The Malacca Conspiracy (31 page)

A pause. More looks between the CO and the XO. Captain Noble checked his watch. “Look. We don’t have much time. I’m not saying yes and I’m not saying no. But get downstairs and hook up with Master Chief Stoudemier. Tell him I said to get your face painted and get you into gear, and issue you an Uzi. I’ll make a decision on you if and when we get orders from Washington to go. But
if
I were to say yes”—he was wagging his finger—“and this is a big
if,
then you are to stick with me like white on rice. Understand?”

“Aye, aye, Captain. Thank you, sir!”

The White House

8:00 a.m.

I
don’t know, Mr. President.” This was the voice of Secretary of State Robert Mauney, who was being conferenced into the Oval Office via secure line from his east-bound jet, somewhere over Arkansas. They were discussing the proposed military operation against Merdeka Palace, which had been put together and brought to the president by the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “My problem is that we’re launching a military action from a United States embassy. We’re opening a can of worms if we establish a precedent that it’s okay to launch military strikes against host nations from embassies in that nation. Suppose Iran launched a raid on the US Capitol from its embassy in DC?”

“That’s form over substance,” the secretary of defense responded. “This is a rescue operation. We know our ambassador and our naval attaché are in that building, we know there has been some sort of coup there, and we have every right under international law to defend ourselves, sir. This action is tantamount to self-defense, Mr. President.”

“It isn’t self-defense if we’re trying to go in to kill this General Perkasa,” the secretary of state’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “That’s an offensive operation. Again, sir, I don’t object to a military mission. It’s just that we can’t justify launching a military mission from an embassy.”

“But this self-defense mission was technically launched from the aircraft carrier.” Secretary Lopez was now standing and waving his arms in the air. “Besides, we jammed their airways. We’ve already flown three choppers into our embassy undetected under our jamming signals. They’ll never know that our choppers lifted off from the embassy, Mr. President.”

The secretary of state jumped in again. “We’re taking a real risk in thinking this won’t be discovered, Mr. President. Again, do we really want to set a precedent that would allow Iran or North Korea to launch attacks from their embassies against the White House? Please remember, sir. The fact that we’re going after this general makes this offensive. Not just defensive.”

The secretary of defense loosened his collar. “But the fact is that
this general just exploded a nuclear weapon and is threatening who-knows-what if the UN doesn’t cave to his crazy demands about Israel. This throws a whole new dynamic into the equation, Mr. President. He’s essentially threatening terrorist strikes on our soil if we don’t make the UN kick Israel off the face of the planet. This fact alone makes the operation defensive in nature. Besides, if we’re going to take this idiot out before his self-imposed deadline, this is the only show in town.”

“There must be other ways,” Secretary Mauney said. “Why not use Tomahawk cruise missiles launched from the carrier or a sub? Then we take out the general without getting the embassy involved.”

“Because,” Secretary Lopez shot back, “if the general is inside the palace, and we don’t know that for sure, then a cruise missile is the best way to ensure that our ambassador and our naval attaché wind up dead, if they aren’t already.”

“Okay, I’ve heard enough,” Mack said. His two top cabinet secretaries were always at odds with one another, it seemed, but both made good points. “Secretary Mauney, my concern here is that we’ve got an unpredictable madman on the loose with nuclear bombs, and we’ve gotta try and take him out and save our people before his deadline arrives. As I told the Joint Chiefs earlier, we must cut off the head of the snake before it strikes.

“Secretary Lopez”—he looked at the secretary of defense—“order the navy to carry out Operation Bull’s-eye.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” the secretary of defense said. “I’ll make the call to Seventh Fleet immediately.”

Chapter 15

Northbound Interstate 95
Eight miles southwest of downtown Philadelphia

8:30 a.m.

T
he sun crested off to the right, peeking through the rusty warehouses and banged-up asphalt parking lots sweeping by the side of the road as his van raced to the north on the interstate.

