The Malacca Conspiracy (11 page)

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.

R
obert 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.

I
t 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.

O
nly 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.