The Malacca Conspiracy (29 page)

Zack looked back across the square at the palace. Long shadows stretched across the mob of humanity, which had thickened even in the few minutes that he had been on the cell phone. The grim-faced soldiers pointed their weapons toward the crowd. The odd combination of euphoria and grief made for an explosive situation. One trigger-happy soldier could literally set fire to a massive sea of human gasoline.

How could he leave with such danger surrounding her?

“Zack?”

On the other hand, what good could he do by standing here and watching?

“Are you still there, Zack?”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes, sir.”

The White House

5:30 a.m.

G
entlemen, I need military action,” Mack said, as he eyed the nation’s highest-ranking military officers, the members of the Joint Chiefs
of Staff, who were seated in a semicircle just in front of the president’s desk. “And I need it now.”

“Just tell us what you need, Mr. President.” This was the commandant of the Marine Corps.

A swig of black coffee. Just what the doctor ordered. “Very well, General Grey. While the nation has been asleep, a madman has taken over Indonesia, exploded a nuclear weapon, probably taken out one of our warships, and is threatening to use his nuclear toys against us if we don’t cave to his ridiculous demands.

“On top of that, the Indonesian president has apparently been assassinated, our ambassador and our naval attaché are unaccounted for, and in the last couple of days the Malacca Strait and the city of Singapore have become environmental disasters.” Another swig of coffee.

“Gentlemen, no one bullies the United States with nuclear blackmail. Not even thinly veiled nuclear blackmail.” Mack slammed his fist on his desk. “Too many innocent lives are at stake. I want this guy taken out.” He paused. “Am I clear on that?”

The air force chief of staff glanced at the chief of naval operations. Admiral Jones, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, raised his eyebrow. “Mr. President,” the air force chief said, “are you suggesting assassination? Because if you are, sir, then perhaps the CIA would be best suited for that sort of thing.”

“Who said anything about assassination, General McPeak?” Mack glared at the air force general. His Kansas blood was boiling. It had been a long night. “Assassination is a violation of military law. I’m talking about swift, decisive military action. If the good general does not survive that action, then that makes him a casualty of war. If this Islamic madman, tinhorn dictator is a casualty of war, then I have no control over that.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Question, Mr. President.”

“General Grey,” Mack acknowledged the commandant of the Marine Corps.

“Sir, what’s your time frame for having this operation ready for execution?”

“A good question, General.” Mack scratched his chin. “This General Perkasa says we have”—Mack made quotation marks in the air—
“twenty-four hours to enact all these UN resolutions he has demanded.” He checked his watch. “Therefore, I want to cut the snake off at the neck before he strikes.

“It’s now just after 6:00
A.M.,
gentlemen. I want you all to go down to the situation room with the secretary of defense. I want you to formulate a plan, and I want it on my desk for review no later than zero-eight-thirty this morning. I want to review the plan, approve it, and I want us to strike within the next twelve hours, under cover of darkness in Jakarta.”

The Joint Chiefs exchanged glances.

“Gentlemen, I know our timeframe is short, and I know I’m asking a lot of you. But there’s a verse in the Bible that goes something like, ‘to whom much is given, much is expected.’

“All of us in this room…me, the vice president, the secretary of defense, and each of you, have been given an extraordinary responsibility for the defense of this great nation and the defense of freedom, a responsibility that only a minute handful of people in our history have ever shouldered. There’s another verse in the Bible. It’s from Esther, and I want you to remember it as you go. It says, ‘Who knows but that you have come to the royal position for such a time as this.’

“Gentlemen, none of us are royal. We are but servants of the people. But all of us…each one of us…has been called to this place, to this task,
for such a time as this.

“I want to take this guy out. And I want to take control of Merdeka Palace, and I want to find our people.
Now.”

“Mister President,” Admiral Jones said, “we’ve been working most of the night, anticipating this very moment. We already have a plan in place, just waiting for your approval, sir.”

