The Malacca Conspiracy (3 page)

Out to the left, about a thousand yards from the
Reuben James,
the tanker
SeaRiver Baytown,
her belly full of Persian Gulf crude oil, churned low through the blue waters of the Malaccan Straits.

About a thousand yards beyond the
Baytown,
but not visible from this vantage point, the USS
Kauffman,
another
Oliver Hazard Perry
-class guided missile frigate, guarded the other side of the tanker.

If anything went wrong, Cisco hoped it would come from the other side—and that the
Kauffman
would have to deal with it. Swinging his binoculars out in front of the bow, he knew that wasn’t likely.

USS
Kauffman
was guarding the waters between the tanker and Malaysia.

USS
Reuben James,
on the other hand, was guarding the waters between the tanker and the Indonesian island of Sumatra.

Naval Intelligence had warned that radical threats to maritime shipping, and thus the world’s economy, would likely be launched from the heavily populated Indonesian islands of Sumatra and Java.

Clear seas appeared in the binoculars out in front of the ship. Cisco took in the morning breeze that was whipping in from the southwest. Swiping his right hand across his forehead, he brought the high-powered glasses back to his eyes and swept the horizon to the right, out toward Sumatra. Slowly, he scanned in a clockwise turn, stopping his sweep at the three o’clock position.

Nothing but blue waters and a mountainous shoreline.

Moving his view to the left again, back toward the bow, a flash swept across the seascape.

He stopped the binoculars and angled back to the right. Nothing. Were his eyes deceiving him? That could happen at sea.

What was it? Reflection off glass? The engine of a boat? A whale? Where was it?

Whatever it was, it was too low in the water for the ship’s radar to detect.

He readjusted the powerful binoculars.

Nothing but blue water.

There! Again!

The inbound flash bounced off the water, perhaps a mile out to the starboard.

Cisco held the binoculars in place and adjusted the focus ring, bringing the image into focus. The sun was reflecting against the windshield of a speedboat!

He picked up the watch telephone.

“Chief, small craft at three o’clock! Inbound at high speed! One mile and closing, sir!”

Rasa Sentosa Resort
Sentosa Island, Singapore

11:16 a.m.

S
weet strains of violin music blended magically with the single cello, filling the air with a classical melody that blanketed the mumbling voices nearby. Swooshing water streams jetted from a half-dozen indoor fountains, muffling the clicks of bellmen’s leather shoes traipsing across the expansive marble floors.

Behind the reservations desk in the main lobby, Ashlyn Claire hardly noticed the typical midday sounds of the luxurious Rasa Sentosa, Singapore’s only beachfront resort.

At the moment, her agenda was single-minded—to coordinate with housekeeping to ensure that more than fifty rooms were cleared out in time for check-in, which was still two-and-a-half hours away.

At a world-class resort like the Rasa Sentosa, nothing could prove more disastrous to the career of an aspiring young hotel management intern than to send a well-paying guest to a room that had not been properly prepared.

A small smudge on an obscure portion of a mirror or a window.

An overlooked thumbprint on a faucet in the sink.

A slight wrinkle on a comforter.

Not acceptable.

Ashlyn checked the screen again. Still nothing open. Not yet anyway. Except for the block of rooms reserved for the British prime minister’s advance team.

Therein lay the problem.

British Prime Minister John Suddath was in Singapore for a controversial summit with the president of Singapore over the future of Changi Naval Base. The Brits and the Americans were pressing Singa
pore to expand the base to accommodate more ships for the Royal and US Navies to patrol the Strait of Malacca. The Americans would pay for the upgrades. That’s what Singaporean television was reporting, anyway.

But Malaysia, Indonesia, and China had protested the deal.

Protests erupted all over the region, and someone leaked that Suddath’s advance team was staying at the Rasa Sentosa. Then two days ago, rumors flew that Suddath himself was staying at the hotel.

That rumor ignited the picketers. Yesterday, more than two hundred paraded in front of the hotel, clogging the main entrance and blocking guest registrations.

