant?”

“No, ma’am,” the copilot said. “Just checklist procedures. We’ve got twenty-four hundred miles of ocean to cross. That’s more than I can drink.”

Diane smiled. “Just watched that movie Castaway on DVD last week. Great timing.”

“Hollywood.” The pilot shook his head. “We’ll be fine, Commander. I’ll bet that FedEx pilot was ex-air force. We’re navy. We’re used to flying over water. I’ve not dropped one of these birds in the ocean yet.”

“That’s comforting, Lieutenant.” She checked her watch as the engines roared louder and the C–130 rolled forward. “What’s our ETA?”

“We’re first in line after the Limey gets airborne.” Limey was a phrase that members of the US Navy sometimes affectionately used to describe members of the Royal Navy and other members of the British military. “After that,” the pilot continued, “depending on tailwinds, about four-and-a-half hours.”

Whooosshhhh. The long roar of four Pratt & Whitney turbofan jets pushed the RAF cargo jet skyward, leaving a trail of black smoke as it nosed upwards.

“Where are they headed?” Diane asked, as the big bird climbed off to the east, in the direction of the sun.

“Same place we’re going,” the pilot said. “But they’ll get there sooner. Jets versus props.”

“We’ve been cleared for takeoff,” the pilot said.

Diane sat back. A moment later, the C–130 lifted off, then banked to the left. It flew across the city, heading toward the Singapore Strait.

Down below, black oil lapped everywhere upon the once-white beaches. Hundreds of birds could be seen stuck in oil, some still alive and struggling, hundreds of others dead.

The plane crossed Sentosa Island, and over the edge of the jet-black Singapore Strait.

The Hercules banked again to the right, now headed west over the strait. Diane looked to her left at the city of Singapore with its mix of dazzling skyscrapers, colorful flowers, and swaying palm trees. Overnight, it had been transformed into the worst urban environmental disaster of the modern age.

She squinted her gaze back across Sentosa. The island was starting to disappear from view. Behind the island, back across the bay in the lush green somewhere, was the old British hospital.

Somewhere, he was down there. Her Zack. Handsome as a movie star with that dimple, stubborn as a mule on his granddaddy’s farm in North Carolina. Knowing him, he had gone AWOL. Part of her wished he would. She missed him already.

They’d been together at the Justice School, and in San Diego, then briefly in Washington. And now this? Was this their fate? To forever be teased with brief moments together, then to be subjected to forced separation again? Would it ever end?

The navy. She was a cruel taskmaster. A jealous lover indeed.

Perhaps one day.

She looked out again and saw that Singapore had disappeared. Now, there was nothing but water. At least it was blue water.

The plane entered a steep climb. Diane closed her eyes, pictured Zack’s rugged face, and wondered when she would see him again.

Then she remembered that she had a job to do.

Jakarta Air Base
Indonesia

8:50 a.m.

The early morning shower had waned to a muggy mist. Between the dissipating cloud cover, the sun’s rays were starting to poke through.

Captain Hassan Taplus popped down the sun visor, clicked the windshield wiper to the off position, then tapped the brake pedal. The Mercedes, bearing the flag of the army chief of staff on the front left hood and the flag of a four-star general on the right, slowed as it approached the main gate of the Jakarta Air Base.

Even after eight months on staff as the general’s driver, Hassan still relished the looks of awe on the stunned faces of members of the Indonesian military as the chief of staff’s car approached. Khaki-uniformed gate guards jumped to attention, saluting as if someone had just lit their behinds with a blowtorch.

“Atten-CHUN!”

“Atten-CHUN!”

Taplus could not suppress the smile.

“Morning, General!”

“Morning, General!”

The Mercedes cruised slowly past the guard gate and onto the premises of the air base.

Taplus glanced in his rearview mirror.

The general, in full uniform replete with his dozens of shining service medals, greeted his starstruck subordinates with a dismissive hand gesture, somewhat pompous, really, as if he were the pope. Colonel Erman Croon, Perkasa’s chief of staff, an idiot whom Taplus did not care for, simply returned their salutes.

Taplus drove on past the guards toward the terminal. The Malacca Plan was entering its next phase, and this drive to the air base was the beginning of it. The general’s mission had to succeed, and the three men in the staff car knew it.

Taplus had decided not to mention the security breach. The only person who could have seen the file was Madina. The possibility that she was a double agent continued to nag at him.

“Is my plane ready, Captain?”

“Yes, sir, General,” Taplus said, as more stiff-saluting guards waved the Mercedes through chain-link fences and onto the rain-soaked runway. The general’s 737 was already waiting on the tarmac.

Taplus drove the Mercedes onto the tarmac and stopped about twenty feet from the front of the parked aircraft. Several military officers approached the car, standing ready to assist as soon as the general got out.

“Very well, Captain, let’s review my itinerary.”

“Yes, General. Your plane is fueled and ready for takeoff. Distance to Karachi is just over thirty-four hundred miles, sir. Because of the distance, we’ve arranged for you to land and refuel at Colombo, Sri Lanka, and then straight on to Karachi. Your cruising speed will be just over five hundred miles per hour, and when we include the stop in Sri Lanka, total flight time, General, will be approximately seven-and-a-half hours. You should land at three-thirty in the afternoon, local time in Karachi.

“Our Strategic Alliance partners have arranged transportation for you and the colonel at the airport. From there, you will be taken to your hotel to rest, and then your meeting with your Pakistani contact is scheduled. For security reasons, it will take place at an undisclosed location just before sunset.

“Your contact is a high-ranking Pakistani military officer, whose objectives are like-minded to ours. He will not be in uniform but will be wearing civilian clothing.”

Taplus pulled out an envelope from the inside of his jacket pocket and handed it to the general. “Here’s an extra copy of your itinerary, sir, for your reference. I also have an extra copy for Colonel Croon.” He handed another envelope to the colonel.

“This envelope contains names of points of contact and security codes that will need to be verified by your contacts in Karachi before we can begin discussions. A code will need to match with the driver picking you up. Simply ask the driver for the code, and he will repeat it before you should go with him.

“Likewise, there is a separate code for the military officer that you will be meeting, along with a photograph of the officer and a brief bio on him.”

“And this officer has the authority to give us what we need?”

Taplus nodded. “According to our contacts in Saudi who arranged all this, he has ample authority, General.”

“Excellent,” General Perkasa said. “Colonel Croon, are you ready to fly to Pakistan?”

“Yes, General.”

“Very well,” the general said, checking his watch. “It’s almost nine o’clock. Let’s go.”

Captain Taplus stepped out of the car and motioned to one of the military aides standing at attention. “Help the general and the colonel with their bags.”

Taplus stood by the back right rear door, flashed a sharp salute, and bellowed, “Atten-CHUN!”

Perkasa stepped out of the car. The sound of clicking boots echoed across the tarmac, as once again, at least a dozen army and air force personnel jumped to attention.

Perkasa threw a salute at Taplus. “Thank you, Hassan,” he said, doing something he rarely did, calling Taplus by his first name. “Keep everything under control until I return.”

“With pleasure, General!”

Perkasa dropped the salute, and then turned and headed up the portable stairway into the 737, with Colonel Croon on his heels. The pilot stepped forward and closed the door.

Taplus got in the staff car and drove back just to the gate leading off the tarmac. From there, he watched the 737 quickly taxi to takeoff position. A moment later, the plane lifted off, and within minutes, had disappeared behind the spotty cloud cover.

He exhaled. Taplus had unfinished business, and he needed the general out of the country so that he could get on with what he needed to do.

He picked up his cell phone, and dialed the general’s residence. A familiar voice answered. “Chief of staff’s residence.”

“Hello, Madina?”

“Yes?”

“This is Hassan.”

“Who?”

“Captain Taplus.”

“Oh, Captain.” Instant glee lit her voice. “Perhaps you are ready for that second cup of coffee?”

“I have a better idea,” he said.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“And what might that be?” A sultry, suggestive tone.

“How does sunset at the beach sound?”

“That sounds like a great idea!”

“Great. Ever been to Pelangi Island?”

“No, but I’ve always wanted to. I hear it’s beautiful. Clear beaches. No one around.”

“Exactly. The general’s out of town. So is the colonel. That means I’m in charge. So why don’t you leave about two o’clock and meet me at Ancol Marina at Jakarta Bay about three? We can take the general’s boat. The island is about forty-five miles out and will take an hour-and-a-half. I’ll pack dinner, complete with wine. We can ride out, watch the sunset, and return tonight. What do you say?”

Silence. Then, “I’d love to.”

“Great. Bring your swimsuit. See you at three.”

Residence of General Perkasa
Jakarta, Indonesia

11:05 a.m.

Madina checked her watch.

Scrubbing the toilet bowl in the downstairs bathroom had taken twice as long as usual. Thank goodness the general was out of town.

The telephone call from the handsome Captain Taplus had sent her concentration level into a tailspin. She checked her watch again. Four more hours. What to wear?

Perhaps a short, bright sundress for the boat ride to the island. She could hide behind a palm tree and change into her swimsuit once they arrived.

Or perhaps she could wear the swimsuit under a T-shirt and a pair of shorts.

But the sundress would be more feminine. And after all, he did say to “bring your swimsuit.” Not wear it, but bring it.

Now that she thought of it, it wouldn’t seem awkward for her to change behind a tree somewhere.

Yes, that was it.

He would like the sundress, she thought, and then hopefully he would like it more when she changed into the swimsuit.

What was this foolish feeling that felt like champagne bubbles floating inside her? She was like a silly teenager in love for the first time!

Perhaps they would have a military wedding. Yes, a military wedding, complete with swords and rifles. He would shine like a handsome prince in his dress uniform with all his shining medals. Her wedding gown would be long and flowing. Diamonds and rubies and precious jewels would adorn her ears and fingers.

Perhaps they would marry at sunset at Merdeka Square, with the general and other members of the Indonesian high command present.

Hassan would rise quickly in the ranks of the army. He was the best of the brightest, hand-selected to be on the general’s staff. Most likely, he himself would be a general one day. And she would be the loyal wife of a general. With elegance and grace, she would move among Indonesia’s ruling elite. Perhaps even dine with the wife of the president of the Republic. Being married to such a rising star would indeed have its advantages.

“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.

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.”

“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.

Chapter 9

North Jakarta Islamic Hospital

2:00 p.m.

Is this your wish, my brother?” Dr. Anton Budi asked. In the privacy of his office, he studied his brother’s black, blazing eyes. He had seen the look before. He had seen it for fifty years. He had seen it before they got into fights as little boys. He had seen it when Guntur ran to his defense when bullies at the Islamic school jumped on Anton for being too studious. He had seen the look when Guntur was studying for the medical boards.

When Guntur Budi’s eyes blazed as they were blazing now, there was no deterring him.

This request was about their father.

Anton knew it. He knew it in his soul, even though Guntur had not yet mentioned it.

He had seen the blaze before, but the furious blaze he was now witnessing he had only seen once before—when they laid Dr. Hendarman Budi to rest.

Yes, this was about their father.

The northwestern province of Aceh, at the tip of Sumatra, had been at war with the Islamo-western government in Jakarta for years. The bloody war had raged long before and after the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami that had killed over one hundred sixty-five thousand Indonesian citizens in Aceh and displaced a half-million others from their homes.

But the great waves of death from the sea had not stopped the freedom fighters, who fought for a pure Islamic state at the northwestern tip of Indonesia.

Dr. Hendarman Budi was a peaceful man of medicine who had raised Guntur and Anton in the Great Faith. He was never violent and had never even shot a gun. But he believed strongly in the cause espoused by his Islamic brethren in Aceh.

He had gone there on a mission of mercy, to help establish and replace desperately needed medical facilities in remote areas of the province that had been wiped out either by the war or the tsunami. Years after the floods, Aceh’s medical care system still had not caught up even to its primitive pre-tsunami standards. Although the official purpose of his travel was to “rebuild medical facilities,” his heart was with the freedom fighters.

It was a risky and dicey proposition.

Had government officials in Jakarta known that he had been behind the battle lines “rendering aid to the enemy” by administering anesthesia and performing emergency surgery, he could have faced execution by the firing squad.

As it turned out, Hendarman Budi had faced execution anyway—without even the semblance of a public trial. According to eyewitnesses who were nearby, it happened when he had been working in a tent set up as a temporary field hospital. His father was not taking part in the fighting, but only giving medical assistance to three of the freedom fighters who had been shot. Word had come later from witnesses that he was attempting to administer an IV bag full of penicillin when the squad of government soldiers broke through the woods and into the cleared area where the hospital tent had been set up.

Like the ruthless barbarians that they were, they fired their weapons indiscriminately into the tent like bloodthirsty animals. A bullet from an AK-47 struck his father in the head, killing him instantly. The family later received a letter from the Indonesian government, signed by the defense minister, trying to justify the murder. Anton still remembered the wording of the letter:

“Dr. Budi, despite his humanitarian intentions for which he is to be commended, had voluntarily gone into a war zone in his efforts to come to the aid of the injured. Unfortunately, the tent in question was controlled by the enemies of the Indonesian government, and the rebels did not mark the tent as a hospital by placing a red crescent on or near it. Their failure to do so made it a legitimate target for government soldiers who were acting in self-defense. Therefore, the responsibility for Dr. Budi’s unfortunate death lies solely with those rebels in Aceh, who once again failed to recognize the humanitarian standards of the Geneva Accords by neglecting to mark a medical facility as such in a time of war. The government expresses its sincerest sympathies to you, and assures you that those rebels causing Dr. Budi’s death will be held responsible.”

Savages.

Anyone could have been in that tent.

Women. Children.

Anton already knew the answer.

Their father’s blood was on the line. Guntur would avenge it by killing the president of the government that had killed their father.

Still, Guntur was his brother. He had to ask.

“Guntur, you know that I would do anything for you. I would die for you. But this? I agree with you in principle, but you are my only flesh and blood.”

A beatific smile crossed Guntur’s face. “My dear young brother. We have been close all these years, not only as brothers in the Great Faith, but as brothers in the flesh.” Guntur stood, walked across the office, and put his hand on Anton’s shoulder. “And do you remember what they did to our father?”

“Yes, of course, Guntur. How could I forget?”

“I know you have not forgotten, Anton, but I swore on his blood and over his grave that I would never let his martyrdom be forgotten. He was a man of peace. He had gone on his holiday, Anton. On his holiday!” Guntur slammed his clenched fist into the desk.

“He only meant to render acts of mercy, mind you…to dying freedom fighters whose purity in the faith was never questioned. He never even spoke against this bastardized Islamo-western government of ours!” Guntur waved his hands in the air. “And what did it get him? It got him a bullet in the head, my brother”—he jabbed his index finger above the bridge of his nose—“and from our own army, under the administration that came before this pathetic administration…Muslim in name. Western in practice.

“I swore on his grave that his memory and the cause for which he gave his life would never die.”

His voice softened, giving way to soft, mellow tones again. “We will be apart for a while, brother. This is true.” The beatific smile returned, and the hand, which a moment ago had banged Anton’s desk, rested lovingly again on his neck, even gently giving it a slight caress. “But I shall be with our father. And soon we shall be together, in paradise.”

“But…”

“But, brother.” Guntur’s eyes were sharp, but his voice was increasingly serene. “I am going to do this, with you or without you, Anton. I wish to do this with you. In this way, our histories will be intertwined from start to finish. In life and in death, together, we will forever change history.”

Anton leaned back in his chair and studied his brother’s face. Guntur would indeed do this with him or without him. He had always admired his brother for his ambition, for his courage, for his bravery.

And now, Anton was also prepared to give his all, to give his life for a cause that the brothers had believed in since their birth.

Guntur’s persuasive powers were immense. They always had been. No wonder he had risen to the top of the medical profession, or that he became the president’s personal physician, even if the president had prostituted the great religion that they believed in. Still, this was all happening so fast, so suddenly. If only there were more time…

“Please, brother,” Guntur said. “You are a thoracic surgeon. Thus, you are uniquely qualified for this very task. But I need your answer…or I must go on.”

The silence was deafening. And for at least a minute, Anton fixed his eyes out the window of his first-floor office, where two sun-drenched palm trees were swaying in the gentle breeze. A white seagull flew in from the sky, perching on one palm tree, then fluttering over to the other.

“Meet me tonight, my brother, at midnight,” Anton said. “Operating room number 3 is rarely in use. I will do it myself.”

“I love you, my brother.” Guntur gave him a warm embrace and kissed him on the head. “We shall be together again in paradise. I promise.”

Pelangi Island
The Java Sea

5:00 p.m.

The sun was headed down toward the sea. The soft swooshing of light swells lapping onto the warm, white sand, not far from where he had anchored the speedboat, and the rustling of palm tree branches far over their heads, interrupted by their occasional laughter—these were the only noises in this tropical paradise.

Captain Hassan Taplus leaned back on the blanket and sipped more red wine. He had forgotten the overwhelming beauty of this place. And why should he have remembered?

Pelangi Island was far out of reach for most of his countrymen. To get here, one needed money—something that most of his impoverished fellow citizens would never have—or some sort of high connection, as he had.

Perhaps he should stop drinking. His mind needed clarity for what he needed to do. He had thought that a few glasses would make this all easier. But in this state of mind, somewhere on the road between lucidity and the gateway to inebriation, he felt a concern that perhaps the alcohol was having just the opposite effect. Perhaps he should abort this mission.

The alcohol. The ambiance of it all…

He buried his left hand in the sand, stared at the sea, and then turned and gazed at her.

Madina was sipping her second glass of wine, and she seemed overwhelmed by the romance of it all. She smiled and beamed like a schoolgirl. And what an inviting smile it was.

Had he miscalculated the situation? Another sip of wine suggested that perhaps he had. Yet another sip left him hoping that he had, that he would be able to keep her around a while for his personal pleasure.

How luscious, how delectably irresistible she was, as she lay there on the blanket beside him, sipping wine in her lime-green sundress. Her smile was stunning, especially when the breeze blew those locks of long, curly brown hair onto her face, accentuating the slight dimples in her cheeks when she smiled.

Surely he had miscalculated.

Here, she seemed so naïve, so innocent, so totally enamored with everything other than politics. She could not be a double agent.

As her dancing brown eyes seemed to cast an enchanting spell on him, he looked for every reason to reconsider.

He leaned toward her, and instinctively, as if this were the most natural thing in the world, her lips moved toward him. Their kiss was long and passionate, and the touch of her hands and arms was gentle as she caressed his back. The magnetism was dynamic.

Perhaps she would make a good officer’s mistress.

Then he remembered. The security breach!

Think, Hassan. All this could compromise the future national security of Indonesia.

Alcohol had gotten him into this mess to begin with.

He pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, disappointment set in her voice.

“Nothing,” he said. He took another sip.

She sat up and hugged her knees with her arms. “This place is so beautiful. It is amazing that we have the beach to ourselves, that no one is here.”

“A resort is on the other side of the island,” he said. “But it is rare that anyone is ever here.”

Her hand found his back, and she began to caress it. “You are amazing,” she said. “You leave out no details. A soldier who handles a boat, crossing over forty miles of water, as if you are an experienced sailor.”

He looked out over the sea, now imbued with tinges of orange on the blue wavelets, a reflection of the setting sun.

“Has this place always been so peaceful?”

“No.” He finished his second glass of wine and poured a third. “The waters once played host to one of the fiercest naval battles in modern history.”

“Really?” She massaged his neck now with a renewed vigor. “Who would want to have a battle in paradise?”

Hassan pulled out a cigarette from the picnic basket and lit it. “It was 1942. The Dutch controlled all of Indonesia at the time. They called our country the Dutch East Indies. Stretched across more than two thousand miles of the peaceful waters to the south are the many islands of our country. And then beyond that”—he found himself pointing in a southerly direction—“is Australia.

“The Japanese wanted Australia. But to get it, they needed to go through Indonesia, or the Dutch East Indies, as we were then called. So the British and the Americans brought their Pacific fleets here, just north of our coastline.” He took a satisfying drag of nicotine. “The Dutch and Aussies had their ships here too, but even then not much was different than now. Mostly the Americans and British getting involved in areas of the world in which they have no business.”

Another drag. Another sip of wine.

“What happened?”

“The biggest, bloodiest naval battle since World War I happened. The Americans attacked the Japanese fleet, but things went bad for them. The historians call it the Battle of Java Sea. Before it was over, more than ten American and British ships were sunk, and more than two thousand sailors died. It was a crushing defeat for the US and the UK.”

“Hmm,” she said. “At least perhaps they were trying to protect us from an invasion by the Japanese, no?”

“It wasn’t us they were interested in protecting. Oh, the Dutch wanted to protect their colony, but the Americans and the British were interested only in protecting Australia. The Japanese needed our homeland as a springboard to attack Australia.”

He buried the cigarette in the white sand, and in one huge gulp, downed his third glass of wine.

She sipped from her glass and scooted closer to him. “You are so knowledgeable. So confident.” Her adoring eyes gazed at him for a moment. “You are the most amazing man I have ever met, Hassan. You are destined for greatness.”

She fell into his arms once again. She closed her eyes, her lips found his, and their long kiss fueled the chemistry between them. She was right about one thing. He was destined for greatness. And his greatness would bring about more opportunities with beautiful women like this.

She knew nothing of the assassination plan, he now decided. She would be good to keep around, as a paramour if nothing else. After all, the general had his paramour. Men of power needed women at their disposal for their pleasure.

He, Captain Hassan Taplus, had become a man of power. And he would rise as a comet streaking through the sky to even greater heights.

“I think I will need air soon,” she said flirtatiously, beaming with adoration as she allowed their lips to separate for a moment.

“What’s the matter?” He stroked her chin. “The air here isn’t fresh enough? We are forty miles across the sea from all the fumes and smog in Jakarta.”

She ran her hand through the back of his hair. “Oh, by the way, the television people came by before I left.”

“The television people?”

“Yes. From TVRI.”

“What did they want?”

“They wanted to come into the general’s study to set up television cameras.”

“And you let them?”

“Yes. They said Colonel Croon had ordered it. They even showed me his signature on the authorization form.” She massaged his shoulders. “Come, my dear Hassan. Can’t you tell me what is going on? They wanted to transform the general’s study into a television studio.” She poured another glass of wine, handed it to him, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Maybe the general is going to address the nation on television? No?”

An instant sensation of hot and cold flushed through his body. His neck was still hot and his head was swirling, but at the same time, his shoulders felt as if someone had just dumped bags of ice on them.

He glared at her. Her pretty face bore a dazed smile. “Why would you say something like that?” he demanded.

“Ahh, Hassan.” She kissed him again and rubbed her soft hand on his thigh. “You are so cute when you are angry.” She sipped more wine and smiled even wider. “You mean, why would the general go on national television to address the nation, when we already have a president who goes on national television to address the nation? Hmm…Now come, my Hassan. Your secret will always be safe with me.”

He leaned into her and kissed her again. She pulled herself to him, but for him the chemistry had fizzled. He faked the kiss for a moment longer, then pulled away. “I have an idea, my dear.”

“Really? And what might that be?”

“The sun is setting. Why don’t we take a stroll in the surf? And maybe, just maybe, I will tell you all the secrets you wish to know.”

“That’s a great idea,” she said.

He stood, took her outstretched hand, and pulled her up.

The water was warm and refreshing to their feet. He put his arm around her shoulders and led her into the gentle, lapping waves until they were about knee-deep.

Then he put his arm around her waist, holding her tight, and pulled her with him down into the water.

She popped up for a moment, giggling. “You are such an animal.” She giggled with glee and tried to thrust her face toward his.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I am.” He cupped her mouth and nose with his hand, and pushed her head under the water.

Her body began to squirm and struggle. He heard her desperate screams, muffled but clearly reaching the surface.

She kicked and screamed and scratched. Her head popped out of the water. “Hassan!”

He pushed her back down again. She fought for her life. But her physical resistance lessened by the second.

The fight left her limp body.

With his hands around her throat, Hassan held her down. Just to be safe. Out loud, he counted. “One thousand one. One thousand two.”

Three minutes had now passed. All her resistance was long since gone. He pulled her to the surface, cradling her in his arms, and sloshed over toward the speedboat.

He lifted her up and dropped her into the boat. He would take her out about twenty miles and dump her into the Java Sea, then return to Jakarta Bay.

Custodians and housekeepers were easily replaceable. He would fill the position immediately and tell the general that she had quit.

Hassan jogged back to the beach, gathering up all evidence that anyone had been there—the picnic basket, the blanket, the wine bottles, even the cigarette butts. He tossed everything into the boat.

She would have a proper burial at sea, he decided, and these items would go with her.

He hopped into the boat, then pulled up the anchor. A minute later, the twin inboards ignited. With the sun now halfway down on the westward horizon, the boat sliced at full speed south across the Java Sea back toward Jakarta.

Delhi Muslim Kali Restaurant
Karachi, Pakistan

6:15 p.m.

The white, wrought-iron table located on the back veranda of the restaurant overlooked the gentle, lapping waters of the Arabian Sea.

At the edge of the sea, the sun was now a large, orange ball, setting on a deep, bluish-green watery horizon. From it, an orange glow swept inward across the water extending from the horizon to the shores of Clifton Beach, where a few women clad with Muslim headgear waded in the surf. Three camels, seemingly unattended, meandered in the sand on the landward side of the seawall not far from the women.

Next to the table where General Perkasa sat alone, a sign proclaimed in English, “Reserved for Private Party.” Perkasa checked his watch. Ten minutes ahead of schedule.

The sounds of traffic could be heard, faintly, along the roads in front of the restaurant. But out here, except for the sounds of the evening sea breeze rustling a few canvas umbrellas on the canopy and the giant green-and-white Pakistani flag flapping atop a huge flagpole down on the beach, all was quiet.

He extracted a Cuban cigar, struck his lighter, sucked in, and for the moment decided to enjoy the ambiance. The back door of the restaurant opened. A waiter walked out.

Blended voices of patrons inside poured onto the veranda, then subsided as the door closed behind the waiter. “Something to drink, sir?” the waiter asked in English.

“Water and hot tea, please,” the general replied in English.

“Right away, sir.”

The waiter stepped back into the restaurant.

The wind whipped into the large Pakistani flag again, unfurling the crescent moon and star, the symbols of Islam, glowing in white against the green background, and lit in the setting sun’s rays. The sight angered him, reminding him that the world’s largest Islamic country, his native Indonesia, had nothing on its flag to symbolize the Great Faith. Even the flag of neighboring Malaysia displayed the Islamic half-moon.

The Indonesian flag would change soon, if he had anything to do with it.

Perkasa nursed the cigar as the waiter returned with water and hot tea. “Your guest just called. He will be here momentarily, sir.”

The door closed, and Perkasa checked his watch again. Five minutes late. Suparman Perkasa did not appreciate waiting.

Once again, the door opened. A man stepped onto the veranda. He was of medium build, was dressed in a blue business suit with a red tie, and looked to be in his late forties. The door closed.

“It is beautiful out here this time of day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed,” the general replied, again drawing on his cigar while eyeing the man.

The man nodded his head and pulled out an envelope. From it, he extracted a note card. “Zero-eight, one-seven, four-five, zero-eight, onefour, four-seven, zero-nine, one-one.”

Perkasa set his cigar on a crystal ashtray and extracted from his inside jacket pocket the envelope that Captain Taplus had handed him in Jakarta. “Read those numbers once again. Slowly, please.”

The man did.

“The numbers match. And I believe that I have some numbers that you will need to hear?”

“Please, General.”

“Ah, you believe that I am a general, do you?”

“I suspect that you are a general, and I will know not only that, but I will even be able to verify your name…if you give me the correct combination.”

Perkasa raised his eyebrow and looked down at the paper, which was becoming slightly difficult to read because of the evening shadows. “Eight-nine, eight-seven, zero-one, four-five, one-seven, zero-one.”

Perkasa folded the paper and reinserted it in his jacket pocket.

“It seems that destiny has brought us here, General Perkasa.”

“So it would seem,” Perkasa said. “Destiny, or millions of American dollars.”

“Isn’t it fitting that their own dollars will eventually bring them down?” The man smiled. “May I join you?” He pointed to another wrought-iron chair across from the table.

“Of course,” Perkasa said.

“I am Nisar Sharif. I, too, am a general. I am chief of staff of the Pakistani Air Force.”

“I have heard of you, General.” Perkasa extended his hand across the table to shake the Pakistani’s hand.

“Tell me, General.” Sharif released Perkasa’s hand. “What can Pakistan do for our brothers in Indonesia?”

Perkasa sat back, puffed the cigar, and contemplated his words. “You have something that your Indonesian brothers need.”

Sharif laughed. “Everybody has something that someone else needs.”

“We are prepared to pay you one hundred million dollars, General, if you will help us.”

Sharif folded his hands on his laps. If the offer had any impact on him at all, his face did not show it. “As a high-ranking officer of the Islamic Republic, I still must be assured that whatever you need will not undermine the interests of my country. This you will understand.”

Sharif was playing it very closely to the vest.

Impressive.

“General Sharif, you have my word as an Islamic brother, sworn upon the grave of my mother, that what we need will never be used against Pakistan, but will, in fact, give Pakistan a geostrategic foothold in one of the most important regions in the world.

“In addition to the money, I offer Pakistan an air base and a naval base on one of our islands in Indonesia, to be leased for fifty years at a price of one dollar per year.

“Pakistan can extend her power and prestige to another point on the globe. Working together with the soon-to-be-formed Islamic Republic of Indonesia, we shall see to it that Allah’s will extends to the most important sea lanes in the world.”

Silence.

“You paint an interesting scenario, General.” Sharif scratched his chin. “I do not suppose that whatever else you want involves certain types of weaponry?”

Perkasa smiled. “We both know the answer to that, General Sharif.”

Another pause. “How many did you have in mind?”

Perkasa sipped his water. “Surely Pakistan could spare a half dozen? That would not affect your security. Would it?”

Sharif sat for a moment, his eyes transfixed by something down on the beach. “It’s a beautiful flag, is it not?”

Perkasa looked around at the giant Pakistani flag, fluttering gloriously in the setting sun. “Yes, it is, General. And with your help, the glorious crescent moon on your flag will be on our flag. And you, more than anyone else, will be the reason for a great, new Islamic Republic on the face of the earth. Join with us in making history.”

The generals eyed one another. “You are persuasive, General Perkasa.”

“I am only committed to what I believe in.”

More silence. “What about payment?”

“Fifty percent wired to any account of your choosing immediately. Fifty percent upon delivery.”

“You know,” Sharif said, “I see the passion in your eyes, and I hear your passionate voice for Islam, General. I feel that you are trustworthy. Perhaps we can do business.”

“You are kind, General.”

“In fact, assuming the proper financial arrangements are made as you have offered, we can deliver the weaponry as soon as tomorrow. Come. Let us take a walk on the beach and discuss the details of this newfound alliance.”

North Jakarta Islamic Hospital

12:01 a.m.

Because some of the equipment in operating room 3 was more antiquated than the modern, up-to-date equipment in operating rooms 1 and 2, the third OR was rarely used these days.

Dr. Anton Budi was counting on this fact, and on the fact that the surgery would be taking place under the cover of darkness, to pull off the plan.

Anton locked the door leading into the hallway, then pulled dark curtains across the glass windows, making the inside of the OR invisible to any duty nurses who happened to walk by during the night.

He donned a green surgical mask. “Are you ready, my brother?”

“I am ready,” Guntur said with a peaceful smile under the bright glare of operating room lights.

“I will see you when you wake up,” Anton said, hoping and praying that his brother would awaken after the procedure.

He placed the mask over Guntur’s face, secreting a combination of oxygen and nitrous oxide into his brother’s lungs.

Guntur coughed a bit, then closed his eyes and fell into the first stage of sedation.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. The heartbeat monitor blipped a normal, sharply spiked green line across the black screen. Good. Now to make sure that Guntur didn’t wake up…

He lifted a syringe against the overhanging spotlight and worked the plunger slightly.

Here he had to be careful. The tranquilizer succinylcholine, which was in the syringe, had been used in euthanasia killings of horses around the world. If not controlled carefully, the drug could easily kill a man.

He held the syringe up again against the light, just to be safe. The bright light showed the standard dosage of 1 mg/kg in the barrel.

He plunged the needle into Guntur’s upper arm, then pushed slightly on the plunger…slowly…slowly…until a one kilogram dose of succinylcholine had oozed under the skin.

Beeeeep beep. Beeeeep beeeeep. Beeeeep beep. Beeeeep Beeeeep.

The beeps grew elongated as Guntur’s pulse slowed. Anton watched the heart monitor for a minute or two.

Good. Pulse, breathing, oxygen content in the blood had all stabilized. Anton buffed sweat from his forehead with his forearm.

Now for the next step.

He would employ a surgical procedure that was being used in the United States. Anton had read about it but had never performed it. He would access the lung by cutting an incision under the arm. Then, after cutting through cartilage, he would separate his brother’s ribcage at the entry point with a mechanical clamp.

From there, he would use probes, scalpels, and suction devices to remove the lung.

Although Anton had never tried this procedure, the techniques in the manuals seemed simple enough. So it was not the risk of trying something for the first time that concerned him.

Infection was always a concern whenever a foreign object was inserted in the body.

Guntur was going to die anyway. But Anton wondered if Guntur could live long enough to carry out his plan before infection would set in and either debilitate him or kill him.

Most foreign objects inserted by surgeons, whether shunts, prosthetic devices, or artificial kneecaps, were sanitized to kill germs and bacteria.

But there had been no effort to sanitize the considerable amount of C-4 plastic explosive that would be inserted in Guntur’s hollow lung cavity.

Nor had there been any effort to sanitize the remote-controlled detonator that would be inserted into the chest cavity and would look like a pacemaker to any metal detector that Guntur passed through.

To counteract the certain onset of deadly infection, he would pump Guntur heavily with antibiotics and hope that a combination of penicillin and other drugs would keep him alive long enough to finish the mission.

Anton again checked Guntur’s vitals. All signs were still stable. Good.

He took his sleeping brother’s left forearm and lifted it up over his head, laying it at the head of the operating table. Next, with a flesh marker, he carefully marked off a line under the arm in the chest area where he would begin this incision.

Anton put down the marker. He took a deep breath. Turning to the table full of surgical instruments that was right beside him, he lifted a stainless-steel scalpel between his fingers.

Carefully, he brought the tip of the razor-sharp blade to the beginning of the line on his brother’s body. He pushed slightly, and the blade sliced through the skin, giving way to red, oozing blood.

It had begun.

Five hours later, Anton looped the last thread of suture through the incision. The surgery was now complete. He laid the forceps and threading needle on the instrument tray.

He checked the monitors for vital signs. Pulse. Body temperature. Blood pressure. Respiratory rate. All normal.

He adjusted the penicillin drip that was already flowing into Guntur’s body via intravenous administration. The key here, he again reminded himself, would be battling infection long enough to complete the deed.

Guntur’s pulse was starting to pick up. The effects of the succinylcholine would soon be wearing off.

Physically exhausted, Anton slumped into a hospital chair at the foot of the operating table.

He would be implicated in this.

He knew it from the beginning. Guntur had to know it too.

But what could he do? Refuse to do it because he was afraid of becoming an accomplice to the murder of the president? Guntur was right. The president’s Western-oriented army had killed their father.

It had always been about Guntur. And rightly so. Guntur was the brave one. The visionary. If Guntur would lay down his life to avenge their father’s murder, how could he not? He would be with his father…and his brother again soon, in paradise.

Guntur’s body moved slightly. A grunt came from his vocal cords. Then another grunt.

Anton stood and walked over to his brother. Guntur’s eyelids flickered and then opened.

“How do you feel?” Anton asked.

“Fabulous,” Guntur whispered. “Are we done?”

“We are done,” Anton said, “and you responded beautifully.”

Guntur reached his hand out and took Anton’s. “I am doing well because I was just operated on by the finest surgeon in all of Indonesia.”

“You are prejudiced, Guntur.”

“Prejudiced, but also truthful. When can I resume my duties?”

Anton released his brother’s hand. “You will have to attend to your duties quickly, Guntur. Infection is inevitable. You know that.”

Guntur’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I know. My choices are death by bacteria or death by bomb. It is my destiny.”

“It is our destiny.”

“Tomorrow.” Guntur’s black eyes glazed. “Tomorrow I have an important examination to conduct. Will the antibiotics hold me until then?”

Anton hesitated. Guntur knew the answers to these questions as well as he did. But he seemed to be relishing his role as patient. Perhaps he knew that he may be Anton’s last patient.

“This depends on how rapidly infection sets in, my brother. I am going to take you home and keep you on an antibiotic drip. I am canceling all of my patients today.” He took his brother’s hand again. “Whatever happens tomorrow, my brother, I am with you.”

Guntur smiled beatifically. “To tomorrow.”

“To tomorrow.”

Chapter 10

United States Embassy
Jakarta, Indonesia

9:00 a.m.

The waiting area outside the ambassador’s office was surprisingly plain, Zack thought, especially in contrast to the embassy offices in Singapore, where the anteroom outside Ambassador Griffith’s office was ornate, complete with intricate wood carvings adorning the bookcases, swanky loveseats, silver tea trays, and an expensive grandfather clock.

But here in Jakarta, a black leather sofa and a couple of end tables that could have come from OfficeMax filled the room. The secretary’s pitiful, Rooms-to-Go-ish desk was not even manned at the moment.

Perhaps this should not be surprising.

Indonesia, for all its geostrategic importance to the free world, was out of sight and out of mind for most Americans.

Unlike Singapore, Indonesia was a poor country. Poor countries rarely get noticed by rich countries.

Its moderate Islamic government had made no waves, and other than the horribly devastating 2004 tsunami, Indonesia had pretty much stayed out of the news in the United States.

Most Americans could not say, if pressed, which country around the Indian Ocean had been most devastated by the tsunamis, nor could they finger Indonesia on the globe if someone put a gun to their heads.

Yep. Out of sight, out of mind.

He turned and looked at the stunning naval officer, sitting in her summer white dress uniform, complete with white skirt and shiny white pumps. He gave her an affectionate tap on the hand.

“You sleep okay?”

“Like a baby,” Diane said. “You?”

“Like a baby, baby,” Zack said. “I fell asleep during takeoff from the carrier.” He grinned teasingly.

She gave him a half-mischievous, half-adoring gaze. “That takeoff didn’t bother me that much, you know.”

He feigned a coughing spell, which provoked her to lightly punch him on his shoulder board.

“Your boss always running behind like this?”

“Who knows?” Diane looked at her watch. “He had a conference call with Washington this morning.”

The door to the ambassador’s office opened and a slim, fiftyish woman in a dark blue dress walked out. With her gray hair wrapped in a tight bun, she looked the part of the lifelong State Department bureaucrat she was. When she spoke, it was obvious that she was American.

“I’m Ms. Kowalski, Ambassador Stacks’ secretary. The ambassador will see you now.”

Zack rose and followed Diane into the ambassador’s office.

Inside, a gray-haired man in a white dress shirt and red tie sat behind a large mahogany desk, looking down and scribbling something on a legal pad. On his desk sat a nameplate engraved in gold and set in marble that proclaimed, Martin Stacks, Ambassador.

Behind the desk, on wooden poles and planted in gold round stands, were the Indonesian and American flags.

On the wall behind the desk were diplomas—undergrad University of Texas, Harvard PhD—and a military commission, showing that the ambassador was once a lieutenant in the naval reserve. Good. Perhaps they would speak the same language.

Ambassador Stacks laid his pen down and looked up with a smile.

“Well, it looks like I’ve got two naval attachés instead of one.” He came around his desk and first extended his hand to Diane. “Welcome aboard, Diane.”

“Good to be here, sir.”

“And, Zack, I’ve heard a lot about you.” He extended his hand. “I know we’ve got a real mess in Singapore. Please be seated.” Ambassador Stacks motioned the naval officers toward two maroon leather chairs, each positioned at forty-five-degree angles from his chair. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee,” Zack said. “Black.”

“Cream and sugar, please, sir,” Diane added.

The ambassador nodded at Ms. Kowalski, who nodded back and quickly walked out of the office.

“So,” Stacks began, “how was our visit to the Rock?”

“Productive, Mr. Ambassador,” Diane said. “We’ve established a definite link, we think, to at least some Indonesian involvement in the attacks.”

“Really?” Ambassador Stacks raised his eyebrow as Ms. Kowalski returned to the office, holding a silver tray with a silver coffee pitcher, three steaming mugs, a white bowl of cubed sugar, and a small pitcher of milk. “Thanks, Alma.” Stacks nodded at his secretary, then took a plain white mug and sipped from it. “Care to elaborate, Commander Colcernian?”

Diane stirred a cube of sugar in her coffee. “Sir, we believe at least one of the four terrorists killed in the attempted attack on the tanker SeaRiver Baytown was a member of the Indonesian navy.”

The ambassador set his coffee on the table. “What evidence do we have?”

Diane nodded at Zack. That was his cue. He reached into his briefcase and retrieved the military identification card found on board USS Abraham Lincoln. “This is an Indonesian navy identification card we found with the belongings of one of the dead American sailors on board Abraham Lincoln, sir. The photo matches one of the bodies of the terrorists taken aboard USS Reuben James.”

Ambassador Stacks studied the identification card. “Hmm. Susilo Mulyasari. Indonesian navy. Chief Warrant Officer.” He laid the identification card on his desk. “And this was found on board the Lincoln?”

“Yes, sir,” Zack said. “There were four terrorists on board the speedboat that was taken out by the Reuben James. Two were American sailors off the Lincoln. The other two had southeast Asian features, and the JAG officer on the Lincoln found this Indonesian sailor’s ID in the seabag of one of the dead American sailors on board the Lincoln. This Mulyasari dude must have given the American sailor his identification card at some point before they started all this. Who knows why? We haven’t been able to identify the fourth terrorist. He could be Malaysian. Could be Indonesian. We’re not sure.”

The ambassador held up the identification card against the light and squinted at it. “Say this matches some autopsy photos or something?”

“They’re pretty gruesome, Mr. Ambassador,” Zack said. “But I have them here, if you really want to see them, sir.”

“Well, I’ve already had breakfast,” Stacks said. “And that’s what I get paid the big bucks for.” He gave Zack a hand-’em-over gesture.

“Aye, sir.” Zack laid a folder on the ambassador’s desk.

The ambassador winced, holding the photo of Mulyasari’s body against his identification card. “It’s a match, all right.”

“Sorry, sir.” Zack said. “Not a pretty sight.”

“All right, I’ve seen enough.” Stacks handed the photo back to Zack. “I’ll have the deputy chief of mission contact the Indonesian military for information on this guy. By this time tomorrow, we’ll know about Warrant Officer”—he picked up the identification card—“Mulyasari’s mama, his grandmama, what kind of beer he liked to drink, and whether he was into hootchy-kootchy shows.”

“Great idea, Mr. Ambassador,” Zack said.

“Agreed,” Diane said.

“And speaking of tomorrow…” Stacks was looking at Diane. “You have plans for tomorrow afternoon, Commander Colcernian?”

Diane glanced at Zack, then back at the ambassador. “I serve at your disposal, sir.”