Mack smiled. “Admiral, I knew there was a good reason I appointed you as chairman. Let’s hear it.”

Chapter 14

US Navy EA–18G (“Growler 2”)
Over Christmas Island, south of Indonesia

6:15 p.m.

R
eagan, Growler 2.”

“Go ahead, Growler 2.”

“Sir, we’ve got the Seahawks down below us, skimming the water at five hundred feet. Crossing Christmas Island now. We’re ready to initiate jamming of Jakarta airspace at your direction, sir.”

“Growler,
Reagan.
Maintain course three-one-five degrees. Initiate jamming on my mark in…three minutes. Stand by. Mark it!”

“Reagan,
Growler. Mark it. T-minus three minutes to initiation of jamming sequence.”

“Growler.
Reagan.
Copy that. Two fifty-nine. Two fifty-eight. Two fifty-seven…”

The pilot looked off into the deep blue watery horizon, where the sun was setting into the Indian Ocean just left of the plane’s nose. As the countdown proceeded from the tower aboard
Ronald Reagan,
he pressed the transmission button for internal communication within the cockpit. “How’d you like to be an air traffic controller at Soekarno-Hatta International in about three minutes?”

“They better hope they’ve got eardrum insurance.” The electronics officer laughed. “It’s going to take a few minutes to get our choppers into Indonesian airspace undetected. We’ll keep the boom box blasting till they tell us to turn it off.”

“This’ll be fun.”

Soekarno-Hatta International Airport
Jakarta, Indonesia

6:18 p.m.

S
ingapore Air four-four-niner,” the controller said, “turn right zero-two-zero degrees, descend to three thousand and hold.”

“Four-four-niner, roger that. Turning right zero-two-zero degrees. Descending to three thousand.”

Buzzing hornets suddenly filled the headset. The controller ripped the headsets from his ears, as the amber radar screen went blank. “What the—”

“What’s that noise?” another controller yelled.

“Hey, my screen went blank,” yet another controller blurted.

“Chief, we’ve got a problem,” the first controller said. “Radar’s blanked out.”

The supervisor rushed over to the screens. A litany of curse words followed. “Switch to backup radar! Now!”

“Switching to backup, sir.” The controller glued his eyes to the screen. Backup was slower, but at least it was reliable. “Come on, baby…Come on…It’s not working, sir.”

“Alert all planes on emergency channel. All planes in holding pattern remain in holding pattern. Turn back all inbound aircraft. No one takes off or lands till we can fix this.”

“Yes, sir!” The controller hit a button opening a frequency to all approaching and holding aircraft. “Jakarta Control to all aircraft in the area. We have a radar malfunction. Go to position reports. All planes contact Bali Control!”

US Navy EA–18G (“Growler 2”)
Over Christmas Island

6:22 p.m.

R
eagan. Growler 2. Sounds like we’ve set off a party down there, Skipper,” the electronics warfare officer said. “They’re trying to divert the big birds to Bali.”

“Copy that. Not a bad place to go if you’ve got to divert. At least we
know our toys really work. Keep busting their eardrums till we get our choppers on the ground.”

“Roger that. We’ll shuck and jive, and keep the party alive until we hear lights out from you.”

“Growler.
Reagan.
Have fun, and stand by.”

“Reagan.
Growler. Standing by with our fingers on the light switch.”

Indonesian Air Force C–9
Over the Java Sea

6:25 p.m.

F
rom his seat in the VIP section just behind the cockpit of the military jet, Captain Hassan Taplus looked out over the darkening waters of the sea and smiled. This would be the last sunset in which anyone would call him “Captain.”

He would surely be promoted to “Colonel” Taplus once he stepped off the plane. Perhaps the general himself would be there to meet him at the tarmac to pin his new rank upon his collars, and perhaps even an award for heroism on his chest.

Ah, yes. The glorious moment would come soon.

But no, on second thought, the general would be too busy for an airport promotion ceremony. As much as the general would personally like to be there, his duties would not allow it. That was understandable. The general could not be out in the public.