Last night, the British and Singaporean governments issued joint communiqués that the PM would be staying at Istana Merdeka, the Singaporean presidential palace, during his stay in the city.

That thinned out the picketers. But even this morning, about twenty of them still strutted in an oblong circle, bobbing their signs deriding the US and the UK.

Ashlyn checked her watch. Twelve-thirty. Nothing to do but wait.

A whiff of alluring cologne took her focus off the terminal. A smiling, olive-skinned gentleman stood behind the reservations desk.

“May I help you, sir?” she asked.

“You don’t look Singaporean.” The gentleman’s eyes danced at her. “Australian? South African?”

His friendly expression and sparkling black eyes exuded an immediate, spellbinding charm.

Was he Indian? Pakistani? Middle Eastern? He sported an amazing British accent, wherever he was from. And the white suit enhanced his dark, handsome features.

“I’m British,” she said, with pride in her voice.

“That’s a brave admission considering those lunatics out there.” He nodded toward the hotel entrance, with a dubious half-grin.

“Yes, well…” She glanced outside at the picketers, then back at the man. “Could I help you with something, sir?”

“I’m Ahmed.” He cleared his voice. “Edward Ahmed.
Doctor
Edward Ahmed. I’m here for check-in.”

“Let’s see if I can find you, Dr. Ahmed.” Ashlyn clicked the
Enter
key. “Got it.” She looked at him. “Do you have a passport that we could copy?”

“Certainly.” He handed her his Yemeni passport. The name and photograph matched.

“I’m sorry, Doctor, but we don’t have any rooms yet. Check-in is at three. I can call you if something opens earlier.”

“Fine,” he said. “I could take a stroll on the beach. Where may I leave my luggage?”

“The bellman will store your bags here in the lobby area until your room is ready.”

“Fabulous.” The man’s black eyes sparkled. “I look forward to seeing you again, Miss…I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

“Claire. Ashlyn Claire.”

“Yes, Miss Claire, and may God save the Queen.” The man turned and walked off with a smile on his face.

Or was it a sneer?

No matter, Ashlyn had work to do. The first members of the prime minister’s advance team were due any minute.

USS
Reuben James
The Strait of Malacca

10:18 a.m.

S
kipper, forward lookout reports inbound craft! Approaching at high speed at three o’clock! Range one mile!”

“Where?” The skipper of the
Reuben James
moved to the starboard side of the bridge. Junior officers and enlisted crew members on the bridge were pointing their fingers over the water.

“There! I see it!” the executive officer said.

The captain saw it through his binoculars. The boat crashed through the waves, racing toward his ship, or more likely, toward the tanker he was guarding.

“Issue a no-approach warning, followed by a shot across the bow. If she closes within five hundred yards, take her out. Sound general quarters.”

“General quarters, aye, Captain.” The XO picked up the 1MC, the public address system that broadcast all over the four hundred, forty-five-foot warship. “General quarters! General quarters! Small craft approaching at three o’clock. Possibly hostile. General quarters! Man battle stations!”

Alarm bells rang throughout the ship. Crew members scrambled up and down steel ladders and across the decks to take their positions. The XO’s voice boomed again over the loudspeaker, broadcasting simultaneously over the open maritime radio channels.

“This is the USS
Reuben James.
To the vessel approaching: turn back or you will be fired upon.”

No reaction.

“Repeat the warning, XO.”

“This is the USS
Reuben James.
This is your last warning. Turn back or you will be fired upon.”

The boat sliced through the swells, straight toward the ship.

“Weps, fire one warning shot across the bow!”

“One warning shot across her bow! Aye, sir!”

Boom!

White smoke rose from the barrel of the Oto Melara 76/62 naval cannon in the forward section of the ship.

A second later,
splash!
Water sprayed across the boat’s bow. No reaction.

“Fire another!”

“Fire! Aye, Captain.”

Boom!

This round splashed just in front of the boat. Again, no course change. The roar of the boat’s engines could now be heard on the ship.

“That’s enough,” the captain said. “Open fire! Take her out!”