“I want you to come with me for a meeting with President Santos.”

“That would be a privilege, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Be prepared to depart the embassy at 1330 for a 1400 briefing with President Santos. He needs to know that one of his navy members is trying to bomb oil tankers, and I want you to brief him on what you know.”

“Yes, sir,” Diane said.

“Zack, I’d like you to follow up on this Mulyasari. I’m sure our staff can get a copy of his military file from the Indonesians, but I’d like you to track down whatever information you can above and beyond that. My gut is that this guy wasn’t operating alone.” The ambassador ran his hand swiftly through his hair. “Maybe he’s an Aceh sympathizer. I don’t know. But whoever he really is, wherever he’s from, the more we know, the better.”

“Yes, sir,” Zack said.

“You will have the full cooperation of this embassy. Whatever you need. Ambassador Griffith, I’m sure, will give you the full cooperation of his embassy as well.”

“Thank you, sir,” Zack said.

“Oh, and Diane?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s my understanding that President Santos is scheduled for a physical tomorrow in his offices just before our meeting. So he could be just a little ornery. If so, don’t take it personally.”

“Understood, sir,” Diane said.

“Okay, let’s break. Diane, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon at thirteen-thirty.”

Residence of Dr. Anton Budi
Jakarta, Indonesia

10:00 a.m.

Anton opened the refrigerator and reached for the pitcher of water. He poured himself a glass and walked into the living room, where the morning sunlight was now pouring in through the back windows that faced to the east. Guntur was resting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket from his chest down, and still with an IV drip full of antibiotics pouring into his body.

He felt his brother’s forehead. “You feel like you are running a low-grade fever, Guntur.”

“I feel fine,” Guntur said. “A low-grade fever may be expected after surgery.” He took the water and sipped it. “Thank you.”

“Even after all these years, Guntur, being a doctor to a doctor is an unusual experience to me.”

“Anton, we must discuss tomorrow.” Guntur tried pushing himself up. “Oh.” A gasp. Another grunt.

“Lie back, Guntur. Give the antibiotics time.”

“Okay.” Guntur complied. “But about tomorrow.”

Anton looked away, his gaze falling on the red and yellow flowers, palm trees, and lush vegetation in his small back yard. He purchased this modest home in the prosperous Cilindak area of Jakarta five years ago. Though living alone, he had become quite comfortable. Deep down, he had hoped to raise a family here. Or at least to have a family.

But he had never married, except to his work as a surgeon. His had been a lonely life. He had dated, and was even engaged once, but when he had little time to spend with her she met another man. At the end of the day, he had no one but Guntur, who also had been a bachelor all these years. Together, they shared the memory of their father, who had died in a cause that would be greater than any of their lives.

Though paradise would certainly be better than anything man on earth could offer, he was going to miss his own comfortable corner of the world.

“Yes.” He looked back at Guntur. “About tomorrow. What is it that you need me to do?”

Guntur reached his hand out again. “The president is scheduled for a physical between 1:30 and 2:00 P.M. He is always running slightly behind. All his appointments run ten to fifteen minutes late, and sometimes more.

“The physical will most likely begin at 1:45 and end at 2:15. They allow me to bring my cell phone into the president’s office. I will set the alarm on my cell phone to beep at 2:00 P.M. At that point, I will walk over and stand very close to the president.

“I am told that the remote control mechanism on this detonation device will activate from a range of one thousand yards.” There was a pause. The brothers’ eyes locked.

Anton understood what Guntur wanted. He broke the silence. “Merdeka Square, just across the street from the palace, is within range of the president’s office, no?”

“Yes,” Guntur responded. “That is within range.”

The brothers clasped hands. “I, too, will set my cell phone to go off at 2:00 P.M. I will count fifteen seconds. Will this give you enough time?”

“Yes, that should be sufficient,” Guntur said. “If something goes wrong, I will text you with the word abort.”

“Very well. I am with you, my brother,” Anton said.

“And I with you,” Guntur said. “And I do this also for our father. He would be proud of you, Anton.”

It hit him. Dr. Hendarman Budi would be proud of him. Yes, Guntur had conceived the idea and was giving his body. But Guntur could not do this without him. His life, even if it were to end soon, would have lasting meaning.

“Father would be proud of both of us, my brother. Soon, we will all be together again.”

Jakarta Air Base

10:30 a.m.

Slipping his shades on to protect his eyes from the tropical morning sun, Captain Hassan Taplus crossed his arms and leaned back against the fender. The general’s jet had just touched down and was now taxiing on the runway. The whine of its turbojets grew louder as the pilot turned right off the runway and onto the tarmac.

An air force grounds crew pushed a portable staircase toward it.

The plane rolled to a stop. Three seconds later, the sound of the engines faded below the voice of the grounds crew chief barking instructions to his men.

The men responded, pushing the stairs to the doorway of the 737.

A moment later, the general emerged, prompting the grounds crew chief to yell, “Atten-chun!” His crew members fell into two pinpointprecision lines at the base of the stairwell. The general started down the staircase with Colonel Croom in tow.

Captain Taplus walked to the open funnel of the honor guard and waited for the general to accept and return salutes of the men as he walked by.

As the general approached, Taplus himself shot a smart salute. “Welcome home, General.”

Perkasa returned the salute. “How are things with Dr. Budi?” He spoke under his breath and out of earshot of the honor guard.

“All set for tomorrow afternoon at fourteen-hundred hours, General.”

Perkasa was making fast strides toward the staff car.

“How were things in Karachi, sir?” Taplus asked.

“Better than expected, Hassan. General Sharif was sympathetic to our cause.” He stopped in front of the car and felt his shirt pocket. “Do you have a cigarette, Hassan?”

“Of course, General.” Taplus extracted a Camel, the general’s favorite, then offered a lighter.

“Get into the car.”

“Yes, General.” Taplus opened the door for the general, popped a salute as the general sat, then closed it and got into the driver’s seat.

“The nuclear materials that we need are in my plane, in the storage bay,” Perkasa said through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “You are in charge of securing and transporting this material, Hassan. You understand that time is of the essence?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well.” Another drag from the cigarette. “We have acquired six thermonuclear devices. Three in the ten-kiloton range. Three are suitcase bombs.”

“Ten kilotons?” Hassan’s heart jumped. His mind raced. This was really happening! He would be a part of history! Maintain your professionalism, Hassan. “That’s almost the size of the bomb that the Americans dropped on Hiroshima. And the suitcase bombs will rip out the heart of any city.”

“Yes.” The general raised his eyebrow. “I had hoped for something larger, but this is a blessing from Allah. Now listen, Hassan. Three of the devices must be shipped immediately to Mexico, per our master plan as part of Operation Decapitate. Two suitcase bombs, plus the ten kiloton to be used at the end of the operation. We have already been shipping conventional devices. But I want three nukes shipped to Mexico this morning.”

“Yes, General.”

“Another ten-kiloton device is to be shipped, along with a team of nuclear scientists and bomb technicians, to the Island of Gag, in the Raja Ampats Islands, again according to the Malacca Plan. I want that device and that team on a plane to the Raja Ampats before noon today. I want you to accompany the team as my representative.”

“Yes, General!” Goosebumps crawled over his body. He would be the general’s representative at the most important event in his nation’s history.

“The two remaining devices will remain under the control of our forces here on Java, where Colonel Croon will direct the ground logistics of tomorrow’s operation.” Perkasa nodded at Colonel Croon.

Colonel Croon nodded in return. “Of course, General.”

“Hassan.” Perkasa looked back at Taplus. “Make sure that our friends at TVRI have a crew on the spot to record the event, along with a live satellite uplink capability.” A pause. “Can you handle all this?” Perkasa put his hand on Hassan’s shoulder.

“General, you can trust me. I will not let you down. You have my word.”

“Good. Then I want you to remain here at the air base and oversee the unloading and proper transportation of these nuclear materials. Colonel Croon will drive me back to our quarters, where we will continue to work on tomorrow afternoon’s military operations.”

“Yes, sir, General.”

“Let us get to work,” the general said. “In forty-eight hours, we will have crossed the rivers of history, and we will have emerged on the splendid, sparkling shores of our great destiny!”

Hassan got out of the car. A minute later, it disappeared from sight.

He walked to the 737 to inspect its deadly cargo. Within two days, if he performed his duties to perfection, he could become the youngest general in the Indonesian army, a key player in the world’s newest superpower.

St. Stephen’s Catholic Church
Jakarta, Indonesia

10:45 a.m.

Kristina stepped into the confessional room and started to make the sign of the cross. Then she stopped.

It had been so long since she had made the sign that she realized she had forgotten how to do it. Was she supposed to cross from right to left? Or was it left to right?

She tried right to left. That seemed right. If she was wrong, surely God would understand.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Do I hear a voice that is familiar?” The sound of the warm, accepting voice from behind the blinds was as comforting as it had been before.

“Perhaps, Father. I was here a few days ago.”

“Yes. I seem to remember your voice. We priests get very good at that, you know. Are you coming to confess the sin of leaving prematurely before?”

She wiped the sweat from her forehead. “I cannot promise you that I will not leave prematurely again today.”

“Hmm. You can run from God’s priests. We are but men, full of flaws like other men. But none of us can run from God. The Scripture proclaims that the eyes of the Lord are everywhere. He is omniscient, omnipresent, and all-seeing.”

“Yes, Father. In my head, I know this to be true. Yet I continue to run, and often in the wrong direction.”

“We have all run in the wrong direction, my child. But Jesus, the Good Shepherd of our souls, grieves in his heart if even the least of us goes astray. So tell me, why have you come today?”

Could she trust anyone? Even a priest? The priest was God’s representative. Surely she could trust God. “I am afraid something bad is about to happen, Father. Something very bad. I found some information, I think, and if the wrong people know I discovered it, I will die.”

“I see.” The calm voice was reassuring. “Remember the words of the Scripture. ‘Fear not, for I am with thee. My rod and my staff, they comfort thee…Be anxious for nothing, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, bring your requests to God…And the peace of God, that passes all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus our Lord.’”

The words of the Scripture were strangely comforting to her, even in the midst of the horrible black storm in which she found herself at the moment.

“You know that your words are safe here, my daughter,” the reassuring voice continued. “What would you like to share with me?”

Her breath quickened. Sweat drenched her body. She looked up. The picture of Jesus hung on the wall, just as before. “I saw their plan, Father. I saw their plan and I believe it.”

The priest did not respond. Perhaps he was calling another priest to hear this. Perhaps she should go. Now.

“What is so bad that is going to happen?” The voice brought her back into her chair.

She gazed at the picture. Were his eyes following her? “Someone is going to die, Father.” A huge exhale. She touched the Bible on the table under the lamp below the picture. She closed her eyes.

“Who is going to die?”

“Someone important. Someone very important.”

“Can you tell me who?”

“I’m so afraid, Father. I’m afraid they will kill me too.”

“Fear not, my child. You are safe in the church.”

“I feel safe nowhere.”

“You are safe here.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Okay. If you cannot tell me who, can you tell me when?”

She gasped. Water. She needed water. Her eyes met the picture again. “Soon, Father. A very important person will die soon.”

“You sound like you are having trouble breathing.”

“I must go, Father. I’ve said too much already.” She stood and reached for the door.

“No. Please…”

She opened the door and sprinted down the hall, out into the sunshine. Under a palm tree, she bent over and heaved. She wanted to vomit, but she could not. Water. She needed water.

The Pentagon

11:30 p.m.

Cappuccinos might be popular in New York, at the New York Mercantile Exchange, at Starbucks, and at other pricey coffee joints around America, but black coffee was the order of the day in the inner sanctum of the Pentagon, where officers of the United States military came together to plot and war-game and mastermind America’s defense.

Or in this case, black coffee was the order of the night. Though he had been assigned a Bachelor Officers Quarters room at nearby Fort Myer, Lieutenant Robert Molster had erected a cot in “the Building,” as the Pentagon was called, to do his best to keep a watchful eye on whoever or whatever was out there. This night watch was mandated by the twelve-hour time difference between Washington and Singapore. The middle of the night in Washington was the middle of the next day in the Malacca Strait region.

Molster checked his watch.

23:30 hours.

11:30 P.M. in Washington meant it was 11:30 A.M. in Singapore and Kuala Lampur, 10:30 A.M. in Jakarta. He was used to staying up all night. That had been his job in New York. But in New York, he slept during the day.

Here, he had been conducting daytime briefings in the Pentagon to get the top brass up to speed on the intricacies of the oil markets and paying attention to the markets all night. He’d had time only for brief naps.

He felt like an alley cat. Half-awake. Half-asleep.

His body wasn’t sure whether to sleep or to wake up. He sat on the side of his cot and eyed the small picture of Janie. The image of her jet-black hair, her rosy cheeks, and her electrifying grin…she could bring a smile to his face even through the glass of a plain five-by-seven picture frame.

Since the limit moves and attacks in the Malaccan Strait, there had been nothing.

A couple of swigs of the now-lukewarm black coffee were left. No point in letting it go to waste. Bottoms up. All gone. Bitter.

It was a bit unusual to have real-time financial data reflecting commodities movement streaming into the Pentagon. Except for the fact that he was wearing a US Navy uniform, Molster could almost imagine himself back in New York.

Almost.

But when financial data or any other data becomes valuable to the United States military, such data becomes military intelligence.

So here he was. Brought here by fate. The perfect hybrid officer, in the eyes of the military, combining his unique military intelligence training with his unique commodities expertise.

“I’m going to try and catch some shut-eye, fellows,” he said to the two other intelligence duty officers, an army captain and an air force first lieutenant. “Wake me up if there’s so much as a minor blip on those charts.”

“Not a problem, Lieutenant,” the captain said.

Bob unbuttoned his whites, kicked off his shoes, and slipped under a sheet. The pillow felt relaxing to the back of his head.

He closed his eyes. The light hum of computer equipment and the soft, occasional murmur of voices served as an inconsequential backdrop to the images from his past that floated in his mind.

Disjointed images.

Beautiful, softly glowing, colorful pictures.

The red brick rotunda at the University of Virginia…Small craft crisscrossing the Hudson River on a moonlit night. His first glimpse of Janie, so confident, yet with a haunting beauty, as she sat behind the recruiter’s table at UVA.

Oil futures.

Limit moves.

Charts.

More limit moves.

The comforting veil of sleep descended over him.

Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep.

“Lieutenant! Lieutenant!”

Molster opened his eyes to the glare of the overhead fluorescent lights. The computer’s alarm was on fire, or so it seemed.

The army captain and air force lieutenant were huddled over their computer screens. “Looks like we’ve got a huge limit move in progress, Lieutenant,” the army captain said. “Tons of sharp volume.”

Still in his T-shirt, Molster popped onto the floor and peered over the captain’s shoulder. He squinted his eyes and gazed at the screen.

“Here we go again,” he said. His stomach churned and knotted. “Lieutenant,” Molster tapped the air force lieutenant on the back of the shoulder. “Notify the J–2 duty officer. Limit move in crude oil.” He checked the time. “Mark it. 23:42 hours. Per standing orders. Alert chain of command. Immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” the air force lieutenant said. He picked up the phone to call the J–2 duty officer.

Mexican freighter Salina Cruz
Near the Texas coast

1:30 a.m.

Captain Alberto Mendoza throttled his freighter into neutral. The running lights of two other vessels blinked across the black waters, but under a new moon, it was impossible to see who or what they were.

His local radar swept the fifteen-mile circumference around the freighter Salina Cruz.

Based on the radar sweep, they were probably a couple of small trawlers out of Brownsville. Definitely not the right reading for a US Coast Guard cutter.

Other than that, nothing.

Mendoza turned to his guest. “We are at the drop point. Seven miles from shore. Are you ready?”

“Ready, amigo,” the skinny man with the black scruffy beard spoke in an accent that was not Hispanic.

Mendoza did not know the man’s real name. All he knew was that the man’s name supposedly was Rahman.

They were all named Rahman, it seemed. Every one of them. And they’d paid him more money than he’d ever seen in his life to sail to this spot off the Texas coast, under cover of darkness, to offload cargo and to keep his mouth shut.

“My crew will help you disembark.” Mendoza waved his hand. His first officer scrambled out onto the deck. Five Mexican deckhands began swinging three rubber boats, all inflatable, down toward the dark waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

Rahman’s crew scrambled over the side, descending rope ladders, making their way down to the boats. A moment passed.

“Everyone in place?” Mendoza yelled down to the water.

“All ready.”

“Okay, we’re lowering the boxes.”

Mendoza gave the command. A crane onboard began lowering the first of three plywood boxes, about twice the size of a large coffin, down over the side. The boxes bore the words Bottled Water painted in English.

Probably cocaine or heroin. But Mendoza did not ask. Too many questions meant no repeat business. The manifest declared that the boxes were bottled water, and that would be his story if the Coast Guard stopped him on the high seas.

He struck a cigarette and leaned over the side of his ship. The stars cast a faint glow onto the waters of the Gulf. The whining sound of the ship’s cargo crane blended with the mild breeze blowing from the east. He watched as the third box of “bottled water” to be offloaded from his two-hundred-twenty-foot ship this week disappeared into the darkness below.

Moments later, the sound of outboard motors ignited from the surface, and then the sound of the three rubber craft pulling away, starting their westward journey to the Texas coast.

“Let’s get out of here,” Mendoza shouted. “Set course for one-eightzero degrees.”

“Sì, Capitan,” came the voice of his first officer from inside the pilot room.

Mendoza flipped his cigarette overboard, watching the red, burning tip whirl down in the wind as Salina Cruz began her wide-sweeping turn to head back to her home port of Tampico, Mexico.

Gag Island
West Papua, Indonesia

3:30 p.m.

Captain Hassan Taplus stood on the sandy beaches of the remote tropical island and gazed seaward to the southwest. Only a hundred miles south of the equator, the sun was blazing high above the horizon and he could hear the sound of helicopters approaching. He brought his binoculars to his eyes for a closer look.

So far, nothing but water and horizon.

The sound of the rotors grew louder.

He swung the binoculars slightly to the right. Two choppers appeared in the viewfinder. They approached through the blue skies, low over the water, perhaps a half-mile downrange.

“Excellent.” He checked his watch and smiled. “Right on time.”

More goosebumps. When this operation was complete, his ascendance up the Indonesian military command would become a fait accompli.

A military hero. That is how history would remember him. A pioneer. A founding father of the new Islamic Republic of Indonesia!

Yes, General Perkasa would be viewed as the leader of the movement. But he would be remembered by history as a military mastermind who stood at Perkasa’s side.

One day, Perkasa would relinquish power. And on that day…chills descended Hassan’s spine…perhaps even the presidency would await him.

The choppers circled just overhead now. The first feathered down onto the beach about a hundred yards from where he was standing, not far from the chopper that had carried him in, along with the advance party. The second landed a few seconds afterwards.

Their engines powered down, and the bay door opened on the second chopper.

They stepped out, one by one.

The passengers were eight nuclear scientists who had been working on contingency plans for the development of a proposed floating nuclear power plant in Indonesia. Their work had met stiff resistance from the international community, particularly the Aussie government, which protested that a nuclear mishap would spread deadly radiation south over Darwin and other populated sections off Australia. Now these men, all loyal to the general, would oversee the technical aspects of the operation, under his command.

In teams of two, the scientists quickly made their way to the first chopper, where somewhere in the dark recesses of its bay lay one of the ten-kiloton nuclear devices that General Perkasa had purchased from the Pakistanis.

Just behind the two helicopters, a portable steel tower was already being erected by the advance team into the tropical sky. From this tower, the device would be suspended.

What a waste, Taplus thought, of such a rare and valuable weapon. However, virtually every nation that had ever entered the nuclear club had done so with a visible demonstration of power. Indonesia would do the same.

Six men lifted the crate out of the helicopter bay. This image would be forever frozen in his memory.

It was all so surrealistic. One of the most beautiful tropical refuges in the world would soon become a nuclear wasteland.

Chapter 11

The White House

8:00 a.m.

Lieutenant Robert Molster sat next to Admiral Roscoe Jones, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, watching the flat screen that featured a brightly lit map of the Malacca Strait and the nations around it.

This place was nothing like the underground bunker that had been portrayed by Hollywood in The West Wing and various other movies and television shows. The real Situation Room was more like the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.

Created by President Kennedy in 1962 after the Bay of Pigs fiasco, the Situation Room was in reality a five-thousand-square-foot conference room, run by the National Security Council staff, in the basement of the West Wing.

The wood paneling of the room’s walls housed the most advanced communications equipment in the world, from which the president executed his role as commander in chief of all US military forces around the world.

An hour prior to sunrise, Molster had learned that his sleepless night would remain sleepless, when Admiral Jones called to inform him that he was to brief the president, should the president have any questions of him, at a meeting of the National Security Council at zero-eight-hundred-hours.

Thus, he’d spent the hours between 5:00 and 7:00 A.M. preparing a briefing, should he be called on, then hitting the shower, shaving, and donning a crisp service dress-blue uniform.

At 7:00 A.M., he had ridden “across the river” from “the Building”—Washington talk meaning he had left the Pentagon and crossed the Potomac River—with Admiral Jones and the admiral’s aides, armed with a stack of briefing papers.

The door opened.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States,” the White House chief of staff announced.

Members of the National Security Council, including the vice president, rose to attention as if they were seamen recruits in boot camp acknowledging a gunnery sergeant.

“Sit,” President Mack Williams ordered. The sound of shuffling chairs followed as the council obeyed the president’s order. “Admiral Jones, what’s going on?”

“Oil futures prices again, Mr. President. Three limit moves last night. Aside from the potential rioting in the streets from rising gasoline prices, our intelligence gurus tell us this move is similar to the period just before the Singapore attacks.”

The president looked at Molster. “That right, Lieutenant?”

This was his cue. He felt for his briefing papers. “Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

“Not much sleep again last night, I take it?”

“No, sir,” Molster said.

“Okay,” the president said, his eyes still on Molster. “And this is the first run-up since the Singapore attacks.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“And you think this means they’re getting ready to hit again?”

Again, the president’s blue eyes blazed directly at Molster.

Unreal.

The director of Central Intelligence, national security advisor, the vice president, the secretary of defense, the secretary of state, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff were all in the room, and yet the president seemed to be looking to a lowly senior lieutenant in the navy, a mere reservist at that, for an answer to this crucial question pertaining to the national security of the United States.

Molster hesitated for a moment, hoping perhaps against hope that the vice president, the secretary of defense, someone would step up and answer the questions. But the president’s eyes did not waver.

“Well, Lieutenant?”

“Mr. President, the trading patterns are nearly identical to the trading patterns just before the attacks earlier this week. Huge buying. Unprecedented short-term price spikes. Unprecedented volume. Much worse than the price jumps in 2008.”

“And you think this means we’re looking at another strike?”

How should I know? I’m just a junior intelligence officer, and a reservist at that. And I’m not even career navy. You’ve got the Veep, SECDEF, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs here. Why don’t you ask one of them? Molster wanted to ask, but was not about to.

“Well, there’s a certain degree of speculation involved here.”

“Speculation?” The president slammed his fist on the table, riveting the attention of everyone in the room. “Isn’t the job of the intelligence officer to sift out the differences between speculation and reasonable probability?”

A pause. Why wouldn’t someone else speak up? “Well, Mr. President, you’re right about that. An intelligence officer must sift through the differences between speculation and probability.”

The president nodded.

“So here’s what we know,” Molster continued. “They struck before in the wake of price spikes and volume almost identical to last night’s data. The futures price jumps and volume in the oils futures markets was highly unusual then, and it is highly unusual now.

“Those futures price jumps preceded the attacks on oil tankers that led to a huge run in the real-time price of crude oil, which led to billions in profits by whoever bought the futures.

“Based on that, Mr. President, this is more than just mere speculation. It’s based on data. Limited data, but nevertheless, data. In my judgment, there’s a probability that some sort of strike, somewhere, is imminent, and that strike will lead to another price run.”

More silence. Nervous glances were exchanged among the members of the NSC.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” the president said. “That took some guts, I know, for a junior officer to stick his neck out in a setting like this.”

Molster exhaled.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to chop off your neck if you’re wrong.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“All right,” the president said, speaking with an aura of command. “We’ve got oil futures shooting through the roof, we’ve got Singapore flooded in a tar pit that makes Prince William Sound look like a minor coffee spill at McDonald’s, and we’ve got Lieutenant Molster here saying they’re probably gonna strike again.

“Now that the lieutenant has stuck himself out there, I need some of you high-ranking, higher-paid members of the government to do the same.” The president stood, took off his jacket, and handed it to an aide. “I need to know where they’re going to strike”—he began rolling up his shirtsleeves—“and when.”

President Williams leaned over the table, resting his palms out flat in front of him. His eyes shifted from left to right. Now he was looking for answers from the members of his National Security Council. Good. At least Molster was off the hook. For now.

“Mr. President.” Admiral Jones spoke up.

“Yes, Admiral.”

“It’s a big world out there, sir. But first, we look to the sea lanes where oil is transported. We narrow that down even more, and I think we must watch strategic choke points where oil is transported.”

“You mean like the Strait of Malacca?”

“There are eight strategic naval choke points around the world, including Malacca. Right now I mean the Strait of Hormuz, Bab-el-Mandeb, the Suez Canal, the Bosporus, Gibraltar, Cape Horn, and the Cape of Good Hope. Tankers pass through all these choke points and are vulnerable to attack. I think we can take the Malacca Strait off the list as a potential attack area for a while.”

“Why is that, Admiral Jones? We just got hit there.”

“Sir”—the admiral wiped his hand across his forehead—“I regret to inform you that as of this morning, approximately zero-four-hundred Eastern Time, the Malacca Strait has been closed to shipping because of the thick oil slick at Singapore. The whole Singapore Strait is covered from Singapore to Indonesia. There won’t be any tanker traffic going that way for a while.”

“Darn it!” The president slammed his fist on the table again. “Then what do we guard?”

“Sir, the traffic that cut through the Malacca Strait we now believe will sail southeast across the Indian Ocean, and then cut through the seas south of Indonesia and north of Australia. In fact, we’ve already seen tankers beginning to move along this route. We’ve prepared a visual to demonstrate this new sea route for you, sir.”

“Very well, let’s see it,” the president said.

“Commander Murray?” Admiral Jones nodded to Lieutenant Commander Beth Murray. Instantly, the graphic appeared on the monitor for all to see.

“Here’s the graphic, Mr. President,” Admiral Jones said. “You can see the sea routes running to the southwest of Jakarta. Then, approximately four hundred miles due south of Jakarta, they are breaking due east, where they sail into the Timor Sea, then cut to the northeast through the Arafura Sea, then northwest, hugging the coast of the island of New Guinea, then sailing east of Halmahera, running through the Raja Ampat Islands, and finally heading north toward the Philippines.”

The president donned a pair of black, plastic-rimmed reading glasses and studied the sea routes. “Boy, they’re going around their elbow to get to their thumb.”

“Yes, they are, Mr. President.”

“What’s our naval presence in the area?”

“Right now,” the admiral continued, “we have four Los Angeles-class attack submarines and three Aegis-class cruisers patrolling roughly along this line from the south of Jakarta to the Timor Sea.

“USS Abraham Lincoln is steaming east from Diego Garcia. I recommend moving the Lincoln battle group along this line so that we can get our subs and cruisers up into these sea lanes around Irian Jaya and the Halmahera Sea.

“We also have one Los Angeles-class and two Virginia-class attack subs, along with three Oliver Hazard Perry-class frigates patrolling in the south Philippine Sea. These ships can be quickly deployed into the Halmahera Sea and can patrol this area off Irian Jaya. The Aegis-class cruiser USS Port Royal is steaming south of Indonesia and is available for escort duty if necessary.

“Our biggest stick in the area, USS Ronald Reagan, has just left port at Perth and is steaming north in the IO along the west coast of Australia toward Indonesia. Reagan is our closest carrier at the moment. The Gipper’s jets will be within striking distance of these sea lanes in just a few short hours, Mr. President, and the Lincoln won’t be far behind.”

The president folded his reading glasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. Every American president, in every international crisis since World War II, had instinctively asked this question: “Where are the carriers?”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs had just answered it even before it was specifically asked. The president appeared to take comfort at the news that two of America’s mightiest warships, both named after the two greatest Republican presidents in history, were in the area.

“Okay. I’m ordering the Reagan and Lincoln task forces to the area. Get our forces deployed into these sea lanes. Now.”

“Aye, aye, Mr. President,” Admiral Jones said.

“Also,” the president continued, “we’re proceeding on the assumption that an attack will occur against a tanker in the region. Just to be safe, I want to cover some of these other choke points where we have tanker traffic. So I’m ordering beefed-up naval presence in the following regions.” The president held up his hands and began ticking off a list of the choke points. “The Strait of Hormuz, the Gulf of Aden, the Red Sea, the entrance to the Suez Canal, the Gulf of Oman, the Persian Gulf, Gibraltar, and the Sea of Marmara leading to the Bosporus.”

Admiral Jones took notes and winced as the president continued.

The president looked over at Admiral Jones. “I gather that you have some sort of problem with this, Admiral?”

“No, sir, Mr. President. It’s just that rapid deployment of beefed-up naval forces to all these areas all at once will stretch the navy and make us thin in other areas, sir.”

The president exhaled. “I was afraid you might say that.” He drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. “Secretary Lopez.”

“Yes, sir,” the secretary of defense replied.

“I want you to order the secretary of the navy to prepare an order for my signature, which I may or may not sign, which would immediately call up all naval reserve forces.” He held up one finger. “Check that. Give me three options in the order. Option one, to call up one-third of all naval reserve forces. Option two, to call up two-thirds. Option three, to mobilize the entire naval reserve.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Also”—he was looking at SECDEF—“if these clowns, whoever they are, are going to start hitting oil tankers, we’re going to need more warships to deter threats around the globe.

“So I want to revive President Reagan’s plan for a six-hundred-ship navy, and I want you to instruct the navy to bring me several workable plans from which I can select and present to the Congress. Place an emphasis on the geostrategic objective of protecting vital sea lanes and littoral regions. I want these plans on my desk within thirty days.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Very well. Let’s reset to meet again at zero-eight-hundred tomorrow morning, unless you hear from me. Let’s pray that Lieutenant Molster’s assessment is wrong. You are dismissed.”

The president rose, prompting the members of the NSC to rise and stand in their places as he stepped out of the room.

“Good job, Lieutenant,” Admiral Jones said. “Now let’s get back over to the building and pray that you are wrong.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Brownsville, Texas

8:30 a.m.

The sun had been blazing for an hour over the Gulf of Mexico when Emanuel Gonzales turned his beat-up, red Toyota Celica left off Boca Chica Boulevard into the parking lot of the Old Port Isabel Warehouse.

He had slipped across the border into Brownsville with his wife, his kids, and his three cousins six years ago. He’d found work at the warehouse and had been promoted to manager of the place six months later. No one asked about a green card or anything else. Not even a Social Security number was required, since the owner said that he would be paid as an “independent contractor.”

Last week he’d gotten a pay raise of an extra five bucks an hour, which was nice considering that it cost a lot to support three kids, a wife, and three cousins. Their eleven-hundred-square-foot house ran seven hundred bucks a month. And although his cousins Julio and Juan-Carlos were working construction to help out with the bills, things were still tight. So Emanuel was grateful for the raise.

Of course, there was a price to be paid for a more luxurious lifestyle. In this case, that price was a longer workday. No longer could he show up just before the joint opened at nine o’clock. Now, with his new responsibilities as manager, he had to show up at work half an hour ahead of time.

Emanuel checked his watch. Eight-thirty. He was right on time.

Old Port Isabel Warehouse wasn’t scheduled to open for another half an hour, but already, three smaller-sized U-Haul cargo vans were sitting in front of the warehouse.

The Toyota puttered into the manager’s reserved parking space just outside the offices. Emanuel got out of the car, his huge key ring snapped to his jeans, and walked to the front door of the office. Jingling the keys, he inserted the silver one into the dead bolt lock.

The sound of a slamming car door echoed across the parking lot.

“Hola, amigo!” Gonzales looked around. An Arab-looking guy had stepped out of the first van and was walking over.

These eager beavers can’t even let a guy get in the office to take a leak. And why do they think I only speak Spanish? “Hola, my friend,” he replied. “We no open for thirty minutes.”

“I understand, amigo.” The man walked closer. “My friends and I are in a hurry. We’ll make it worth your time if we can pick up our cargo and get out of here.” The man handed a green, crisply folded bill to Emanuel.

Emanuel opened it, found a picture of a somber-looking, dead, white American named “Franklin” in an oval frame in the middle.

“Gracias, amigo.” Emanuel stashed the hundred-dollar bill in his pocket. “I’m not supposed to do this.” He gave a wink and a nod. “The owner says if we open early for one customer, we must open early for them all,” he said. But one hundred bucks would go a long way in the frozen food section of Wal-Mart, where you could buy a pizza or a TV dinner for a buck. Señora Gonzales would be very pleased tonight. That thought brought a big, cheesy grin to his face. “But under the circumstances, we can accommodate. What are you here to pick up?”

The man smiled. “You should have three crates of bottled water.”

“Ah. The mysterious boxes of bottled water.”

“Mysterious? Why do you say that?” the man asked.

“No reason. Except that they were dropped off after hours last night, with enough cash to store them for a year, and with a note that someone would come to pick them up soon. I guess that’s you? No? I would say that’s soon, all right.”

“That’s us, amigo. We are in a hurry.”

“Okay.” The call of nature, though mounting now, could wait. “Bring your trucks around this way.” He pointed to the chain-locked gate that separated the parking lot from the main warehouse entrances. “Meet me around there. I’ll unlock the gate.”

Key rings still jingling, Emanuel jogged over toward the gate at the entrance to the loading area. At the gate, he fumbled through the key ring, found the right key…the silver one…and inserted it into the heavy-duty dead bolt lock.

The lock opened, the chains dropped off, and within a few seconds, he was waving the trucks through the gates. A minute after that, the three U-Hauls were backed up to the entrance of the warehouse. A few minutes later, the drivers were loading the three crates of bottled water into each of the three vans.

By ten ’til nine, they were gone. Two other trucks were now in the parking lot. More eager beavers. Emanuel locked the gates again.

He had a hundred bucks in his pocket and tonight would be his lucky night.

The trucks could wait.

The call of nature could not.

Merdeka Palace
Jakarta, Indonesia

1:20 p.m.

Dr. Guntur Budi checked his watch. Good. Still ten minutes before the president’s physical was officially scheduled to start, and probably twenty minutes before it actually started. The timing should be perfect.

He felt well, considering the unsanitary plastics stuffed in his ribcage, and thanks to the antibiotics administered intravenously until just moments ago, when Anton had dropped him off in front of the palace.

He had stepped out Anton’s car, walked through the bright afternoon sun, crossed the street, and entered the inner sanctum of the palace as usual.

Rank had its privileges, and in this case, rank included being recognized as the president’s personal physician. He was waved past the first two checkpoints, with a few friendly greetings of “Good afternoon, Doctor” from several of the all-too-familiar security guards who nonchalantly motioned him through.

Now for the first big test.

The high-intensity metal detector was located just outside the corridor leading to the president’s office. He had been waved past the other metal detectors before, but never past this one. Everyone, including the president’s family, was required to walk through this machine as a matter of routine.

“Good afternoon, Doctor,” the first security guard said. The guard, a muscular, stocky fellow with a mustache, wearing pistols on each hip, was a member of the president’s personal security detail, as were all of the guards on the other side of this final metal detector. “I see you are here for the president’s physical.”

“Yes.” Guntur tried to mask the nervousness flashing throughout his body. He stopped just short of the metal detector. “Here is my bag with my examination equipment.” He handed his medical bag to the guard. “Just the routine stuff. Blood pressure machine. Stethoscope. EKG machine and equipment. That sort of thing.”

The guard rummaged through the assortment of medical equipment in the bag.

“You should know that I have just gotten out of surgery.”

“Ahh.” The guard showed genuine concern on his face. Or perhaps a look of suspicion? “I hope you are all right, Doctor.”

“Yes, I am fine. They inserted a pacemaker to regulate an irregular heartbeat.”

The guard went back to his mindless examination of the instruments. He seemed fascinated by the ophthalmoscope, and was holding the instrument up against the light, looking through the glass.

“Just a routine thing,” Guntur said. “I wanted to alert you in case the darn thing sets off the metal detector.” Guntur forced a chuckle, trying to appear to make light of it. The guard did not smile as he put the ophthalmoscope back into the bag.

“Very well, Dr. Budi. Step through the metal detector, please.”

One step forward, and then…a rapid and shrill beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep.

“Step back!” the guard ordered. His hand gripped his right pistol, which was still holstered.

“I was afraid this might happen,” Guntur muttered. “Darn pacemaker! I’ll have this thing in my chest the rest of my life.”

“All right. Let us have a look.” He waved Guntur back into the X-ray scanner. “Just a routine procedure as you know, Doctor. We would do the same thing if you were the president’s wife. Let’s hope you are not the first lady.” A terse chuckle. Finally, a semblance of something other than iron. “Stand here.” The stern tone returned. “Be still for a moment, Doctor.”

The guard squinted his eyes and examined the screen on the monitor beside the X-ray machine. “That’s an odd-looking pacemaker, Doctor. Hmm.” He eyed it for a moment. “I’ve never seen one like it before.” More squinting. “Rahmat! Check this out.”

“It’s a brand new design. Just imported from America,” Guntur said. “It is supposed to go fifteen years without a battery replacement.”

“Hmm.” The two guards crowded over the monitor. Guntur held his breath.

“Very well, Doctor. You may proceed. The president is running about fifteen minutes early today because the Chinese ambassador canceled his meeting due to illness.” The guard motioned Guntur through. “Take good care of the president.”

“He will be in good hands.”

Gag Island

3:25 p.m.

Captain Hassan Taplus, army of the Indonesian Republic, was wearing dark sunglasses and standing on the shores of the beach with his back to the sea.

Light swells lapped just a few feet from where he had buried his heels partially into the sand, and he brought his hand up to his eyebrows, palm down, almost in the gesture of a salute to shade his eyes from the bright overhead sun.

The ugly monstrosity standing against the island’s luscious, tropical beauty rose perhaps fifty feet in the air, and closely resembled a rapidly erected observation tower. Four gray steel poles dug deeply into the sand made the corners of a square at the base, and looking something like a giant erector set, rose into the blue sky and supported a square steel platform at the top.

On the platform, electronic equipment and an arming mechanism had been bolted in place. Suspended in the air below the platform, about fifteen feet from the top, the bomb hung from four thick chains. An array of cords, bound together in a single strand by some sort of heavy-duty duct tape, hung down from the center of the platform.

One nuclear engineer was standing on a catwalk perhaps thirty-five feet off the ground, making an adjustment to the bomb with a screw-driver.

The other engineers were standing on the beach, pointing toward the tower, laughing and carrying on as if they had just passed their final examinations before graduating from university.

It would soon become evident whether they had passed or not.

The last nuclear engineer was now making his way down the ladder to the beach. His feet hit the sand, then he turned and started walking rapidly straight toward Taplus. The engineer grinned as he approached. “Our work is complete, sir. The bomb is armed, ticking, and set to go off in a little more than an hour. I suggest that we get out of here!”

“Good work, Lieutenant,” Taplus said. “Very well. Everybody to the choppers! Let’s get to the ship! On the double! Move! Move!”

Five minutes later, the first of two helicopters lifted off the tropical paradise. Hassan looked down at the splendor of Allah’s breathtaking beauty. A sailboat, perhaps a thirty-footer, cut through the seas about a mile off shore. Probably Australian.

The poor fools had sailed into the wrong place at the wrong time.

Merdeka Square
Jakarta, Indonesia

1:28 p.m.

Merdeka Square, the large, grassy plain in the midst of Jakarta, was at the sprawling city’s geographical center.

Surrounded by the most important buildings of the government, including the Merdeka Presidential Palace and the nation’s supreme court building, at the center of the square was the prized Monas, Indonesia’s version of the Washington Monument. The national monument of Italian marble soared four hundred fifty feet skyward.

Anton gazed at the towering obelisk, its gold tip reflecting the afternoon tropical sun.

He had always shivered with pride at the sight of it. So had his father, and so had Guntur. The monument was a national treasure, a proud proclamation of Indonesia’s independence from the Dutch.

How ironic, Anton thought, that despite his country’s freedom from Dutch colonization, Indonesia was now the colonial puppet of America, for all intents and purposes.

Soon that would end.

Anton checked his watch. One twenty-eight.

The gravity of the moment hit him. In less than thirty minutes, his brother’s life on earth would be over. He would never see Guntur again this side of paradise. But he would see Guntur again. Wouldn’t he?

Could he go through with this? To kill his own brother, even if it meant purifying Indonesia from an American-loving president?

Of course he would see his brother again, he assured himself. If not, his faith was meaningless. And his faith was not meaningless.

He pulled the detonating transmitter out of his pocket and stared at it. It was just a black plastic box about the size of a cell phone. In the middle, there was a red button for him to depress at the proper time, and below the button, a simple safety switch, which would have to be turned off before the button could be depressed.

Could he press that button? Could he kill his own brother?

Perhaps he should just toss the box in the grass and run. Or he could walk down to the shores of the Java Sea and toss it in.

But even if he threw it away, Guntur was going to die of infection from all the unsterile plastic in his body.

“I am proud of you, my son. I gave my life for the cause. Do this day what you must do.”

“Father?”

Anton looked around.

Nothing—other than a few tourists and mothers with their children playing on the grass of the square. But that was his father’s voice. He knew it. Or was he hallucinating?

“Father?”

Again, no response. Maybe he was hearing things. After all, he’d not gotten much sleep.

Guntur looked over toward Merdeka Palace. He would need to be closer to be in range. He started walking across the grass toward it.

Two police motorcycles pulled around the corner, followed by a black Lincoln Town Car flying on each bumper the flag of the United States of America. Two more motorcycles trailed the car.

The car stopped in front of the palace. One policeman dismounted his motorcycle and opened the car’s back right door. A distinguished, gray-haired man, wearing a blue pinstripe suit, stepped out.

A second policeman opened the other back door. An attractive woman, with red hair and wearing the uniform of a female United States naval officer, stepped out.

The United States ambassador. It had to be.

The sight was an answer to prayer. Divine providence had brought him to this time and place.

Merdeka Palace
Jakarta, Indonesia

1:30 p.m.

This place is gorgeous,” Diane remarked, as she stepped out of the black Lincoln Town Car belonging to the United States embassy. “It looks like the White House, except for all these palm trees and pink and white tropical flowers.”

“A lot of people make that comparison,” Ambassador Stacks remarked. “Merdeka Palace was built during the Dutch colonial era. It’s one of two presidential palaces here in Jakarta and the main one used by the president.”

“Right this way, Mr. Ambassador,” a staff member said. “I see you have a guest today?” the man asked as they stepped out of the sunshine and past a security checkpoint, and then into a tunnel just next to the main entrance.

“This is Commander Colcernian, my new naval attaché,” Ambassador Stacks announced, as the trio swiftly walked through the long tunnel.

