The Malacca Conspiracy (17 page)

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.

W
e’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.