“Why Philadelphia?” Mohammed blurted this question aloud, as if someone in the cabin of the U-Haul would give him an answer.

It was unfair. He had been in America longer than the others. His command of English was the best of the three. He had been studying the longest. His sacrifice had to be the greatest. Thus, should he not have a say in the matter? But Philadelphia?

They had claimed that Philadelphia had been selected because of its importance in American history. The Declaration of Independence had been signed here, they said. The Constitutional Convention had convened. Or so they told him. The famed American monument, the “Liberty Bell,” was also here, they said. Plus, the Americans would be suspecting another attack on New York. Philadelphia would be an easier target.

Despite all their justification, Mohammed suspected that he, as a Saudi citizen, probably knew more about American history than ninety percent of most Americans. He suspected that most Americans, especially those under thirty years of age, had no clue what the Constitution and Declaration of Independence were, let alone that they were signed in Philadelphia.

To most Americans, Philadelphia, along with Detroit, was one of the two ugliest cities in the entire country. Philadelphia was a rowdy place where football fans threw car batteries from the top of Eagles Stadium at opposing fans walking down below.

The city’s dirty, nasty reputation meant that there would be less sorrow and outcry over the strike against Philadelphia than the strikes to the other cities. Frankly, this bothered him.

So why was he not chosen to strike Washington? Or perhaps even San Francisco? These questions churned like a storm in his soul.

The coming blow to Washington, if it came to that, would be the sharp dart in the bull’s-eye of America’s heart.

He wanted to strike Washington. That was his understanding of his mission when he had come to America eight years ago. That is precisely why he had volunteered to sacrifice his life.

But then, they had changed his mission. In fact, his new target had been revealed to him only in the last month.

This he had struggled with. Thus, he had asked Allah to help him with his attitude. In response, Allah had reminded him of this truth: even though he had not been selected for San Francisco or Washington, still he, out of millions of martyrs who would have volunteered for this mission, had been called and chosen as one of only three.

Also, there was a chance that none of the other strikes would take place, at least not yet, assuming that the United Nations responded as General Perkasa had demanded. Since Philadelphia was first on the target list, America could acquiesce after his martyrdom, and his martyrdom alone.

“The Americans are soft and cannot stand carnage,” they had said. “After you enter martyrdom and are reunited with Allah, the Americans will back down. They will surely press the UN into passing our demands concerning Israel. Most of the UN already agrees with us anyway. So you, Mohammed, may be the only one who actually has the privilege of martyrdom.”

He saw their point, he supposed. His martyrdom alone might be sufficient to end the Jewish occupation of the homeland of Palestinian Muslims.

That thought gave him goose bumps.

He clicked his signal light approaching the next off-ramp. The sun
was rising now over smoggy Philadelphia, but he needed to rest his body for the mission at hand.

The U-Haul van rolled to a stop at the top of the ramp. A small blue-and-white road sign pointed to an Econo Lodge a half-mile to the right.

Mohammed clicked the turn signal again, then pressed the accelerator. A moment later, he rolled into the asphalt parking lot and parked in front of the motel office.

He entered the office. A man, who looked Indian or Bangladeshi, stood behind the check-in desk.

“I need a room,” Mohammed said.

“I’m sorry,” the man said, “check-in is at one o’clock.”

Mohammed extracted a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and slid it across the desk. “Perhaps you could get a room ready early?”

The man pocketed the money. “Perhaps I can persuade a member of our custodial staff to prepare a room a bit early, Mr….”

“Jones.”

“Yes, of course. And could I please see some form of identification, Mr. Jones?”

Mohammed pulled another hundred from his wallet. “I seem to have left my license in my truck. The name is Ed Jones.”

“Of course, Mr. Jones.” The Indian was smiling now. “I’ve discovered that a room has just opened up. If you’ll give me about five minutes, I’ll make you a key to room 115. It’s just around the corner.”

United States Embassy
Jakarta, Indonesia

7:00 p.m.