“Aye, sir.” The weapons officer picked up a telephone to the two gunner’s mates manning the fifty-caliber machine guns mounted along the starboard side of the ship. “Open fire. I repeat, open fire!”

Chit-a-chit-a-chita-a-chita-chita-a-chita-chita-a-chita-chita-a-chita.

Like dueling jackhammers shaking and pounding the deck, the fifty-caliber machine guns sprayed a wall of lead over the sea, splashing a straight trail in the water toward the boat.

Flames and smoke erupted.
Boom!
The sound of the explosion traveled across the water and rocked the
Reuben James.
The boat, now a flaming hulk, drifted listlessly on the sea.

“Get a rescue party out there,” the captain said. “Let’s see what we can find.”

Chapter 2

Singapore-Changi International Airport

12:00 p.m.

T
he United States naval officer, wearing his summer white uniform, plucked his suitcase off the luggage conveyor, turned, and stepped through the sliding doors onto the sidewalk. The
whoosh
of the warm wind brought a sweet floral smell, mixed with a slight scent of salt air from the sea.

Car horns honked and blared as the officer waved down one of the dozen limousine taxis that were lined up outside.

“Where to, Commander?” the driver asked.

“Sentosa Island, please,” the naval officer said. “Rasa Sentosa Resort.”

“Of course.”

The taxi rolled into the bright, equatorial sunshine, which cast an electrical glow onto grass, palm trees, and pink, red, and yellow flowers.

“Your first trip to Singapore?”

“First trip.” The officer slipped on a pair of Oakley shades. “It’s beautiful. So much greenery.”

“This is East Park. These flowers and these palm trees”—the driver steered with his right hand and gesticulated out the window with his left—“Singapore wishes to impress visitors leaving the airport. Lots of locals come down here to have a picnic or sit and watch the water. We’ll take the East Coast Parkway along the waterfront, then take the causeway across to Sentosa. It’s less than five miles. You’ll enjoy the ride.”

The officer looked to his left as the taxi sped west along the parkway.
A few yards beyond the grassy banks, past the seawall, the blue waters of the Singapore Straits sparkled under the midday sun. Three ships, large, black tankers, were passing in the straits just a few hundred yards from them. Two of them, headed to the east, churned low in the water. Probably full of Middle Eastern crude.

“We get navy visitors from many countries,” the cabbie said. “US, UK, Canada. More and more Chinese too.”

Car horns blared. Brake lights flashed.

The cab slowed to a stop in the traffic jam. The officer rolled the window down. A fresh sea breeze blew in from over the strait.

“You look familiar, Commander.” The cabbie’s black eyes darted into the backseat through the rearview mirror. The cab started rolling again.

Oh, great. I can’t get away even here in Singapore.
He glanced at the dashboard. A name tag was screwed onto the panel just above the central air conditioning duct.
Your Driver
—
Victor Yang Loon.
“So I’ve been told.”

“Have I seen you before?”

“I don’t know.”
Just drive.

“Aren’t you Commander Zack Brewer?”

Should I get into this?
“My mother calls me Zack. The navy calls me Commander…Actually that’s
Lieutenant
Commander Zack Brewer.”

“I saw you on TV. You were great in that court-martial against those chaplains! A few years ago.” The cabbie, whose eyes were now on the rearview mirror more than on the road, was referring to the case called
United States of America v. Mohammed Olajuwon, et al.,
which brought Zack Brewer international fame when he prosecuted three US Navy Islamic chaplains for treason and murder.

“Thanks,” Zack said.

“And then you were on television again with those other two cases you handled!” This time, he was referring to Zack’s prosecution of two US Navy fighter pilots, both Islamic, who had used their navy jets to launch terrorist strikes—
and
his successful defense of a US Navy submarine commander on trial for war crimes in Moscow.

“It’s amazing what they put on TV, isn’t it?”

“I am Victor Yang Loon. It is a pleasure, Commander Brewer.”

“The pleasure is mine, Victor,” Zack said.

Yang Loon babbled on. Zack ignored the driver and gazed at the colorful sights of the bustling, tropical Asian city by the water.