“Nice to meet you, Commander,” the man said. “The president is having a routine physical right now, but he is running ahead of schedule. He hopes to see you a few minutes early.”

“That would be fine,” the ambassador said.

They came to the end of the long tunnel. The aide punched in a security code and a steel door opened. Behind it, there was a security checkpoint with a metal detector and three uniformed guards.

“My apologies, Commander,” the man said. “The ambassador is aware of this”—he nodded at Ambassador Stacks—“but our security procedures require even the president’s eight-year-old daughter to pass through here.”

“The president has an eight-year-old daughter?” Diane asked. “President Santos must be a young man.”

The man smiled. “Second marriage. Our first lady is much younger than the president.”

“Ah,” Diane nodded. “I see.”

“I have two teenage girls,” Ambassador Stacks said. “Guess that makes me young for my age too, huh?”

“Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Ambassador.”

President’s office
Merdeka Palace

1:50 p.m.

Breathe deep, Mr. President.” Guntur positioned the stethoscope against the T-shirt on the president’s back. “Cough.”

The president was sitting on his desk, wearing his dress pants and shoes, but stripped down to his T-shirt on his upper torso. He reluctantly complied.

In the three years that Guntur Budi had served as personal physician to the president, he had seen that the president’s reputation for impatience was well deserved. Actually, the president was patient with the things that interested him, and impatient with the things that did not.

Seeing the doctor for anything, even for a routine physical, was not something that President Santos would tolerate much of.

Santos was already restless, beginning to complain about ending the examination.

“Guntur, I’m fine,” Santos was saying. “You’ve drawn my blood, you’ve checked my pulse, you’ve poked in my ears, and you’ve wrapped my arm with that blood pressure thing. I’ve got a country to run. Let’s wrap this up.”

Guntur glanced at the wall. Ten more minutes. He had to stall.

“Now, Mr. President, it is precisely because you have a great country to run that we must ensure that you are in the best physical condition possible.” He artfully repositioned the stethoscope on the president’s back. “Besides that, I promised the first lady and your daughter that I would make sure you are in good health.” He forced a chuckle.

The phone buzzed on the president’s desk. Santos punched a button. A woman’s voice came over the speaker phone.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President,” the secretary said. “But you asked me to notify you when Ambassador Stacks arrived.”

The president’s face broke into a smile.

That was part of the problem. Santos was an American lover.

“Ah. We are finishing this physical right now.” The president checked his watch. Guntur checked the wall clock. One fifty-five. “Send the ambassador in.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But, Mr. President—”

“We can finish this later,” Santos said, as he started slipping his dress shirt on. “The ambassador has an urgent matter he wishes to discuss. It has something to do with the tanker attacks in the straits.”

“But—”

Santos buttoned his shirt. “Guntur, you may hang around for a couple of minutes and meet the American ambassador. He is a nice man, and you will like him. Then I have to get to work.”

Guntur checked the wall clock. One fifty-seven.

“Of course, Mr. President. It would be a pleasure to meet the ambassador.”

Merdeka Square

1:59 p.m.

A single cloud floated in front of the sun, sweeping a large shadow over the green grass of the square. Sunlight still crested the buildings surrounding the grassy plain in the midst of the city, but it was as if Allah was dimming the lights to provide cover as the clock ticked down.

Anton gazed at his watch.

1:59:30

1:59:35

1:59:40

He squeezed the plastic transmitter with his right hand, his thumb on the detonation switch. He walked toward the palace. His heart pounded like a jackhammer.

1:59:48

1:59:52

1:59:55

1:59:57

Anton closed his eyes, held his breath, and waited for the alarm.

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep.

Click.

A delay.

Boom!

Silence.

A single plume of black smoke rose from atop the palace.

Eerie silence.

Then, screaming.

Confused voices, more screaming, followed by the sound of chaos pouring from the palace.

Anton turned away. The first siren wailed in the distance, growing louder. Now a second siren.

The cloud passed from beyond the sun, and a bright reflection glowed from the gold tip at the top of the Monas.

The Monas. The monument of independence. The monument of freedom.

At last, freedom!

Anton walked toward it. A third siren pierced the air. Now a fourth.

Armed troops in shining helmets scrambled across the grass, brushing his shoulders as they ran right by him, headed to the palace.

The air filled with sirens screeching as he approached the Monas. He stopped at the base of the great tower and looked straight up. From here, the Monas was a great arm reaching into heaven, its gold tip glowing, basking in the afternoon sunlight.

What a glorious, final sight to pass from this world into the world of his father and now his brother.

The sound of helicopters roared over the square and over the palace, muffling the ear-splitting sound of the sirens. Whirling lights atop police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances filled the streets surrounding the square.

Good. No one would hear what was about to happen.

The gun had been wedged under his belt. It was a nine-millimeter Glock that his father had used in Aceh.

He pulled the pistol from his belt and carefully worked the action. Soon, they would be scouring the area for suspects. Anyone with a pistol would be arrested or shot. He would have to be swift.

He brought the barrel to his mouth. The steel was cold to his lips and tongue.

“You with the gun!”

He turned toward the smoking palace. Two armed soldiers were charging him from across the grass. They brought their rifles up, aiming squarely at him.

“Drop it!” one of them shouted.

Anton stepped back, pressed his skull against the base of the Monas, and squeezed the trigger.

Chapter 12

The White House

3:15 a.m.

The staticky buzz prompted a murmur and a grunt from the First Lady of the United States, who responded to it by wrapping her leg around the president and grunting again.

Now in his eighth year in office, Mack wished that he could ignore a post-midnight call on the presidential hotline. But he had campaigned for this job, and part of the territory of holding the most powerful job on the planet was taking calls at all hours of the night. And a call on the hotline at three-fifteen in the morning could not be a good thing.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and reached over to pick up the phone. “Whatcha got?”

“Sorry for the interruption, Mr. President,” Chief of Staff Arnie Brubaker said, “but we’ve got an emergency situation in Indonesia, sir.”

Mack rubbed his eyes. “Not another tanker attack in the straits, I hope.”

“Even worse, Mr. President.”

A twisting wrenched the president’s stomach. “What?”

“Mr. President, there’s just been an attack at the Merdeka Presidential Palace in Jakarta. We think it’s an assassination attempt on President Santos.”

“Dear Lord.” That one word—assassination—sent chills up the spine of any red-blooded politician. Even the president wasn’t immune to it, and the first lady went into a clammy near-panic at the news of an attempt on the life of any leader anywhere in the world. She had seen the Zapruder film of the JFK assassination and tried her best to keep Mack from running. “When? How?”

“Fifteen minutes ago, sir. Apparently a bomb in Santos’ office. And there’s something else.”

Mack swung his seat over the side of the bed. “Let’s hear it.”

“Ambassador Stacks may have been with President Santos at the time.”

“Not Martin.” Mack wiped his forehead. The president and Martin Stacks had been fraternity brothers at the Sigma Chi fraternity house at the University of Kansas. “Have we heard anything from him?”

“No sir, Mr. President, we haven’t. And I’m afraid there’s more potentially bad news.”

“Arnie, just give me all the bad news at once. This business of doing it piecemeal is driving me bananas.”

“Sorry, Mr. President. The last thing involves Lieutenant Commander Colcernian.”

Mack could not bring himself to respond. He had gotten to know Diane Colcernian four years ago in connection with her duties as a US Navy JAG officer when she had assisted JAG officer Zack Brewer in the prosecution of three Islamic chaplains, all members of the Navy Chaplain Corps. The case had gotten international attention, and when it was over, Mack had invited Zack and Diane to the White House.

Diane was later kidnapped by terrorists and presumed dead, but thanks to the brilliant investigative work of a young agent in the Naval Criminal Investigative Service named Shannon McGilverry, evidence surfaced suggesting that Diane might be alive.

Risking the possibility of war with Russia and China, Mack had personally ordered a daring rescue mission by Navy SEALs across Chinese and Russian airspace into Mongolia’s Gobi Desert, where Diane was found alive and rescued by the SEALs.

Mack had paternalistic feelings toward Diane. This was in part because her father, a retired navy admiral, had died just before Diane accepted her commission, and it had been rumored that Diane had passed up a lucrative modeling career to serve in the navy. Her mother had died long ago, and Diane had told Mack when she came to the White House that she was fulfilling her father’s wishes that his only child follow in his footsteps as a naval officer.

The navy had sent Diane to an attaché job in Jakarta to get her into a relatively safe position to give her time to recover from captivity, out of the limelight of the press.

And now, this.

“Mr. President?”

“What about Commander Colcernian?”

“Sir, she accompanied Ambassador Stacks to the Merdeka Palace. That’s all we know at the moment.”

“What about Commander Brewer? Does he know?” Mack asked.

“Lieutenant Commander Brewer was in Singapore in the old British military hospital. But he left against doctor’s orders, and persuaded Ambassador Griffith to let him travel to Diego Garcia and then to Indonesia to help in the investigation. We know he’s in Indonesia, but as far as we know, he did not accompany the ambassador or Commander Colcernian to the embassy. We don’t know what he knows at the moment, sir.”

The president flicked on a small reading light that he kept on the lampstand.

“Mack?” This was the voice of the first lady. He looked around and saw her squinting and starting to push herself up. He held up his hand to shush her.

“Okay, Arnie. Assemble the National Security Council together in the Situation Room in one hour. Tell the chairman of the Joint Chiefs I want a full briefing of everything we know.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

“Okay, get to it. I’m going to throw some clothes on. Call me if we hear anything about Santos, Martin Stacks, or Diane.”

“Will do, sir.”

Mack hung up the phone.

“What’s wrong, Mack?”

“Try to get some sleep.” He reached over and kissed his wife on the cheek. “I’ll tell you about it in the morning.”

“I heard you mention Marty Stacks and Diane Colcernian. Are they okay?”

“Dunno yet, sweetie.” Another kiss on the cheek. He pulled the covers over her and then flipped off the reading light. Darkness covered the presidential bedroom.

Mack swung his feet to the floor and tiptoed across to the small study room adjacent to the bedroom. He stepped in, felt for the lamp on the small mahogany desk, and switched it on, then closed the door behind him.

The old family Bible given to him by his grandparents when he graduated from college was sitting on the corner of the dark wood.

Years ago, a good friend’s wife had given him a book. He couldn’t even remember the name of it. But now, in the angst of the moment, he somehow remembered the verse that she had written in the front of it.

Colossians 1:9-14: “For this reason, since the day we heard about you, we have not stopped praying for you and asking God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all spiritual wisdom and understanding. And we pray this in order that you may live a life worthy of the Lord and may please him in every way: bearing fruit in every good work, growing in the knowledge of God, being strengthened with all power according to his glorious might so that you may have great endurance and patience.”

The president stopped, looked up, and prayed, “Father, grant me wisdom, endurance, and patience, even in this hour of uncertainty.” His eyes returned to the Bible.

“And joyfully giving thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of the saints in the kingdom of light. For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.”

“Lord, prepare me for this, and grant thy servant wisdom that you may be glorified. And grant protection to those Americans in Indonesia under my command and under thy authority, that they may be safe from harm, and that this trial which we face would be resolved according to thy glory. For it is in the name of thy living Son, Jesus of Nazareth, that I beseech thee upon bended knee, amen and amen.”

The Halmahera Sea
Two miles southwest of Gag Island

4:30 p.m.

On board the ninety-six-hundred-ton, Ticonderoga-class guidedmissile cruiser Port Royal, Lieutenant JG Edison “Eddie” Atwater of Columbia, South Carolina, decided to step out on deck for a cigarette. Atwater put a ball cap on his head and looked out across the water at the Belgian supertanker Lady of Amsterdam, which the Port Royal was operating close to.

Since the attacks in the Malacca Strait, Port Royal and a number of other cruisers and frigates had been pressed to escort oil tankers around the southern coast of Indonesia, up through the Halmahera Sea, and into either the South China Sea or the Philippine Sea.

Atwater cupped his hand around the lighter to shield it from the tropical sea breeze, then lit the Camel cigarette and proceeded to inhale.

Out to the starboard of the Port Royal, fifteen hundred yards off her gunwales, the Lady of Amsterdam churned low in the water, her belly full of thousands of gallons of black crude.

Beyond the tanker, two miles to the north, lay the gorgeous but mostly uninhabited shores of Gag Island, in the Raj Ampats archipelago. These were some of the most beautiful and pristine seas in the world. Because they were largely unpopulated, naval intelligence had opined that a small speedboat attack from any of the islands in the archipelago was unlikely.

Still, out of an abundance of precaution, the captain had stationed a half-dozen binocular-bearing sailors along the side of the ship to supplement the regular lookouts. Atwater looked down and saw that all of them had their binoculars pointed in the direction of Gag Island.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant.” Atwater turned around and saw the command master chief, wearing faded wash khakis and a navy blue ball cap with USS Port Royal stenciled on it. “Sorry to interrupt your cigarette break, sir, but the skipper wants a navigational update.”

“Be right there, Master Chief.” Atwater cursed under his breath, then flicked the freshly lit cigarette onto the steel deck and stamped it out. He stepped back into the bridge, where Commander Roth Neal, the commanding officer of the Port Royal, was waiting.

“I need a navigational update, Mr. Atwater,” the skipper said. “Punch it up on the screen for us.”

“Aye, sir,” Atwater said.

Atwater stepped to his post and punched a button activating the GPS display.

“We’re currently here, sir. Bearing course two-seven-eight degrees, approximately two miles just south of Gag Island in the Raj Ampats archipelago. Once we clear Gag, we turn north, bearing three-six-zero degrees into the Philippine Sea.”

“Excellent,” the captain said. “Well, the good news, gentlemen,” he was now speaking to all the officers on the bridge, “is this. Since the Lady of Amsterdam is headed to San Francisco, we’ll track her as far as Pearl Harbor, where we drop off and return to port in Hawaii.”

That brought spontaneous cheers from the officers on the bridge.

Port Royal had been at sea for over a year already, her cruise extended because of the explosive situation in the Middle East. The commanding officer’s announcement brought a smile to Ed Atwater’s face. He had not seen his wife, Molly, in over a year. He had never met his son, Eddie Jr., who was born just three weeks ago at the Pearl Harbor Naval Hospital.

“Unless,” the captain continued, “Washington redirects us elsewhere. Hopefully, that won’t happen. Some of us have new family members to get acquainted with.” He smiled at Eddie.

The captain was a good man. The whole thing about needing a “navigational update”—just a ruse. Everyone on the ship knew that Gag Island was two miles off the starboard. The skipper had called him back into the bridge to announce that Port Royal was finally going home, and that soon, Eddie would see his son.

“Thank you, Skipper,” Eddie said.

“You bet,” the skipper said. “All right. Everybody get back to work. And Mr. Atwater?”

“Sir?”

“Get your tail back out on the deck and finish that cigarette. That’s an order.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The Halmahera Sea
Twenty miles southwest of Gag Island

4:43 p.m.

From the windswept fantail of the twenty-two-hundred-ton Indonesian Navy frigate KRI Oswald Siahaan, Captain Hassan Taplus gazed out across the sea, looking to the north. Nothing was in sight except the open expanse of the crystal-blue waters.

That would change in a moment. Just beyond the earth’s curvature, just over the aquamarine horizon, the great weapon that would change history, that would launch his career as the youngest general in the history of the Indonesian military, sat atop the tower they had constructed.

His job, at least this portion of it, was complete. Now, the glorious moment was in the hands of the experts who understood the intricate theories of nuclear weaponry.

The ship’s crew was already abuzz with rumors. Still, even the crew did not yet know. That too would soon change.

“Now hear this.” A voice from the ship’s loudspeaker system echoed across the steel decks of the frigate. “This is the captain speaking. You, the officers and crew of the KRI Oswald Siahaan, are privileged to have been selected to be a part of a monumental military mission that will change the course of our great nation forever.”

At those words, Captain Taplus could do nothing but smile.

The commanding officer continued. “Rumors have floated around the ship for the last few hours that Indonesia is about to detonate her first nuclear device. Until now, we have been unable to confirm or deny such rumors.”

A pause. Goosebumps crawled over Taplus as the red-and-white Indonesian flag flapped furiously in the wind off the stern of the frigate.

“But now,” the captain continued, “I am pleased to report that those rumors are true. And you are about to be witnesses to history.” Cheering erupted. The captain continued as the cheering subsided. “That test shall commence in less than two minutes, on Gag Island, approximately twenty miles to our north. In just a few moments, we shall begin the final countdown to detonation.

“For your own protection, however, do not look in the direction of the north. I repeat. Do not look to the north, or you run the risk of blindness.

“I now pass the microphone to our executive officer, who shall commence the countdown. Time to detonation is just over one minute.”

A slight pause. Then another man’s voice, slightly higher in tone, came over the loudspeaker system. “This is the executive officer. Stand by for final sixty-second countdown to detonation. On my mark.”

A slight delay.

“T-minus sixty seconds…fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty-six…”

Hassan’s heart fired like a machine gun.

“T-minus forty-five seconds. Do not look off the starboard. Fortytwo, forty-one, forty…

“T-minus thirty seconds…

“T-minus twenty-five seconds…”

USS Port Royal
Two miles southwest of Gag Island

4:45 p.m.

As Eddie Atwater stepped out onto the starboard deck to finish his cigarette, the afternoon sky erupted into a light a thousand times more blinding than the sun.

A thunderous blast rocked the ship two seconds later. Atwater grabbed for the side railings, but rushing winds flipped him through the air like a rag doll in a dryer, flinging him sideways and smashing his skull onto a steel hatch.

An explosion of bursting glass from the windows in the bridge slashed crewmen, who were now stumbling over themselves.

Atwater fell to the deck, pinned there by the raging winds. Blood gushed from his mouth and skull, as the mighty warship heeled to its left under the force of the raging winds.

A steel radar shaft snapped like a twig, falling and decapitating a petty officer clinging desperately to a guardrail. This would be the last sight Eddie Atwater would ever witness.

On the bridge of the Port Royal, Commander Roth Neal, his face a mask of blood, struggled to save his ship. Pulling himself up over groaning bodies, he managed to peer out over the starboard toward the sea. The sun had exploded on the horizon, and above it, a horrifying mushroom cloud plumed to the heavens. In the water between the Port Royal and the mushroom cloud, the tanker Lady of Amsterdam was completely aflame, its oil having been ignited by the blast.

Was this really happening? Was he living a nightmare?

The thought struck him that he had failed to carry out the orders of the commander, Seventh Fleet, to “protect that tanker at all costs.” A sick feeling flooded him.

He had failed in his mission.

He had failed his men.

Port Royal listed further to her left. Soon she would be in danger of capsizing. Neal slid back down from the port ledge, scrambling across more bodies to reach for a fire extinguisher. “Dear Jesus, save my men!”

The Oswald Siahaan
Twenty miles southwest of Gag Island

4:45 p.m.

Do not look. Do not look!”

The voice bellowed over the frigate’s loudspeaker system as the horizon lit up like the midday sun. Even still, the sheer, uncontrolled adrenaline that shot through every cell in Hassan’s body would not allow him to heed the warnings.

His face…his body…his eyes, all turned to the north, as if compelled by an unknown force to pay homage to a great god rising in the sky at the horizon’s edge.

The mushroom rising into the heavens in the distance was indeed…somehow…godlike…somehow divine.

Awed silence enveloped the crew of the ship at the stunning sight. And then, moments later, rolling waves of deafening thunder boomed across the water…shaking the ship…As if a great voice were commanding, “On your knees!”

“Yes, lord,” Hassan said, as he fell to his knees, his eyes glued to the northern horizon.

Others fell to their knees at the awesome roar of the thunder.

And then, wind. Strong winds blew from the north.

The scientists had told them that the winds would blow, but this…the light, the thunder, the wind.

*********

“Control yourself, Hassan!” he commanded himself. Becoming overwhelmed by this near-religious experience was foolish. By now, the transition of power was shifting to General Perkasa, if it had not already occurred. Hassan was about to become the youngest general in Indonesian history. He was a future president!

Hassan rose to his feet, confidently. He would find the captain of the ship and inform him to clear the helicopter for takeoff.

Now was his time for destiny. He would return to Jakarta in triumphant glory.

The White House

4:15 a.m.

Everybody in place, Arnie?” The president, along with Arnie Brubaker and flanked on each side by two Secret Service agents, approached the door leading into the Situation Room.

“The entire NSC is present except for the secretary of state, sir.”

“Where’s Secretary Mauney?”

“San Diego, sir. Summit with the Mexican foreign minister at the Hotel Del.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

“Do you want him back in Washington?”

“Maybe,” Mack said. “We’ll see. Everybody else ready to go?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Let’s do it.”

“Yes, sir.” Arnie opened the double doors leading into the Situation Room. “Ladies and gentlemen, the president.”

“Be seated,” Mack demanded. “Let’s get down to business. Secretary Lopez”—Mack looked at the secretary of defense—“what’s happening in Indonesia?”

“Not good, Mr. President. Things are developing rapidly. Admiral Jones will present the military briefing.”

“Very well,” Mack said, and turned to his Joint Chiefs’ chairman. “What do we know, Admiral?”

“Mr. President”—Admiral Jones looked down at his wrist watch—“approximately one hour and fifteen minutes ago, a bomb detonated at Merdeka Palace, which is the official residence and office of the Indonesian president. Chaos is reigning right now at Merdeka Square, just across the street. Emergency vehicles have surrounded the palace. Helicopters are buzzing overhead.

“The US embassy confirms this situation, Mr. President, and has confirmed that Ambassador Stacks and his naval attaché, Lieutenant Commander Diane Colcernian, were scheduled to meet with President Santos to brief him on information that Commanders Colcernian and Brewer had learned concerning possible Indonesian involvement in the Malacca Strait attacks. Mr. President, Brewer and Colcernian had discovered that at least one member of the Indonesian Navy was involved in the attack that was foiled by USS Reuben James.

“Ambassador Stacks and Commander Colcernian were scheduled to meet with President Santos at two o’clock local time there in Jakarta, right about the time the bomb went off. Sir, we’ve not heard from the president, the ambassador, or Commander Colcernian. We don’t know if they’re dead or alive.

“On top of that, we’ve got another problem, Mr. President.” Jones ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair.

What now? Mack shook his head. “Go ahead, Admiral.”

“We’ve lost contact with one of our ships, Mr. President. The USS Port Royal, a heavy cruiser, was accompanying the oil tanker Lady of Amsterdam through the Halmahera Sea.

“The Lady of Amsterdam has disappeared from our radar. The Port Royal is still on our screen, but is dead in the water. She’s not responding on any hailing frequencies. We’re getting unconfirmed reports of a nuclear blast in the area where Port Royal was operating, sir.”

“A what?”

“Mr. President, ships in the area have been abuzz with radio traffic describing events consistent with a nuclear blast.”

“What kind of events?”

“Eight ships, all within a twenty-five-mile radius of Gag Island, describe a tremendous flash in the area, followed by shaking thunder and winds.”

“What island?” Mack asked.

“Gag Island. It’s an uninhabited Indonesian island in the Halmahera Sea. Also, we’ve gotten reports of a mushroom cloud rising in the sky. Seismic activity corroborates that something happened. We’re dispatching a plane from Guam to confirm.”

“Mr. President.” This was National Security Advisor Cynthia Hewitt. “There’s also talk out on the streets in Jakarta of a junta in Indonesia, and this explains the explosion at Merdeka Palace.”

“How credible is this intelligence?”

“Too early to tell,” she replied, “but the timing makes it suspicious in my judgment, sir. Indonesian state television says that an announcement will be forthcoming shortly from the Indonesian military.”

“I want live-time feed on that announcement.”

“Yes, Mr. President. The announcement will be transmitted live here into the Situation Room as soon as it starts.”

“Mr. President,” Admiral Jones said.

“Admiral.”

“Sir, we’ve prepared a map to show where we think this blast occurred.”

“Let’s see it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The map flashed on several flat-screen video monitors. Admiral Jones continued, “Mr. President, you saw this map yesterday. This shows the sea route where our frigates and cruisers are now providing escorts for oil tankers sailing around the Strait of Malacca.

“Look at the arrow tip which touches the equator, almost due west of Biak. This is the approximate position of Gag Island. This is the area where we’re getting unconfirmed reports of this blast. This is also the area in which USS Port Royal was accompanying the Lady of Amsterdam.

“Here’s an enlarged map of the area, sir, showing the last position of USS Port Royal.”

“As you can see, sir, Port Royal was just southwest of Gag Island when we lost contact with her. She was scheduled to break north from here into the Philippine Sea, and then set course to Hawaii.”

“Where’s our nearest ship?”

“About seventy-five miles to the southeast, sir. USS Valley Forge. She’s steaming that way as we speak.”

“Do we have a chopper in the air yet?”

“Yes, sir, two choppers are up from the Valley Forge. But with the risk that a nuclear blast has occurred, we can’t safely fly in closer than ten miles because of the danger of radiation.”

The president’s telephone buzzed. Mack picked it up. “Yes.”

“Mr. President.” It was the White House secure hotline operator. “The Pentagon is on the line for Admiral Jones. It’s the J–2 commander.”

“Admiral?” Mack looked at the Joint Chiefs’ chairman. “You have a call on the hotline.” He handed the phone to the admiral.

“Admiral Jones speaking.” A pause. “That’s a confirm?” Another pause. “Both choppers?” A third pause. “Is the WC–135 in the air?” The admiral’s eyes met the president’s. The worried look on the admiral’s face suggested that the news was not good. “What’s their ETA? Thank you.” The admiral hung up.

“Mr. President, both Seahawks from USS Valley Forge have confirmed spotting a mushroom cloud rising in the sky from the vicinity of Gag Island. The Air Force has dispatched a WC–135 aircraft down from Guam with equipment allowing us to measure radiation levels in the atmosphere. The plane will be over the area within an hour. At that point, we’ll make a definite confirmation. But it doesn’t look good.”

Chapter 13

Jakarta, Indonesia

3:30 p.m.

The entire city of Jakarta had been turned upside down. No, not just the city, the entire world.

Rumors of the president’s assassination swirled over the streets, and yet, still nothing confirmed.

Yet, she knew.

Of course she knew.

She knew of it in advance, yet she had done nothing to stop it. But what could she have done?

Still, she felt his blood on her hands. The blood of the president. He was dead because she had done nothing. “Oh, God, help me!” she screamed as she ran down the sidewalk. If only she had said something.

With the back of her hand, she pushed away the tears that were running down her cheeks. She was out of breath and wanted to vomit. But she could not.

Soon, they would be after her.

The black iron gate in front of the white stucco house was shut. Through its bars, the afternoon sun cast long shadows of palm trees across the immaculate green grass. It was as if the shadows were the arms of her pursuers.

She opened the gate and rushed down the walkway leading to the front door of the house. She turned and looked back, expecting to see Captain Taplus in pursuit. Or perhaps Colonel Croon. Maybe even the general himself!

Nothing.

No one.

She rang the doorbell. No answer. She pounded on the door.

The door opened.

Elizabeth Martin, wearing a simple blue dress, smiled in welcome. Then her smile faded. “Kristina, you look horrible, my dear.” She opened her arms and Kristina fell into her embrace. “You are shaking. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she lied. “I’m just upset. Have you heard the rumors?”

“About the president? Yes. It doesn’t sound good. They are playing mourning music on the radio and television. Tom is on his way home. They just issued a warning that everyone should stay inside and that an announcement is about to begin on the television.” Elizabeth ran her hand through Kristina’s hair. “Come in. I’ll get you a blanket and we can watch it together.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth. What would I do without you?”

Elizabeth led her to a sofa in the living room, which was positioned in front of a flat-screen television. On the television, the screen was split between live shots of the Monas and the Indonesian flag fluttering atop Merdeka Palace.

Subdued mourning music streamed over the speakers, and an announcement scrolled across the screen to “Stay tuned for a somber announcement concerning the status of the president of the Republic of Indonesia.”

Elizabeth lifted a blanket from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around Kristina’s shoulders. “Would you care for hot tea? It might help you stop the shakes.”

“No, thank you.” The warm blanket did seem to help, Kristina thought, as Elizabeth sat on the sofa beside her.

The Monas and the Indonesian flag disappeared. A man wearing a black suit and a black tie appeared. His face was grim and somber. Kristina recognized him as one of the anchormen for Indonesian state television, but she could not remember his name.

“Good afternoon. This is Yusuf Salomo in Jakarta. I regret that I have the somber duty of reporting that President Enrique Santos, the president of the Indonesian Republic, has died.

“The president died this afternoon at about two o’clock, Jakarta time, in his office at Merdeka Palace. He was assassinated.

“At the time, we can confirm that the president was visiting with his personal physician, Dr. Guntur Budi, along with the United States ambassador and one of the ambassador’s assistants, when a bomb mysteriously exploded inside the president’s office.

“Merdeka Palace has confirmed that Dr. Budi, the president’s close, personal friend, has also died in the attack.

“There is no word yet on the fate of the US ambassador or his assistant. The American embassy has remained silent on the matter.

“Although the nation is shocked by this atrocity, all Indonesians should be assured that the situation is under control and there is no reason to panic. An announcement will be soon forthcoming here on TVRI from General Suparman Perkasa, the head of the Indonesian military.

“Meanwhile, General Perkasa has issued a statement assuring Indonesians that a massive manhunt is on for anyone with knowledge of the assassination plot, and that anyone involved will be brought to justice and will face the full wrath of the Indonesian armed forces.

“Again, Enrique Santos, president of the Indonesian Republic, has died. We expect a live statement of reassurance from General Perkasa within one minute. I am told that we are preparing to switch to General Perkasa now. Please stand by.”

The shaking, which a moment ago had subsided, returned with a vengeance. The blankets had become useless.

“You are shaking again. Please, let me get you some hot tea.”

“No,” Kristina insisted. “I must go.”

“You’re in no condition to leave, my dear.” Elizabeth’s hand rested on her shoulder. “Wait until Tom gets home. I can take you to our doctor.”

“No!” Kristina handed Elizabeth the blanket. “Thank you, but…it’s not safe here.” Her breathing accelerating, she headed for the door. “Thank you, Elizabeth. Remember that I love you and thank you for all that you and Tom have done for me.” She opened the door and ran back down the sidewalk, under the shadow of the palm trees.

“Kristina!” Elizabeth shouted from the front door. “Please come back!” The soft British voice faded as she sprinted away.

*******

The reality for Kristina was this: there was no safe haven. At least not with the Martins.

She could not, would not turn back. She must keep running.

But where?

The White House

4:40 a.m.

They’re lying, Mr. President.” The secretary of defense banged the table, as the image of the Indonesian anchorman again gave way to the live shot of the red-and-white Indonesian flag. “How could they have no information about the ambassador and Commander Colcernian?”

“Agreed, Secretary Lopez,” Mack said. “It doesn’t smell right.” He turned to his chief of staff. “Arnie, call the secretary of state. I don’t care if he’s asleep. Get him up. Tell him I need him back here in Washington. Send my apologies to the Mexicans. Tell them we’ll reschedule the summit as soon as we can.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Who is this General Perkasa?” Vice President Douglas Surber asked.

“We’re getting ready to find out, Mr. Vice President,” the national security advisor said, pointing at the television screen.

Mack looked up at the flat screen and saw an Asian man, slightly plump, in a green military uniform. Behind him were stacks of books, as if he were sitting in an office with a personal library behind his desk. He stared into the camera, as if waiting on someone to cue him to begin. At the bottom of the screen, in English, were the words General Suparman Perkasa, Chief of Staff, Indonesian Armed Forces.

“He looks like Manuel Noriega,” someone said.

“Like a tinhorn dictator,” someone else said.

“No kidding,” came a response.

“Shhhhhhhh.”

“Good afternoon,” the man said. “I am General Suparman Perkasa, chief of staff of the Armed Forces of the Republic of Indonesia.

“By now, you have been informed of the tragic death of our leader, President Enrique Santos. I would like to begin by extending my deepest sympathies to our first lady, to the Santos children, and to our great nation. In this hour of tragedy and uncertainty, I would like to reassure all Indonesians there is no reason to panic.”

A pause.

A close-up.

“I am in charge.”

“The guy sounds like Alexander Haig the day Reagan was shot,” Mack quipped.

“While this is indeed one of the saddest days in the history of our republic, I wish all Indonesians, indeed all citizens of the world, to know two things:

“First, the government will track down and prosecute the president’s killers to the fullest extent of the law. Make no mistake about this!”

“Why is this guy speaking on behalf of the government?” the vice president asked. “Where is the vice president of Indonesia?”

“Good question,” Mack observed.

“Second, I wish all Indonesians to know that our leader has not died in vain. In fact, I am announcing this day that the government is enacting several crucial and bold initiatives in honor of our slain president. He has secretly supported these initiatives for years, and they now become a fitting memorial and a lasting memory in his honor.”

“Where’s this guy coming from?” the secretary of defense wondered aloud.

“The first is that the Republic of Indonesia is henceforth, and from this day forward, known forever as the Islamic Republic of Indonesia.”

“Son of a—”

“This great change reflects our status as the world’s largest Islamic country, and indeed is a reaffirmation of our adherence to the principles of the Great Faith.”

“This smells.”

“The second great change, and I know in my heart at this moment that our president must be beaming in paradise,” a sinister grin crossed the general’s face, “is that I am pleased to announce that today—in fact about one hour ago—the Islamic Republic of Indonesia has become the world’s first Islamic nuclear superpower.”

Mack narrowed his eyes.

“This was our late president’s dream. Top-secret plans had been in place for months to bring about this glorious event. My fellow citizens, and citizens of the world, I invite you to watch. This was the scene on Gag Island, in the remote eastern section of our country, only one hour ago.”

The screen switched from the stout general to a seascape. In the middle of it, an island rose from the sea. The shot looked as if the island were several miles from the camera.

At the bottom of the screen, a message was superimposed declaring, Gag Island, Halmahera Sea—4:45 P.M. LOCAL/2:45 P.M. JAKARTA.

Swells could be seen crossing the water, gently, from left to right, between the camera and the distant island.

And then…

The center of the screen exploded in blinding white colors like the center of the sun. A mushroom rose over the island, its stem extending to the heavens. The sea in the foreground grew more violent. The video itself jolted up and down, as if the ship hosting the camera was being rocked by sudden swells.

Mack winced for the crew of USS Port Royal.

The rising mushroom disappeared. The general with the sinister grin reappeared.

“And so, my fellow countrymen, today is the most bittersweet day in the history of Indonesia. We have lost a great leader. But by fate…by destiny…Allah has by divine coincidence given us the hope of glory, by making our great nation among the greatest and the most powerful on the stage of the world.”

“What a madman,” the vice president mumbled.

“We shall execute our late president’s plan, and we shall do so from this day forward in his honor.”

“Scary,” said the secretary of defense.

“And the first matter of importance to a new global order is the question of the so-called Jewish state.”

“What?” This was the national security advisor.

“Someone…some nation…must become an advocate for those who have long since been forgotten…for those with no voice from the other nuclear powers.

“For too long, our Islamic brothers…those Arabs in Palestine…have been neglected by the powers in the United Nations who acquiesce to the belligerent, inhumane practices of the so-called Jewish state.

“No more! Again I declare, no more!” The dictator pounded his hand on his desk. “The Islamic Republic of Indonesia now insists upon the repeal of certain United Nations resolutions concerning the Jewish State of Israel.

“Our demands are simple. Our determination is resolute. We call these steps the Three Steps of International Justice.”

“The what?”

“As a first step, the United Nations must repeal UN Resolution 181. This was the resolution passed in 1947 that recognized the illegitimate right to a so-called Jewish state.

“As a second step, the United Nations must repeal UN Resolution 273. This was the resolution passed in 1949 that called the illegal Jewish state a peace-loving state.”

“What an idiot!”

“Finally, as a final step of good faith, the United Nations must repeal UN Resolution 46/86, and in its place, restore UN Resolution 3379, which was originally adopted in 1975 before Zionist forces had it repealed.

“These are not just the demands of the Indonesian government. These are the demands of free people around the globe. These are the cries of the blood of those who have been murdered, raped, pillaged, and thrown from their homeland of a thousand years. These are the demands of justice.”

“We’ve got problems, gentlemen,” Mack interposed.

“Be forewarned”—the tinhorn pointed into the camera—“the powerful nations that run the UN must facilitate bringing about these three steps of justice. You know who you are.”

“Is he threatening us?”

“I doubt he’s talking about Mexico.”

“You, the nation, and the nations who control the United Nations must act swiftly to carry out these steps of justice that I have outlined. If you fail to do so, understand this: freedom fighters all over the world now share in the type of power that you have witnessed today. If these measures are not implemented in twenty-four hours, I have no control over the actions of these freedom fighters. However, it is my duty as a human, as one who cares for the lives of millions, to warn those who would oppose justice, for the protection of the lives of the innocent.”

“Is he threatening to nuke us?”

“Sounds like it.”

“Us and maybe the Brits too.”

“Do the right thing,” the tinhorn continued. “And remember, you nations controlling the United Nations, you have twenty-four hours. I bid you farewell from the Islamic Republic of Indonesia.”

The screen went black.

“What’s that last resolution he wants repealed?” the secretary of defense asked.

“That resolution equated Zionism with racism,” the national security advisor said. “It was an anti-Israeli resolution the UN passed in 1975. We mustered the votes, finally, to repeal it. He wants the repeal repealed, restoring the original declaration.”

“This guy sounds like Hitler,” the vice president remarked.

“Hitler didn’t have nukes,” Mack retorted. “Arnie, have we gotten through to the secretary of state?”

“Yes, sir. I just got a flash message that he’s being driven right now from the Hotel Del to North Island Naval Air Station in San Diego. He’ll be on a military jet headed back east any minute.”

“Good. I want him, along with the Indonesian ambassador, in my office just as soon as his plane touches down.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“And we’ll need to open up a line with the Brits. Where’s Prime Minister Suddath?”

“He’s flying back to London from Singapore,” Cyndi Hewitt said.

“Get him on a secure line,” Mack said. “Sounds like the Brits could be in their gunsights too.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

Outside Merdeka Square
Indonesia

4:15 p.m.

He knew it was probably dangerous for him to be here at the moment. At least, that was the official warning given by the State Department and relayed by the deputy chief of mission after Perkasa’s speech, which clearly, in the minds of the US government, had been aimed at America. All US civilians and embassy officials were to remain inside the walls of the embassy until further notice.

“Stay here, Zack,” Deputy Chief of Mission Bruce Laredo had told him. “The State Department wants all our personnel inside the embassy compound until we get this sorted out. They’re worried that we may have another hostage situation brewing like Tehran in 1979.”

Of course none of that made sense to Zack, since in Tehran in 1979, the US embassy was stormed by Iranian militants who took embassy personnel hostage. It seemed that if the State Department was really worried about an embassy siege, they’d get personnel out of the embassy and onto navy ships, as had been done in Hanoi in 1974. But their response was to declare that they were worried about an embassy siege, and then hole up inside it. Typical State Department logic. Notoriously oxymoronic.

Zack Brewer was a United States naval officer, not a State Department beanie head.

And even if he were a State Department beanie head, technically he was attached to the embassy in Singapore, not Jakarta. And unless someone in his direct chain of command ordered him to stay away…and his bosses in Singapore were too busy at the moment dealing with the disastrous oil slick to even wonder where he was…he was going to be here. As a compromise, he had agreed to doff his navy uniform and change into civilian clothes, but he was going to get as close to her as possible.

His heart pounded as he approached the edge of the square and looked across it at the smoking palace.

She was in there.

Somewhere.

Alive. She had to be. As he stood on the sidewalk, crowded in by throngs of thousands, some wailing, others cheering, many spreading their arms into the tropical skies, his spirit cried out to God, begging for her safety.

His cell phone rang. United States embassy. Deputy chief of mission. “Yes, sir.”

“You okay, Zack?”

“Yes, sir. I’m fine.”

“What are you seeing?”

“It’s chaos over here. Hundreds of armed troops are surrounding the palace. There must be fifty thousand civilians out in the square. A helicopter has landed on top of the palace. No way to get in or out right now other than by air, unless they clear these crowds out.” Lord, please protect her. “Any news on the ambassador or Commander Colcernian?”

“Nothing. We got the foreign minister’s office on the phone, but they say they don’t know anything from inside the palace other than the president has died.”

“They’re stonewalling, sir.”

“Can’t say that I disagree with that, Zack.”

“I’ve got to find a way to get inside.”

“Zack, don’t be crazy.”

He did not respond. Maybe he could wait until nightfall. Maybe his chances of penetrating the perimeter would increase under the cover of darkness. He had to get in.

“Zack, we need you back at the embassy.”

“Mr. Laredo, I’m fine. No one’s even noticed me.”

“I know you’re fine. I know that you’re going to be fine if you’re here or there. But, Zack, the ambassador’s gone. I need you here.”

“But…”

“Zack. There are things I need to talk to you about. Your country needs you here.”

Zack looked back across the square at the palace. Long shadows stretched across the mob of humanity, which had thickened even in the few minutes that he had been on the cell phone. The grim-faced soldiers pointed their weapons toward the crowd. The odd combination of euphoria and grief made for an explosive situation. One trigger-happy soldier could literally set fire to a massive sea of human gasoline.

How could he leave with such danger surrounding her?

“Zack?”

On the other hand, what good could he do by standing here and watching?

“Are you still there, Zack?”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes, sir.”

The White House

5:30 a.m.

Gentlemen, I need military action,” Mack said, as he eyed the nation’s highest-ranking military officers, the members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who were seated in a semicircle just in front of the president’s desk. “And I need it now.”

“Just tell us what you need, Mr. President.” This was the commandant of the Marine Corps.

A swig of black coffee. Just what the doctor ordered. “Very well, General Grey. While the nation has been asleep, a madman has taken over Indonesia, exploded a nuclear weapon, probably taken out one of our warships, and is threatening to use his nuclear toys against us if we don’t cave to his ridiculous demands.

“On top of that, the Indonesian president has apparently been assassinated, our ambassador and our naval attaché are unaccounted for, and in the last couple of days the Malacca Strait and the city of Singapore have become environmental disasters.” Another swig of coffee.

“Gentlemen, no one bullies the United States with nuclear blackmail. Not even thinly veiled nuclear blackmail.” Mack slammed his fist on his desk. “Too many innocent lives are at stake. I want this guy taken out.” He paused. “Am I clear on that?”

The air force chief of staff glanced at the chief of naval operations. Admiral Jones, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, raised his eyebrow. “Mr. President,” the air force chief said, “are you suggesting assassination? Because if you are, sir, then perhaps the CIA would be best suited for that sort of thing.”

“Who said anything about assassination, General McPeak?” Mack glared at the air force general. His Kansas blood was boiling. It had been a long night. “Assassination is a violation of military law. I’m talking about swift, decisive military action. If the good general does not survive that action, then that makes him a casualty of war. If this Islamic madman, tinhorn dictator is a casualty of war, then I have no control over that.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Question, Mr. President.”

“General Grey,” Mack acknowledged the commandant of the Marine Corps.

“Sir, what’s your time frame for having this operation ready for execution?”