Z
ack had grown up with many dear African American friends in the small coastal town of Plymouth, North Carolina. Now, for the first time in his life, he physically resembled many of those friends, he thought, as he glanced in the mirror after Master Chief Stoudemier had finished his handiwork with the shoe polish. At least his face resembled the faces of his friends.

His garb did not.

After the swift makeover, he was issued a black turtleneck sweater,
black pants and boots, a black ski cap, an Uzi submachine gun, a small radio transmitter-receiver, and night vision goggles. In the last fifteen minutes, he had been miraculously transformed into a black man in black.

Amazing.

Still, there had been no word from Captain Noble on whether he could go on the mission. That was understandable. Captain Noble had spent the last hour war planning with Lieutenant Commander Garcia and the other SEAL squad leaders.

Now, word had come that the SEALs were meeting in the large dining area of the embassy in five minutes. They were already assembling in the hallway and were making their way into the dining hall.

Could this be it? Had Washington approved the mission? Would he be allowed to accompany the SEAL team into the palace? A blurry flash of thoughts raced through his mind. Would he find Diane? Alive?

What if they found her dead? The Indonesian president had already been assassinated. Diane and the ambassador were meeting with the president when the bomb detonated. Weren’t they?

If they found her body, would he put the cold barrel of the Uzi in his mouth and simply pull the trigger?
Get ahold of yourself, Zack.

“Hustle up, men,” Lieutenant Commander Garcia was saying in the hallway. “Muster in the dining hall. Captain Noble has some instructions.”

Some instructions?
Washington must’ve approved the mission.

“Zack.” A firm voice came from behind him, then a strong hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Captain Noble, decked totally in black like the rest of the SEALs, carrying an Uzi in his left hand. “Stick close to me. We’re going, and against my better judgment, I’m approving your request to go in with us. You understand the risk and the danger?”

“Yes, sir.” His heart flew into hyper speed.

“All right, muster up and listen to my instructions.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Zack quickly stepped into the dining hall, now mostly full of other black-clad, black-faced Navy SEALs, sitting at various tables scattered around the room. At the front of the room, a podium and microphone had been placed, and behind it, a large screen. Zack quickly found a table near the front of the room and sat.

Lieutenant Commander Garcia stepped into the dining hall. “Attention on deck!”

The entire SEAL team shot to its feet and froze at attention, as Captain Noble strode quickly across the room.

“At ease and be seated.” The captain moved quickly behind the podium. “Gentlemen.” Noble’s commanding voice reverberated across the room. “We’ve just gotten word. Washington has approved our mission. We move out in”—he looked at his watch—“one hour from now. Listen and listen carefully. In fifteen minutes, we’re heading back up to the heliport to load onto the choppers.

“We will have thirty minutes in the palace. Now you’ve all been studying the maps that we’ve supplied, and you know that there are two principal target areas where we look first for our people. First, there’s the president’s office, which is here.” He pointed to the map projected on an overhead projector.

“We believe that the president was assassinated here, and that the ambassador and the commander were here. The XO will take his team here.”

“Lieutenant?” Noble nodded and one of the SEAL team lieutenants fired up a PowerPoint. On the wall, an image appeared. The man on the wall looked like a South American tinhorn dictator. Zack had studied the US 1989 military operation against Panama, and this man looked like a twin brother of the former Panamanian dictator, Manuel Noriega.

“This, gentlemen, is General Suparman Perkasa. He is the chief of staff of the Indonesian military. Our intelligence believes that he may be the man behind the assassination of President Santos.

“This afternoon, Indonesia exploded a nuclear bomb on Gag Island in the Halmahera Sea.” Mumbling arose from the SEALs. “Listen up. From the information that we have, it appears that one of our cruisers, USS
Port Royal,
was crippled in that blast. We believe that much of the crew may have been lost.”

Silence. The gravity of the situation was now settling on Zack. Diane could be in the hands of a nuclear madman.