The Malacca Conspiracy (21 page)

“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.

A
nton 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.

S
lipping 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.”