“A good question, General.” Mack scratched his chin. “This General Perkasa says we have”—Mack made quotation marks in the air— “twenty-four hours to enact all these UN resolutions he has demanded.” He checked his watch. “Therefore, I want to cut the snake off at the neck before he strikes.

“It’s now just after 6:00 A.M., gentlemen. I want you all to go down to the situation room with the secretary of defense. I want you to formulate a plan, and I want it on my desk for review no later than zero-eight-thirty this morning. I want to review the plan, approve it, and I want us to strike within the next twelve hours, under cover of darkness in Jakarta.”

The Joint Chiefs exchanged glances.

“Gentlemen, I know our timeframe is short, and I know I’m asking a lot of you. But there’s a verse in the Bible that goes something like, ‘to whom much is given, much is expected.’

“All of us in this room…me, the vice president, the secretary of defense, and each of you, have been given an extraordinary responsibility for the defense of this great nation and the defense of freedom, a responsibility that only a minute handful of people in our history have ever shouldered. There’s another verse in the Bible. It’s from Esther, and I want you to remember it as you go. It says, ‘Who knows but that you have come to the royal position for such a time as this.’

“Gentlemen, none of us are royal. We are but servants of the people. But all of us…each one of us…has been called to this place, to this task, for such a time as this.

“I want to take this guy out. And I want to take control of Merdeka Palace, and I want to find our people. Now.”

“Mister President,” Admiral Jones said, “we’ve been working most of the night, anticipating this very moment. We already have a plan in place, just waiting for your approval, sir.”

Mack smiled. “Admiral, I knew there was a good reason I appointed you as chairman. Let’s hear it.”

Chapter 14

US Navy EA–18G (“Growler 2”)
Over Christmas Island, south of Indonesia

6:15 p.m.

Reagan, Growler 2.”

“Go ahead, Growler 2.”

“Sir, we’ve got the Seahawks down below us, skimming the water at five hundred feet. Crossing Christmas Island now. We’re ready to initiate jamming of Jakarta airspace at your direction, sir.”

“Growler, Reagan. Maintain course three-one-five degrees. Initiate jamming on my mark in…three minutes. Stand by. Mark it!”

“Reagan, Growler. Mark it. T-minus three minutes to initiation of jamming sequence.”

“Growler. Reagan. Copy that. Two fifty-nine. Two fifty-eight. Two fifty-seven…”

The pilot looked off into the deep blue watery horizon, where the sun was setting into the Indian Ocean just left of the plane’s nose. As the countdown proceeded from the tower aboard Ronald Reagan, he pressed the transmission button for internal communication within the cockpit. “How’d you like to be an air traffic controller at Soekarno-Hatta International in about three minutes?”

“They better hope they’ve got eardrum insurance.” The electronics officer laughed. “It’s going to take a few minutes to get our choppers into Indonesian airspace undetected. We’ll keep the boom box blasting till they tell us to turn it off.”

“This’ll be fun.”

Soekarno-Hatta International Airport
Jakarta, Indonesia

6:18 p.m.

Singapore Air four-four-niner,” the controller said, “turn right zero-two-zero degrees, descend to three thousand and hold.”

“Four-four-niner, roger that. Turning right zero-two-zero degrees. Descending to three thousand.”

Buzzing hornets suddenly filled the headset. The controller ripped the headsets from his ears, as the amber radar screen went blank. “What the—”

“What’s that noise?” another controller yelled.

“Hey, my screen went blank,” yet another controller blurted.

“Chief, we’ve got a problem,” the first controller said. “Radar’s blanked out.”

The supervisor rushed over to the screens. A litany of curse words followed. “Switch to backup radar! Now!”

“Switching to backup, sir.” The controller glued his eyes to the screen. Backup was slower, but at least it was reliable. “Come on, baby…Come on…It’s not working, sir.”

“Alert all planes on emergency channel. All planes in holding pattern remain in holding pattern. Turn back all inbound aircraft. No one takes off or lands till we can fix this.”

“Yes, sir!” The controller hit a button opening a frequency to all approaching and holding aircraft. “Jakarta Control to all aircraft in the area. We have a radar malfunction. Go to position reports. All planes contact Bali Control!”

US Navy EA–18G (“Growler 2”)
Over Christmas Island

6:22 p.m.

Reagan. Growler 2. Sounds like we’ve set off a party down there, Skipper,” the electronics warfare officer said. “They’re trying to divert the big birds to Bali.”

“Copy that. Not a bad place to go if you’ve got to divert. At least we know our toys really work. Keep busting their eardrums till we get our choppers on the ground.”

“Roger that. We’ll shuck and jive, and keep the party alive until we hear lights out from you.”

“Growler. Reagan. Have fun, and stand by.”

“Reagan. Growler. Standing by with our fingers on the light switch.”

Indonesian Air Force C–9
Over the Java Sea

6:25 p.m.

From his seat in the VIP section just behind the cockpit of the military jet, Captain Hassan Taplus looked out over the darkening waters of the sea and smiled. This would be the last sunset in which anyone would call him “Captain.”

He would surely be promoted to “Colonel” Taplus once he stepped off the plane. Perhaps the general himself would be there to meet him at the tarmac to pin his new rank upon his collars, and perhaps even an award for heroism on his chest.

Ah, yes. The glorious moment would come soon.

But no, on second thought, the general would be too busy for an airport promotion ceremony. As much as the general would personally like to be there, his duties would not allow it. That was understandable. The general could not be out in the public.

At least not yet, anyway.

The general would dispatch Colonel Croon to preside over the on-the-spot promotion, and then, there would be a more formal ceremony later on, replete with the appropriate cast of military and civilian dignitaries. The promotion would come now, and the medals for heroism would come at the formal ceremony. Yes, that was the way they would do it, he decided.

There would be a tickertape parade for him. He knew it. Much like the ones he had seen and read about in America. It would be the kind of tickertape that he had seen on YouTube for the American astronauts who walked on the moon all those years ago.

Of course, realistically, the parade would not only be for him. The general, of course, would have to be at the head of it, but there would be no reason whatsoever that he, the soon-to-be Colonel Taplus, would not be riding in the backseat of the convertible alongside the general. After all, the names of Perkasa and Taplus would go down forever as founding fathers of the Islamic Republic of Indonesia.

Of course, others would be in the parade as well. Perhaps even some of the people sitting behind him on this plane. There weren’t many of them. Only a handful were on the mostly empty plane. They were the scientists who worked on the project and a few other military advisors. That was okay. The parade would have to be long enough to make it worthwhile for the throngs of adoring Indonesians and the international media that would be clamoring to focus on the lead car.

But the point is, they would all be in the cars trailing him and the general. Even Colonel Croon could be in the parade. But he should be riding behind the lead car. Yes, Croon still outranked Hassan, for the time being anyway. But the general would come to the realization, if he had not already, that Croon was a stooge yes-man. Nothing wrong with a stooge yes-man who happened to be in the right place at the right time. History was replete with them. They were good at feeding the egos of the real changers of history. And yes, they were loyal to their hero idols.

Croon was loyal to the general. That, Hassan had to admit. But Croon could never have pulled off what Hassan had just pulled off. There was a reason the general sent the bright, young, handsome star of his staff, and not the old, dull, decrepit yes-man to pull off the most stunning technological feat in Indonesian history.

Hassan closed his eyes and smiled some more.

Yes, except for the on-the-spot promotion he was about to receive from the colonel at the airport, perhaps the colonel had already outlived his usefulness.

It was a thought anyway.

“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice came over the plane’s intercom system, “but there’s been an unexpected radar failure at Jakarta, and we’ve been ordered to turn the plane around and head to Bali. Don’t worry, Bali Control has us on their screens. We’ll keep you posted on developments.”

“What?” Hassan blurted. Had he heard that right? This could not be. He had just pulled off the single most historic achievement in his nation’s history. Now he was needed in Jakarta. The general would want his briefing. Perhaps even a joint press conference before the nation would be in order. Perhaps his promotion would take place on live television, and then they would go into the press conference.

He unholstered his safety belt, stepped into the aisle, and marched three steps forward to the cockpit area.

“What do you mean, we are turning the plane around?” Captain Taplus was now standing at the door of the cockpit.

“Air traffic control has rerouted us because of a radar failure,” the copilot said.

“Do you know who I am?” he snapped at the pilot. “I am Captain Hassan Taplus of General Perkasa’s staff. As you know, General Perkasa is now in charge of the Indonesian government. My presence in Jakarta is a matter of extreme urgency.”

“I understand, Captain Taplus,” the pilot said over his shoulder, as the plane began a wide, slow, banking maneuver. “But I have regulations I must follow. There is much confusion on the ground because of the assassination of the president. My regulations are mandated by the air force, of which I am an officer. If a controller tells us to turn away, we must turn away. We run the risk of midair collision by flying into heavily trafficked airspace without radar control.”

“Captain,” Hassan shot back, “I am sorry, but on the authority granted me by General Perkasa himself, I am ordering you to fly to Jakarta.”

The pilot looked over his shoulders, with an arrogant nobody-tells-me-what-to-do look on his face. “Captain Taplus, this is my airplane, and I am in command of it. And until someone on the ground with a higher authority than yours tells me otherwise, I am obligated to follow orders and procedures.”

Hassan instinctively reached for the pistol grip in his holster and whipped out his nine-millimeter Beretta. “Here is your higher authority!” Hassan pointed the gun directly at the sycophant. “Your orders are to turn this plane back to Jakarta! Now! A good pilot can fly in on direct reckoning, without radar. Do it!”

“Direct reckoning is almost impossible at night,” the pilot protested. “You can’t see anything unless you’re right on top of the airport.”

“Then use your compass, you idiot,” Hassan said. “You can figure it out!”

“And if I don’t you’ll shoot me?” the pilot snarled. “Who will fly the plane?”

Hassan swung the gun to the copilot’s head. “How about if I shoot your buddy over here first?” He jammed the barrel right behind the copilot’s ear.

“Don’t turn around,” the copilot said. “Let him shoot.”

The pilot’s eyes shifted between the gun, the copilot, and Hassan.

“I must remind you that until you turn this plane around, Captain, you are disobeying a lawful order, which will subject you to court martial if and when this plane lands. Now I’m going to count to ten,” Hassan said. “And when I reach ten, I’m going to splatter your friend’s brains all over the cockpit.” The pilot’s eyes shifted even more rapidly. “One, two, three, four, five, six…”

“Let him shoot…”

“Seven, eight…”

“Don’t give in to this idiot…”

“…Nine…” Hassan brought his finger to the trigger.

“Stop!” the pilot screamed. “Okay…okay…we’re turning around!”

Hassan pulled the gun back. Slightly.

“But I’m warning you, Captain Taplus,” the pilot said, as he began steering the plane back to a course approaching due west, “if and when we get this plane on the ground, I’m reporting you to the authorities.”

“Report all you want, Captain,” Hassan said. “But just remember this: General Perkasa is not going to be happy with you disobeying the lawful order of his chief assistant. Report me, and you’ll go from flying jets in the air force to driving a milk truck for the national guard. And that’s if you’re lucky.” He waved the gun in the general direction of the pilot. “Remember this too: you’ve got one hour to get this plane safely down on the ground in Jakarta. If not, you’ll need a body bag for your buddy here when we land. Am I clear?”

“You are clear, Captain.”

United States Embassy
Jakarta, Indonesia

6:45 p.m.

Zack had changed back into his white uniform, and stood in the corner of the heliport on the roof of the main building in the center of the sprawling compound. He was standing with the deputy chief of mission, Bruce Laredo, along with two US Marine guards.

Evening was falling over Jakarta, and the gorgeous sight of the twilight in the tropical sky pulling a starry mask over the last hint of orange hue from the vanishing sun reminded him that more than four hours had now passed since anyone had last seen Diane alive.

The faint sound of helicopter rotors grew stronger. Zack checked his watch. Right on time. The SEALs were always on time. The thought of being joined by his navy brethren fueled the dim flicker of hope smoldering in his soul.

“How well do you know this captain?” Bruce Laredo asked.

“Real well,” Zack said.

“How so?”

“I handled a big case for him a few years ago in San Diego. A navy SEAL was accused of rape. The woman who was raped just happened to be the niece of a powerful US senator. Chairman of the Armed Services Committee, as a matter of fact.”

“Roberson Fowler? Louisiana?”

“The one and only.”

The roar of the helicopters, which had not yet come into view, was now making it difficult to hear.

“So what happened?” Laredo was now yelling over the top of the approaching roar.

“The senator wanted a conviction. Which meant that the SEALs wanted a conviction.” Zack looked over at Laredo, whose eyes were wide open in the dim lights on the helo pad. “Which meant the navy wanted a conviction. I delivered. Case closed.”

The first SH–60B Seahawk, gray in color, with the word NAVY painted in black along the fuselage, crested the top of the trees. The helo pad lit up like a Christmas tree. One of the marines stepped forward and made crisscrossing signals in the night sky with the long, orange fluorescent sticks in his hands.

The chopper responded, gently feathering down on the center of the pad. A second chopper appeared. Then a third. They hovered for a moment, responding to the orange glow extended from the confident arms of the marine. Within minutes, all three choppers were perched on the roof, their engines still running.

Soekarno-Hatta International Airport
Jakarta, Indonesia

6:48 p.m.

The blank screen flickered, then flickered again. The electronic long hand reappeared, then began sweeping the blank screen in a clockwise direction. And then, contacts! Dozens of them! They appeared all over the screen all at once!

“Chief!” The air traffic controller felt an electric excitement surge through his body. “Radar’s back up! We’re in business!”

“Mine too!” another controller shouted.

“Contacts, Chief!” a third controller blurted. “The static is gone from my headset!”

“Great work, ladies and gentlemen!” the chief exclaimed. “I’m putting you all in for a government commendation. Now let’s get these planes turned back around and get them in here!”

United States Embassy
Jakarta, Indonesia

6:49 p.m.

The concrete heliport was shaking, it seemed, from the ferocious wind and roaring thunder of the three engines. The marine gave a cross signal with the sticks and, one by one, the pilots shut down the engines.

The bay door opened on the chopper in the center. A tall, familiar, lean-looking figure, wearing a camouflage uniform with a black eagle stenciled on the collar, signifying the rank of a US Navy captain, stepped out. On the chest of his jacket was the black Trident symbol of an angry eagle behind an anchor, clawing a pitchfork and a pistol—the insignia of a US Navy SEAL.

All three choppers opened their doors. Lean warriors in cammies and boots, with black grease on their faces and strapping submachine guns over their shoulders, all with SEAL insignias on their chests, trampled onto the roof of the building.

Zack approached the captain and shot a smart salute. “Good to see you, sir. Welcome to Jakarta.”

“Zack!” Captain Buck Noble smiled, returning the salute. “We keep meeting in the darndest places.”

“Yes, sir.” Zack dropped his salute. “Captain Noble, this is Mr. Bruce Laredo, deputy chief of mission for the embassy. He’s in charge in the ambassador’s absence.”

“Mr. Laredo.” Captain Noble saluted the deputy ambassador.

“Welcome to the US embassy, Captain,” Laredo said.

“Sorry to barge in on you like this.” Noble motioned his head toward the SEALs still piling out of the choppers. “But I was wondering if you might find some accommodations for my men during our stay…which I hope won’t be long.”

“Certainly,” Laredo said. “Lieutenant Jones?”

“Yes, sir.” The marine with the glow-in-the dark sticks came over to where they were standing, then saluted Captain Noble, who returned it.

“Lieutenant,” Laredo said, “please lead the SEAL team down to the dining area. Get them anything they need. Water. Coke. Food. Restrooms. I’ll let you know if we need overnight bedding accommodations.”

“Aye, sir,” the marine said. He motioned the SEAL team to follow him through a rooftop door into the embassy building.

As they were entering the building, Captain Noble pulled one of them to fall out of line.

“Mr. Laredo, Zack, this is Lieutenant Commander Garcia, my XO.”

“Commander,” Zack and Laredo said.

Garcia extended his hand to Zack. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Commander Brewer. The skipper here speaks highly of you.”

“The skipper’s gracious,” Zack said.

“No, it’s true,” Noble said. “I’ve just been put on the list for admiral, Zack. If you’d lost that trial, it never would’ve happened. They would have forced me into retirement.”

“Congratulations on making the list, sir.”

“The SEALs owe you one. I owe you.” He gave Zack an affectionate slap on the back.

Laredo turned to Captain Noble. “Captain, if you and Commander Garcia will accompany me and Commander Brewer to the ambassador’s office, I believe you’ll find what you need there.”

“Please lead the way,” Captain Noble said.

Laredo led them down two flights of stairs. Three or four minutes later, they stepped into a large hallway leading into the ambassador’s office. Ms. Kowalski, the ambassador’s assistant, was standing at the door.

“Ms. Kowalksi, this is Captain Noble of the Navy SEALs,” Laredo said.

“Please help us, Captain.” Her voice cracked. “The ambassador is a good man.”

“We’re going to try, ma’am,” Captain Noble said.

“Do we have the blueprints, Ms. Kowalski?” Laredo asked.

“They’re spread out on the ambassador’s desk.”

“Thank you.”

Zack and Captain Noble followed Bruce Laredo into the room. On the ambassador’s desk were several blueprints of a large building.

“Captain, Commanders, these drawings of the interior of Merdeka Palace are courtesy of our Dutch allies. The Dutch designed and built the palace, and Dutch engineering firms have performed maintenance projects on the building over the years.

“These papers diagram every inch of the building. From the entrances on the roof, to the power generation plants, to the data storage rooms, to the location of every electrical socket.”

Captain Noble leaned over the desk and studied the drawings. “Hmm. You speak like a man with an intel background, Mr. Laredo.”

“You pick up on that, Captain?”

“Nuances in your voice make me suspicious.”

“It’s that obvious?”

“You tell me.”

“You’re good, Captain. Interagency transfer from CIA to State Department five years ago. They want us interspersed throughout our embassies abroad. Particularly potential hotspots.”

“Okay,” Captain Noble said. “I’ll need thirty minutes here with Commander Garcia to construct an operational plan. Then we’ll need to meet with the team. Meanwhile, Mr. Laredo, I’ll need the basic floor plan reduced and copied for every one of my men. Can we make that happen?”

“Absolutely, Captain,” Laredo said. “We’ve already started working on it. Ms. Kowalksi?”

“Copies should be ready now. I’ll bring them up.”

“You’re good, Mr. Laredo.”

“No problem, Captain.”

Noble looked at Garcia. “What do you think, XO?”

“Just like we said earlier, Captain. We need to strike quickly to take their power out. Then we’ve gotta move. Looks like a power generation plant is here, and outside electrical lines are running here.” The XO pointed at various spots on the drawing. “We hit those areas with RPGs and then move quickly. We’ll need to take out their people, then do a rapid search for the ambassador and Commander Colcernian.

“And just as important, our orders are to take out General Perkasa. We may have twenty minutes max before they get organized from the outside and realize that their inside security has been taken out.”

“Agreed,” Captain Noble said. “We’ll divide into groups of three. I’ll take team one into the central section of the palace. XO, take team two into the east wing. Lieutenant Jones leads team three into the west section. We reconvene on the roof twenty minutes later and wait for our birds. From there, we fly straight to the carrier. We’ve gotta be swift, and we’ve gotta be effective.”

“Assuming we get the order from Washington to launch,” Laredo said.

“Of course,” Noble replied.

“Question,” Zack said.

“Yes, Zack.”

“Sir, remember you just said if there was ever anything you could do for me?”

“Sure thing. What’s on your mind?”

“I want to go, sir.”

A puzzled look crossed the captain’s face. “You want to go where?”

“On the mission. Diane’s in there. I want to go in with the SEAL team.”

“Are you crazy, Zack?” Captain Noble frowned. “I said I’d be glad to help you in any way, son. Getting you killed is not my idea of helping you.”

“Captain,” Zack said, “I’m a naval officer. I’ve taken the same oath to protect and defend the Constitution that you’ve taken, sir.” Zack’s blood was rushing. “I took that oath voluntarily, knowing that it could cost me my life. And if this mission costs me my life, then that’s the price I’m prepared to pay.”

“But, Zack, you’re a JAG officer. You’re not trained for this mission.”

“Captain,” Zack said, “you know what great respect I have for our SEAL teams. I’ve represented the interest of the SEALs as a trial counsel. I’ve spent tons of time with you and our SEAL teams at the amphib base in Coronado. But, sir, when it comes to handling a weapon, I grew up with weapons in eastern North Carolina. I was firing a gun before I was weaned off a pacifier. I could pick off a water moccasin’s head with a rifle at a hundred yards from a boat drifting up and down the Roanoke River. Did it hundreds of times. I was firing shotguns and rifles and pistols on my granddaddy’s farm in Martin County before most of the members of your SEAL team ever thought of joining the navy. Sir, with all respect, I can hang with any members of your team when it comes to handling a weapon.”

Silence.

“I’m sure you’re good with a rifle, Zack. But it’s not just about that. There’s physical training…”

“Just ran a marathon last December when I was on leave back on Kiawah Island, South Carolina. I’m in shape, Skipper. Trust me.”

The captain and Commander Garcia stared at each other. Commander Garcia was shaking his head no way.

“Please, sir,” Zack persisted. A desperation entered his chest. The desperation was for Diane. Whether she was dead or alive, he had to be there. He could not live with himself otherwise. “You said that if I ever needed anything. Please. Diane is in there. We don’t know what kind of shape we’ll find her in.” Their eyes locked. “She might need me.”

A pause. More looks between the CO and the XO. Captain Noble checked his watch. “Look. We don’t have much time. I’m not saying yes and I’m not saying no. But get downstairs and hook up with Master Chief Stoudemier. Tell him I said to get your face painted and get you into gear, and issue you an Uzi. I’ll make a decision on you if and when we get orders from Washington to go. But if I were to say yes”—he was wagging his finger—“and this is a big if, then you are to stick with me like white on rice. Understand?”

“Aye, aye, Captain. Thank you, sir!”

The White House

8:00 a.m.

I don’t know, Mr. President.” This was the voice of Secretary of State Robert Mauney, who was being conferenced into the Oval Office via secure line from his east-bound jet, somewhere over Arkansas. They were discussing the proposed military operation against Merdeka Palace, which had been put together and brought to the president by the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “My problem is that we’re launching a military action from a United States embassy. We’re opening a can of worms if we establish a precedent that it’s okay to launch military strikes against host nations from embassies in that nation. Suppose Iran launched a raid on the US Capitol from its embassy in DC?”

“That’s form over substance,” the secretary of defense responded. “This is a rescue operation. We know our ambassador and our naval attaché are in that building, we know there has been some sort of coup there, and we have every right under international law to defend ourselves, sir. This action is tantamount to self-defense, Mr. President.”

“It isn’t self-defense if we’re trying to go in to kill this General Perkasa,” the secretary of state’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “That’s an offensive operation. Again, sir, I don’t object to a military mission. It’s just that we can’t justify launching a military mission from an embassy.”

“But this self-defense mission was technically launched from the aircraft carrier.” Secretary Lopez was now standing and waving his arms in the air. “Besides, we jammed their airways. We’ve already flown three choppers into our embassy undetected under our jamming signals. They’ll never know that our choppers lifted off from the embassy, Mr. President.”

The secretary of state jumped in again. “We’re taking a real risk in thinking this won’t be discovered, Mr. President. Again, do we really want to set a precedent that would allow Iran or North Korea to launch attacks from their embassies against the White House? Please remember, sir. The fact that we’re going after this general makes this offensive. Not just defensive.”

The secretary of defense loosened his collar. “But the fact is that this general just exploded a nuclear weapon and is threatening who-knows-what if the UN doesn’t cave to his crazy demands about Israel. This throws a whole new dynamic into the equation, Mr. President. He’s essentially threatening terrorist strikes on our soil if we don’t make the UN kick Israel off the face of the planet. This fact alone makes the operation defensive in nature. Besides, if we’re going to take this idiot out before his self-imposed deadline, this is the only show in town.”

“There must be other ways,” Secretary Mauney said. “Why not use Tomahawk cruise missiles launched from the carrier or a sub? Then we take out the general without getting the embassy involved.”

“Because,” Secretary Lopez shot back, “if the general is inside the palace, and we don’t know that for sure, then a cruise missile is the best way to ensure that our ambassador and our naval attaché wind up dead, if they aren’t already.”

“Okay, I’ve heard enough,” Mack said. His two top cabinet secretaries were always at odds with one another, it seemed, but both made good points. “Secretary Mauney, my concern here is that we’ve got an unpredictable madman on the loose with nuclear bombs, and we’ve gotta try and take him out and save our people before his deadline arrives. As I told the Joint Chiefs earlier, we must cut off the head of the snake before it strikes.

“Secretary Lopez”—he looked at the secretary of defense—“order the navy to carry out Operation Bull’s-eye.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” the secretary of defense said. “I’ll make the call to Seventh Fleet immediately.”

Chapter 15

Northbound Interstate 95
Eight miles southwest of downtown Philadelphia

8:30 a.m.

The sun crested off to the right, peeking through the rusty warehouses and banged-up asphalt parking lots sweeping by the side of the road as his van raced to the north on the interstate.

“Why Philadelphia?” Mohammed blurted this question aloud, as if someone in the cabin of the U-Haul would give him an answer.

It was unfair. He had been in America longer than the others. His command of English was the best of the three. He had been studying the longest. His sacrifice had to be the greatest. Thus, should he not have a say in the matter? But Philadelphia?

They had claimed that Philadelphia had been selected because of its importance in American history. The Declaration of Independence had been signed here, they said. The Constitutional Convention had convened. Or so they told him. The famed American monument, the “Liberty Bell,” was also here, they said. Plus, the Americans would be suspecting another attack on New York. Philadelphia would be an easier target.

Despite all their justification, Mohammed suspected that he, as a Saudi citizen, probably knew more about American history than ninety percent of most Americans. He suspected that most Americans, especially those under thirty years of age, had no clue what the Constitution and Declaration of Independence were, let alone that they were signed in Philadelphia.

To most Americans, Philadelphia, along with Detroit, was one of the two ugliest cities in the entire country. Philadelphia was a rowdy place where football fans threw car batteries from the top of Eagles Stadium at opposing fans walking down below.

The city’s dirty, nasty reputation meant that there would be less sorrow and outcry over the strike against Philadelphia than the strikes to the other cities. Frankly, this bothered him.

So why was he not chosen to strike Washington? Or perhaps even San Francisco? These questions churned like a storm in his soul.

The coming blow to Washington, if it came to that, would be the sharp dart in the bull’s-eye of America’s heart.

He wanted to strike Washington. That was his understanding of his mission when he had come to America eight years ago. That is precisely why he had volunteered to sacrifice his life.

But then, they had changed his mission. In fact, his new target had been revealed to him only in the last month.

This he had struggled with. Thus, he had asked Allah to help him with his attitude. In response, Allah had reminded him of this truth: even though he had not been selected for San Francisco or Washington, still he, out of millions of martyrs who would have volunteered for this mission, had been called and chosen as one of only three.

Also, there was a chance that none of the other strikes would take place, at least not yet, assuming that the United Nations responded as General Perkasa had demanded. Since Philadelphia was first on the target list, America could acquiesce after his martyrdom, and his martyrdom alone.

“The Americans are soft and cannot stand carnage,” they had said. “After you enter martyrdom and are reunited with Allah, the Americans will back down. They will surely press the UN into passing our demands concerning Israel. Most of the UN already agrees with us anyway. So you, Mohammed, may be the only one who actually has the privilege of martyrdom.”

He saw their point, he supposed. His martyrdom alone might be sufficient to end the Jewish occupation of the homeland of Palestinian Muslims.

That thought gave him goose bumps.

He clicked his signal light approaching the next off-ramp. The sun was rising now over smoggy Philadelphia, but he needed to rest his body for the mission at hand.

The U-Haul van rolled to a stop at the top of the ramp. A small blue-and-white road sign pointed to an Econo Lodge a half-mile to the right.

Mohammed clicked the turn signal again, then pressed the accelerator. A moment later, he rolled into the asphalt parking lot and parked in front of the motel office.

He entered the office. A man, who looked Indian or Bangladeshi, stood behind the check-in desk.

“I need a room,” Mohammed said.

“I’m sorry,” the man said, “check-in is at one o’clock.”

Mohammed extracted a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and slid it across the desk. “Perhaps you could get a room ready early?”

The man pocketed the money. “Perhaps I can persuade a member of our custodial staff to prepare a room a bit early, Mr….”

“Jones.”

“Yes, of course. And could I please see some form of identification, Mr. Jones?”

Mohammed pulled another hundred from his wallet. “I seem to have left my license in my truck. The name is Ed Jones.”

“Of course, Mr. Jones.” The Indian was smiling now. “I’ve discovered that a room has just opened up. If you’ll give me about five minutes, I’ll make you a key to room 115. It’s just around the corner.”

United States Embassy
Jakarta, Indonesia

7:00 p.m.

Zack had grown up with many dear African American friends in the small coastal town of Plymouth, North Carolina. Now, for the first time in his life, he physically resembled many of those friends, he thought, as he glanced in the mirror after Master Chief Stoudemier had finished his handiwork with the shoe polish. At least his face resembled the faces of his friends.

His garb did not.

After the swift makeover, he was issued a black turtleneck sweater, black pants and boots, a black ski cap, an Uzi submachine gun, a small radio transmitter-receiver, and night vision goggles. In the last fifteen minutes, he had been miraculously transformed into a black man in black.

Amazing.

Still, there had been no word from Captain Noble on whether he could go on the mission. That was understandable. Captain Noble had spent the last hour war planning with Lieutenant Commander Garcia and the other SEAL squad leaders.

Now, word had come that the SEALs were meeting in the large dining area of the embassy in five minutes. They were already assembling in the hallway and were making their way into the dining hall.

Could this be it? Had Washington approved the mission? Would he be allowed to accompany the SEAL team into the palace? A blurry flash of thoughts raced through his mind. Would he find Diane? Alive?

What if they found her dead? The Indonesian president had already been assassinated. Diane and the ambassador were meeting with the president when the bomb detonated. Weren’t they?

If they found her body, would he put the cold barrel of the Uzi in his mouth and simply pull the trigger? Get ahold of yourself, Zack.

“Hustle up, men,” Lieutenant Commander Garcia was saying in the hallway. “Muster in the dining hall. Captain Noble has some instructions.”

Some instructions? Washington must’ve approved the mission.

“Zack.” A firm voice came from behind him, then a strong hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Captain Noble, decked totally in black like the rest of the SEALs, carrying an Uzi in his left hand. “Stick close to me. We’re going, and against my better judgment, I’m approving your request to go in with us. You understand the risk and the danger?”

“Yes, sir.” His heart flew into hyper speed.

“All right, muster up and listen to my instructions.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Zack quickly stepped into the dining hall, now mostly full of other black-clad, black-faced Navy SEALs, sitting at various tables scattered around the room. At the front of the room, a podium and microphone had been placed, and behind it, a large screen. Zack quickly found a table near the front of the room and sat.

Lieutenant Commander Garcia stepped into the dining hall. “Attention on deck!”

The entire SEAL team shot to its feet and froze at attention, as Captain Noble strode quickly across the room.

“At ease and be seated.” The captain moved quickly behind the podium. “Gentlemen.” Noble’s commanding voice reverberated across the room. “We’ve just gotten word. Washington has approved our mission. We move out in”—he looked at his watch—“one hour from now. Listen and listen carefully. In fifteen minutes, we’re heading back up to the heliport to load onto the choppers.

“We will have thirty minutes in the palace. Now you’ve all been studying the maps that we’ve supplied, and you know that there are two principal target areas where we look first for our people. First, there’s the president’s office, which is here.” He pointed to the map projected on an overhead projector.

“We believe that the president was assassinated here, and that the ambassador and the commander were here. The XO will take his team here.”

“Lieutenant?” Noble nodded and one of the SEAL team lieutenants fired up a PowerPoint. On the wall, an image appeared. The man on the wall looked like a South American tinhorn dictator. Zack had studied the US 1989 military operation against Panama, and this man looked like a twin brother of the former Panamanian dictator, Manuel Noriega.

“This, gentlemen, is General Suparman Perkasa. He is the chief of staff of the Indonesian military. Our intelligence believes that he may be the man behind the assassination of President Santos.

“This afternoon, Indonesia exploded a nuclear bomb on Gag Island in the Halmahera Sea.” Mumbling arose from the SEALs. “Listen up. From the information that we have, it appears that one of our cruisers, USS Port Royal, was crippled in that blast. We believe that much of the crew may have been lost.”

Silence. The gravity of the situation was now settling on Zack. Diane could be in the hands of a nuclear madman.

“Now, this general has gone on television and threatened the United States with nuclear blackmail.

“We think this guy might be holed up in the palace. The lieutenant is now passing out photos of him. If we see him, we are to take him out. Am I clear on this?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Aye, Captain!”

“Put the map back up, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Now we think that perhaps Perkasa, if he’s in the palace, could be operating in the vicinity of the president’s office, which is here.” He tapped on the map at the hallway outside the presidential office.

“The other principal target is here.” The captain was pointing to a different area of the map. “The medical clinic.” He eyed his men. “If there are injuries, or if there have been fatalities”—Captain Noble glanced at Zack—“we expect the dead and the injured to be here. We may have to shoot our way through. But if the lights are out, we have an advantage. We own the night.

“Remember, our objective is the safety and rescue of our people. That means bringing the ambassador and Lieutenant Commander Colcernian out of there. We move quickly once in the palace and then we report back to the roof, where the choppers will be waiting. Anyone not back on the roof will be left behind. We must work quickly and efficiently, and we must be deadly. Any questions?” A hand went up. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Sir, will we be receiving backup from the battle group?”

“The plan calls for air cover by F/A–18s from the Reagan. Hopefully that will keep the Indonesian Air Force off our tails if they discover us. But we’re vulnerable to anti-aircraft fire from the ground. That answer your question?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Other questions?”

There were none.

“Very well. Let’s get moving.”

Jakarta Air Base

7:15 p.m.

The pilots had given him no more trouble, but had obeyed his orders to land the plane. As well they should have. The arrogant punks.

And now, as the Indonesian Air Force C–9 taxied down the runway to the tarmac, the pilots would see.

They would see by the reception awaiting him exactly who they were up against. When they saw him promoted to the rank of colonel on the spot, they would think twice about causing trouble over the incident on the plane.

Hassan stood up. Standing in the aisle of the taxiing plane, he pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed his medals. Then he rubbed his bars signifying his rank as captain. This would be the last time, he thought, that he would have to worry about a smudgy fingerprint on his captain’s bars. From this day forward, he would be wearing the insignia of a colonel. Or perhaps, yes, perhaps they would promote him directly to general right here on the spot. He could not help but to shiver at the thought of it.

The plane rolled to a stop. A moment later, one of the stewards opened the door to the plane. Hassan took a breath and stepped out onto the portable stairwell. He looked down.

No lights.

No honor guard.

No television cameras.

The bastards! They had rolled the plane to a stop at an area of the airport away from the ceremony. All to embarrass him…to avoid having to witness him receive his just promotion in his glory!

“We are in the wrong place!” he yelled back at the steward. This would not go without repercussions. “I want to see the pilot! Now!” Hassan screamed.

The pilot stepped to the door. “What is it now, Captain?”

“Why have we rolled the plane to a stop here?” he demanded.

The disrespectful pilot looked sarcastically at the steward, and then back at Hassan. “Captain Taplus, we stopped the plane here because we were ordered by ground control to stop the plane here. We park the plane wherever ground control tells us to park it.”

What garbage. “It is a crime under the Indonesian Code of Military Justice to lie to a superior officer,” Hassan screamed. “You are a liar, and you will not go unpunished!”

“With all due respect, Captain,” the pilot snarled, “you are not my superior officer. I am a captain too. We are of the same rank.”

“We will see about that,” Hassan snapped. He reached for his pistol. As his hand felt the grip, an Indonesian army sergeant bounded up the portable staircase toward the cockpit entrance.

“Captain Taplus!” the sergeant shouted, flashing a salute as he approached the two men. “Colonel Croon sent me to pick you up, sir.”

“Colonel Croon is not here?” Hassan returned the salute. The ungrateful piece of scum. Sending a sergeant to the air base. Croon was undoubtedly feeling threatened already and was trying to undercut his promotion.

“The colonel is with the general,” the sergeant said. “Your presence is needed.”

“Very well.” At least that comment would let the pilot know who he was dealing with. He turned back to the pilot. “This is your lucky day, Captain. I will deal with you later.” He turned to the sergeant. “Let’s go, Sergeant.”

United States Embassy
Jakarta, Indonesia

7:20 p.m.

The warm tropical night air was blowing from the north, barely noticeable against the wind gusts generated from the whirling blades of the three choppers sitting atop the embassy helipad.

The Uzi strapped over his shoulder, Zack stood on the helipad alongside Captain Noble, watching the captain bark orders.

“Move, move, move!” Captain Noble was motioning with his hands and directing the SEALs, who were climbing in an orderly fashion into the three SH–60B Seahawk Navy choppers on the pad.

Because the embassy itself was less than a mile from Merdeka Palace, the execution plan called for the choppers to make a wide swoop in the air, first to the south, then circling all the way around the city to hit the palace from the north.

Choppers One and Three would attack the palace’s power plants with rocket-propelled grenades, while Tomahawk 2, spearheaded by Captain Noble’s group, would lead the burst onto the palace roof.

“Okay, let’s go, Zack,” Captain Noble said. “Head down. Stick with me.” Sprinting across the roof behind the other SEALs, Zack followed Noble to Tomahawk 2, jumped in the cargo bay, and strapped into a nylon jump seat. “Get these birds in the air,” Noble ordered. A second later, Tomahawk 2 lifted off, pulling away from the lighted embassy below.

With hot adrenaline rushing down his neck, Zack gritted his teeth and gripped the Uzi like it was the only present his mama ever gave him.

He was going to kill someone.

He knew it.

Soekarno-Hatta International Airport
Jakarta, Indonesia

7:22 p.m.

The sound of buzzing hornets swarmed into the headset again. The controller cursed, then ripped the headsets off and tossed them down as the radar screens went blank.

“Chief, we’ve lost all contacts on radar again!”

Other air traffic controllers in the room stood and waved their hands in the air. “Mine’s down too!” shouted one. “Radar’s blank!” another yelled.

“What the…” The chief air traffic controller stormed across the room, unleashing a string of profanity. “Notify all inbound traffic. Radar failure! Get these planes turned around. Now!”

SH–60B Seahawk (“Tomahawk 2”)
Over Jakarta, Indonesia

7:30 p.m.

The Seahawk’s cargo door was wide open, and six US Navy SEALs sat on the chopper floor at the ledge, their legs dangling down over the white city lights of Jakarta just below them.

Zack grasped the gun and carefully crouched on the deck just behind them, about four feet from the edge. Not even the supercharged adrenaline flowing through his veins was sufficient to fully erase his fear of heights that had been with him since the first time his granddaddy had sent him up to the top of a tobacco barn when he was just a boy.

Zack looked out, not down.

Out to the right, Tomahawk 1 was flying slightly ahead of Zack’s chopper, and Tomahawk 3 was flying to the left.

“Stand by, men,” Captain Noble said. “We’re going once we turn out the lights. Stand by. Three, two, one…”

Pwfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff.

A blazing rocket streaked from Tomahawk 1 to the left wing of the palace. BOOM!

Pwfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff.

BOOM! Another rocket, this from Tomahawk 3, rocked the right side of the palace.

The palace went dark.

“Let’s go, baby!” Captain Noble said.

“’Twas the night that the lights went out in Jakarta!” someone yelled.

“Woooooooooo!” Someone imitated WWF Heavyweight Ric Flair.

Tomahawk 2 dipped its nose and feathered down on the center roof of the building.

“Go! Go! Go!” Captain Noble shouted. The first wave of SEALs leapt out of the chopper. “Let’s go, Zack!”

Zack’s feet hit the asphalt roof. He sprinted—following the SEALs in a straight line at a forty-five-degree angle from the chopper.

Chit-a-chit-a-chit-a-chit-a-chit-chit. “Hit the deck!”

Gunfire ricocheted off the roof and the steel guardrails at the edge of it.

Zack dived, hitting the deck right beside Captain Noble.

Chit-a-chit-a-chit-a-chit. The SEALs returned the fire.

Just over to the left beside the guard shack that led down into the building, two male silhouettes staggered, then fell.

“Let’s rock!”

The SEALs rose, rushing the guard shack.

“Door’s locked, Skipper,” one of the SEALs said, as Choppers One and Three feathered down on the roof.

“Concussion grenade! Now!”

“Aye, Skipper.” A SEAL tossed a hand grenade at the locked door.

BOOM!

The door blew open.

“Let’s go!” Captain Noble shouted.

Zack got up and moved forward with the SEALs.

Another silhouette appeared quickly from behind the guard shack, his gun drawn on Captain Noble.

Zack raised his Uzi and squeezed the trigger. Chit-a-chit-a-chit-a. The silhouette slumped over.

Tonight, I’m going to kill somebody. His instincts were right.

“Jones. Rogers. Check the back of that shack and make sure the roof is clear.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

Zack followed a group of SEALs into the shack, then quickly down the steps. From overhead, more bursts of machine-gun fire, then the roar of American fighter jets.

They reached a first landing and jogged down another twelve steps or so to a second landing. They stopped, gently pushed open a door, and stepped into a large, dark hallway. The sound of voices could be heard throughout. A flashlight beam shot down the hall, then disappeared.

Captain Noble motioned his squad of six men into the hallway, which was visible through the night goggles. They moved swiftly about fifty feet down the hallway, which led to another open corridor, where crisscrossing flashlight beams cut across the floor.

The SEALs stopped at the entrance of the corridor, tucking themselves into the dark crevices away from the direct path of the flashlight beams. This was the corridor where the medical clinic was located. Zack’s heart pounded. Perhaps Diane was only a few feet away.

Captain Noble motioned again. Crouching, the SEALs turned carefully into the hallway, hugging up against the wall as they moved forward in an effort to avoid the flashlight beams. Zack was in the middle of the moving column, with three SEALs in front of him and three behind.

They had moved about fifteen feet down the corridor when the first flashlight beam caught the front of the column.

Machine-gun fire from the lead SEAL.

Now a flashlight beam from the rear.

More machine-gun fire.

The flashlight beams vanished from both directions. Four Indonesian guards, two at each end of the corridor, lay slumped on the floor.

Another thirty feet down the hallway where two of the dead Indonesians lay bleeding on the floor, they approached two swinging doors.

The entrance to the medical clinic!

Captain Noble pushed open the doors and led the SEALs into a reception area. Two women in nurse uniforms were on the floor, cowering.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhh. One of the SEALs motioned with his finger to his lips.

“Rodriguez. Jones. Post here. Nobody comes in. Nobody goes out,” Noble said.

“Aye, Skipper.”

“Anderson. Jenkins. Round up all medical personnel in the clinic and hold ’em in here.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Okay, let’s check the examination rooms in the back,” Captain Noble said. “Move, move!”

