The Malacca Conspiracy (26 page)

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.

O
n 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.

F
rom 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.

A
s 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.

O
n 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.

D
o 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.