The Malacca Conspiracy (18 page)

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

Z
ack 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.

I
s 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 free
dom 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.”