Residence of General Perkasa
Jakarta, Indonesia

7:37 p.m.

General, we have an urgent situation developing!” Suparman Perkasa, the new leader of the Islamic Republic of Indonesia, looked up and saw Colonel Erman Croon rushing into his office, past the array of television cameras. Croon had a frantic look on his face and was waving a paper in his hand.

“What is it, Colonel?”

“I’ve gotten a call from Merdeka Square. It appears that Merdeka Palace is under attack!”

“Under attack? By whom?”

“We have reports of helicopters landing on the building. Radar is out all over the city. At first controllers attributed it to an internal malfunction. But now we think perhaps external jamming.”

“Jamming?”

“Yes, sir. There are reports of fighter jets circling over the palace. They are not ours.”

Perkasa pounded his fist on the desk. “Americans.” He stood and folded his arms. “I expected them to try something. But not this soon.”

“Agreed, General,” Colonel Croon said. “They probably think you are at the palace, sir. My guess is that they are trying to take us out, sir, before tomorrow’s deadline.”

The colonel was right, Suparman knew. He had to think quickly. “We must strike now, Erman,” he said, referring to Croon by his first name. “This attack changes the dynamics.”

“Yes, General.”

“What’s our security situation in the palace?”

“Standard security, sir. Sufficient to deal with civilian threats from the outside. Insufficient against an outside military threat. Especially an American SEAL team or US Marines, if that’s who has hit us. Plus, we’ve lost power…or rather the power has been disabled.”

“Very well,” the general said. “Get four platoons over there. Now!”

“Yes, General.”

“And get some of our planes up and over the palace.”

“But, General.” The colonel ran his hand through his thinning hair. “If those unidentified jets are US Navy F–18s, our fighters would be at a severe disadvantage.”

The colonel was right. Suparman knew it in his gut. Indonesian fighters against American jets—if that’s what they were—would be a suicide mission.

This had to be an American operation. Radar down over the city. Helicopters and troops hitting the palace. Unidentified fighter jets roaring overhead. Classic American military tactics.

This was his first crisis as leader. He had to act quickly and decisively. But he had to be smart.

“Okay, get our planes up for observation, but stay out of the area. Get mobile antiaircraft batteries around the palace to challenge any unidentified aircraft approaching or leaving the palace.”

“That will take at least thirty minutes, sir.”

“Get on it!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Colonel?”

“Yes, General.”

“One other thing.”

“Yes, General?”

“Order execution of phase one of Operation Decapitate. Now. We must strike even before the deadline. America will pay for what it has done.”

“Yes, sir!”

Merdeka Palace

7:39 p.m.

Zack, follow me,” Captain Noble said. They stepped into a hallway behind the reception area of the medical clinic. The first door to the right was an examination room. “Cover,” Captain Noble ordered. Two SEALs brought their Uzis into firing position.

The captain pushed the door open. A flat examination table was in the middle of the room. On it a sheet covered the form of what appeared to be a body.

Time froze. Zack’s stomach rushed to his throat. Jesus, don’t let it be her.

The captain grabbed the top of the sheet. Zack looked away as the captain pulled the sheet back.

Captain Noble said, “It’s President Santos.”

Zack exhaled and looked up. The president’s black eyes were frozen open. His mouth cavity was so wide you could put an apple in it. This was a body whose last emotion had been one of great fear.

Thank God it wasn’t Diane.

Captain Noble whipped out a camera and snapped several shots, lighting the room with the brilliant flash, and burning an image of the president’s stony, dead face into Zack’s head. “Let’s move,” Noble said.

They quick-stepped into the hallway, turned right, and then stopped at the next examination room.

Same drill. “Cover,” Noble said. Uzis drawn in firing position. Noble kicked the door open.

Two female nurses, crying, shaking, stood at the head and foot of another examination table, their hands up in the air. A patient was on the examination table. Plastic tubing, IV lines, were running to his arms.

“It’s the ambassador!” the captain said. “He’s conscious. Rodriguez. Jones. In here! Bring a stretcher! You all right, sir?”

The ambassador rolled his eyes toward Zack, managing an unintelligible grunt.

Rodriguez and Jones burst through the door, carrying one of the two portable, lightweight stretchers that each team had brought from the chopper.

“Get him up top. Take him to Tomahawk 1. Take Branson and Paulus up with you. On the double!”

“Aye, sir!”

“Whatever the IVs are, keep them in his arm.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

Zack lifted the IV bag off the chrome tree, as Rodriguez and Jones quickly lifted the ambassador under his shoulders and by his feet, setting him down on the stretcher on the floor. Zack placed the two IV bags on the stretcher just under the ambassador’s arm.

“Got it,” Rodriguez said.

“All right, guys, move!”

They lifted the stretcher with the ambassador off the floor, and moved him out of the room.

“We gotta hurry,” the captain said. “They’ll have reinforcements storming this place.”

They stepped into the hallway again and turned right. They approached a third room. “Cover!” With Uzis drawn, Noble pushed the door open.

Zack felt his heart drop to the floor.

“Nothing.”

Antiaircraft Battery Four
Bogor, Indonesia (thirty miles south of Jakarta)

7:40 p.m.

The duty officer was just tasting his first bite of cendol, the popular Indonesian dessert consisting of shaved ice, coconut milk, palm sugar, and green food coloring, when the phone rang.

The officer cursed, then barked an answer as he picked up the receiver. “Lieutenant Ortiz.”

He swallowed the cold dessert and sat up straight at the news coming over the telephone.

“What? Unidentified enemy helicopters? Merdeka Palace?”

Hearing those words, several other officers in the barracks put down their playing cards and leaned in toward Ortiz.

“Yes, sir…I understand…You want a battery of handheld stinger antiaircraft missiles deployed immediately…yes, sir…Shoot down any choppers flying from the direction of Jakarta…Yes, sir.” He nodded at the other officers, whose eyes were glued on him. “We’re moving out now.”

Merdeka Palace

7:41 p.m.

Okay, keep moving,” Captain Noble snapped. The armed SEAL team moved down toward the end of the hallway. Only two more examination rooms.

Zack’s mind raced. If they didn’t find Diane here, they probably wouldn’t find her.

“Cover!” The SEALs again drew their machine guns to firing position. Captain Noble kicked open another door. “Nothing! Check the last one!” The armed team moved further down the hallway.

If she’s not here, I’m not leaving. They can leave me. I’m staying ’til I find her.

“Cover!” Drawn submachine guns. A swift boot on another door. “We got something!”

Two Indonesian guards were standing with their hands over their heads. “Get their guns.” Two SEALs rushed to the guards, taking their pistols.

Zack’s eyes fell to the corner of the room. The sight would forever be burned into his mind. The stretcher was pushed against the wall, and on it, Diane lay on her side, forced almost into the shape of a human “S.” A white rag tightly gagged her mouth, and her legs were bound by a thick rope by her ankles. Her white uniform skirt was riding just a bit above the knee, and her hands were tied behind her back. At that moment, a visceral instinct overtook Zack. He wanted to kill!

“Cut her loose, Zack!”

Zack whipped the stainless-steel combat knife from his belt.

“Hang on, Diane. We’re getting you out of here.” He slipped the blade through the cloth that was gagging her mouth.

“Zack? Is that you?” She exhaled and coughed.

“Think I’d leave you in here?” he said. “Never. Now give me your wrists.”

Very carefully to avoid slicing her wrists, Zack slid the knife through the ropes that bound her.

“Hold still.” He bent over to the floor, sliced through the rope and freed her legs. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. A little bruised.”

“Can you walk, Commander?” Captain Noble asked.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Just having a little trouble seeing in the dark.”

“We had to cut the lights. Zack, here’s an extra set of night goggles. Help her out?”

“Aye, Captain.” Zack slipped the night goggles over Diane’s eyes.

“You look great in black, Zack.”

“Okay, let’s get to the choppers!”

They moved swiftly out of the clinic area, and back into the dark hallway. There were six of them now. The remaining squad from the SEAL team, plus Diane.

They jogged down the hallway back toward the stairway leading to the roof. The crisscrossing flashlight beams were gone. As they reached the stairwell leading to the roof, the roaring sound of helicopter engines thundered down the stairwell and into the hallway. They turned right in a single-file column and ascended the stairway.

They reached the roof. Chopper 1 had already lifted off with the ambassador.

SEALs were stationed around the other two choppers in a perimeter, their guns positioned outward.

“Perimeter is secure, Captain,” Lieutenant Commander Garcia shouted. “Choppers ready for takeoff!”

“What about Perkasa?” the captain shouted back at the XO over the roar of the choppers. “Did you find him?”

“Negative, sir!” The wind from the rotors was flapping their uniforms and blowing Diane’s hair. “We searched everywhere. Nothing. Took out five Indonesian guards.”

Captain Noble glanced at his watch. “We’re out of time!” Noble said. “Everybody in the choppers! Now! Zack, take Diane first.”

Zack took Diane’s hand, ducked to avoid the rotor blades, and sprinted across the roof toward Tomahawk 2. One of the SEALs already inside reached down and pulled Diane into the aircraft. Zack hopped in behind her, and three other SEALs piled in behind him.

Captain Noble was the last to board Tomahawk 2. Zack looked out and saw Lieutenant Commander Garcia and his squad piling into Tomahawk 3.

“Okay, take her up!”

The props revved, and Tomahawk 2 lifted into the sky, ascending straight up to perhaps five hundred feet over the roof. Then, dipping its nose, it started its trek through the black night, above the lights of Jakarta, to the south, out toward the sea.

Chapter 16

Antiaircraft Battery Four
Bogor, Indonesia

7:48 p.m.

Under the star-covered canopy, eight jeeps from the Indonesian Antiaircraft Battery Four broke into two hastily organized caravans. They sped quickly into the night.

Four of the jeeps raced to the northeast along Jagorawi Highway, one of the two main routes that connected the city of Bogor to Jakarta, thirty miles to the north.

The other four, under the command of Lieutenant Juan Ortiz, moved southeast along JI. Raya Pajajaran, the road running to the gorgeous Puncak Pass, twenty miles to the southeast, and from there, the city of Bandung, another sixty-two miles to the southeast.

All eight jeeps had been dispatched from the Atanag Senjaya Air Base, the main air base south of Jakarta.

The strategic mission of the air base was to guard the capital city against sea and land attacks from the south, most likely from the Indian Ocean between Java’s southern coast and the northern coast of Australia. Tonight, with radar disrupted, the air base could not safely get its F–16s into the sky to protect from an inbound invasion.

It appeared now, at least based upon sketchy information flowing from headquarters, that some sort of airborne invasion had occurred, apparently by helicopter, and under the protective cover of a very effective radar jam against the western sector of Java.

Now, the military was scrambling to shoot down the choppers by rushing handheld Stinger antiaircraft missile batteries in a wide, umbrella-shaped perimeter at various points in a hundred-mile ring all around the capital.

JI. Raya Pajajaran, the highway to the Puncak Pass, ran through a mountainous region along the underbelly of the city, and between the city and the southern coast of Java. The idea was to spread out on the road, establishing posts along a ten-mile perimeter, with each jeep bearing two missile launchers stationed at intervals of two-and-a-half miles.

Lieutenant Ortiz was in the lead jeep, about five miles away from the base, when his secure cell phone rang.

Headquarters.

“Lieutenant Ortiz.”

“Lieutenant. Jakarta Command.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Eyewitnesses report three helicopters lifting off Merdeka Palace five minutes ago. Flying in a south-to-southeasterly direction. Radar is still jammed. They’re flying your way. Be alert.”

Ortiz waved the driver to pull over to the shoulder. “How do I tell if they are theirs or ours?”

“The Indonesian military has no choppers in the sky in that area. If it’s a civilian chopper, we have no control over that. Use your discretion.”

“Yes, sir.”

The call ended.

The road turned eerily quiet, save the chirping of crickets in the mountains. Ortiz felt a twisting in his stomach. “Sergeant, load the Stinger.”

“Yes, sir.”

Oritz flipped on a high-powered flashlight as the sergeant loaded the missile. Then, in the distance, the faint sound of rotors cut through the pristine twinkling of stars.

“Sir, do you hear that?”

“Yes, I hear it.”

“It sounds like it’s off to the southeast, sir,” said the driver, a corporal in the Indonesian Air Force. He was pointing toward the horizon in the direction of the faint sound, where nothing was visible except the stars permeating the night. And the sound was growing fainter.

“Hurry, Sergeant!”

“Almost loaded, sir.”

“Get a move on, or they will be out of range.”

Ortiz knew that to have a realistic shot at bringing the chopper down, he had to point in the right direction, hope that the infrared device would home in on the chopper’s exhaust, and that the chopper was within three miles of his position. Otherwise, it was all a waste of ammunition, with the danger of killing innocent Indonesian civilians, perhaps women and children, on the ground.

“Finished, sir. Ready to fire!”

“Give it here!”

Ortiz positioned the launcher over his shoulder, pointed it skyward in the direction of the fading sound, and pulled the trigger.

Pffffffffffffffffffffff. A bright light streaked through the night. The warhead roared skyward, leaving a white trail of smoke in its path.

Now Ortiz could only wait. And pray.

SH–60B Seahawk (“Tomahawk 2”)
Over Bogor, Indonesia

7:49 p.m.

The two US Navy Seahawks were flying at full speed, two hundred yards abreast of each other, in a southeasterly direction. Each of the Seahawks was being operated by three US Navy members, including the pilot, the copilot, and an enlisted aviation systems warfare operator.

Just a few more minutes, Navy Lieutenant Bill Cameron, lead pilot of Tomahawk 2 was thinking, and we reach the coastline.

Once they were over the Indian Ocean, Cameron reasoned, they would be out of the danger of fire from the ground, and under the full umbrella of protection from the Super Hornet fighter jets flying off USS Ronald Reagan.

The choppers were maintaining radio silence, but each was visible from the other’s cockpit because of the blinking red-and-green running lights on the bottom of the fuselage and on the tails of the aircraft.

Beep…beep…beep…beep…beep…beep…beep…beep…beep…

“Skipper! Inbound SAM!” the enlisted crewmember shouted. The surface-to-air missile was streaking toward the Tomahawk. “Closing fast! Impact twenty seconds!”

“Recommend break radio silence!” the copilot shouted.

“Tomahawk 3! Tomahawk 2! Inbound SAM! On my count, peel out and fire chaff!”

“Tomahawk 2! Roger that. On your mark!”

“Twelve seconds to impact.”

“Come on, baby.” Cameron gripped the chopper’s control stick.

“Impact in eight seconds.”

“Skipper,” the copilot pleaded.

“Impact five seconds.”

“Now! Peel!” Cameron jerked the stick hard left and punched a button releasing antimissile countermeasures into the sky, designed to keep the missile from finding its target and to hopefully destroy it.

BOOM!

The explosion to the right rocked the chopper violently to the left. Cameron was suddenly fighting with all his might to keep it upright.

Antiaircraft Battery Four
Bogor, Indonesia

7:50 p.m.

The fireball lit the dark sky to the southeast. Two seconds later, a booming sound rolled over the jeep.

Cheering erupted amongst the members of the antiaircraft battery, and a flush of success spread throughout Lieutenant Ortiz’s body. All the training. All his dedication to duty and to country.

And now, this. It had all paid off!

Combat.

Victory.

“Great shot, boss! Great shot!” His subordinates slapped him on the back, still cheering.

Nothing, at the moment, could match the level of unadulterated euphoria that flooded his body. He permitted the electric feeling to linger, and then picked up the phone and called headquarters, reporting a direct hit against an enemy helicopter, and reporting the general location of the hit.

“Excellent job, Lieutenant,” the voice at headquarters said. “We will send a search party out for the wreckage. I am sure that you and your unit will receive a commendation for your actions.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ortiz said, and the line went dead. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he extracted a cigarette and a lighter. The thrilling rush of the nicotine in his lungs could not compare to the thrilling rush of the kill in his veins.

SH–60B Seahawk (“Tomahawk 2”)
Over Bogor, Indonesia

7:51 p.m.

Members of the SEAL team were falling all over one another, trying desperately to gain their balance as the Seahawk swirled and bumped through the night air. Strong arms pulled Diane close. She looked and saw Zack wrapping himself protectively around her.

They would die together.

Here.

“Jesus, help us.”

Mayday! Mayday!” The copilot was shouting, as the pilot, Lieutenant Cameron, struggled with the stick to keep the aircraft from spinning totally out of control.

“Tomahawk 2. Tomahawk 3. We’ve got you in our sights.”

“Tomahawk 3. We’re losing it. Declaring an emergency.”

“Reagan Control. Tomahawk 3. Tomahawk 2 has been hit. Surface-to-air missile strike. Tomahawk 2 has declared an emergency.”

“Tomahawk 3. Reagan Control. Please report coordinates.”

“Reagan Control. Roger that. Stand by…”

All the radio traffic was lost on Lieutenant Cameron, who was hanging in the cockpit seat by his safety harness. He pulled hard on the stick as the aircraft yawed violently. They had already dropped over five hundred feet. In a few seconds, they would reach the point of no return.

“Lord, help us,” Cameron said instinctively, as he yanked on the cyclic stick once again.

A second later, the aircraft began to stabilize. And a moment later, the horizon was horizontal again. His eyes fell on the fuel gauge.

“Tomahawk 3. Tomahawk 2. We’re losing fuel fast. Maybe ninety seconds left. I’m going to climb for a better altitude to initiate emergency autorotation.”

“Tomahawk 2. We’ll stick with you till you’re down.”

“That’s a negative.” Lieutenant Cameron looked over his shoulder and saw Captain Noble, who had made his way to the cockpit from the bay area. “Tell him to get the heck out of Dodge,” Captain Noble said. “Now. Fly straight to the carrier.”

“Aye, Captain,” Cameron said. “Tomahawk 3. Your orders are to proceed directly to destination. Don’t wait here. We’ll be fine.”

“Roger that,” the pilot from Tomahawk 3 said. “Good luck and Godspeed.”

“Captain, you may want to warn your men. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride down. Strap in real tight.”

“Will do.”

Diane was exhaling, holding Zack’s hand, and silently thanking Jesus. “I thought we were dead. But I feel us climbing,” she said to Zack. His face, half chiseled and half boyish, flashed the most confident smile. With his salt-and-pepper hair, his green eyes, and that devilish grin that seem to accentuate the dimple in his chin, he was strikingly handsome even with shoe polish on his face.

“That’s gotta be a good sign,” he said, warmly squeezing her hand.

Just then, Captain Noble, who had gone to the cockpit to talk to the pilot, stepped back into the cargo bay.

“Listen up.” The captain spoke with an urgent authority in his voice. “We’re losing fuel fast. The pilot’s gonna initiate an autorotation. Strap in tight and hang on. We’ve got maybe thirty seconds before we start dropping like a rock.”

Mumbling from the SEAL team.

“When we hit the ground, move out of the chopper immediately because of the danger of fire. That’s not likely in this case, because we’re using all our fuel. But still, I want everyone out on the double. Am I clear about that?”

“Aye, Captain…Yes, sir…”

“Zack, what’s that mean?” Diane looked at him questioningly.

“He’s going to cut the power to the engine and try to glide the helicopter down to an emergency landing.”

“How can you glide a helicopter down?” Fear gripped her stomach, turning it into a hard knot. “It doesn’t have wings.”

“They cut the power and it drops like a rock. Then the wind catches the rotors, they start turning in the air, which in theory slows the fall. It falls through a cushion of air like a whirlybird.” He squeezed her hand again. “That’s the theory anyway.” He gave her another smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve been up with my chopper-flying buddies over Camp Pendleton when they tried to scare me with an autorotation. Piece of cake.”

“Did you ever make it all the way down?”

“Nah. They always reengaged the engine first. I think they were just trying to get me to throw up.” He snickered. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

But despite Zack’s amazing ability to laugh in the face of danger, somehow Diane didn’t feel that they would be fine. How much more was God going to take her through?

Was this it? Here and now? Is this how, finally, her life would end? Her mind raced at lightning speed with thoughts of others who had died in plane crashes. What of the brave souls on Flight 93 over Pennsylvania? What were they thinking on that fateful Tuesday morning in September when they brought their plane down to save the US Capitol? What went through their minds?

She thought of her mother, who passed away so long ago that she could barely remember…and her father, a three-star admiral who even on his deathbed had wanted her to serve. Her service in the navy was initially a commitment to him, and in his honor.

But now? Would she go down giving her life for her country? The thought of it would please him, but only if they could be reunited soon. Was she ready?

She looked again over at Zack. His face showed a supreme confidence that was not even being displayed by the members of the brave SEAL team around them.

And she knew why. It was the Spirit that lived within Zack that gave him that unflappable confidence. Whether in a courtroom with millions watching on international television, or whether on a helicopter being shot out of the sky, he was always the same. It was a spirit of fearlessness that came from God.

Diane decided that she was not ready to go.

Not yet.

There was too much to live for.

It was time to pray.

Again.

Econo Lodge
Fifteen miles south of Philadelphia

8:52 a.m.

Mohammed was sprawled spread-eagle on the queen-sized bed, and had just begun to doze when his chirping cell phone sent him into a string of curse words. Only one person knew the cell number, which had been especially set up for this mission.

“Yah.”

“Execute mission. Now.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Change of circumstances. Execute now.”

Mohammed sat up on the side of the bed. “Understood. I’m on my way.”

SH–60B Seahawk (“Tomahawk 2”)
Over Bogor, Indonesia

7:53 p.m.

He had practiced the maneuver dozens of times. Most of his practice had come over the friendly confines of the giant marine base at Camp Pendleton, in Southern California.

The theory was to disengage the main rotors of the helicopter, and then, after an initial drop, much like falling on the steepest dip of a mammoth roller coaster, air would whip into the chopper’s rotors and guide it safely to the ground. That was the theory anyway.

But this was reality. Lieutenant Bill Cameron was now piloting his aircraft in a foreign country, under combat conditions, at night, after his aircraft had taken at least an indirect hit from what was probably a stinger missile, and having to force a landing in terrain that he was wholly unfamiliar with.

Because of the fuel leakage, he would lose power in just a matter of seconds.

This was no drill.

Quickly, his mind went through the mental procedure check. As he continued his last-second climb, which would give him more room to maneuver on the way down, he repeated the verbal procedure that he had drilled into his mind hundreds of times.

“Practice engine failure. Go. Lever down. Right pedal. Establish sixty knot airspeed for autorotation…Needles split. Maintain sixty knots. Rate of descent sixteen hundred feet per minute. Begin the flare at sixty feet from ground. Nose in the air. Pushing the cyclic forward to level the aircraft. Touchdown while maintaining heading with pedals.”

He watched as the altimeter passed thirty-two-hundred feet. Still rising, but only for a few more seconds. At this altitude, once the engine failed, he would have about two minutes before the Seahawk hit the ground.

Where and how they hit the ground, and where they wound up, were in the hands of God.

Inside the cargo bay, where the SEAL team was strapped in, the hum of the helicopter’s engines and rotors seemed normal enough, providing the illusion of a false sense of security. Brave SEAL warriors gazed at one another with hard looks of stone, as Diane clutched Zack’s hand, praying silently that their lives would not end. Zack and Captain Noble both looked amazingly unflappable, as if unconcerned with the entire situation.

And then…

The engine sputtered. Then coughed. Then recovered. Coughed again. Sputtered. Recovered. Then two more consecutive sputters. The chopper wobbled a bit.

Then…silence…The eerie sound of air whooshing around the helicopter.

For a millisecond, the world stood still, as if they were perched motionless on the edge of a cliff. Then…

Their stomachs leapt through their throats as Diane held her breath and closed her eyes and clenched her teeth to fight the primordial urge to scream.

The chopper was a free-falling rock, plunging helplessly through the dark skies.

And then…a braking sensation…as if a parachute had deployed to slow their mortal plunge.

Diane opened her eyes. Brave, rugged SEALs were visibly exhaling…for now.

The helicopter was falling, but no longer in a free fall. Still, it felt like they were falling fast enough that when they hit the ground, the end might come.

“Okay, listen up,” Captain Noble spoke up. “When we hit the ground, the good news is that we’re highly armed, we have handheld GPS devices, we have an ability to communicate, and although there are only a few of us, we’re still better trained by far than anyone the Indonesians can throw at us.

“They’ll be looking for us, but we’ve got the advantage of darkness, and we own the night.

“We’re gonna spread out in teams of three, avoid detection, and try to make contact with headquarters. Try to ascertain our new orders.”

More wind wisped across the fuselage, as the chopper continued to drop.

“They may want us back in Jakarta. They may want us to head to the coast. Whatever, be ready.” He glanced over at Diane. “You okay, Commander?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Everybody with me?”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re with you, sir.”

“Very well,” he said. A solid confidence resonated in his voice. “Hang on tight.” He eyed them all. “It’s going to be a rough ride down.”

In the cockpit, Lieutenant Cameron glued his eyes to the airspeed indicator, which at the moment was showing ninety knots. “Too fast. Too fast,” he said aloud, and pulled back slightly on the cyclic stick. The chopper’s nose flared slightly, and the airspeed indicator started dropping.

Eighty-five…eighty…seventy-five…seventy…

“Come on, baby.”

Seventy…

“Slow down. Slow down.” He feathered the stick back a quarter of an inch. He had to get the speed down if they were to have any chance of surviving the impact. But this was a potentially dangerous maneuver. If he slowed the chopper too much, they would stall out and fall quickly to the earth like a rock.

Seventy…sixty-five…sixty…

“Hold there.” He pushed the stick a bit forward. “How’s it looking out there?” he asked his copilot.

“Dark,” the copilot said.

“One day, they’ll invent night vision goggles that work from this altitude,” Cameron muttered, as he looked down over the dark landscape, searching, somehow, for a landing spot. Sporadic lights dotting the darkness were off the left and right. But the area just in front of the rapidly descending helicopter was a dark chasm.

Perhaps it would be a rural area, which could be ideal for an emergency landing. Or perhaps wooded or rough terrain, which could be disastrous.

The altimeter crossed under sixteen hundred feet. Fifteen hundred feet…Fourteen hundred feet. The ground, whatever was down there, was moving up fast now. Cameron picked up the microphone, opening a speaker to the cargo bay.

“SEAL team members. We will be on the ground in about one minute. Brace yourselves. It could be a rough landing.”

Cameron checked his watch. Less than one minute to impact.

Only God could control their fate now.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…”

Zack looked over and saw Diane whispering the Lord’s prayer. Lord, if you pull us through this, I’m going to ask her to marry me. He put his arm around her and pulled her close to him.

“Thirty seconds to impact.”

Twenty seconds,” the copilot said, as Lieutenant Cameron looked feverishly out the windshield for something…anything…praying that they would miss trees, power lines, rocks, and buildings.

“Ten seconds.”

Altitude eighty feet…seventy feet…sixty feet.

“Now,” Cameron said, pulling up on the cyclic.

The helicopter’s nose rotated forty-five degrees to the sky, revealing a bright canopy of stars, then leveled out as they dropped.

THUD.

Cheering erupted from the cargo bay.

Lieutenant Cameron exchanged glances with his copilot, who exhaled, then broke into a smile.

Thank you, Jesus,” Diane whispered under her breath.

Zack reached over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

“Told you it would be a piece of cake,” he said.

“Get your night goggles and your weapons,” Captain Noble said. “Let’s move.”

Zack helped Diane strap on a pair of night vision goggles as the SEALs ripped open the bay door and quickly stepped out of the helicopter.

Zack took Diane’s hand and led her out onto the grass.

The pilot, Lieutenant Cameron, was already outside and suggesting that they move quickly away from the chopper in case it exploded.

Single file, they moved quickly up a hill about two hundred yards, and then gathered quickly in a semicircle. Green bushes, about knee-deep, were growing all around the helicopter.

“You got a fix on where we are, Lieutenant?” Captain Noble directed this question to the pilot, Lieutenant Cameron.

“Yes, sir. I’ve got our coordinates, and we’re about sixty miles southeast of Jakarta. Maybe twenty miles north of the coastline. According to our charts, this is tea plantation country, and I think these plants are tea plants…”

“That’s exactly what they are,” Petty Officer Rodriguez spoke up. “My parents were missionaries to Indonesia. I’ve been in this part of the world before.”

“Thanks, Rodriguez,” Lieutenant Cameron continued. “There’s a road about a mile north of here that connects Bogor and Bandung. The region north of that between here and Jakarta is hilly, mountainous, and largely uninhabited. That’s probably the best place to head if we want to avoid detection.”

“You got a navigational map, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir,” Cameron said. Quickly, the pilot unfolded the map and laid it carefully on the grass. “Here’s our location, sir. We’re at approximately seven degrees south latitude and one hundred seven degrees east longitude. The city of Bogor is just over here to our west. The city of Cianjur is just to our east. Here’s that road, and that mountain range is just to our north.”

“Okay, I’ve seen enough,” Noble said. “Group off in threes and let’s move out.” He looked at Diane. “Zack, Diane, you two come with me.”

Those words were somehow a relief to Diane. “Aye, Captain.”

Chapter 17

The White House

9:00 a.m.

With his shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms and his arms folded, President Mack Williams was pacing back and forth just at the head of the long conference table in the Situation Room.

“Still nothing?” He glanced at the secretary of defense, Erwin Lopez, as if tossing him a presidential glance would somehow speed the flow of information from a nighttime military operation half a world away.

“Still nothing, sir,” Lopez said. At that very instant, the secure line from the Pentagon rang in front of the defense secretary. “Secretary Lopez.”

Mack watched as Lopez sat with the phone to his ear, scribbling on a legal pad.

“The ambassador is out?” Lopez looked at the president and nodded. “One chopper down…”

Not again.

Secretary Lopez hung up the phone.

“What’s going on, Mr. Secretary?”

“The good news is that we’ve rescued the ambassador. He’s injured, but he’s on board one of our choppers over the Indian Ocean, headed for the Reagan. They’re under fighter escort and out of range of the Indonesians.”

“Thank God,” Mack said. “Did I hear you say we’ve got a chopper down?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. President.”

“Who was on board?”

“That’s not clear yet, sir. The SEAL team was spread out over all three choppers.”

“Did they find Commander Colcernian?”

“No word on that, sir. I’m sure we’ll know when the other two choppers land on the carrier.”

“What about Perkasa?”

“Nothing, Mr. President.”

Mack slammed his fist on the table. “A chopper down. Perkasa still at large. I feel like I’m one for three.”

Members of the National Security Council sat for a moment, many with blank looks on their faces.

Then the secretary of state spoke up. “You know, Mr. President, in baseball, one for three at the plate is pretty darned good. And the game’s not over. In fact, we’ve just started.”

The comment brought a smile to Mack’s face. “Secretary Mauney, you always have a way of finding the right thing to say at the right time.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That’s why you’re this nation’s chief diplomat.” Now Mack had Robert Mauney smiling. “And you’re right, this is not the end. In fact, your baseball analogy reminds me of the words of one of my political heroes, Winston Churchill. ‘This is not the end. This is not, even, the beginning of the end. But it may, just possibly, be the end of the beginning.’”

The quote brought chills to his spine.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, leaning forward with his hands on the table, and eyeing the members of the NSC, “Winston Churchill, Ronald Reagan, and other great leaders of the twentieth century showed us by their words and their actions that evil is not always easily defeated. Nothing worthwhile is easy.

“Let’s get back to work. I want to find Perkasa, and I want to take him out.”

Across from St. Stephen’s Catholic Church
Jakarta, Indonesia

8:05 p.m.

The white marble was lit against the night by bright spotlights shining up from the ground. The statue was inanimate, she knew. But still, somehow, the image of Jesus holding his palms to the heavens brought comfort to her in the midst of a personal maelstrom. The other times, she had visited the church during daylight hours, and she had never really noticed the statue.

If only he could talk. If only he were here. But strangely, it seemed that he was here. As if he had walked and run and jogged with her all the way across the city to the doors of this house that belonged to him.

In the hours after she had fled from the Martins’ home, Kristina started sensing a warm presence with her, somehow drawing her here. Now that she had arrived outside the church, the statue of him stood out like a sign that she was about to do the right thing.

Was she? Could she really trust the priest? Suppose she had been followed?

If they had killed the president, was anyone off limits? Of course not. They would kill her, she knew, for what she knew, for who she knew, and for what she held in her hands.

Still, it was as if a spirit within her had drawn her here—it was a strange and gentle spirit through the midst of danger and death. Perhaps this was the spirit of God? She could not say for sure. But if she were going to die anyway, it seemed that the spirit was reassuring her that this was a place to die in peace.

She looked behind her to see if she had been followed, and then finding a slight gap in the cars that were zooming back and forth in both directions, she jogged across the street and up the granite steps to the front doors.

Panting, Kristina reached for the doorknob and turned.

Locked.

Her eyes turned back to the busy street and sidewalk. Surely somebody was watching her. They were out there. Somewhere. Perkasa’s men. In the dark behind the streaking cars, someone had a rifle trained on her.

Panic gripped her body now.

Of course the church was going to be closed at this hour. What was she thinking? Where to go?

Instinctively, her body pivoted back around to the door—and her hand went to the doorknob. She shook it, twisted it, and tried knocking on the door. Then she beat on it. No one. Nothing but the noise of traffic swirling behind her.

The warm feeling turned to ice, and she cocked her head to the heavens, her eyes again on the illuminated statue. “Did you bring me here just to lock me out?” she screamed, as tears began welling in her eyes.

As her eyes moved from the statue, gradually back down the outer walls of the cathedral, she saw it. A small sign illuminated only by the fluorescent glow of a distant street light.

After Hours Emergencies Only: Press Buzzer Below.

“Thank you!” She pressed and held the button, igniting a long, grating buzz.

Nothing.

She pressed the buzzer again.

“May I help you?” A woman’s voice came back over the loudspeaker.

“I need to see the father.”

“Which father? We have several priests on the staff.”

“I don’t know. The one that does confession. I’ve been several times.”

“One moment, please.”

A couple of minutes passed. The woman’s voice returned. “Is there something I can help you with? We have a food pantry around the back of the church if you are in need.”

“I need the father. Now! Please tell him it’s an emergency!”

“Could I tell him what kind of emergency?”

What to do? Kristina wiped her forehead. “Tell him I am the one who said that someone is going to die. Someone important! Tell him that it happened…that it happened today!”

A pause. “Wait one moment, please.”

Now it was out. She knew. They would know that she knew. They would figure out that she was talking about the president…that she knew about the assassination. Her mind swirled like a raging windstorm. They had probably called the authorities.

The sound of a siren approached from down the highway in front of the church. A police car sped down the road. Its flashing lights swirled. Run! Now!

The police car zoomed past the church. It did not stop.

At that moment, the door opened. A man’s voice came from the dark shadows. “Sister Marguerita says you are looking for me.” She recognized the voice from the confessional booth. A figure appeared. “I’m Father Ramon. I believe we’ve spoken before.”

“I am afraid, Father. I am so afraid.”

“Please come in. This is God’s house. You are safe here.”

Northbound Interstate 95
Five miles southwest of downtown Philadelphia

9:10 a.m.

The traffic was remarkably light for this time of morning, Mohammed thought as the van curved to the left and then crossed Island Avenue, leaving the perimeter of the airport off to the right. Another curve to the left brought the van to the bridge crossing the Schuylkill River. Here, three northbound big rigs clogged the swift flow of traffic to a slow-moving bottleneck creeping onto the bridge.

In the middle of the I–95 bridge, the U-Haul came to a stop behind the eighteen-wheeler. Mohammed cursed. Then, with nowhere else to go, he realized that he was witnessing the last view of a waterway that he would ever see this side of paradise.

What a depressing sight, under the bright light of the morning sun, this vintage panorama of the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard, home of America’s Atlantic “mothball fleet.” Rusting steel hulks by the hundreds, in the form of US Navy warships, testified that America’s greatest days as a world power ended with the last century.

And the mortal blow that he would strike at the heart of the City of Brotherly Love would underscore further ineptitude of this giant cesspool’s ability to protect its infidels in its largest population centers.

He had driven this route down the wide expanses of Broad Street dozens of times in preparation for this moment. The buildings…he could see them in his sleep. To his right…the basketball arenas whose names had changed with the failed American banks they had been named for…The First Union Center which became the Wachovia Center and then the Wells Fargo Center, and behind it, the Lincoln Financial Field, home of the Philadelphia Eagles.

What a shame that martyrdom would not come there. At Lincoln Financial Field, in the midst of seventy thousand obnoxious infidels. But the martyrdom would come. Soon.

Past the sports complexes, the drive north along the southern section of Broad Street was a picture of the scum of urban decay. Abandoned, dilapidated buildings. Plywood nailed over broken glass. Windows smashed out with no plywood coverings. Drug dealers huddled in alleyways, swapping cash for cocaine. Vagrants openly urinating in back alleys. All the product of decadent America and its worship of Judeo-Christian Zionism.

Purification was coming soon. The thought brought a sudden peace to Mohammed’s soul. He stepped on the accelerator, running the yellow light at the intersection of Broad Street and Snyder Avenue.

Crystal Tea Room at Wanamaker Building
Downtown Philadelphia

9:30 a.m.

The Philadelphia Chamber of Commerce was due in for its luncheon in another two-and-a-half hours. Marie Carter had already been working for two hours, along with other members of the kitchen staff, setting fine china plates and sterling silverware on the flower-adorned banquet tables.

“Ready for a smoking break?” This was the friendly voice of her supervisor and smoking pal, Sally Rawlins, who, like Marie, needed a ten-minute nicotine fix at least once every two hours to get through the day.

“I need to make a quick call,” Marie said.

“Okay, maybe I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” Sally walked out of the large banquet room and into the hallway.

Marie pulled her cell phone from her purse. “No signal,” she mumbled. “What a surprise.”

Stepping over to the window, which faced the back side of historic Philadelphia City Hall, the signal bars reappeared on the screen.

She punched “1” on the speed dial, and four rings later, the sound of her own voice bellowed from the answering machine at her home eighteen miles to the east, far across the Delaware River in Berlin, New Jersey.

“You have reached the Carter residence. No one is available to take your call. Leave your name and number and we’ll get back with you.” Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

“Honey, are you there?…Are you there?…Will you pick up, please?…I guess you’re out on your jog. Listen, we’re pretty busy with a Chamber of Commerce banquet and I don’t know if I’ll be back in time to pick up the girls from school. Do you think you’d be able to help me out? Good luck with the interviews today. I know you’re going to find a job soon. Love you. Miss you. Bye-bye!”

She clamped the phone shut. Eric had been without work for nearly a year now, and every day for the last year, she had prayed that something would open. But still, nothing. Nobody wanted to hire a midlevel bank executive in his mid-thirties. Not in this economy anyway. Downsizing and corporate layoffs had taken its hard toll on so many, and she had taken this job to try and slow the bleeding.

And it wasn’t all that bad. History had always been her favorite subject in school, and she loved teaching it to her two young daughters, Amy and Sharon, whom she had home-schooled through fifth grade. But this year, when Eric lost his job, they had placed the girls in public schools while she went back to work part-time. And although neither the hours nor the work were particularly rewarding, it was nice to be able to look out at the historic Philadelphia City Hall, with a huge clock larger than London’s Big Ben. The majestic building on Penn Square had been the tallest building in the world until 1908. She was fortunate, in many ways, that if she had to work, she could at least work in the midst of a great cradle of American history. And in this, she found at least some solace and inspiration.

She checked her watch. Not enough time now for that smoking break. That was all right. She had been trying to quit anyway, and had been praying for the strength to stop. She sipped her coffee and glanced down at the bustling activity on the square.

Downtown Philadelphia

9:33 a.m.

Mohammed slowed the van as it approached the intersection of Broad and Chestnut Streets. The large clock tower of the Philadelphia City Hall loomed five hundred fifty feet in the air, rising above Penn Square just a half a block directly in front of him. On top of the clock tower stood the statue of the dead infidel William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania.

The van reached Penn Square, and Momammed swung around the square to the right. Then, following the perimeter road around the square, he turned to the left again.

He pulled the van over to the left, just behind the Philadelphia City Hall on the east side of Penn Square, almost in front of the Market Street entryway to Penn Square.

Car horns from obnoxious Philly drivers blared in protest of the van blocking the left traffic lanes. He would have to hurry. The cops would descend upon him any moment.

He reached over to the small suitcase that was sitting in the seat next to him and popped it open.

Honk! “Hey, move over, ya lousy scumbag!” The driver shook his fist at the van.

Another driver pushed down on the horn. “Get out of the road!” another driver yelled in an obnoxious Philly accent.

Mohammed rested his thumb on the detonator. He closed his eyes and turned his head to the right, in an easterly direction toward Mecca. “Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah.”

Crystal Tea Room at Wanamaker Building
Downtown Philadelphia

9:35 a.m.

That’s odd,” Marie mumbled aloud, looking out the window and down at the U-Haul that was blocking the traffic lane and making so much commotion behind City Hall.

A twisting in her stomach told her that something wasn’t right. Then, sudden, unexpected panic washed over her, as if forewarning her.

“April,” she instinctively called to the coworker standing nearest to the window. “Come check this out.”

The van exploded into the blinding sun. Great heat burned Marie alive, melting the flesh from her arms.

St. Stephen’s Catholic Church
Jakarta, Indonesia

8:40 p.m.

Kristina sat in a chair just in front of a modest wooden desk bearing the nameplate Father Ramon. “What is your name, my child?” he continued to ask. But in the last thirty minutes since she arrived, Kristina had been too scared to answer him.

“Father, I’m terrified.”

“Yes, I can see that, but if you want the church’s help, you have to trust us enough to give us your name.”

The priest’s black eyes reflected a trusting kindness. If she could not trust this man, then whom could she trust? Somehow, she knew that she could trust him. “Kristina. Kristina Wulandari.”

“And are you from here in Jakarta?”

“Yes, Father.”

“When you came to confession, you told me that someone important was going to die?”

“Yes, Father. And then I ran for fear of my life.”

“Who, Kristina?” Their eyes locked.

“The president, Father. I was referring to President Santos. And today that happened.”

“Yes.” Father Ramon stood and ran his hand through his hair and exhaled. “We all mourn for our president. And can you tell me, Kristina, how did you know this was going to happen?”

“General Perkasa had the president killed.”

“General Perkasa?”

“Yes, Father.”

“And just how do you know this?”

“Because…” She looked down. A sudden embarrassment overcame her.

“Because what?”

“Because I was his lover. I was in his house last night when I overheard the general and some of his staff members planning in the general’s study. They thought I was asleep. But I slipped down in the middle of the night, at the bottom of the stairway, and overheard them.”

“What were they saying?”

“They were drinking and laughing and talking about how they would make many, many millions of dollars, and then they started talking about a plan to kill President Santos.”

“Did they say how they were going to kill him?”

“All I could hear was something about the president’s personal physician was going to do it in an act of martyrdom.”

Father Ramon shook his head mournfully. “Do you remember anything else they said?”

“They mentioned Vice President Magadia,” she said.

“They are going to kill him too?”

“They said they were going to capture him at Istana Bogor, and hold him and try to force him to cooperate with them. I have a feeling that if he doesn’t cooperate, they will kill him.”