At least not yet, anyway.

The general would dispatch Colonel Croon to preside over the on-the-spot promotion, and then, there would be a more formal ceremony later on, replete with the appropriate cast of military and civilian dignitaries. The promotion would come now, and the medals for heroism would come at the formal ceremony. Yes, that was the way they would do it, he decided.

There would be a tickertape parade for him. He knew it. Much like the ones he had seen and read about in America. It would be the kind of tickertape that he had seen on YouTube for the American astronauts who walked on the moon all those years ago.

Of course, realistically, the parade would not only be for him. The
general, of course, would have to be at the head of it, but there would be no reason whatsoever that he, the soon-to-be
Colonel
Taplus, would not be riding in the backseat of the convertible alongside the general. After all, the names of Perkasa and Taplus would go down forever as founding fathers of the Islamic Republic of Indonesia.

Of course, others would be in the parade as well. Perhaps even some of the people sitting behind him on this plane. There weren’t many of them. Only a handful were on the mostly empty plane. They were the scientists who worked on the project and a few other military advisors. That was okay. The parade would have to be long enough to make it worthwhile for the throngs of adoring Indonesians and the international media that would be clamoring to focus on the lead car.

But the point is, they would all be in the cars
trailing
him and the general. Even Colonel Croon could be in the parade. But he should be riding behind the lead car. Yes, Croon still outranked Hassan, for the time being anyway. But the general would come to the realization, if he had not already, that Croon was a stooge yes-man. Nothing wrong with a stooge yes-man who happened to be in the right place at the right time. History was replete with them. They were good at feeding the egos of the real changers of history. And yes, they were loyal to their hero idols.

Croon was loyal to the general. That, Hassan had to admit. But Croon could never have pulled off what Hassan had just pulled off. There was a reason the general sent the bright, young, handsome star of his staff, and not the old, dull, decrepit yes-man to pull off the most stunning technological feat in Indonesian history.

Hassan closed his eyes and smiled some more.

Yes, except for the on-the-spot promotion he was about to receive from the colonel at the airport, perhaps the colonel had already outlived his usefulness.

It was a thought anyway.

“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice came over the plane’s intercom system, “but there’s been an unexpected radar failure at Jakarta, and we’ve been ordered to turn the plane around and head to Bali. Don’t worry, Bali Control has us on their screens. We’ll keep you posted on developments.”

“What?” Hassan blurted. Had he heard that right? This could not
be. He had just pulled off the single most historic achievement in his nation’s history. Now he was needed in Jakarta. The general would want his briefing. Perhaps even a joint press conference before the nation would be in order. Perhaps his promotion would take place on live television, and then they would go into the press conference.

He unholstered his safety belt, stepped into the aisle, and marched three steps forward to the cockpit area.

“What do you mean, we are turning the plane around?” Captain Taplus was now standing at the door of the cockpit.

“Air traffic control has rerouted us because of a radar failure,” the copilot said.

“Do you know who I am?” he snapped at the pilot. “I am Captain Hassan Taplus of General Perkasa’s staff. As you know, General Perkasa is now in charge of the Indonesian government. My presence in Jakarta is a matter of extreme urgency.”

“I understand, Captain Taplus,” the pilot said over his shoulder, as the plane began a wide, slow, banking maneuver. “But I have regulations I must follow. There is much confusion on the ground because of the assassination of the president. My regulations are mandated by the air force, of which I am an officer. If a controller tells us to turn away, we must turn away. We run the risk of midair collision by flying into heavily trafficked airspace without radar control.”

“Captain,” Hassan shot back, “I am sorry, but on the authority granted me by General Perkasa himself, I am
ordering
you to fly to Jakarta.”

The pilot looked over his shoulders, with an arrogant
nobody-tells-me-what-to-do
look on his face. “Captain Taplus, this is
my
airplane, and I am in command of it. And until someone on the ground with a higher authority than yours tells me otherwise, I am obligated to follow orders and procedures.”