The priest sat back down. “Is there anything else that you think I need to know?”

“Yes, Father. They are going to buy nuclear bombs from Pakistan and slip them into the United States and use them on America. They are planning to kill President Williams in a nuclear blast.”

Father Ramon exhaled. Then he leaned over the desk and stared at her a few minutes, as if he was trying to decide whether to believe her. “Kristina, do you have any evidence of any of this?”

“Yes, Father.” She held up the memory stick. “I have this. It is all here.”

The White House

9:50 a.m.

Mack had left the majority of the National Security Council working in the Situation Room, while he returned to the Oval Office, all in an effort to preserve some semblance of normalcy in the developing international crisis.

He had brought with him his two most trusted, yet most likely to clash Cabinet members, the secretaries of state and defense.

The secretary of state was pacing back and forth across the back of the Oval Office, arguing, as usual, against a point just made by the secretary of defense. “With all due respect to Secretary Lopez’s call to drastically beef up our forces in the region, Mr. President, I would urge caution. Our navy is already providing tanker escorts. While it’s true that we may need to move more forces in, I’m concerned about international reaction to a Persian Gulf-style buildup.”

“But, Mr. President,” the secretary of defense shot back, “they’ve just tested a nuclear device in the Halmahera Sea. One of our ships has been taken out. We’ve lost who-knows-how-many men. That’s an act of war, Mr. President. We need more carrier groups in the region.”

The secretary of defense crossed his arms. “Mr. President, we all should be outraged, and we are outraged about the fact that they tested that device, but I disagree with my colleague on whether that is an act of war. Technically, I don’t think we can say it’s an act of war unless we can show that they intended to harm our ship. If you want to get right down to it, they’ve got a stronger argument that we committed an act of war against them by our operation against Merdeka Palace.”

A buzzing from the speaker phone on the president’s desk stopped Secretary Mauney in his tracks. “Mr. President!” A panicked sound from the president’s secretary, Gayle Staff. “The national security advisor and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs are here, sir. They say it’s an emergency.”

Mack’s stomach sank immediately. “Send them in, Gayle.”

Secret Service officers flung open the doors leading into the Oval Office, and Cynthia Hewitt and Admiral Roscoe Jones came running in. Their faces signaled disaster before Cyndi Hewitt spoke.

“It’s Philadelphia, Mr. President,” Hewitt said.

“What about Philadelphia?”

“A bomb.” The national security advisor broke into tears, crying like a baby.

“What?” Mack stood, his forehead suddenly clammy.

Admiral Jones took over for Hewitt. “I’m afraid it’s nuclear, Mr. President.”

“No. No! Please!” Mack wanted to heave, to vomit. A nuclear attack on American soil! He had to calm himself. He was the president. “Talk to me, Admiral. What happened? How bad?”

“Bad, sir. Looks like an explosion in the heart of the city. Relatively small nuclear device. Seismic indicators showing about one kiloton. That’s what we call a suitcase bomb. Still, this dwarfs the magnitude of 9/11.”

“Barry.” Mack nodded to the senior Secret Service officer on the presidential detail. “Flip on CNN.”

“Yes, sir.”

Images of firefighters, sirens, smoke, men, women, and children screaming—all flashed on the screen. The voice of the CNN anchor undergirded it all.

“This is Tom Miller. Again, this breaking story from Philadelphia. Tragedy. Horror.” The venerable newscaster’s voice began choking. He paused, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, and recovered. “It…appears that a large bomb, believed to be a nuclear device, has exploded in the downtown area of Philadelphia.

“There is no word from the White House or the Pentagon as of yet, but we have bone-chilling film, shot from cell phone cameras outside the city, of a blast going into the sky like a mushroom cloud. Just look…”

The screen showed a blinding burst above Philadelphia, followed by a mammoth mushroom cloud rising over the city.

“This video was taken about ten minutes ago,” Tom Miller said.

Mack stood silent. Cyndi Hewitt had restrained herself, and was wiping her running mascara with a handkerchief provided by the secretary of defense, who was standing beside her with one arm around her.

By this point, the president’s personal secretary, Gayle Staff, had come into the Oval Office and was watching with the others. “Gayle, get Arnie on the line.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Gayle stepped out as Tom Miller continued to speak. “Again, we have no official word yet on whether this…this mammoth explosion in Philadelphia was nuclear. But we are hearing preliminary reports from firefighters attempting to reach the scene that there are increased radiation levels in the downtown area. The intense heat, even a mile from the center, is said to be so great that firefighters cannot move in at this point.”

The telephone on the president’s desk buzzed. “Mr. President, your press secretary is on the line.”

“Thanks.” Mack picked up the phone. “Arnie, you watching the networks? Okay, I want a written statement from the White House immediately reassuring the American public of the following:

“First, that our nation has been attacked, and that the United States military will respond swiftly and appropriately.

“Second, inform the nation that the president and the National Security Council are meeting at this time to further coordinate our response.

“Third, the president will address the nation sometime later today, once we have had a chance to better assess this situation.

“Fourth, until we can assess the full extent of the damage and threat, instruct the American public to please cooperate fully with all local, state, and federal authorities. Let the people know that these officers’ main concern during the next few hours and days to come will be their safety.

“Finally, I am declaring that this day shall be a day of prayer, and for the next seven days want to ask that Americans be in fervent prayer for me, for the armed forces, for the congress, and for all national leadership. Tell them we seek to provide protection for the American people, and will seek to bring justice to the perpetrator of this crime.” He looked back at the plasma screen. “That should do it. Get it out to all major media outlets. Now.”

He nodded at one of the Secret Service agents. “Barry, mute that. We’ve got work to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Admiral Jones.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need a quick briefing on the Pentagon’s contingency plans in the event of a nuclear attack on an American city. Stat.”

“Sir, I can do that. We have contingency plans for almost every scenario, from a suitcase nuclear bomb, which this appears to be, to an allout ICBM attack. But may I make a suggestion, sir?”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Sir, we need to mobilize the National Guard immediately into Philadelphia to maintain order and evacuate the population.”

“Evacuate? Where to?”

“New York. Northern Virginia. Baltimore. And pray that none of those areas gets hit.”

“Okay,” Mack said. “Order full mobilization of all National Guard units. And I want all available naval and marine forces in the Western Pacific and the Eastern Indian Ocean bearing down on Indonesia—”

“But, Mr. President,” the secretary of state tried interrupting.

Mack raised his hand. The secretary of state shut up. “Now. My gut tells me that we know who’s behind this. And we’re gonna find him, and we’re gonna take him out.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

Residence of General Perkasa
Jakarta, Indonesia

8:55 p.m.

Cheers erupted at the sight pouring onto the plasma screen from half a world away.

“We have done it! We have done it!” Colonel Croon was saying, as the officers were pouring themselves drinks, whooping it up, and clanging their glasses in ecstasy.

“You are a genius, General!”

“America has never been hit like this! We shall control the world!” another officer shouted. “No one has ever so devastated America!”

The general himself was standing in front of his desk, laughing with glee and accepting hugs, handshakes, and congratulations from the whiskey-swilling officers.

Captain Taplus, who had just arrived from Gag Island, stood in the corner of the room and forced a smile on his face.

Indeed, Taplus thought, it was a remarkable sight. But up until just a little while ago, the shot shown on television sets all over the world had surely been the mushroom cloud rising over Gag Island. His baby.

Couldn’t they have waited just a few more days? Why not at least let the effect of Gag Island set in more?

“Can you believe this, Taplus?” One of them slapped him on the back.

“Taplus, my boy. Have a drink,” said another officer, thrusting a glass of liquor into his hand.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Not this soon. Not this fast. The test bomb at Gag was his. Gag Island was his operation. He had overseen it and he had brought Indonesia into the nuclear age. They were supposed to have promoted him at the airport.

Why had the general acted so impetuously?

Now it was as if Gag Island was of no consequence, as if they were clouding out his rightful place as a founding father of the new Islamic Republic.

This could not stand. He had to do something. He had to think of something.

“General,” he said. No response. The general’s guffawing with Colonel Croon drowned everything else out. “General!”

Perkasa looked over. “Taplus. You wanted to say something.”

“It seems to me, sir, respectfully, that if we are to fully capitalize on the events of Gag Island and Philadelphia, that another statement to the world, and particularly to the Americans, would be in order almost immediately.”

The general raised an eyebrow, almost curiously. “Captain, I have already made a live international television address while you were in transit back here. We laid out our demands for the withdrawal of international recognition of the Jewish state. And we showed video clips of the explosion at Gag Island. But Gag Island was only the beginning of this. Gag Island is over now, and we’ve quickly moved on to more advanced stages of the operation.”

The words were a punch to Hassan’s stomach. “But…”

“But what are you suggesting, Captain?” The general took a sip of whiskey. “That I show the video again of Gag Island?” Another sip of whiskey. “Excellent work out there, by the way.” He looked at Colonel Croon. “Colonel, do remind me to put Captain Taplus in for a promotion for his excellent work.”

“Yes, General.”

“But, General,” Hassan said. He could not leave it at that. “Based on what we accomplished at Gag Island, we have not brought America to her knees. Now that we have struck her, she is weak. Her people are weak anyway. America stands for nothing anymore. Her people are into their iPods and videogames and celebrity worship. They are becoming a weak, socialist, godless society like France. Perhaps you should go back on television now and demand capitulation on the issue of Israel. Strike now, General. Let them know that there will be more Philadelphias if the United Nations does not withdraw recognition of Israel.”

The look on the general’s face reflected a mood shift from celebratory to pensive. He took a sip of liquor and scratched his chin.

“You know, perhaps young Taplus is onto something,” he said. “I sort of like the idea of keeping up the pressure. Colonel Croon,” Perkasa looked at his chief of staff.

“Yes, sir.”

“How soon can we be back on the air?”

“A matter of minutes, sir.”

“Excellent. Let’s prepare a statement along the lines of what Taplus has suggested. Then let’s go back on the air immediately and keep the pressure up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“After that, let’s get Taplus promoted to major.”

Only major?

“The young man is showing some promise.”

St. Stephen’s Catholic Church
Jakarta, Indonesia

9:00 p.m.

She was trying to fight the tears. But somehow, the tears seemed to cleanse her soul. And the more she cried, the better she felt. “I’m sorry, Father,” Kristina said, “I just feel so dirty for what I did. But I was overcome by the power, by the trappings of it all. I feel like I sold myself.”

“It is all right, my daughter,” he said, passing her a box of tissues. “It is all right to cry. You know, God cries. And more importantly than that, Jesus died for the sinner. He is still in the business of redeeming sinners. He washes all our sins white as snow, if we repent from our sins and embrace him as our Lord, and go and sin no more.”

The priest’s words brought on another torrent of tears. “I do, Father, I do repent. I do accept Jesus.” Her words were cathartic. A warm sensation flooded her body. Somehow, Kristina knew she had been found.

A knock on the door. It was Sister Marguerita. A sudden terseness was in her voice. A look of anguish on her face. “Forgive me for interrupting, Father, but there is something I think you should know.”

“What is it, Marguerita?”

“The television is reporting that a nuclear bomb has exploded in America.”

“Oh, no!” Kristina’s heart sank again. “It’s part of their plan. It’s on the memory stick.”

“Where in America?” Father Ramon asked.

“Philadelphia.”

The priest turned on the television set in his office. CNN was showing a blinding flash in the midst of a city skyline, and then, rapidly, a great mushroom cloud rising.

The sight brought a sudden rush of sadness.

“Heavenly Father,” Father Ramon prayed aloud, “please be with the people of Philadelphia and with the citizens of America. Bring supernatural comfort to the families being torn apart by this act of evil. In the name of Jesus. Amen.”

Kristina wanted to cry again. “I feel like this is my fault. If only I’d come forward sooner.”

“How could you have come forward any sooner?” Father Ramon asked. “You came as quickly as you could. You came; that’s what important.” He paused. “And I also think it’s important for us to have a look at that memory stick.”

“Certainly.” She handed it over to him, but could not take her eyes off the television. And with the sight of men, women, and children running, panicked, in the streets away from the advancing mushroom cloud, the tears of sadness began to flow.

Residence of General Perkasa

9:05 p.m.

Finally, Hassan thought, he was getting this outrageous impetuousness under control. Only he, the general, Colonel Croon, and the television crews were in the study. Good. Face time with the general at yet another transformational moment in history.

“Do you have the draft of my statement, Taplus?” General Perkasa asked, as one of the TV crew members powdered him with additional makeup.

“I am putting the finishing touches on it now, General.”

“Very well, boy,” Perkasa said. “I want to see it and approve it before we go on air. If I am not satisfied with it, we do not go on air until I am satisfied. Is that understood?”

“Yes, General,” came the reply in unison from the television technicians in the room.

As the powder session continued, Hassan hammered the keyboard furiously. Again, he had thrust himself into history—as a military pioneer, and now as a speechwriter for one of the most important broadcasts in the history of the world.

The statement was crucial. It would need to be worded so that Perkasa could take indirect responsibility for the Philadelphia attack, without directly admitting it. The object would be to turn a panicked American public against its government—to make it clear that withdrawal of support of Israel was a small price to pay to ensure that no more American cities met the same fate as Philadelphia.

Chills again befell him as he realized that Allah was, at this moment, allowing him to be instrumental in the unfolding of history.

He smiled, and continued to type. We understand that a tragedy has fallen upon America. This has been a terrible fate that is beyond our control…

St. Stephen’s Catholic Church

9:10 p.m.

With Kristina looking over his shoulder, Father Ramon plugged the memory stick into his computer and opened the document in Microsoft Word.

“There, that’s it,” Kristina said, as Father Ramon scanned in amazement the words before his eyes.

THE MALACCA PLAN
A DETAILED PLAN BY THE STRATEGIC ALLIANCE
FOR
THE TRANSITION OF STATEHOOD
From THE REPUBLIC OF INDONESIA
To THE ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF INDONESIA
TOP SECRET

“Do a search using the word assassination,” Kristina said.

Father Ramon simultaneously pressed the control and f keys, and typed assassination.

The cursor instantly jumped, and Father Ramon found himself reading the plans for Santos’ assassination.

“Unbelievable,” Father Ramon said.

“I told you so, Father.”

Slowly, the priest carefully reread each and every word of the section. Then, instinctively, as if someone took control of his hands, he again held down the control and the f buttons.

He typed the word Philadelphia.

Instant results.

Strategic Strikes Against American Cities: With the anticipated acquisition of a limited number of battlefield-caliber nuclear weapons, the Strategic Alliance recognizes that, to the extent that the use of weapons may be employed to advance the cause of the Great Faith, the deployment and potential use of such weapons must be selective and strategic.

Operation Decapitate: To this extent, and to accomplish the goal of geostrategic positioning and leverage against the United States, the nation which, among all nations, has provided the bulk of international support to the rogue state of Israel, Operation Trident shall be commissioned to surreptitiously smuggle battlefield-caliber nuclear weapons into the USA.

Under the Operation, the weapons shall be transported to eastern Mexico, to the port of Tampico, just south of the US border. From there, they will be transported by ship at night to a point five miles off the US coastline, north of Brownsville, Texas, where they will be offloaded, along with conventional explosives, onto small craft and transported to the United States shoreline. Weapons shall be transported and stored in crates at a prearranged location in a warehouse in Brownsville, Texas, identified as the Old Port Isabel Warehouse.

From Brownsville, they will be transported separately by U-Haul trucks to three cities for deployment and use, as designated below.

Target City 1—Philadelphia. Selected for its historical significance as the birthplace of the American government…

His heart pounding, Father Ramon stopped. He reread the passage.

…Strike to occur when ordered by driving truck into area surrounding Penn Square at the heart of the city and detonating. The Council has also determined that as an economically deprived city in the liberal northeastern part of the country, it is believed that a strike in this geographic region would more quickly bring pressure against the pro-Israeli administration from the more liberal, pro-Palestinian northeast, as opposed to the more conservative south, which is populated by more so-called “Bible-believing Christians,” who offer the greatest support for Israel in America.

Target City 2—San Francisco. Selected for its strategic location as a centrally located city on America’s west coast, San Francisco is also a liberal hub in the United States, and is the nation’s de facto headquarters for the godless homosexual movement. The strike, also by truck carrying materials deported in the same shipment, would occur near the base of the famed Golden Gate Bridge, with the detonation to occur close enough to the bridge to vaporize a portion of it.

“San Francisco’s next,” Father Ramon said.

Kristina moaned softly.

Like Philadelphia, San Francisco is also selected for the generally liberal philosophy of its population, again on the theory that the surviving electorate, in the wake of a strike, would bring considerable pressure upon the American administration to abandon its anachronistic and pro-Zionist support for Israel. As an additional incentive for this target, the city would suffer punishment for its open embrace of godless homosexuality.

Target City 3—Washington. Selected for its strategic location as the American capital city, a nuclear attack upon Washington will be employed as a third option, only in the event that the American government has failed to capitulate to Strategic Alliance demands by refusing to withdraw support for Israel and by failing to lead the reversal of United Nations resolutions recognizing Israel.

Although Pennsylvania Avenue is and has been blocked off in front of the White House for a number of years, Constitution Avenue, which borders the South Lawn, has remained open.

Fear swept Father Ramon’s body. He closed his eyes. The words of the great apostle in chapter 8 of Romans flooded his spirit. For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of sonship. And by him we cry, “Abba, Father.”

The fear left. The priest opened his eyes and looked up. “Abba. Father. Tell me what to do.”

The voice was still, yet small. And it spoke into his soul. Call the Monsignor. Ask for my airplane. Fly to Singapore. Go to the United States embassy there.

“Yes, Father.” The priest instinctively pressed the speed dial to the Monsignor’s residence.

Dial tone. Rings. “Hello.”

“Monsignor, this is Father Ramon.”

“Are you all right, Ramon?”

“Yes, Monsignor. I’m sorry to interrupt you, but is the church’s airplane available?”

“Yes. It’s in our hangar at our private airfield south of the city.”

Ramon felt himself exhale deeply. “Monsignor, I need to meet with you now. It is an emergency.”

“What is it, Ramon?”

“I need to take the church plane to Singapore, Monsignor.”

A pause. “I think the pilot has a flight scheduled in a couple of days. I’m sure we can make room for you.”

Ramon rubbed his head. “Monsignor, I need the plane now.”

“Now?”

“Yes, sir. Tonight.”

Silence.

“Could you meet me at our airstrip, Monsignor?”

“Can’t you tell me what is going on?”

“No, sir. Not on the phone. I can say that it is a matter of life and death.”

Another pause. “Well, let me remind you that the plane is owned and operated by the Holy See for diplomatic purposes. The Vatican lets the Indonesian church use it, of course. But I would have to check with the nuncio to get permission to use it. He’s probably asleep at the embassy. You want me to wake the nuncio?”

Of course. Why had he not thought of it earlier? The nuncio was the Holy See’s ambassador, representing his Holiness the Pope in nations as his ambassador. The nuncio and his representatives could travel as they pleased under the protections of diplomatic immunity. But would they?

“Yes, Monsignor. I’m afraid that it is an urgent matter. Please tell the nuncio that he has two requests for asylum and protection by the Holy See.”

There was a silence. Had he lost connection?

“Two requests?” The Monsignor spoke up.

“Yes, Father. Two requests.”

“And may I ask from whom, so that I can at least give the nuncio an idea of what to expect?”

Was it wise even to respond? Suppose they were listening. Surely not. Trust God in the moment. “Please tell the nuncio that one of the requests is from me.”

More silence. “From you, Ramon?”

“Yes, Father. I will explain on the plane. The other is from one whose life may be in danger for political reasons. I am asking, as a personal favor, that we be transferred to the embassy in Singapore for safety and for matters of extreme and urgent importance to the world.”

More silence. “Say no more,” the Monsignor said. “All right. I’ve known you for a long time, Ramon. I’ll make the call and see what I can do. Meet me at our airstrip in one hour, unless you hear from me.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Ramon hung up the phone. “Have you ever flown in an airplane, Kristina?”

“No, Father.”

“Well, you’re going to get your chance.” Her eyes widened. “Let me shut the computer down and get this memory stick, and then we’re going for a ride.”

Chapter 18

Embassy of the Apostolic Nunciature of the Holy See
Singapore

10:35 p.m.

An asylum request for the Holy See?” Monsignor Rafael Cardillo, the nuncio for his Holiness the Holy Father of Rome to the Republic of Singapore, had just gone to bed, but had not fallen asleep when he had been called down to his office by his assistant that a secure call was being placed by his counterpart in the Republic of Indonesia, Monsignor Alberto Miranda, the nuncio to the Republic of Indonesia, or now the Islamic Republic of Indonesia.

“And they are requesting that they be housed here at the Apostolic Nunciature in Singapore?” Cardillo asked this, listening to Miranda confirm the request. “Don’t they know that we have our hands full dealing with displaced refugees from the oil spill?…Why not there in Indonesia?…Oh, really?…Let me get this straight; one of the parties requesting asylum is one of our priests?…And neither he nor his cohort feel safe at the Apostolic Nunciature in Indonesia…I see…I see…I suppose I understand.”

The nuncio looked at his watch.

“I’ll meet you at the airport with a reception party as soon as the plane lands. We will take the petitioners into our protective custody until this can be sorted out.”

Ten miles south of Philadelphia

11:10 a.m.

Move, move, move!” Lieutenant Colonel Raymond Leggett, Pennsylvania National Guard, was waving his arms like a traffic cop as he stood atop the hood of the military Humvee, which was parked just off the shoulder of southbound Interstate 95, leading out of Philadelphia. “Keep moving!”

The interstate itself was a logjam of horn-blowing cars all pointed in a southerly direction, but barely moving away from the ominous black cloud hovering over what was once downtown Philadelphia.

Along the shoulders of the road, thousands of pedestrians plodded along in a southerly direction, some cursing, others crying, many with stunned and glazed looks.

A shrill cry pierced above the cacophonous sound of rumbling panic. “Please! Please! She’s my baby! Please!”

Leggett looked down and saw a young woman, a stringy redhead with a baby in a pouch on her back. The woman was frantically pulling on the cammie uniform of his second in command, First Lieutenant Bob Calley.

“What’s the problem?” Leggett asked.

“Sir, we just ran out of iodide pills. She was next in line.” The national guard had been passing out iodide pills to try and thwart the effects of nuclear fallout.

“Please! Please! I don’t want her to die.”

“Ma’am,” Leggett said with an authoritative tone, “we’ve ordered more iodide pills. You’ll have to wait.”

“My baby!”

“You’ll have to move along, ma’am.”

“No!” She was now pulling so hard on the lieutenant’s uniform that he nearly stumbled into the crowd.

“Hey, move! Move!” Screams from the crowd swelled amidst the honking horns. “What’s the holdup? Move or we’re all gonna die!”

“Sergeant, help the lieutenant!”

“Yes, sir!” The sergeant, also in cammies and combat boots, stepped in and grabbed the lady’s arm, then pulled her away from the young lieutenant.

“No!” she screamed, clawing back.

“Medic!”

“Yes, sir!”

“This lady’s disrupting our operations. Give her a tranquilizer and put her in the Humvee.”

“Yes, sir.”

Leggett tried blocking the woman’s screeching protestations out of his mind. “Move along! Move along,” he was saying. It was as if he were speaking to the wind. The crowd was going to rush to the south anyway.

The cloud was now darkening and appearing to spread in their direction. Chills ran up and down his spine. Surely the cloud contained enough radiation to condemn anyone under it to a death sentence. The iodide tablets were scarce. At least at this location.

He thought of his wife and two children, across the river in Delaware. Hopefully, they had already begun their journey to the south.

His instinct as a husband and father told him to leave, to abandon his post now. But he was an officer in the Pennsylvania National Guard, under the command of the governor of Pennsylvania and the president of the United States. He had sworn to defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. He could not leave. Not now. Not yet. His nation had been attacked. His commanders had deployed him. Duty called.

“Ah!” He looked down and watched the lady scream from the pain of the long, glistening needle being jabbed into her arm. Almost immediately, she fell to the ground. The lieutenant was already cradling the infant in his arms, as a sea of humanity swirled around them, all on foot.

“Get them in the Humvee.”

“Yes, sir.”

What to do? So many people. So little control. “Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Radio air support. Tell ’em we need a chopper. Now. We gotta get this lady and her baby out of here.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Colonel Leggett had been a professing Christian all his life. But like so many professing Christians in America, the distractions of the world had cut into his prayer and Bible time, and he knew it. The looming radioactive cloud over Philadelphia, the panicked cries and screams of hundreds of thousands, drove him to pray silently now, even while attempting to look official in his army uniform. He was helpless to do anything other than depend on God.

Chop-chop-chop-chop-chop-chop-chop…

The colonel looked to his right. A Huey helicopter, green drab against the bright sky with the word ARMY painted in white, was circling and now headed in their direction.

The sight of the chopper sent hundreds of arms clamoring in the air. “This way. Over here!” Cries of desperation from the escaping throngs.

Standing on the hood of the Humvee, Leggett motioned for the chopper. The pilot responded and nosed the chopper toward the National Guard unit’s position.

“Take me! Take my child!” people were now yelling.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please get back!”

The crowd did not respond.

“Please! Please get back. The helicopter may have iodide tablets. Please get back.”

Still nothing.

“Please get back or we will have to fire!”

The crowd had not yet broken through the perimeter of troops surrounding the Humvee and the portable command post. Yet they were pressing against the perimeter.

Leggett could not fire on Americans. He knew that. He would never repeat the travesty of Kent State, when Ohio National Guard troops shot and killed college students on the Kent campus. Still, the chopper needed room to operate if he were to help these people.

“Company, don gas equipment. Sergeant, stand by to fire tear gas on my command.”

“Yes, sir.”

The chopper was now overhead, and communications were almost impossible under its deafening roar. A stretcher was being lowered from the chopper.

“Corporal! Get the baby in the stretcher. Ride up with her!” Leggett screamed.

“Yes, sir.”

At the sight of the corporal cradling the baby in his arms, then climbing into the metal grate stretcher, the crowd seemed to back off, if only for a moment. The corporal gave a thumbs-up, and the winch in the chopper began lifting him and the infant girl through the air. The basket stretcher dangled a bit into the air and then, moving up, was pulled into the chopper. An airman reached over, gave a thumbs-up down to the ground.

The stretcher was now over the Humvee again as the corporal headed back down toward the jeep. This led to more clamoring by the crowd.

The perimeter line broke and four men poured toward the jeep.

“Tear gas!”

A canister exploded in front of the advancing mob. Rising white smoke set off a wave of coughing and choking. The vanguard of advancing throngs turned away. “They shot them! They shot them!”

Angry screams. “Ladies and gentlemen! Back off.” Leggett yelled through the bullhorn. “We are trying to save a baby and her mother. The chopper has an additional supply of iodide. We’ll pass it out until it runs out. If you want us to help you, you have to back off now! I apologize for having to use tear gas, but we instructed these people to back off and they refused.”

“Killers!” A long-haired young man, earrings dangling, was shaking his fist in the air. “Just like Bush in Iraq!”

“Please,” Colonel Leggett pleaded. “We will fire more tear gas if you do not cooperate!”

Some were choking and now others crying. Still others, who were not affected downwind by the tear gas, backed off this time, providing a slight opportunity.

“Sergeant, Lieutenant. Get the lady in the stretcher.”

“Yes, sir.”

The soldiers strapped the woman into the stretcher, and in a moment, she too was dangling over the Humvee.

Inside his gas mask, Leggett watched as the chopper reeled the lady up, up to a place of temporary safety. At that moment, he realized that tears were running down his cheeks. But his tears were not from exposure to the gas.

The White House

11:45 a.m.

Ablur of activity dominated the Situation Room at the White House. Some TV monitors showed live images of a flame-engulfed Philadelphia. Others showed rapid response and military units aiding civilians rushing from the city. Still others showed reruns of the nuclear explosion on Gag Island half a world away. A few showed the oil slicks in Singapore, which seemed to be ancient history in the wake of all this. On several other screens, television reporters holding microphones were standing outside the White House, explaining whatever they could about the situation.

And even as he silently prayed for courage and wisdom to act decisively in a way to save as many American lives as possible, President Mack Williams could not get rid of the persistent question lurking in the back of his mind. Why?

Why had fate placed it upon him to become the first American president to absorb the brunt of a nuclear attack on American soil? Why?

Phones were ringing. Admiral Smith and several aides were on the phone with the Pentagon. Around the conference table, other members of the National Security Council were on the phone with their staffs.

And yet Mack Williams, president of the United States and the one who was regarded as the most powerful man in the world, suddenly felt as though he were the most lonely and helpless man in the room.

The words of Christ on the cross rang in his ears. My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?

“What’s our situation? Mr. Secretary?” The president snapped this question to the secretary of defense, who seemed like the proper person to demand information from at the moment. And anyway, it felt good just to snap at someone.

“Some good news from Indonesia, Mr. President,” Secretary Lopez said. “We’ve established radio contact with the crew of our lost chopper. The pilot brought them down in an emergency landing. Last report they were on the ground. Safe. Of course, I’m sure the Indonesians will be out hunting, sir.”

Mack exhaled. “Thank God for that much. What about Philly?”

“Iodide is part of the problem, sir. We have enough at various depositories around the country, but we can’t get it to the population in Philly fast enough. Plus, we’re not sure to what extent we need it and how many doses to administer.”

Mack considered the iodide issue for a second. “Don’t we need to administer it within an hour of an attack or a nuclear leak for it to do any good?”

“Your memory is correct, Mr. President. To protect against thyroid damage from radioactive fallout, iodide must be administered promptly. For thousands in Philadelphia, it’s already too late. And as deadly and devastating a blow as Philadelphia has suffered, this appears to be a smaller nuclear device. The jury is still out, but the radiation may not be as widespread as, say, a thermonuclear strike with a weapon like the Russians have.”

Mack thought about that. “So for those who weren’t incinerated by the bomb, best-case scenario…we could have a repeat of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster on our hands?”

“Possibly, sir. It’s too early to tell.”

“Well, is there any point in getting massive doses there from other parts of the country at this point?”

“Yes, I think so. People will continue to be exposed by residual radiation. We still may be able to help some people. Plus, the action would reassure the public, for what it’s worth.”

“Okay, let’s move fifty percent of our emergency iodide reserves on the West Coast to Philly, and pray that we don’t get struck again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But, Mr. President, about the issue we discussed earlier…”

“I’m not leaving Washington.” Mack slammed his fist on the desk. “What kind of a message would it send to Americans if their president lacked such confidence in our military that he turned tail and ran?”

“But, sir, by all accounts, the mayor of Philadelphia and the entire Philly city council have been wiped out. A nuclear blast here…”

“If I turn tail and run, they have won. I’m simply not going to do it, Erwin.”

“Well, sir, would you at least consider getting the vice president, along with a number of deputy cabinet secretaries, up in an airplane for the next three or four days so that we will have a functioning government if Washington blows?”

Mack looked up and saw that all eyes in the Situation Room were suddenly upon him. The moment had become an eerie pregnant pause in the hubbub of frantic activity. He looked over at his vice president, Douglas Surber.

“Yes, Mr. Secretary, that’s a good idea. Mr. Vice President, let’s have Marine Two airlift you over to Andrews and get you up in the air immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” the vice president said.

“Then let’s get the top deputy secretaries of all cabinet positions up in the air ASAP.” Mack looked around. Their eyes were still glued on him. This wasn’t happening. “God forbid that we have to run this government from thirty-thousand feet.”

“One other thing, Mr. President.”

“What is it, Erwin?”

“I recommend the immediate establishment of a no-fly zone around Washington other than military aircraft.”

“Okay. Sure. Good idea.”

“That would mean at least temporarily closing Reagan Airport.”

Mack winced. “Closing Reagan shuts down the main artery of air traffic into DC.” He wrung his hands together. “I just don’t like the idea of them controlling us like that.”

“I understand, Mr. President. But I don’t think we have a choice. Suppose they try to deliver their next bomb by air? I’m sure that the FAA can reroute flights to Dulles and BWI.”

Mack exhaled. The secretary of defense was right and he knew it. “Fine. Effective immediately, instruct the FAA to redirect all inbound domestic flights from Reagan to Dulles and BWI. And while we’re at it, I think we should get the speaker of the house and the president pro tem of the Senate out of town. Arnie”—he looked at his chief of staff—“will you get me Senator Boylan and Speaker Crane on the line? I’d like to make this request personally.” He looked out at the National Security Council, whose members were collectively soaking up his every word like sponges sucking water. “I want to make sure this country still has a semblance of a government if they do to Washington what they did to Philadelphia.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

United States Embassy
Singapore

12:01 a.m.

First Lieutenant Barry Porter, United States Marine Corps, the officer in charge of embassy security for the evening, had just started swilling his second cup of black coffee when the secure telephone for Ambassador Griffith rang. Only another embassy or the US State Department would ordinarily call on this line. Porter put down the coffee mug and checked the caller ID.

Embassy of the Apostolic Nunciature—Singapore.

“The Vatican Embassy?” he said aloud, then picked up the phone and began speaking rapidly and crisply.

“United States Embassy. This is First Lieutenant Porter, US Marine Corps. May I help you?”

“This is Father DiNardo with the Embassy of the Holy See here in Singapore.”

“Yes, sir, Father. How may I help you, sir?”

“The nuncio would like to arrange an immediate meeting with Ambassador Griffith.”

“Yes, sir, Father. I don’t keep the ambassador’s schedule, sir. His appointment secretary will be in at zero-seven-hundred hours in the morning. Would you like me to have her call you when she comes in?”

“I’m afraid it cannot wait until the morning, Lieutenant. With advance apologies from the nuncio, he is asking that you alert the ambassador now, and the nuncio would like to call on the ambassador at approximately 1:00 A.M. or sooner.”

“Zero-one-hundred hours?” Porter checked his watch. “Approximately one hour from now?”

“Yes, that’s correct, Lieutenant. Please inform the ambassador that the meeting may have sensitive and extremely important national security implications for the United States, and that the highest ranking military and intelligence officers who may be available should attend.”

Porter jotted a note on his legal pad. Extreme National Security Implications. “Yes, sir, Father. I will awaken the ambassador and deliver this message immediately.”

The White House

12:15 p.m.

The sudden explosion of a national crisis had the effect of forming alliances and relationships that in normal circumstances could not be anticipated.

Up until about nine-thirty-five that morning, the president of the United States had not been particularly close with any of his cabinet members. Oh, he had been cordial and friendly, and relied on them for advice. But he had intentionally kept just a bit of an arm’s length so as to avoid any appearance of favoritism.

But in the tremendous heat brought about by this unforeseen tragedy, Mack had found himself in the past few hours relying more and more on the guidance of his secretary of defense, Erwin Lopez. The SECDEF had seemed the calmest of all the president’s inner circle, and something in Mack’s gut told him that this guy was destined for such a time as this, to provide clear-headed advice to the president in this unprecedented time of death and destruction that had been heaped on the United States.

“Okay, what’s our situation with getting our people airborne, Mr. Secretary?”

“Air Force Two is in the air already, sir. The vice president should be over West Virginia by now. A second plane, carrying several cabinet undersecretaries…defense, state, homeland security, treasury, agriculture, and transportation, is on the tarmac at Andrews and should be in the air in less than ten minutes. The navy has sent a chopper over to Capitol Hill to airlift the speaker of the House and the president pro tem of the Senate.”

“Excellent,” Mack said. Then it hit him. The United States government consisted of three branches. Not two. “Mr. Secretary, we need to get the chief justice of the Supreme Court airborne for a while too. This government has a judicial branch as well as an executive and a legislative.”

“Good point, Mr. President. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Arnie, please get Chief Justice Wood on the line.”

“Yes, sir,” the press secretary said. “Right away!”

“Mr. President, look!” Cynthia Hewitt was pointing at the television monitors. The face of the tinhorn dictator of Indonesia was on the screen again, and under his face, CNN was reporting that the broadcast was live.

“Turn it up,” Mack ordered.

Perkasa was wearing his green, drab army uniform, replete with three rows of shiny medals on his chest, and was staring into the screen, seemingly waiting, as if he was trying his hardest to suppress a grin.

“Good day. To the people of America and the people of the world. The last few days, and indeed the last few hours, have brought about perhaps the greatest change in the history of the world that any forty-eight-hour period has ever brought.

“There are some who would rue this day…That is, the day when—in just a twenty-four-hour period of time—a great Islamic nation would become a nuclear superpower, and the world’s last superpower of the twentieth century would be crippled by a nuclear strike at its very heart.

“Those who would rue this day are those who would preserve the status quo…Who would long for the superrich to remain rich, and for all the poor of the world to be suppressed by the evils of satanic materialism.

“Others would rejoice for this day…for this…the beginning of a new shift of power to those whom Allah has foreordained to receive it.”

He stopped and somberly looked into the camera. “The Islamic Republic of Indonesia neither rues nor rejoices in its great ascendency nor the terrible loss of life in America.”

“The lying son of a—,” Admiral Jones blurted.

“Shhh…I want to hear this.” The president held his hand up, commanding silence in the room.

“In fact,” the general continued with a dour look on his face, “while Indonesia had absolutely no control over what has happened in America today, and would have no control over any such future tragedies, know that our sympathies go out to the families of the lost.

“Who, then, does have control over this? And who has control over the prevention of such tragedies and such massive disasters and massive losses of life in the future?

“Why, the answer is simple. President Mack Williams and the American government.”

He banged his fist on the table, as if he were Nikita Khrushchev before the United Nations.

“And how can the American government protect its people from such carnage again?” An arrogant smile crossed his face. “This is very simple, my friends. End your support of Israel. Go to the United Nations, an institution located in your largest city, and demand withdrawal of all recognition of the Zionist state. Recognize only the government of Palestine. Join the world in demanding justice for those who have been displaced by Zionist murderers.”

Another broad smile. “As I said, Indonesia has no control over this. But our intelligence has learned that if this is not done, tragedy will strike America again. Soon. Another city, perhaps multiple cities, will face the same fate as Philadelphia. We share this intelligence with you for your own benefit and protection. Our intelligence has shown that your time is running out.

“While you have less than twenty-four hours to introduce and support these resolutions before the United Nations, your president must take decisive action even sooner.

“There must be a sign of good faith. We have been told that the president of the United States, must, within four hours of the completion of this broadcast, appear on television to renounce the Zionist state and announce the intention of the United States to support these resolutions in the United Nations.”

Admiral Jones shook his fist. “He’s just reduced his own time frame.”

The tinhorn was staring intently now into the camera, his voice reeking confidence, arrogance, and authority. “Four hours! That’s your deadline, Mr. President. Do the right thing. Denounce evil, and save the lives of millions of your own.”

A satisfying pause. “Good day.”

The screen went blue. Then the words Jakarta Indonesia 1225 A.M. blinked rapidly in white on the screen. Then, nothing. The screen went blank.

Mack looked at his watch and quickly calculated the time. It was 12:26 P.M., Washington time.

“By four-thirty, this guy’s gonna blow another city,” he said.

“We’ve gotta take that guy out,” the secretary of defense said.

“No kidding,” Mack said. “Find me a way to do it.” The president’s eyes locked upon his secretary of defense. “Now.”

United States Embassy
Singapore

12:50 a.m.

For Kristina, the night was a living whirlwind of wildly swinging emotions. Her body had undergone the cold rush of fear from running for her life in Jakarta, to the uncertainty of having to beg for refuge from Father Ramon, to the excitement and nervousness of flying for the first time in her life. And now this.

Like most Indonesians who were too poor to afford international travel, Kristina had never left her country. For that matter, she had never even left the island of Java.

Now, she not only found herself mesmerized by the millions of exciting lights of Singapore, but also her eyes fixed upon another colorful object in the night that was sending chills up her spine.

The flag of the United States—flapping gently on a pole under two powerful searchlights, its deep red, white, and blue signifying the hope of the free world, and glowing almost like a halo against the starspangled Singaporean sky.

“This is the US embassy,” announced the Catholic priest who was driving the black SUV carrying the nuncio, along with Kristina and Father Ramon.

The SUV pulled to a stop on Napier Road, just in front of a large iron gate that was guarded by two American soldiers, wearing dark blue jackets and light blue pants with white caps.

“These are US Marines,” the driver said, looking over his shoulder at Kristina and Father Ramon. “They will lead us into the embassy.”

The black gate swung open, and the marine who had walked out of the embassy motioned the driver forward. The SUV rolled inside the gates, and when the gates were closed, the marine opened the back left door where the nuncio was sitting. The marine flashed a sharp salute. “Mr. Ambassador.”

“Good evening, officer,” the nuncio said.

“Good evening, sir. If you and your party would follow me, please, sir.”

The nuncio stepped out first, followed by the driver, and then Kristina and Father Ramon. The marine led them down a walkway past the spotlighted flag.

The double doors to the embassy swung open. Another marine was waiting just inside the doors, also in a snappy blue uniform. As this marine was leading them down a marble hallway, under sparkling crystal chandeliers, Kristina could not help but notice how well-chiseled and handsome these American marines looked.

“Right through here, Mr. Ambassador.” The second marine pointed to the left, and they stepped through a large doorway into an ornate, brightly lit conference room. A very large wooden table surrounded by ten black leather swiveling chairs was in the center of the room, and at the end of the table the US flag was erected in a stand. “Ambassador Griffith will be right with you, sir,” the marine said, then stepped out of the room.

“Very nice,” Father Ramon remarked, his eyes taking in the room.

“The Americans still have the best facilities,” the nuncio said.

“Good evening, Nuncio.” Kristina looked around and saw a distin-guished-looking man with silver hair, presumably American, walking through the doors from the hallway.

“Ambassador Griffith,” the nuncio said, as he stood and extended his hand to the American ambassador.

“Please be seated,” the ambassador said. “I understand that you’ve uncovered some sensitive information of urgent importance.”

“Mr. Ambassador,” the nuncio said. “This is Father Ramon from Indonesia”—the nuncio extended his hand toward the priest—“and this is one of his new parishioners, Kristina Wulandari.” She felt nervous when the nuncio touched her shoulder. “These are extraordinary circumstances. The Holy See has granted asylum to them both.”

“I see,” Ambassador Griffith said.

He nodded at Kristina. “Kristina knows this General Perkasa, this fellow with the new atomic bomb, over in Indonesia.”

“Yes, unfortunately, we have become aware of him.” The ambassador flashed a look of disgust.

The nuncio continued. “She has come across some computer files that we believe will be of urgent and extreme interest to your government. That is why we have requested this meeting.”

“Urgent and extreme,” the ambassador said, parroting the words of the nuncio. “How so?”

“Mr. Ambassador, the file on this memory stick”—the nuncio held up the stick in his hand—“that was taken by Kristina from the general’s residence, shows evidence that the Indonesian junta is responsible for today’s attack on Philadelphia.”

“Really?” A stunned look came over the ambassador’s face.

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador. And not only that, but it looks like they are preparing attacks on two other American cities.”

“Which cities?”

“First, San Francisco. Then Washington,” Father Ramon spoke up. “My apologies,” he added, realizing that he had spoken out of turn.

The nuncio spoke again. “We brought a laptop if you would like to see for yourself, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Yes, please,” Ambassador Griffith said.

Chapter 19

Bogor, Indonesia

12:05 a.m.

Diane had gotten into pretty good physical shape during her tour in Naples. She had even trained for and run a marathon, having finished the grueling twenty-six miler in just under five hours. Still, she was grateful for the five-minute water break.

And while she was an avid runner, this was no marathon course. The SEALs pushed along the craggy, mountainous terrain at a pretty rapid clip. The muscles she was exercising were muscles she had not noticed in quite some time. Already, her calves, thighs, and buttocks were sore from the rapid hike up and down the uneven path.

On the road below them, perhaps three quarters of a mile downrange at a sloping angle, only an occasional set of headlights had come and then gone. And the noise from the cars, trucks, or whatever was moving along the road, was barely audible from here.

Another set of headlights zoomed past just below their position. The headlights gave way to taillights in the distance, and then, nothing.

She looked over at Zack, whose visage was now visible to her in the dark, her eyes now dilated and more accustomed to seeing under the starlight. He was following the most recent vehicle sighting with night-vision binoculars, his direction pointing toward the disappearing taillights.

Silence again. The inactivity had been eerie. No helicopters overhead. No searchlights. Where were they? It was as if the Indonesians were not even aware of their presence.

Zack dropped the binoculars and rested his hand on her shoulder. His touch made her want to melt, now as never before. Why all the wasted time? Why all the years gone by?

Was the navy his real mistress? Did he love the sea more than he loved her? Did he really love her?

“You okay?” he whispered. And the sound of his voice weakened her knees more than the jagged terrain. If he were to ask her to marry him, she would do it on the spot.

“You guys okay?” Captain Kelly approached out of the dark and was walking down his line of men. Zack dropped his hand off her shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” she lied. Except for the fact that I’m sore, scared, and horribly lovesick. Could you perform a marriage ceremony?

“Doing fine, Captain,” Zack said. “But what’s up with all this inactivity? I thought they’d be on us like white on rice by now.” Zack spoke with a supreme confidence in his voice, as if he enjoyed playing his newfound role as a Navy SEAL, more so than his real-life role of a Navy JAG.

“Good question, Zack. Feels like the calm before the storm, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, it does.”

“Not that I’m complaining,” Noble said. “I’ll bet they think they shot us out of the sky, are having a celebratory drink or twenty, and will look for the wreckage and our bodies in the morning.”

“Hope you’re right, Skipper,” Zack said. “Anything else from the Reagan?”

“Not since our last communication. Our orders are to proceed in this direction, away from the wreckage, hide from the enemy, and wait for further instructions.”

“Got it,” Zack said.

“Anyway,” Noble said, “gotta keep moving. Chug down some more water and be prepared to move out in about two minutes.”

“Aye, sir,” Zack and Diane said together.

The White House

1:45 p.m.

Thank you, John,” Mack was saying to the prime minister of the United Kingdom, John Suddath. “You are a good friend, and Britain is and always will be America’s best friend. Yes, yes…Thank you for your kind offer of assistance. I will pass that on to all Americans and to the citizens of Philadelphia…Yes, the clock is ticking. We have less than three more hours, but as of now we don’t know if that’s a bluff or if he has a specific target in mind. You will be the first call I make when we know something…Thank you. Good-bye.”

The president hung up the phone and looked across the desk in the Oval Office at his chief of staff.

“Okay, Arnie. What else do we have before we head back down to the Situation Room?”

“Well, you’ve spoken with the prime ministers of Japan, Germany, Canada, and Great Britain, along with the presidents of France and Russia. So we’ve taken care of our closest allies, along with Russia. Let’s see…” Arnie’s face was contorted in an apprehensive twist.

“What is it, Arnie?”

“One other thing.”

“What?”

“You’re getting pressure to make an announcement again.”

“An announcement of what sort?”

“Well, this comes from a number of anti-Israeli groups in New York, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. Also a number of key Democrats in Congress.”

“What do they want me to say?”

“It varies. But something to the effect that you are leaning toward a UN Resolution on Israel…”

Mack looked over at one of the Secret Service agents. “Bob, flick on CNN, will ya?”

“Yes, sir.”

The agent complied, and a moment later, the image of America’s most venerable and respected anchorman, Tom Miller, was on the plasma screen in the Oval Office.

“This is Tom Miller at the White House.” The bespectacled Miller, distinguished in his wire-rimmed glasses, was looking down at his watch. “It’s now one forty-seven Washington time, less than three hours before the deadline imposed on President Williams by the Indonesian madman, General Suparman Perkasa.”

Miller looked back up at the camera, the stately white columns of the North Portico in the background behind him. “Still no word from the White House other than this statement issued by White House Press Secretary Arnie Brubaker.” Miller held the statement up. “‘The threatening demands of General Perkasa are dangerous and irresponsible. This president and this nation will not give in to blackmail.’”

“Good statement, Arnie,” Mack said.

“Thank you, sir.”

Miller continued. “Meanwhile, panic reigns in many of America’s largest cities. In Atlanta, Dallas, New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago, outbound interstates are jammed with people trying desperately to get out of town, for fear that their city could, in just a few short hours, be facing Philadelphia’s fate.

“Meanwhile, pressure is growing from members of Congress for the president to take some sort of action. Representative Charlie Hank of Massachusetts spoke to reporters just a few minutes ago on Capitol Hill.”

The image switched to that of a double-chinned, portly congressman, the ultra-liberal Charlie Hank of Massachusetts, who was standing in front of a battery of microphones, just in front of his belly, which sufficiently protruded in his white shirt so that buttoning his gray jacket would have been an impossibility.

“The president must act now,” Hank said.

“And do what, Charlie?” Mack snapped at the television.

Hank looked down over his horn-rimmed glasses. “President Williams must remember that his first obligation is to protect Americans. That means he should do or say anything it takes to avoid another nuclear bomb going off in an American city.”

“Yellow-bellied liberal,” Mack snapped again.

Hank droned on. “The president must remember that he is the president of the United States of America. He is not the president of Israel. And frankly, this administration’s pro-Israeli policies have been at least partially responsible for getting us where we are today.”

“Turn it off, Bob.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” The Secret Service agent complied.

Arnie was glancing at a legal pad. “The attorney general called.”

“What’d he want?”

“Well, it seems as if you are about to be sued by both the ACLU and the Democratic National Committee.”

“What for?”

“Your address to the nation. You declared this as a week of prayer. The ACLU says it’s an issue of the separation of church and state, and the DNC says it’s offensive to their Muslim and atheist constituents, given your known evangelical background.”

“So what? I’ve got maybe three hours before some idiot is hinting that we’re gonna get hit with another nuclear bomb! Why are we even talking about this?”

“Well, the attorney general has prepared a supplemental statement for your signature which is also inclusive of atheists and Muslims. He feels this might head off the lawsuit. He says you may wish to sign it just to avoid dividing the nation with a lawsuit at this crucial time.” Mack raised his eyebrow at Arnie, who finished his thoughts. “To bring the entire nation together, Mr. President.” Arnie slid the prepared statement onto Mack’s desk.

The president picked it up, glanced at it briefly, then shook his head. “Tell the attorney general that I’m surprised at him, and that hell will freeze over before I sign politically correct legal gobbledygook.”

“But…”

“And tell the ACLU and the DNC to go pound sand. Our country has just been hit with a nuclear weapon. If we’re not united now, we never will be. Get that stuff out of here. I don’t have time for this garbage.”

“Yes, sir.”

The intercom buzzer rang. Gayle Staff’s frantic-sounding voice was on it. “Mr. President, the secretary of state, the national security advisor, the secretary of defense, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs are all here in the Situation Room. It’s urgent.”

“Send ’em in, Gayle.” Mack’s stomach dropped through the floor. He locked eyes with Arnie Brubaker. “Not another attack.”

A Secret Service agent opened the door from the Oval Office, and the secretary of state led the frantic quartet into the room. “Possible major breakthrough, Mr. President!” Secretary of State Mauney announced, panting as if he had just sprinted a hundred yards.

“What’s going on?”

“We got an electronic file from our embassy in Singapore. Reliable intelligence from Indonesia shows that Perkasa is responsible for the attack on Philly and that he’s planning to hit San Francisco and Washington.”

“Is that right?” He looked at his national security advisor.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Cyndi Hewitt said.

“When? How?”

“Mr. President,” Hewitt said, “here’s what we know. The computer file that we now have is detailed, laying out targets and means of attack. They call it ‘Operation Decapitate.’ We’ve been able to determine that the nuclear materials were brought into a warehouse in Brownsville, Texas. We’ve gotten the warehouse records and seen photographs of three U-Haul trucks that carted the materials off. We’ve even gotten license plate numbers for the trucks. We think the trucks are headed to Philadelphia, San Francisco, and Washington.”

“Where next?”

“They’ve laid that out, sir,” Hewitt continued. “Philly was first. Then San Francisco. Then Washington.”

“When?”

“If their demands for derecognizing Israel aren’t met, they detonate.”

Mack raised a fist. “We’ve gotta find those trucks.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President. We’re looking for two trucks now. We’ve already alerted police departments in San Francisco and DC, along with the California Highway Patrol, and the Virginia and Maryland State police.”

“Any idea where they’re planning to strike in the cities?”

“Yes, sir. In Philly, it was Penn Square. And that’s exactly what happened. In San Francisco, the Golden Gate Bridge. In Washington, it’s the Mall area. Out here in front of the White House on Constitution Avenue.” The national security advisor pointed out the window toward the Washington Monument. “The plan is to drive the trucks to those locations and detonate.”

Mack rotated his leather chair away from his advisors and gazed out the bulletproof palladium window, across the South Lawn, across the green grass leading to the Ellipse. From here, he could see cars passing from right to left along Constitution Avenue, just in front of the Washington Monument, heading in the direction of the US Capitol building. He stood from his chair and crossed his arms.

“I need every one of you.” He pivoted around, eyeing them all. “But I don’t need you here. We can communicate by secure radio. I’m not moving. But all of you…I suggest you head out to Andrews and get on a plane. That’s why God created computers and high-tech communications equipment.”

They looked at one another, and the silence was punctuated only by the tick tock of the grandfather clock located in the corner of the Oval Office.

“I’m staying, Mr. President,” Cyndi Hewitt said.

“You’re my commander in chief, sir,” Admiral Jones said. “I will not abandon my post here.”

“We’re with you, sir,” they all said.

“I’m eternally grateful,” he said. He felt his voice starting to crack. “Your nation is grateful.” Pull yourself together, Mack. You’re the commander in chief of the US military! “Admiral Jones.” He looked at the four-star seadog who was the nation’s top military officer. “Does the military have a recommendation?”

“Yes, we do, Mr. President. But there’s one other thing you need to know before we present you a recommendation, sir.”

“Let’s hear it. Time’s running out.”

“Our source says that Indonesian Vice President Magadia is being held captive at one of the presidential palaces in Indonesia, located near the city of Bogor.”

“Is this intelligence accurate?”

“Dunno, sir. It’s the best we’ve got.”

“Recommendation?”

“Our first priority is protection of these American cities.”

“Agreed, Admiral.”

“That means we’ve gotta find these trucks. So first thing we do is shut down all air traffic in the area over San Francisco, as we’ve done with Washington.”

“Okay, done,” Mack said.

“And in addition to alerting all law enforcement authorities in both these metro areas, the military provides increased air cover in the way of camera-equipped drones to keep an eye on the roads. We also need to get our F–16s crisscrossing these cities at high altitudes, and we need three Apache helicopters armed with air-to-surface missiles hovering on station in each city.”

Mack felt himself raise an eyebrow. “Air-to-ground missiles? Armed over an American city?”

“Part of the problem, Mr. President, is this: we’ve got two U-Hauls driving around somewhere with nuclear bombs inside. What happens if a police officer tries pulling the truck over? Or suppose we stop ’em in a roadblock?”

Mack nervously ran his hand through his hair. “You’re saying he might blow the bomb prematurely.”

“Yes, sir,” the admiral said. “The danger is that the driver panics and hits the detonate button on the spot.”

“So you’re advocating taking him out by air.”

“Yes, sir, unless we can get a sniper on them and shoot them through the windshield.”

“I see.” Mack did not like it. An air-to-surface missile could kill innocent Americans who might be around it. But even that wasn’t the president’s greatest concern. “Doesn’t the explosion risk detonating the nuclear device?”

Smith was quick with his response. “Most small nukes are detonated by the fission process and not the fusion process. The fission process involves firing a fission bullet down a gun barrel into a nuclear core, which sets off the nuclear device. We believe the explosion would take out this gun-barrel assembly device, and wreck the bomb before it would detonate.”

A pause.

“Can you guarantee the ASM won’t set off the nukes?”

Another pause. “No sir, Mr. President. We cannot guarantee it. But we can pretty much guarantee that two cities are going to get hit by nukes anyway.”

That thought sank in. “Get the birds in the air.”

“Aye, sir. And one other recommendation.”

“Go.”

“This is your call, sir. But we can send a SEAL team in to try and pull Vice President Magadia out of Istana Bogor.”

Mack thought about that. He looked at his secretary of state. “Restore power in Indonesia to its status quo?”

“Yes, sir,” Secretary Mauney said. “Or at least prop up a credible opposition leader to this Perkasa nut until we can take Perkasa out.”

“Okay, Admiral. You have my authorization. Do what we need to do to pull Magadia out of there.”

“Aye, aye, Mr. President.”

Bogor, Indonesia

1:15 a.m.

Gentlemen,” Captain Noble announced in the dark of the night, once again seeming to forget that Diane was in the group. “Huddle around. We’ve got new orders.”

Like a football team in a huddle on offense, the black-faced SEALs gathered around their leader, who was at the far end of the group. Diane stepped into the huddle beside Zack, who at the moment seemed far more focused on Captain Noble than on her.

“The good news is that we’ve come to the end of our march. We stay put here, and in approximately thirty minutes, a couple of Seahawks from the Reagan will be here to pick us up.”

Some of the SEALs gave a thumbs-up into the night, as if relieved that a ride home was on the way. Diane breathed a sigh of relief.

“But we’re not going directly back to the Reagan.” This got the men’s attention. “The president has a job for us to do.” A quick pause. “Commander Colcernian?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re the naval attaché to Indonesia, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell these men who Muhammed Magadia is.”

“He’s the vice president of Indonesia, sir.”

“That is correct. And right now, we’ve got intel that the vice president is being held hostage against his will by gunmen loyal to this madman General Perkasa at the presidential palace in Bogor. That’s about ten minutes’ flight from here by chopper, if even that.

“The XO’s on his way right now with other members of the SEAL team. We’re going in, and we’re going to rescue the vice president and give him a ride to the USS Ronald Reagan.”

Cheering and whoops and hollers.

“We don’t have much planning time. The XO, however, is getting an intel briefing, and he will lead the other guys in the palace to pull the vice president out. Our job will be to secure the top of the building and the perimeters while our shipmates go in and pull the man out. Should be a piece of cake.”

The distant roar of a jet engine came from the direction of the sea. The roar grew louder. Then another.

“Gentlemen,” Noble announced, “the sound of freedom. Our guys are on the way. In a few minutes the only sound of jets that you will hear will be the sound of F–18s and F–22s from our carrier air wing. We will own the skies over this country, and we will have plenty of air cover for our operation. Any question?”

“Let’s go!” one of the SEALs shouted.

“Let’s do it, baby!” another said.

“Rock and roll!” Zack said, pumping his fist in the air.

Diane shook her head in the dark. The love of her life was becoming Rambo.

Beechcraft Bonanza Aircraft
Above the Virginia-Maryland border

2:30 p.m.

Salaam banked the plane to the left, almost directly toward the bright overhead sun. No point in flying any further to the north. Not now anyway.

The FAA had closed the airspace around Philadelphia, and word had come that all non-military traffic headed into Washington was being vectored away.

The airspace over the Potomac River was as close as he needed to go, he had decided. No need to arouse their suspicions, especially when there was no reason to do so.

Still, as the plane turned to the west, into the bright sun, Salaam craned his neck to the right, in the direction of Philadelphia, hoping, somehow, to see the glorious mushroom cloud on the horizon.

But from here, there was nothing but a haze just over the earth’s curvature in the distance.

Still, the thought of what had happened brought shivers all over his body. And despite this most glorious day for Islam, Salaam felt both envy and resentment. He had trained for this day too. He had been ready. They had told him to be ready, to be prepared to use his plane on a moment’s notice. He was prepared for martyrdom.

Yet the honor for this mission had been bestowed on others. But who was he to question Allah? He had been prepared to give his all. What more could he give?

He circled the plane further to the left, now headed to the south. The buildings of the small city of Winchester were coming into sight. The small, private airstrip would be off somewhere to the right.

Salaam scanned the landscape to the right of the town. A red and white water tower appeared in the distance. The runway would be just across the road from there.

A slight push of the yoke to the right brought the nose of the Beechcraft in line with the water tower.

In a few minutes, he would be on the ground. From there, he would rush home to watch more live feed coverage from Philadelphia, then fall to his knees and pray that his phone would ring.

F/A-18 Super Hornet (“Hornet 1”)
Over Philadelphia

2:35 p.m.

Have mercy on us!” These were the only words Lieutenant Commander Billy Belk could muster as he looked out the cockpit of the F/A-18 Super Hornet and saw it for the first time.

The mushroom was rising, towering, now perhaps five miles into the sky, over the City of Brotherly Love. Belk was a veteran combat pilot with nerves of steel. The veteran naval aviator had even seen combat over Kosovo, outdueling a Russian MIG-27 before shooting it down and then flying back to the USS Nimitz on patrol in the Adriatic.

The steel nerve of an ace fighter pilot was unflappable. At least that was the theory. And that was how Commander Belk had seen himself.

Until now.

Hiroshima had come to America.

He had once dated a girl from Philly. Was she down there? Somewhere? Had she been vaporized?

An unnatural silence pervaded the cockpit as the F/A-18 made a broad, swooping circle. Lieutenant Commander Billy Belk, USN, had turned to a teary mush in his own cockpit. Thank God no one was looking, he thought, except God himself, who surely understood.

“Hornet 1, Pax River Control.”

Pull yourself together, Commander. “Hornet 1. Go ahead, Pax River.”

“Hornet, turn to course two-three-two degrees and contact Reagan Control. We need you over the capital for a few minutes until we can get your relief in the air. Then be prepared to return to base, refuel, and get back in the air. It’s going to be a long evening, Commander.”

“Pax River Control. Hornet 1. Roger that. Turning to course two-three-two degrees,” Riddle said, beginning a sweep to the south southwest. “I’m headed back to Washington, then back to base at your order for refueling.”

“Keep your eyes peeled, Hornet 1.”

“Hornet 1, roger that.”

Bogor, Indonesia

2:45 a.m.

The last Super Hornet from the Reagan had swooshed across the Indonesian skies about five minutes ago, leaving the quiet, confident assurance that the mighty, steel-clenched fist of the US Navy was steaming closer by the moment.

In this peaceful interlude, Diane was lying in the rocks along the ridge, in between Captain Noble and Zack. The SEALs had for the most part gone silent, and were now in a waiting mode.

The stirring beauty of the star-draped tropical sky, along with the occasional gentle touch of Zack’s hand on her back, made her forget that she was in the midst of a virtual war zone. Her fearlessness at the moment amazed her. Shot down in a foreign land, soon to be hunted by troops that could possibly kill them all.

Yet she had faced death before, when she had been kidnapped and held hostage in Mongolia two years before.

Tonight, her fear had vanished, at least temporarily, after the chopper went down. The fear might return, she knew. But for now, the fact that she was with Zack, the most self-confident man she had ever known, along with a team of rugged, handsome, and brave SEAL warriors, all brought a placid calm in the eye of the vicious storm surrounding them.

The faint sound of chopper blades in the barely audible distance began to pollute the serene darkness.

“I hear our ride,” Captain Noble commented, as the chopper’s roar grew louder.

“Thank God,” one of the SEALs said.

“Get ready to move out, baby!” said another.

“Rock and roll!” Zack said in the dark. And by the time Diane planted a flirtatious pat on the middle of his back, as if to remind him that he was not really a Navy SEAL but a Navy JAG, the black silhouettes of the two choppers were upon them, hovering perhaps a hundred yards down the ridge over a relatively flat surface on the slope.

“Night goggles on. Move out, men,” Captain Noble ordered. In an instant, the entire wave of SEALs was on its feet and instinctively rushing down the slope toward the roaring Seahawks.

“Come on, Diane.” Zack took her by the elbow. Peering through the eerie greenish glow thrown off by her night goggles, she rose to her feet, crouched, and ran in single file between Zack and Captain Noble toward the warm air blast of the helicopters.

Residence of General Perkasa
Indonesia

2:45 a.m.

The general was pacing back and forth behind his desk, arms crossed, with a look of satisfaction on his face. “How much longer does Mack Williams have?” he asked.

“Just a few more minutes,” Colonel Croon said. “We have already initiated our operation in San Francisco, just in case Williams does not cooperate.”

“What precisely does it mean that we have initiated our operation?”

“The driver has left his hotel and is driving toward the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Ahh,” Perkasa said smugly. “Captain Taplus, pour me another drink.”

“Yes, General,” Hassan said, trying to project a cheery spirit. Deep down, however, Hassan fumed. Too much repartee was taking place between the general and the colonel in the midst of a crucial operation, while he, the glorious architect and executor of Gag Island, one of the most significant events in Indonesian history, was relegated to staff bartender.

Hassan mixed the whiskey and handed it to the general. The general took it without so much as a thank you, and took a swig.

One of the secure telephones rang. Air Force Chief of Staff blinked on the caller ID. A chance to become involved again. Hassan grabbed it quickly. “General Perkasa’s office. Captain Taplus.”

“This is the chief of staff. I need to speak with the general.”

“He is detained at the moment. I will be happy to pass on any message to him.”

“Tell the general that we have US Navy jets swarming all over Jakarta!”

“Stand by, please.” Good. He was back in the game. “Excuse me, General. It is the air force chief of staff. He says American navy jets are over our skies here in Jakarta.”

Perkasa slammed his glass down. “Well, tell the general that I am already aware of the US Navy jets in our airspace. His orders are to get his planes in the air and shoot them down.”

“Yes, General,” Hassan said. “General, your orders from General Perkasa are to get our jets airborne and shoot down the Americans. Is that clear?”

“Tell General Perkasa that my commanders are reluctant to engage the Americans because we have no way of overriding their jamming.”

“Are you sure you want me to tell him that?”

“Tell him!”

“Excuse me, General,” Taplus said. “The chief of staff wishes to inform you that our pilots are reluctant to challenge the American navy.”

“What?” Perkasa screamed. “Give me the phone, Hassan.” He ripped the receiver from Taplus’ hand. “This is General Perkasa! On my orders, any pilot who refuses to fly will be shot! Is that clear?…I thought so!” Perkasa slammed the phone down. “That should take care of that.” He looked at Hassan.

“Taplus.”

“How can I help, General? Would you like for me to personally drive over to Jakarta Air Base to oversee the nation’s air defense?”

“Perhaps later. For now, I want you to arrange for another broadcast.” The general picked up his whiskey and downed the rest of it. “The Americans have upped the stakes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jakarta Air Base

2:48 a.m.

General Megawati Wahid, the chief of staff of the Indonesian Air Force, slammed the phone down. Perhaps this coup had not been such a great idea. War with America was imminent now, it appeared, and the general was in no mood to sacrifice every plane in his air force to the superior US Navy air wing from the carrier Reagan.

But Perkasa had issued his order. And Perkasa already had been powerful enough to take out the president and the vice president, and to launch a nuclear attack against America.

Wahid wrung his hands. He had no choice. At least not for now.

He picked up the microphone to speak to the two F–16 jets sitting on the runway in takeoff position.

“Falcon Leader. Jakarta Tower.”

“Falcon Leader.”

“This is General Wahid. Your orders are to take off and engage the American jets.”

“But, General…”

“This is an order from Perkasa himself. He has said that any pilot not flying will be shot.”

“Yes, General.”

“Falcon Leader and Falcon 2, you are clear for takeoff on Runways 1 and 3. Stay low and be safe.”

“Jakarta Tower. Falcon Leader. Roger that.”

“Jakarta Tower. Falcon 2. Roger that.”

Wahid put down the microphone and picked up a pair of binoculars. He aimed over to the far right of the twin runways, where two of his F–16s that he had commanded into the skies were still sitting. Through the binoculars, he could make out their silhouettes and could clearly see their running lights. One started rolling, and then the other.

They whizzed down the runway from right to left, a parallel tandem, and as they lifted into the sky, fire from the back of their twin rocket engines was clearly visible in the binoculars.

They had been airborne less than twenty seconds when chaos boomed over the air traffic control frequency. “Jakarta Control, Falcon Leader! I’ve got a bogie up my rear!”

“Jakarta Control, Falcon 2! I’ve got one too!”

General Wahid rushed to the microphone and grabbed it back from the air traffic controller and barked instructions. “Falcon Leader! Falcon 2! Split! Split!”

“Jakarta Tower! Falcon Leader! Missile in the air! On my tail! Closing fast!”

“Falcon 2! I’ve got one too!”

“Falcon Leader! Falcon 2!” Wahid yelled. “Fire chaff! Evasive maneuvers!”

A bright fireball lit the skies.

“He’s hit!” came over the radio from one of the planes.

A second fireball nearly turned night to day.

“Falcon Leader, Falcon 2! Come in. Come in! Falcon Leader. I say again. Falcon Leader, talk to me. That’s an order!”

Nothing.

Wahid was breathing heavily. He set the microphone down, still panting as the fireballs broke into long strings of light reaching downward, now looking like a pair of bright octopuses on the horizon.

“General.” He heard the voice of his aide but did not respond. “General,” the voice spoke again.

“What is it, Colonel?”

“Sir, we have two more F–16s in takeoff position. What are your orders, sir?”

Nothing. There was nothing he could say.

“Sir, shall the tower clear them for takeoff?”

His heart still pounding, Wahid exhaled again. “Tell them to stand down. I will not sacrifice our young men and our air force in an impossible situation.”

“But what shall we say if General Perkasa calls again?”

Wahid looked at his aide. “Tell him if he wants to shoot anybody, he can shoot me.”

The White House

3:59 p.m.

We’re running out of time, gentlemen,” Mack Williams said, checking his watch again, as he paced across the Oval Office. “Secretary Lewis?” He looked at the secretary for homeland security, who had just arrived back in Washington from a meeting in Portland. “We found those U-Hauls yet?”

“Still working on it, Mr. President.”

“We’ve got about twenty minutes max before San Francisco blows.” He checked his watch again. “Find those U-Hauls.”

“Look, Mr. President!” Cyndi Hewitt was pointing to the muted video screen in the corner of the Oval Office. “The idiot dictator is on the air again.”

“Sound.” Mack ordered, and a Secret Service agent complied.

“We are extremely disappointed at this time with the actions of the American administration.” The dictator’s voice contained a forceful anger. “Not only has there not yet been a response to our demands concerning the diplomatic derecognition of the criminal state of Israel, as the freedom-loving masses of the world have demanded, but also tonight, US Navy warplanes are at this very hour violating the sovereign, territorial airspace of the Islamic Republic of Indonesia.” The dictator slammed his fist onto his desk. “This must stop!” He held his arm up, as if glancing at his watch. “Your time is almost up, Mr. President. My patience is running out!”

Chapter 20

San Francisco

1:00 p.m.

All units, be on the lookout for a U-Haul truck, Florida license MNL 742, on the move in the San Francisco metropolitan area. If this unit is spotted, do not engage. Maintain surveillance. Report coordinates immediately. This vehicle is believed to be carrying weapons of mass destruction, and interception efforts must be coordinated with the US military.”

Sergeant John King, California Highway Patrol, was just finishing his Big Mac, and was swallowing a gulp of Diet Coke when the U-Haul passed him on his left.

Florida tag!

“Dispatch. One Adam Fourteen. Please repeat the tag number on that U-Haul.”

“Adam Fourteen, roger that. That’s Florida MNL, as in Mike November Lima, 742.”

King blinked his eyes and rechecked the tag number. His heart rate shot into a rapid pound. “Dispatch, please be advised that I have a visual contact on subject vehicle. Headed north at thirty-five miles per hour.”

Creech Air Force Base
Indian Springs, Nevada

1:05 p.m.

From his duty station at the 17th Reconnaissance Squadron at Creech AFB about thirty miles northwest of Las Vegas, LCOL Blake Winters, a fifteen-year F-15 pilot who had served combat tours in Iraq but was hoping to get more stateside time just before his retirement so that he could watch his son play high school football, was sipping bottled water, his eyes glued on a live, aerial view of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge.

Winters was one of the “older” fighter pilots the Air Force had put in its new drone program, perfect for those who had put in many years in the cockpit and who were not quite ready to hang up the wings just yet. The MQ-1 Predator was the most famous drone in the Air Force, after gaining popularity in the Iraqi theatre of operations in the early 2000s. The Predator was armed with two laser-guided AGM 114 “Hellfire” surface-to-ground missiles, and when it was flown over the Iraqi war zone, the Predator allowed pilots back in the United States to operate the aircraft by remote control from the ground thousands of miles away. It also allowed them to conduct aerial surveillance, and to strike and destroy enemy targets on the ground.

Winters had put the pilotless bird in a broad, looping circle over the bridge at fifteen-hundred feet, between Marin County on the north side, and Fort Point on the San Francisco side to the south.

So far, there was just traffic flowing back and forth, and glistening blue water under the huge, burnt-orange suspension bridge.

Just above the video feed from the drone were live video images from two other drones, one over a smoldering Philadelphia and one over Washington, where shadows were beginning to lengthen on the east coast. The other drones were being flown by two other pilots, one sitting to Winters’ left and one to his right.

The headset on Winters’ ears squawked with static, and then the sound of the controller’s voice.

“Predator 2. Creech Control. Be advised that target has been spotted by civilian law enforcement ground unit. Stand by for coordinates…” Winters felt sweat on his palms. Even sitting on the ground over five hundred miles to the southeast of the target, without even the specter of a dogfight with an enemy jet, the warrior’s edginess set in his body. The consequences of failing were not lost on him. “Okay, coordinates are northbound on the Embarcadero between piers thirty-eight and thirtytwo. Speed approximately fifteen miles per hour.”

Winters typed in the location, which instantly gave him the latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates. “Okay, I’m going in for a look. Stand by.” He set the coordinates onto automatic pilot, turning the Predator slightly to the southeast.

The White House

4:10 p.m.

His tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, the secretary of defense rushed into the Situation Room, where Mack had reestablished himself after spending the last couple of hours in the Oval Office. “Mr. President! We think we’ve located one of the U-Hauls!”

Mack looked up. “Talk to me.”

“Trying to get it up on the screens now!” Secretary Lopez said, as a couple of marine corps intelligence officers fiddled with some knobs under two of the flat-screen monitors on the wall beside the conference table.

“Got it!” one of them said, and stepped back.

An aerial shot of traffic flashed on the screen. At the bottom of the screen, the words superimposed USAF PREDATOR 2/Aerial San Francisco Live 1310 PST/1610 EST. The shot zoomed in closer and showed what seemed to be a single U-Haul van from the top. It was surrounded by slow-moving traffic, jammed between two vans, one green and one white.

“That’s it, Mr. President.” The defense secretary was pointing to the screen at the U-Haul.

“My recommendation is that we take it out,” Admiral Roscoe Jones said.

“Don’t we need to get a Blackhawk helicopter in place to take it out?” Mack asked.

“No sir,” Jones said. “The Predator has two Hellfire missiles under the wings. We can take it out on your command.”

Mack looked at the screen. Traffic had ground to a halt.

“Where is it in San Francisco?”

“He just came onto the Embarcadero, Mr. President. They’re at the intersection of the Embarcadero and Washington Streets,” the secretary of defense said. “Have the pilot pull the shot back and pull back in,” he said to one of the marines wearing a headset. The marine mumbled into the headset and the camera pulled back, showing the piers lining the glistening waters of San Francisco Bay to the right, and several green parks along the Embarcadero to the left. The shot triggered Mack’s memory that the Embarcadero was the main road that paralleled the tip of San Francisco’s thumb-shaped peninsula all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Now here’s the Embarcadero snaking along San Francisco’s waterfront,” Admiral Jones said. “From this point, he’s only about five miles from the bridge, and luckily he’s in slow-moving traffic, which gives us a slightly easier target.”

“Zoom back in,” the defense secretary ordered. The marine repeated the order into the headset and instantly, the Predator was beaming back close-ups of the U-Haul, which had a minivan to the left and was to the rear of an SUV. The CHIPs car was about three cars behind it.

“Logistical details aren’t my specialty,” Mack said, “but wouldn’t we have a better chance of protecting these folks in the cars beside and in front if we had a chopper swoop down in front of the U-Haul and just fire a machine gun through the glass?”

“Actually, Mr. President,” Admiral Jones said, “the HARM missile is laser-guided and is more likely to land on target. Yes, we could lose some people in the adjacent cars because of the explosion, but machine-gun fire from a moving chopper could easily go off target and kill civilians too. Plus, there’s a chance that if we miss, or if he sees the chopper come into view, he could detonate the nuke before we take him out.”

Secretary Lopez spoke again. “I recommend that we take him out now, Mr. President. On your order. We’re running out of time.”

Jesus, help me, Mack thought.

“What’s that?” A blond head was hanging out of the window of the minivan right beside the U-Haul! Small hands and arms were waving under the blond head. “Close up on that minivan!” Mack ordered. The marine repeated the president’s order.

“Dear God! Is that a child waving out the window?”

The blond head disappeared back inside the minivan.

“Mr. President, we have to move now,” Admiral Jones said. “Our deadline is in less than three minutes. If he blows that bomb, that child’s going to die anyway. And possibly thousands of others. The military cannot authorize use of force inside the United States without presidential approval, sir.”

Mack’s hands covered his face. “Lord, give me wisdom.”

US Navy Seahawk
Over Bogor, Indonesia

3:13 a.m.

The choppers were moving fast through the night, and as Captain Noble barked last-second instructions that did not apply to her because she had been ordered to remain in the chopper, Diane gazed down through one of the chopper’s windows at Istana Bogor, the lavish presidential palace that she had studied but never seen in person. Illuminated from the air, with its square central structure connected by two flanking wings, it looked like Merdeka Palace bore a remarkable resemblance to the White House.

The captain’s commands pouring into her ears reminded her that this was not Washington, that the palace was not the White House, and that they were on a dangerous military mission that could end in death.

“On my mark, we hit the deck and shoot anything or anyone offering resistance. Move in twos. Remember, the XO has plans to the building and is going in. Our job is to protect the choppers on the roof. Everybody ready?”

“Aye, Captain!”

“All right. Lock and load!”

The choppers were feathering down toward the roof, slowing their descent. Then, a burst of machine-gun fire from the choppers. Chita-chita-chita-chita-chita-chita-chita-chita. Then another burst.

The loudspeakers from the pilot blared. “Captain, a couple of snipers on the roof. We opened fire to try and clear ’em out. I think we got ’em. Be careful.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Noble said.

Contact. The chopper landed. The doors swung open. “Move! Move!” Noble shouted, motioning his SEALs quickly out the bay door.

Zack turned and caught her gaze.

“Don’t go!” she said.

Zack kissed her on the head, and hopped out onto the roof to the sound of gunfire.

“Jesus, let him live,” she prayed aloud.

The White House

4:14 p.m.

You’ve got forty-five seconds, Mr. President,” Admiral Jones said. “If that fool is true to his word.”

“But he’s not at the bridge yet,” Mack said, hoping that the minivan with the blond-headed boy would turn onto a side street.

“No sir, but his deadline is four-fifteen, and he’s there, on the ground in San Francisco. Suppose he blows on his own time frame.”

“Thirty seconds, Mr. President,” Cyndi Hewitt said.

“How can I do this?”

“You’ve got to do it, sir,” the defense secretary said. “We have a point-blank shot, and we’re running out of time!”

Mack knew that his advisors were right. “My Lord and God, forgive me for what I must do!” Mack closed his eyes and gave the command. “Fire!”

“Fire! Fire!” The marine repeated into the headset.

The president could not bear to watch. Yet he had no choice. He opened his eyes. The clock showed exactly four-fifteen as the U-Haul still crawled parallel to the minivan in slow-moving traffic.

A streak of white smoke jetted from the camera. Two seconds passed.

Against a backdrop of morbid silence, the U-Haul exploded in a ball of orange flames and black smoke, now billowing with fury into the San Francisco sky.

The situation room was devoid of cheering or discussion. Only quiet. Some exhaling.

The silence was broken after a few seconds by the somber voice of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “We got him, Mr. President.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Mack said, staring at the billowing smoke that made the Embarcadero almost invisible. “It looks like we did.”

“Mr. President,” Jones continued, “I know you don’t want to do this, sir, but I highly recommend that we deploy Army and National Guard units to block all roadway entrances into Washington.”

Mack buried his hands into his forehead. “You’re right, Admiral. I hate to do it, but let’s do it.”

“Also recommend that we evacuate the city of all nonessential personnel.”

“Prepare an order declaring martial law in the District of Columbia and all surrounding counties in Virginia and Maryland. All nonessential personnel not determined as necessary for the defense of the city, as determined by the secretary of defense, shall be evacuated.” He pulled his hands down and eyed the NSC. “And that includes the Congress.”

Glances were exchanged amongst the council members. The secretary of state spoke what was being thought. “You’ve got some members of Congress who will take the position that the president can’t legally order them out of town.”

“I know that,” Mack said. “And if I save them from a nuclear blast and they live to tell about it, they can impeach me if they want.”

US Navy Seahawk
Istana Bogor Palace, Indonesia

3:16 a.m.

From inside the chopper’s cargo bay, Diane watched two of the SEALs holding a defensive position just outside of the chopper with their weapons drawn.

The pilots had shut the engines down on both helicopters, and the sound of boots tramping across the roof echoed.

Pow! Pow! Two more rifle shots rang in the night air.

“Stay down!” one of the SEALs said.

A few more moments of silence.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! We surrender!” The voice was Indonesian-accented English.

“Lay your weapons down!” She recognized Captain Noble’s voice. “Hands over your head!”

“Please! No kill! We give you vice president. No kill!”

“Petty officer, gather their weapons and put ’em in the choppers!”

“Aye, Skipper!”

The sound of more boots across the roof. A second later one of the SEALs came back to the cargo bay and dumped about six rifles into it.

“Skipper! Skipper! Comin’ up now. We got the VEEP!”

“Get him in Chopper Two!” Noble said. “Let’s get these birds fired up and get the heck out of here!”

More trampling of boots, and the whine of chopper blades starting to crank.

“In here, Mr. Vice President!” She recognized the voice of Zack.

Three silhouettes appeared, and then were illuminated by the chopper’s cabin lights. Zack, Petty Officer Toomey, and the vice president of Indonesia.

“Watch your step, sir,” Zack was saying, and the vice president stepped into the chopper. “Have a seat beside the lovely lady.”

Zack pointed at Diane, and as the helicopter engines returned to their full, high-pitched roar, and with Navy SEALs piling back in, Vice President Muhammed Magadia, looking worn and tired in a rolled-up white dress shirt, plopped into the jump seat right beside her.

Zack knelt in front of the Indonesian veep. “Let me help you with your safety belt, sir,” he said, gently buckling Magadia into his jump seat, all the while giving Diane another confident wink.

“All right, let’s get this bird in the air!” Captain Noble ordered.

The engines roared, and the chopper lifted into the sky, leaving the light-splashed palace below.

Residence of General Perkasa
Jakarta, Indonesia

3:30 a.m.

Why isn’t the American press reporting about the detonation yet?” General Perkasa demanded. “Our man was supposed to detonate fifteen minutes ago.”

“It takes a few minutes, General,” Colonel Croon said. “There was massive confusion, I am sure, and it takes a little while even for the Americans to begin to broadcast.”

Hassan saw an opportunity. “Would you like me to get a live feed on CNN, General? We can watch for their breaking news coverage when San Francisco is vaporized.”

“Of course, Hassan.”

Hassan picked up the remote control and mashed several buttons. CNN reporter Tom Miller’s image was on the screen, standing in front of the late afternoon sun at the White House. Miller was speaking into the camera.

“This just in. Reports of a major explosion in San Francisco. The details are still sketchy. But sources say that the explosion involved a U-Haul truck, and it doesn’t look good.”

The Indonesian officers cheered.

“Quiet! Quiet!” Perkasa said. “I want to hear all the details.”

Miller continued.

“We’re working on a live feed from San Francisco right now, where we understand there is pandemonium. Stand by.” The bespectacled Miller was holding his hand to his ear, as if listening to the voice of his news director. “There are reports of smoke rising over the city…”

“Pour more drinks for everyone!” Perkasa stood, smiling, now taking a swig directly out of the bottle. “Soon we will rule the world!”

“Let me repeat. We still do not have any casualty reports, although there is speculation that this could be somehow related to the nuclear attack on Philadelphia, and the White House is not commenting. Still waiting for live video coverage…”

“I guarantee Mack Williams comes to the table now!” Perkasa was bragging.

Alcohol flowed freely. Glasses clanged. Officers were raising their cups to their brilliant leader. “To General Perkasa,” the ignorant sycophant Colonel Croon was saying. “There has never been another leader in the history of the world quite like him!”

“To the general!”

“To General Perkasa!”

“We are now starting to get a live feed from San Francisco…”

The phone rang. Hassan looked down. Istana Bogor. The TV broadcast could wait. Quick. A potential chance to purvey more information to the general while the colonel was getting drunk watching television.

“This is a distant shot from Chopper Nine of the local ABC affiliate. It shows the smoke rising over the city…”

Hassan ignored Tom Miller’s voice and picked up the phone. “General Perkasa’s headquarters, Major Taplus speaking.” Why not go ahead and identify himself as Major Taplus? After all, the promotion was imminent anyway. And by the time he got a field promotion to major, a promotion to colonel would certainly follow. “How can I help you?…What?…Could you repeat that?…How did that happen?…That cannot be!” He cupped the phone with his hand. “General Perkasa, sir!”

“Not now!” Perkasa snapped, his eyes still glued on CNN.

“But it is important, sir.”

“Whatever it is, it can wait. It is not as important as this!”

Hassan hung up the phone and turned his attention to CNN, where Tom Miller was talking over a live video feed of black smoke billowing into the sky from San Francisco.

“Now according to eyewitnesses,” Miller said, “this U-Haul truck that we are watching burn, exploded and burst into flames when it was attacked by a missile from an aircraft overhead.”

“What!” Perkasa was screaming.

“National Guard troops are taking control of the situation and removing all civilians from the area. Now the presence of military units on the ground is fueling speculation that this attack could somehow be related to the attacks in Philadelphia.”

“They have destroyed our bomb!” Perkasa threw his glass against the fireplace, shattering it. “This cannot be!”

“And reports are now coming in from Washington that the president has ordered the evacuation of the District of Columbia. All roadways leading into the city are blocked.”

“Aiieee!” Perkasa whipped his pistol from his holster. The coward Croon and several of the others ducked, but Hassan held his ground as Perkasa pointed his pistol to the ceiling. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. White plaster rained down from above.

“Stand up, you cowards!” Perkasa screamed. “Have I but one brave officer on my staff?” He eyed Hassan as the others slowly returned to their feet. “Taplus, you are promoted on the spot to colonel!”

The rush flooded Colonel Hassan Taplus. But this was not the time to gloat. Now was the time to take control away from the fool Croon. Pounce now, Hassan. “I am honored, General, but now is the time for swift and decisive action.”

“Yes, of course,” Perkasa said.

“General, I must first inform you of more negative news.”

“What is it?”

“There has been a raid on Istana Bogor. US forces, likely Navy SEALs, have captured Vice President Magadia and evacuated him by helicopter.”

Perkasa slumped back into his chair, now almost in a daze. “How?” He looked around. “How did this happen?”

Now. “Perhaps we should ask Colonel Croon,” Hassan said. “He was in charge of overseeing security at the palace.”

Perkasa’s eyes locked onto the colonel, who by now was standing just to the side of the general’s desk. “What about that, Colonel Croon? Colonel Taplus is right. You were in charge of arranging security for Istana Bogor, were you not?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“And you realize how important it is to our cause that Magadia not become a political opponent?”

“Yes, but…”

“The Americans could prop him up like a puppet and finance an opposition to us.”

“But…”

“What do you have to say for yourself, Croon?” Perkasa was yelling again.

“Perhaps it is all a mistake…”

“A mistake?” Perkasa’s face reddened. “Tell me, Colonel. Did you have antiaircraft guns atop Istana Bogor?”

“Our guards had rifles.”

“Rifles? Against the Americans’ missiles and machine guns?”

“We have armed guards in the palace. We were relying on the secrecy of the vice president’s location to keep him secure from this sort of thing.”

“Secrecy?” Perkasa slapped his fist on his desk. “Let me tell you about secrecy, Colonel!” He whipped his pistol out of its holder and pointed it straight at Croon’s head. “Tell me a little secret, Colonel. How many more rounds does my pistol have?”

“Please…General…Please!”

The White House

4:35 p.m.

He had done what he had to do. Still, the thought of the minivan was already haunting him. The child. Perhaps his mother. Perhaps a brother or sister.

Why did they have to be next to the U-Haul? Why? Where was God’s sense of justice?

The president needed a break. He had walked from the Situation Room to the Oval Office just to get some air, if nothing else. If they needed him, they knew where to find him.

Though the United States was in the midst of the most serious international crisis in its history, the president had to be alone. If only for a moment. But to an American president, alone was never really alone. Alone, even in the Oval Office, meant alone plus two Secret Service agents.

Mack turned his back on his security detail and stood behind his desk. He looked over the receding shadows of the South Lawn, toward the traffic jams along Constitution Avenue. The National Guard was overseeing the evacuation of Washington. Soldiers could be seen on the street directing traffic. By evacuating Washington and shutting down the roadway entrances, he was inviting them to attack by air. That would likely be by small, low-flying aircraft, difficult to detect by radar.

On September 12, 1994, a drunken pilot crashed a Cessna 150 onto the South Lawn of the White House. That plane had been picked up by radar technicians at Reagan National Airport, but it was too late. The plane could have easily struck the Executive Mansion, but crashed on the South Lawn instead.

Seven years before that, in 1987, a German pilot had flown his Cessna over four hundred miles through Soviet airspace, again undetected by radar, and landed it at Red Square!

Yet Mack had more confidence in the air force to find a small aircraft than the local police to find a U-Haul truck, assuming that the U-Haul had not already entered the city.

Mack’s mind wandered from the defense of Washington to the boy.

“Jesus, let that boy be alive. His family too. Please. Somehow. Don’t make me live with this.” He exhaled. I’ve got to shake this off. There’s a nuclear bomb out there. Somewhere.

The intercom buzzer sounded. “Mr. President,” Gayle Staff said. “Admiral Jones and Secretary Mauney.”

“Send them in.” He turned around. A Secret Service agent opened the door. The admiral and the secretary rushed in with excited looks on their faces.

“Another break, Mr. President,” Admiral Jones said.

“We found the other U-Haul?”

“Afraid not,” Jones said. “Not yet anyway. But this is significant.”

“Talk to me.”

“We have a triangulation on Perkasa’s last broadcast. Two EC-2 Hawkeyes off the Reagan have been working this. We think we may have located where it came from,” Lopez said.

“We know where Perkasa is?”

“We think we know where he was as of that last broadcast,” Lopez said.

“In Jakarta?”

“Yes, sir,” Admiral Jones said.

“And you want me to authorize hitting that location with a missile.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Jones said. “And sooner rather than later.”

“And if he isn’t there, we risk killing innocent Indonesia citizens. Just like when Bush went after bin Laden. The guy kept moving from location to location.”

“We might get lucky, Mr. President,” Admiral Jones said. “As of now, we have no choice.” As Mack let that thought set in, the admiral spoke again. “Sir, remember that President Clinton had a chance to take out bin Laden and passed on it. A lot of American lives could have been spared if the president had acted in that situation.”

Mack turned around again, his gaze fixed on the Washington Monument towering into the late afternoon sky. “Order the navy to make the strike,” he said. “By means of your discretion, Admiral Jones.”

“Aye, Mr. President.”

Residence of General Perkasa
Jakarta, Indonesia

3:38 a.m.

Croon was on his knees beside Perkasa’s desk. His voice shook, and his crossed eyes stared into the gun barrel that was no more than two inches from his head.

Even Hassan felt a bit sorry for the bumbling fool. But the general was red hot, and Croon’s elimination from power was necessary for the good of Indonesia, and hand-in-hand with that, for Hassan’s own advancement.

“You haven’t guessed, you fool!” Perkasa shouted, extending his arm straight out with the gun aimed at the middle of Croon’s forehead. “Does my pistol have any more bullets in the chamber? Or did I shoot them all into the ceiling? Hmm?”

“General…General…”

“Answer, fool!”

“General, I don’t know…”

“Don’t know, do you? Well, then, let’s find out!”

“General, please…I have a wife and two boys!”

“Perhaps you should have thought of them before you implemented your yellow-bellied plan for protecting Istana Bogor!”

Blam! Blam!

Croon’s head exploded like a cracked watermelon. He slumped to the floor in an oozing puddle of blood.

“Get him out!” Perkasa ordered. “And clean up this mess! Throw his body to the sharks!”

“Yes, General.” A couple of enlisted men quickly dragged the body out feet first, while a third began scrubbing blood with a white towel.

“Now then, what were we discussing, Colonel Taplus?”

“General, unfortunately, it is obvious to me that the Americans have somehow cracked into our code. We have to change course.”

“And how did our plan get compromised? Who was in charge of security over our plans?”

Careful, Hassan. “Colonel Croon was ultimately in charge of security over our operational plans.” Better to lie than risking a bullet himself. “At least that part of the problem has been taken care of.” Perhaps he could find a way to kill the general and go ahead and take charge of this entire revolution.

“Yes, of course,” Perkasa said. “But what do we do now that they are looking for the U-Hauls? I suppose we could transfer the nuclear device to another vehicle, but they have shut down Washington.”

“Not to worry, General. Croon was in charge of protecting the integrity of the program, but I masterminded it, and there is a backup contingency for this sort of thing. I did not write it into the plan so that if the plan were compromised, there would be no record of the backup plan.”

“Good thinking.” Perkasa reholstered his pistol, to Hassan’s delight, and sat in his chair. “Tell me about this contingency plan.”

“Nine-Eleven was long ago. But we still have pilots in America trained and waiting to be called upon for jihad.

“There is a special e-mail that I have set up. All we must do is log into the e-mail and type the code word. Once that is done, our driver will be alerted and will immediately divert to the town of Winchester, Virginia, which is seventy-seven miles from Washington.

“We have a Muslim brother there. A pilot. He has been waiting to be called upon for years. He too will receive the e-mail message. At that point, he will meet our driver. They will load the bomb on the plane and fly it into Washington at treetop level, careful to avoid radar. The bomb will be detonated over the US Capitol building.”

The general grinned. “Brilliant, Hassan. Brilliant.”

US Navy F/A-18 (“Viper 1”)
Over Bandung, Indonesia

3:42 a.m.

Viper 1, Reagan control…Turn to course three-one-five degrees. Stand by for targeting coordinates.”

“Reagan, Viper. Roger that,” the pilot responded, pulling the plane’s yoke to the left. “Turning to three-one-five degrees. Standing by targeting instructions.”

The Hornet swung through the dark skies around to the northwest, in the direction of the national capital at Jakarta, which was seventynine miles to the northwest.

“Viper. Reagan. Target is at 6 degrees, 16 minutes, 22 seconds south latitude; 106 degrees, 48 minutes, 18 seconds east longitude.”

“Reagan. Viper 1. Copy that. Target at 6 degrees, 16 minutes, 22 seconds south latitude; 106 degrees, 48 minutes, 18 seconds east longitude.” The pilot punched the firing information into the plane’s fire control computer. “Reagan. Viper 1. Be advised that missile is armed and ready for launch.”

“Viper 1, Reagan control. Move into position and fire at will.”

“Roger that. Fire at will.”

The pilot’s thumb depressed the button that said Fire Missile.

The pilot felt a slight bump upward just as two AGM-88 HARM missiles dropped from the plane’s underbelly. They rocketed away from the jet like giant burning cigars vanishing into the dark distance. The missiles left twin streaks of smoke trailing behind them to mark their paths.

“Reagan. Viper. Missiles away.”

“Viper. Reagan. Copy that. Now we wait.”

Residence of General Perkasa
Jakarta, Indonesia

3:44 a.m.

Are you sure this will work, Hassan?” The general, who had suddenly become Hassan’s best buddy, was leaning over Hassan’s shoulder peering at the computer screen. This was a good thing. After the annihilation of Washington, Hassan would press the general for promotion from colonel to one star. Things were working perfectly, according to the plan of Allah.

“Yes, of course this will work, General.” He was logging into the e-mail account especially set up for the contingency. “All I have to do is type one word”—he typed the word airborne on the e-mail as he was saying it—“and hit the send button, which will go to both the driver and the pilot. Immediately, the contingency plan will go into effect.”

“Do it quickly, Hassan,” Perkasa said.

“Here we go.” Hassan clicked SEND, instantly sending the cryptic message into the galaxies of cyberspace. “Done,” Hassan said, exhaling. “Now, we wait.”

BOOM! Two great thunderbolts shook the building. Dust and plaster immediately rained in torrents from the ceiling, and then the ceiling began to fall. Hassan tried scrambling for the doorway, but a steel beam dropped from above and crushed his head. It would be his last memory of life on earth.

And then, fire.

US Navy F/A-18 (“Viper 1”)
Over Jakarta, Indonesia

3:46 a.m.

Reagan. Viper 1. Looks like we’ve got a double hit. Both missiles detonated on target.”

“Viper 1. Reagan control. Good shooting. Climb back to eighteen thousand feet. Resume patrol and await new orders.”

“Reagan control. Viper 1. Roger that.”

Chapter 21

Martinsburg Pike, near I-81
Winchester, Virginia

5:00 p.m.

Salaam sipped the hot coffee and pressed his foot on the accelerator. He pulled out of the McDonald’s parking lot and swung right onto the Martinsburg Pike, only a hundred yards or so from Interstate 81. Long dark shadows stretched across the road, as the sun set early in northern Virginia in the wintertime. He glanced at the digital dash clock.

As he drove under the Interstate 81 overpass, he put down the coffee and instinctively flipped on his headlights.

A second later, the truck passed on the other side of the interstate, just northeast of town, headed toward Washington.

His cell phone beeped. Someone had sent him a text message. He flipped open the phone. New e-mail waiting!

He hit the send button. Connecting to e-mail…a few seconds passed. Connected to e-mail!

He opened the newest message. AIRBORNE!

He hit the brakes and pulled off the side of the road. He looked at the message again. AIRBORNE!

His heart was beating out of his chest. “Praise be to Allah!” He needed to get to the airport. Now.

Perhaps the timing of all this was perfect. The airport terminal had just closed at five. There was no tower at Winchester Regional and no one to monitor nighttime takeoffs and landings. With a bit of luck…or divine providence…if the driver responded and received the text message…

He quickly did a U-turn and headed back toward I-81, taking the ramp to the southbound lanes toward Roanoke. Four minutes later, he exited onto US-17 south, and then quickly turned another right onto the Front Royal Pike. The dark of dusk was blanketing the Virginia countryside now, and the lights of only a few cars were passing in the opposite direction down the pike.

Two minutes later, he turned left onto Airport Road. A minute after that, he pulled into the asphalt parking lot in front of the small terminal building. No cars were in the lot. Where was the U-Haul?

He got out. The air at dusk was cold, chilling his lungs as he inhaled. He checked his watch. Five-ten. Surely the driver had gotten the message. Of course he had.

He leaned against his truck and pulled a pack of Camel cigarettes from his front pockets. The Bic lighter came from the pockets of his blue jeans. A single flick of the igniter, and a blue and white flame leapt from the top of it. He cupped the flame with his hand and sucked through the filter of the cigarette, lighting the other end of it.

Headlights.

Thrusting the cigarettes and lighter into his pockets, he drew smoke into his lungs and watched the headlights approaching down the airport road. The vehicle drove into the parking lot, shining its lights toward Salaam.

As it came closer, he made out the image of a box panel truck. Under the red running lights, he made out the black lettering against the orange and white panel.

U-HAUL.

US Naval Air Station
Patuxent River, Maryland

5:15 p.m.

Cold sweat beading on his forehead wasn’t supposed to happen to a navy fighter pilot.

At Top Gun school in Fallon, Nevada, navy pilots were trained to be steel-nerved in the face of death. Sweating was not an option.

But this, somehow, was different. Dueling with the finest Russian, Korean, and Chinese pilots was one thing. Protecting the nation’s capital against nuclear obliteration was quite another.

Lieutenant Commander Billy Belk, sitting in the cockpit of his F/A-18 Super Hornet at the end of Runway 14, was well aware of the consequences of this mission. The beading sweat was driven by the haunting images he had witnessed over Philadelphia just hours earlier. The burning image of the rising mushroom cloud over an American city was enough to make his hands shake, to cause his knees to knock, to make him wonder if he was of the mettle to carry out the mission that his country was now asking of him.

Two Navy F/A 18s from Pax River Naval Air Station, along with two Air Force F-15s from Langley AFB, would provide the air vanguard over Washington tonight. Because of his combat experience, he was considered one of the navy’s best aces. And so he had been selected as one of the four jet pilots to fly coverage for the evening, to make sure that in the morning, Washington would still be Washington.

The quartet of fighters, two navy and two air force, could provide more than sufficient power to shoot down anything the enemy could throw at the capital city. The problem, however, wasn’t the ability to shoot down an invader. The problem was finding the target in time to shoot it down. Small craft flying inbound at treetop more often than not cannot be picked up by ground radar. The only defensive tactic was to find the target from above with “look down, shoot down” radar, the type of which was installed on the F/A-18. This was somewhat akin to looking for a needle in a haystack.

Frankly, that meant getting lucky. The attacker had to fly in an area almost directly over the invading aircraft, to shoot down the radar beam in an expanding electronic cone, and hope that the plane passed under it. It was sort of like flashing a high-powered flashlight beam into a pitch-dark barn, and hoping that a rat happened to be somewhere inside the round, bright circle of the beam. Then you had to get off a shot before the rat got away. This was tricky business.

No, on second thought, it would not be a matter of luck. Finding a low-flying aircraft bound and determined to fly a suicide mission into the capital would be a matter of divine intervention.

“Hornet 1. Patuxent Control. Stand by to be cleared for takeoff.”

“Pax River. Hornet 1. Roger that.”

The jet taxied into takeoff position at the end of the runway, sixty-five miles to the southeast of Washington.

“Lord, if they’re out there, help us find them. Give us victory in battle. Protect our capital.”

“Hornet. Pax Control. Please be advised. You are clear for takeoff. Good luck and Godspeed.”

“Pax Control. Hornet 1. Roger that. Clear for takeoff. See you soon.”

Belk pushed down on the power stick, all the way to the floor. The Hornet rolled forward, then rocketed down the runway and lifted into the star-filled twilight.

Airport Road
Winchester, Virginia

5:20 p.m.

All units are reminded to be on the lookout for a U-Haul truck, believed to be in the vicinity of the northern Virginia, southern Maryland, DC metropolitan area. Truck is believed to have a Florida tag, license number MQR 1428.

“Any unit spotting this vehicle must notify dispatch immediately on all overriding emergency frequencies. The vehicle is believed to be carrying explosives, possibly nuclear explosives to be used in an attack in the Washington area.

“Repeat…”

“Holy smokes,” the Frederick County sheriff’s deputy said as the warning message repeated itself. On his routine patrol route, the deputy turned off Airport Road into the parking lot of the now-closed Winchester Regional Airport, where he would call in his position, turn around, and head back, hopefully with enough time to stop at Denny’s for some supper.

He swung around the parking lot in a big loop. His headlights caught the vehicle parked beside the red truck.

U-Haul.

He cut the lights of the patrol car and came to a stop, immediately unholstering his sidearm.

“Dispatch, Baker 14. Be advised I’ve found a U-Haul parked here at the airport parking lot at Winchester Regional. Probably nothing to it, but I’m going to check it out. What was that license tag again?”

“Baker 14, that’s Florida tag MQR 1428.”

“Dispatch. Baker 14. Roger that. Request backup if you haven’t heard from me in five minutes.”

“Baker 14, I’m going to alert a backup now just in case.”

The deputy wrote down the tag number, then got his pump shotgun out of the backseat.

He stepped out into the dark, shotgun pointed out, and walked toward the U-Haul, which was about twenty feet away.

No signs of life or activity so far.

Approaching the back of the truck, he crouched down and hit the tag with the beam from his flashlight.

Florida tag. MQR 1428. A surge of energy took control of his body. “Dispatch. Baker 14. I have a match on the U-Haul. Repeat. I have a match. Request backup immediately.”

“Copy that. Backup on the way.”

The distant sound of an airplane cranking off in the distance. Then the roar of an engine. He looked over and saw the running lights of an aircraft lifting into the sky.

He shot his flashlight into the U-Haul. Nothing. No one.

He kicked in the back door. Still nothing. No one was in the other truck.

“Dispatch. Dispatch. We’ve got a propeller aircraft, unknown make and model, taking off right now from Winchester Regional. Subject U-Haul is abandoned in the parking lot!”

“Baker 14. Roger that. Wait for backup and secure the U-Haul. We are notifying the military now.”

Beechcraft Bonanza Aircraft
Above Virginia

5:23 p.m.

As his newfound friend, Anwar, sat in the passenger’s seat, praying to Allah, Salaam held onto the plane’s yoke. He set their course at one-hundred-one degrees, just south of a due easterly direction, and quickly glanced at navigational charts. He started plotting a low-flying course directly to Washington that would keep them from flying over densely populated areas until the last minute.

Following the general trajectory of the Middleburg Pike, also known as US Highway 50, they would pass over the rural horse country of Loudoun County, flying near the small towns of Paris, Upperville, Middleburg, and Aldie, before heading into the densely populated fringes of Fairfax County near Chantilly.

He looked up. A red blinking radio tower was quickly approaching! He jerked the yoke to the left. The Bonanza responded, barely missing the tower by no more than fifty feet. He looked over. Anwar was still praying, unfazed by the near-miss.

Salaam looked back down. He had to plot this course quickly. Once they hit Fairfax County, he would turn the plane due east, passing near the suburban bedroom communities of Vienna, Falls Church, and finally Arlington. There he would fly low across the Potomac River near the Pentagon, and then turn and fly up the National Mall, where he would steer around the Washington Monument, and detonate the nuclear bomb just over the dome of the US Capitol.

He double-checked the flight plan. That should do it. The flight should last a little over fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to eternal glory!

Now if he could just stay below ground radar and steer around radio towers and water towers, the mission was in Allah’s hands.

US Navy F/A-18 (“Hornet 1”)
Over St. Charles, Maryland

5:25 p.m.

Hornet 1, Andrews Control.” The call was from air traffic control at Andrews Air Force Base, just outside of Washington.

“Andrews. Hornet,” LCDR Billy Belk responded.

“Hornet, be advised we have a report of a small craft taking off out of Winchester, Virginia, suspected to be target. Go to two-five-hundred feet and divert toward Arlington. Execute loop pattern over Fairfax County until further orders. Your orders are to shoot down anything flying in the area that is not US military.”

“Andrews. Roger that. Go to two-five-hundred, divert to Arlington. Shoot down anything flying.” Belk pushed down on the stick; the Hornet dove at an angle. The altimeter responded.

Five thousand, forty-five hundred, four thousand, thirty-five hundred, three thousand…

The jet leveled at twenty-five hundred feet as it roared over the Potomac River, near Mount Vernon, the home of George Washington.

Belk looked down. The winding Potomac was glistening under the stars, as if peacefully oblivious to the war that was about to take place in the night sky above it.

Beechcraft Bonanza Aircraft
Above the Loudoun/Fairfax county line, Virginia

5:33 p.m.

Salaam looked down and saw the suburban streetlight sprawl that was Fairfax County. So far he had spent ten minutes in the air in an FAA-imposed no-fly zone. Still undetected.

They were now passing over the small town of Centerville, just inside the Fairfax County line. Salaam pulled back on the power and slowed the airspeed slightly, to one-nine-zero knots. Then he steered the yoke slightly to the left, bringing them on a due easterly course of zero-nine-zero degrees.

Just five more minutes to glory! Soon the lights of Washington would be in his view. Praise be to Allah!

US Navy F/A-18 (“Hornet 1”)
Over Fairfax County, Virginia

5:34 p.m.

The look-down, shoot-down radar was sweeping the airspace below the jet. Still nothing.

Commander Belk put the Super Hornet in a large, circular loop over central Fairfax County. He surveyed the horizon, searching desperately, as if he could visually pick out a dark plane somewhere, down there, against the sea of a million lights on the ground.

Still he had to try something. The sweat from his forehead had spread now to his whole body, drenching the inside of his dull green jumpsuit.

He had to find his prey fast and make the kill, or Washington was gone.

Beep-beep-beep-beep—beep-beep-beep!

Contact! The look-down, shoot-down radar had spotted an aircraft below!

“Andrews! Hornet! I’ve got contact! Preparing to fire!” Belk reached down to fire one of his Sidewinder missiles.

The screen went blank.

“Where’d he go?” Belk looked down. “Come on, baby!” Nothing.

“Andrews. Hornet. I’ve lost contact! Bogie last spotted headed zero-nine-zero degrees, due east toward Washington.”

“Hornet, keep looking!”

He had to think fast. He turned the jet directly toward the Potomac River and pushed on the thrusters. If he could circle over Washington, head back over Virginia, and somehow find him and cut him off before he reached the river, then maybe…just maybe…he could get off a shot before it was too late.

Beechcraft Bonanza Aircraft
Above Virginia

5:35 p.m.

Anwar had moved to the back of the plane, his hand already on the nuclear trigger, and ready to press it at Salaam’s command once they crossed the Potomac.

Down below, Salaam saw the cloverleaf intersection of Interstate 66 and Interstate 485 coming into view.

And then, in the distance, he saw it!

The Washington Monument, basked in spotlights, rising in the night above the American capital! This could not be happening. To have been so favored by Allah and to have been chosen for such a great mission.

Salaam’s heart was jack-hammering so fast that he could not control it. He turned the plane’s nose directly at the monument and increased his airspeed to two hundred knots.

US Navy F/A-18 (“Hornet 1”)
Over Washington, DC

5:36 p.m.

Commander Belk swung the jet in a loop over the National Mall and looked down at the Washington Monument, the US Capitol, and the White House. He pointed the plane to the Virginia side of the river, and within a matter of minutes had crossed the river again and was flying over Arlington Cemetery, still searching.

From there, he turned the plane to the northwest, flew toward Marymount University, where he looped over the Potomac again, and turned south headed back toward Arlington Cemetery.

Beechcraft Bonanza Aircraft
Over Arlington, Virginia

5:37 p.m.

They flew east and low across Arlington, with Marymount University just below them. Now, sights of Washington just beyond the river lay out like a great feast before them.

Salaam pressed down for more airspeed. The dome of the Capitol was just behind the Washington Monument. It was only a matter of seconds until the greatest attack in the history of the world. And his death would be to the glory of Allah!

US Navy F/A-18 (“Hornet 1”)
Over Arlington, Virginia

5:38 p.m.

Beep-beep-beep-beep—beep-beep-beep!

“Contact! Contact! Please don’t let it be too late!”

Somewhere out there, the Hornet’s fire control radar had locked onto a target. Belk’s heart raced as his thumb depressed the Fire Missile button. A single Sidewinder missile dropped from under the right wing and shot out into the night.

A moment later…

BOOM!

Shockwaves rocked the night air.

Belk jerked the stick to the right, banking the jet at a steep angle. He looked down and watched the blinding fireball plunge down toward the Potomac.

“Andrews. Hornet. We’ve got a direct hit on an intruding aircraft. Be advised bogie is down in the Potomac. Looks like splashdown just north of Roosevelt Island.”

There was a pause in communication, as Belk brought the jet down to one thousand feet for a better look. A great fire on the river was illuminating the bridge spanning Rosslyn and Georgetown. Outbound traffic on the bridge was slowing down, onlookers gawking at the fire.

The plane had fallen in the water less than one mile from the White House. Billy Belk allowed his shoulders to slump, relieving the tension that had gripped him moments earlier.

“Hornet. Andrews. Roger that. Good shooting. Your nation is appreciative tonight. Go to ten thousand feet. Return to base for debriefing.”

“Andrews. Hornet. Roger that. I’m coming home.”

Epilogue

The White House

Three months later

The Rose Garden was a blur of colors and a montage of the sweet scents of an early spring morning in Washington. Yellow, red, and white tulips were just beginning to bloom amidst gardenias, daffodil, jonquil, and some flowers that Diane did not recognize.

Across the lush, green grass just outside the West Wing, Diane stood at parade rest, her hands folded in the back of her service dress-blue uniform and skirt. Zack stood next to her, at the end of the line, also at parade rest. Next to her on the other side stood Captain Noble and the entire SEAL team, also in service dress blues. At their sides, the SEALs wore their ceremonial battle swords, which glistened brilliantly in the morning sun.

All this against the unseasonably warm Washington morning made for a gorgeous panorama of deep colors, with blue, red, white, and green meshing into bright tapestry against the pink blooms on saucer magnolia trees on the White House lawn.

“Attention on deck!” Captain Noble ordered. Diane and her colleagues jumped to erect attention.

A voice came over a loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States.”

Two marines opened double doors on the West Wing. The president stepped out onto the grass, flanked by Admiral Roscoe Smith to his right and Secretary of Defense Erwin Lopez to his left. They were followed by another naval officer, Rear Admiral Jeffrey Carl Lettow, a Southern Baptist pastor currently serving as the chief of navy chaplains.

The four men walked across the grass to a podium featuring the Presidential Seal. “At ease,” the president said as he reached the podium, the three others behind him. The audience relaxed slightly.

“Our nation has been hit.” The president began his speech with somber tones. “One of our great cities, Philadelphia, has had its heart ripped out. One of our ships, USS Port Royal, has been attacked, and many thousands have died.

“But though the Islamo-fascists may have temporarily bruised Philadelphia, evil cannot, and shall not ever, quench the heart and the spirit of America. We are grateful to God Almighty that we still live as a nation, and that as a nation, we have survived this brutal and criminal attack.”

The president reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a letter. His eyes met Diane’s; then he looked at the SEAL team. “This is a private ceremony. Though certain members of the press corps have been invited, there will be no live television cameras. Photographs and excerpts will later be released to the press. But this is a sacred occasion. This is an intimate time. You have saved our country.” He took the letter out and unfolded it. “I’d like to begin by reading a brief note from the president of Indonesia.”

He placed the letter on the podium and began to read. “To members of the US Navy SEAL team, to the US Navy pilots, to the US Navy JAG officers, and to members of the USS Ronald Reagan carrier task force—the government and the people of a democratic Indonesia are eternally grateful. You have saved our nation from a despotic tyranny, and while Indonesians grieve the loss of lives in America, we salute and commend you for having saved the lives of millions of others in your country. May God bless you all of your days, and may God bless the United States of America. Signed, Muhammed Magadia, president of the Republic of Indonesia.”

The president folded the letter and put it in his pocket. “And now, I’d like to ask a very special lady to come forward.” The marines swung open the double doors again. The First Lady of the United States stepped out first. Then another woman stepped out. The two women walked across the lawn toward the podium, but it was not until they had nearly reached the podium that Diane recognized the second woman.

The president spoke again. “The Presidential Medal of Freedom is this nation’s highest civilian award. The medal was first established by President Harry Truman to honor civilians for distinguished service in time of war. On February 22, 1963, the 231st birthday of George Washington, President John F. Kennedy expanded the eligibility for receiving the medal when he signed this executive order. Presidential Medals of Freedom shall be awarded to persons ‘for especially meritorious contribution to the security or national interests of the United States, or world peace, or cultural or other significant public or private endeavors.’

“Past recipients of the medal include Pope John Paul II, Martin Luther King Jr., President Ronald Reagan, and Mother Teresa.

“Today, I have the pleasure of presenting the Presidential Medal of Freedom to a woman, who, facing fear and death, courageously put her life on the line and in doing so, saved the lives of millions.” He turned around and looked and smiled at the woman standing next to his wife. “The Presidential Medal of Freedom is hereby awarded to Kristina Wulandari.”

Applause broke out as the pretty young Indonesian woman stepped forward. She sheepishly bowed. President Williams put the medal around her neck. He kissed her on the cheek, and then gave her a long hug. “Thank you,” the president could be heard saying over the applause. “Thank you so much.” Photographers stepped forward and snapped photographs to commemorate the historic moment.

The applause subsided, and Kristina walked over and stood beside Mrs. Williams.

“There are others to be thanked for the fact that we are standing here today…Other members of the United States military to whom many of us owe our lives”—he looked at the SEAL team and at Commander Belk—“and to whom I personally owe my life.”

The president pulled another letter from his coat. “On August 7, 1942, Congress made the Navy Cross a combat-only decoration with precedence over the Distinguished Service Medal, making it the navy’s second-highest-ranking award, ranking only below the Congressional Medal of Honor.”

The president looked up from the podium again. “To Captain Noble, and to each and every member of SEAL Team One, Platoons Alpha and Charlie; to Lieutenant Commander Belk, to Lieutenant Commander Brewer, and to Lieutenant Commander Colcernian, your nation is grateful for your heroic actions in defending your country during the Indonesian operations of this past winter. To each of you, you are this day being awarded the Navy Cross.

“Please step up as I call your names.” He looked first at Captain Noble. “Captain Buck Noble.” Captain Noble marched sharply to the podium, saluted the president, then stood erect as the president lifted the medal from a silk pillow being held by the chaplain. “Congratulations, Captain,” the president said, as he pinned the medal on the SEAL’s chest.

“Thank you, sir.” Noble shot a sharp salute, pivoted, and returned to the line.

“Lieutenant Commander Billy Belk, front and center.”

The process continued, until finally, “Lieutenant Commander Diane Colcernian, front and center!”

Despite facing down death on multiple occasions over the past few years, this moment flooded Diane with a strange nervousness. She came to attention, stepped ten paces forward, stopped in front of the podium, and saluted her commander in chief.

The president stepped out to her, along with the chief of chaplains, holding the silk pillow with her Navy Cross.

President Williams picked up the medal, and as he was pinning it to her blue uniform, he spoke softly. “Diane, I know your dad would have been so proud of you.”

Emotion overwhelmed her when the president mentioned her father. “Thank you, Mr. President,” she whispered.

“He was a fine naval officer and a great man.”

“Thank you, sir.” Her voice was beginning to tremble.

“There.” He finished pinning the medal on her lapel. “That should do it.” He looked into her eyes. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fall back into line.”

“Yes, sir.” She shot him a final salute, then pivoted and walked back to the line of navy blue, where one officer had yet to receive his medal.

“Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer, front and center.”

Zack stepped forward, by far the best-looking man in the Rose Garden, in Diane’s opinion. Just the subtle swagger in his step still made her melt. At that moment it hit her, suddenly, after all these years…the confidence, the swagger, the handsome dimple contrasted against his gentleness. Zack’s many traits were those of the man she had loved first and loved the most, her father. How could she not have seen it until now?

Zack snapped a sharp salute at the president, who stepped forward with Admiral Lettow to pin on the Navy Cross. They were all conversing privately for a moment, as the president had done with her and several other officers.

She knew that the president had a special fondness for Zack, but this conversation was lingering noticeably longer than any of the others.

The president stepped back behind the podium, motioning Zack to stand beside him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as many of you know, Lieutenant Commander Brewer is known throughout the nation as the JAG officer who has successfully prosecuted several high-profile cases in the war on terror. Commander Brewer has asked to say a few words, and as his commander in chief, he has my blessing. Zack?”

Zack strode with confidence to the presidential podium, as if about to address a jury, or as if he were the president himself. Zack had once turned down an opportunity to get out of the navy and run for Congress. He loved the navy too much. But perhaps, she thought, as he reached the podium with an ease and charisma that exuded even before he spoke, there may be a political career for him after all.

“Mr. President, Mr. Secretary.” He turned and acknowledged those behind him. “Admirals Smith and Lettow, Captain Noble, I am honored for this opportunity to speak just a few words on this bittersweet occasion in our nation’s history.”

A pause. How does he do this with no notes?

“For today,” he continued, “there is a bitterness indeed as we contemplate the loss of life of our shipmates on board USS Port Royal, many of whom gave their lives in the defense of freedom, as also we remember the thousands who died in Philadelphia.

“But it is also a sweet occasion. We are thankful that our nation lives. The great city of San Francisco and our nation’s capital have been spared by the grace of God and by the acts of the United States military.

“This all started with an evil conspiracy, in a beautiful place, far, far away. That conspiracy is now known by the press as the Malaccan Conspiracy. And the lessons of the Malaccan Conspiracy are these.” He paused and eyed the officers, holding his gaze on her. “That life, especially life in the navy, is fleeting. Today, we are in the Rose Garden. Tomorrow, we may be in some far corner of the world responding to duty, doing our best to defend the Constitution and to help keep peace and freedom for all Americans. We go where duty calls. And make no mistake. We are glad and honored to do it.

“But there is another lesson, I believe, to be learned from the Malaccan Conspiracy, and I believe it to be this.” He held up his index finger. “Not only is life fleeting, but we must courageously seize the moment in the here and now. Miss Wulandari, with great courage, seized the moment and saved millions when she bravely faced a fear of death and got that computer stick into the right hands.

“Mr. President”—he looked at the president—“you made tough and courageous decisions when you gave orders to the US military during this crisis. I know the order you gave in San Francisco was hard, and your bravery showed in standing fast here in Washington, and not letting the terrorists intimidate you into leaving our capital.” Applause broke out from the SEALs and the press crew in the Rose Garden. “Mr. President, your bravery will be the stuff that legends are made of.”

That brought more sustained applause. Zack turned back to the audience. “And so today, in the spirit of the lessons learned from the Malaccan Conspiracy, in the midst of a life that is fleeting, that may take us from this place tomorrow, and knowing that I may very well publically fail in doing so, I must seize this moment.”

He paused again, surveying the crowd. He’s announcing he’s leaving the navy and returning to North Carolina to run for the Senate, Diane supposed. She always knew he would do it.

To announce his candidacy from the Rose Garden with the blessing of the president!

Zack was not only brave and unequaled in eloquence, but uncannily brilliant. There was no limit to his future. Her heart leapt with excitement for him.

“To the president, and the first lady, and the secretary of defense, and to my fellow naval brethren present, from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs to the brave enlisted members of the SEAL team, I ask that you would stay a moment and support me in what I am about to do.”

Could it be the Senate?

Perhaps governor of North Carolina?

From there, he could run for the White House.

“To Lieutenant Commander Colcernian, my dear colleague with whom I have served off and on since our days at the Naval Justice School five years ago, would you join me here at the podium please for a very important announcement?”

He wants me to join him in his campaign?

“Come on up, Diane.” The president was motioning at her. More applause. This was turning into something political. She knew it. Zack had the knack for the splash.

She reached the podium beside Zack, and as she did, the president came and stood beside her. The first lady walked over beside Zack. They were now a foursome at the podium. Diane and Zack just behind the microphones, flanked by the president and the first lady on each side.

Zack looked at her and smiled. “You think I’m getting ready to declare for office, don’t you?” That brought a round of laughter.

“Well, the thought did cross my mind,” she said, generating more laughter.

“Maybe you’re right,” he sheepishly teased, melting her again with that dimple in his chin. “Which office do you think I’m running for?”

“With you, Zack, who knows?” she shot back. Now the crowd was laughing hard.

He turned to the podium. “Mr. President, Mr. Secretary, Admiral Smith, Admiral Lettow, ladies and gentlemen. It is with great honor and high personal privilege that today I am announcing that I am a candidate for the office of”—he looked at her and grinned—“husband of Diane Jefferson Colcernian!”

What did he just say? Her mouth fell open. Is this happening?

Raucous applause broke out. Even whistling. Zack looked at her, still grinning. Then he turned to the Rose Garden crowd again.

“I am hoping that this will not be a long and arduous campaign. In fact, I am hoping that this victory will be won in this moment, here at the White House, in the Rose Garden, before the president and Almighty God. As I turn now to the woman that I love, pray for favor and blessing.”

He turned to her, took her hand, went to one knee, and slowly kissed her hand. “Diane, you’re the one that I love. There may be no more tomorrows. Will you marry me? Right here? Right now? In the Rose Garden?”

“Oh, Zack.”

“We’ve even got a chaplain, I have a ring in my pocket, and the president told me that he would stand in for your father and give you away.”

“That’s right,” the president said, gently resting his hand on her back. “It would be my honor.”

“Stand up, Zack.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He stood.

“I might, on one condition.”

He raised his eyebrow. “Anything.”

“First, I have to decide if you’re a good enough kisser.” Laughter from the audience.

“And just how are you going to decide that?” More laughter.

“Let’s just say the jury is still out, and you need to figure out a way to bring the jury in!”

He pulled her to him, and their lips met, igniting a hot, instant electricity and sustained applause. She pulled away. “The jury is with you, Commander. If you’ll promise to give me another one of those after the ceremony is over, I accept.”

He kissed her on the cheek to more applause and looked over at the chaplain. “Admiral Lettow?”

The experienced chaplain smiled at the couple. “Diane, why don’t you take the president’s arm, since he is giving you away, and Zack, why don’t you walk around to the front of the podium with me?”

They walked around to the front of the podium, with their backs to the SEALs and other members of the press corps. She stood between the president, still holding onto his outstretched arm, and Zack, whose hand was on her back.

The tears were flowing like a river now. How embarrassing, she thought, to be weeping in front of the president of the United States. “It’s okay,” the president whispered, which reminded her of her father, sending a new wave of tears down her face. The president offered her a handkerchief as Admiral Lettow began to speak.

“We are gathered here in the presence of Almighty God to join these two, Diane Jefferson Colcernian and Zachary Mitchell Brewer, in holy matrimony…”

The rest was a blurry dream that she would never fully remember, until she heard the final words, “You may kiss the bride!”

At that point the details would never fade from her memory. Zack’s powerful kiss was long and electric, even better than a few moments earlier. What a remedy for the stream of tears!

They turned away and saw that the SEALs had formed two long lines, stretching at least fifty feet into the Rose Garden.

“SEALs!…Draw!…Swords!”

In a swift and synchronized motion, the SEALs drew their stainless-steel swords into an archway, clinking as they touched and glistened brightly in the sun. Diane took her husband’s arm and followed his lead into the arch of swords.

The applause was enthusiastic as they stepped slowly under the sharp blades of shining steel.

This was a walk she never wanted to end. If only her father could see her now.

As they approached the end of the arch of swords, she saw photographers pointing their cameras into the archway and snapping away.

Zack slowed their pace, just before they stepped out the other end. Cameras whizzed and flashed at the end of the tunnel.

Then she remembered. She was about to become the victim of a time-honored naval tradition.

She winced.

As they stepped out of the archway, one of the swordsmen brought his sword down and swiftly popped her on the rump with his blade.

“Ouch!”

“Welcome to the navy, Mrs. Brewer!”

Black Sea Affair

Don Brown

It’s a mission that could bring the world to the brink of nuclear war.

Now time is running out.

It starts with a high-stakes theft: weapons-grade plutonium is stolen from Russia. The Russian army is about to attack Chechnya to get it back. But U.S. intelligence discovers that the stolen shipment is actually on a rogue Russian freighter in the Black Sea.

It turns into a global nightmare: a secret mission gone awry; an American submarine commander arrested and hauled before a military tribunal in Moscow; and a game of brinksmanship so dangerous that war might be its only possible conclusion.

As the U.S. Navy searches for weapons-grade plutonium that has been smuggled out of Russia by terrorists, a submarine mishap escalates the international crisis. With the world watching, JAG Officer Zack Brewer is called to Moscow to defend submarine skipper Pete Miranda and his entire crew. It is a heart-stopping race against the clock. With Russian missiles activated and programmed for American cities, Brewer stalls for time as the U.S. Navy frantically searches the high seas for a floating hydrogen bomb that could threaten New York Harbor.

Available in stores and online!

Treason

THE NAVY JUSTICE SERIES

Don Brown

The stakes are high…and the entire world is waiting for the verdict.

The Navy has uncovered a group of radical Islamic clerics who have infiltrated the Navy Chaplain Corps, inciting sailors and marines to acts of terrorism. And Lieutenant Zack Brewer has been chosen to prosecute them for treason and murder.

Only three years out of law school, Zack has already made a name for himself, winning the coveted Navy Commendation medal. Just coming off a high-profile win, this case will challenge the very core of Zack’s skills and his Christian beliefs—beliefs that could cost him the case and his career.

With Diane Colcernian, his staunchest rival, as assistant prosecutor, Zack takes on internationally acclaimed criminal defense lawyer Wells Levinson. And when Zack and Diane finally agree to put aside their animosity, it causes more problems than they realize.

Available in stores and online!

Also By Don Brown

Black Sea Affair

The Navy Justice Series

Treason

Hostage

Defiance

Copyright

ZONDERVAN

The Malacca Conspiracy

Copyright © 2010 by Don Brown

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

ePub Edition © MAY 2010 ISBN: 978-0-310-41176-5

Requests for information should be addressed to: Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Brown, Don, 1960-

The Malaccan conspiracy / Don Brown.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-O-310-27215-1 (softcover)

1. Brewer, Zack (Fictitious character) 2. United States. Navy—Fiction. 3. Malacca, Strait of—Fiction. 4. Nuclear terrorism—Fiction. 5. Indonesia—Presidents—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3602.R6947M35 2010

813’.6—dc22 2009046404

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