The Malacca Conspiracy (42 page)

2:35 p.m.

H
ave mercy on us!” These were the only words Lieutenant Commander Billy Belk could muster as he looked out the cockpit of the F/A-18 Super Hornet and saw it for the first time.

The mushroom was rising, towering, now perhaps five miles into the sky, over the City of Brotherly Love. Belk was a veteran combat pilot with nerves of steel. The veteran naval aviator had even seen combat over Kosovo, outdueling a Russian MIG-27 before shooting it down and then flying back to the USS
Nimitz
on patrol in the Adriatic.

The steel nerve of an ace fighter pilot was unflappable. At least that was the theory. And that was how Commander Belk had seen himself.

Until now.

Hiroshima had come to America.

He had once dated a girl from Philly. Was she down there? Somewhere? Had she been vaporized?

An unnatural silence pervaded the cockpit as the F/A-18 made a broad, swooping circle. Lieutenant Commander Billy Belk, USN, had turned to a teary mush in his own cockpit. Thank God no one was looking, he thought, except God himself, who surely understood.

“Hornet 1, Pax River Control.”

Pull yourself together, Commander.
“Hornet 1. Go ahead, Pax River.”

“Hornet, turn to course two-three-two degrees and contact Reagan Control. We need you over the capital for a few minutes until we can get your relief in the air. Then be prepared to return to base, refuel, and get back in the air. It’s going to be a long evening, Commander.”

“Pax River Control. Hornet 1. Roger that. Turning to course two-three-two degrees,” Riddle said, beginning a sweep to the south southwest. “I’m headed back to Washington, then back to base at your order for refueling.”

“Keep your eyes peeled, Hornet 1.”

“Hornet 1, roger that.”

Bogor, Indonesia

2:45 a.m.

T
he last Super Hornet from the Reagan had swooshed across the Indonesian skies about five minutes ago, leaving the quiet, confident assurance that the mighty, steel-clenched fist of the US Navy was steaming closer by the moment.

In this peaceful interlude, Diane was lying in the rocks along the ridge, in between Captain Noble and Zack. The SEALs had for the most part gone silent, and were now in a waiting mode.

The stirring beauty of the star-draped tropical sky, along with the occasional gentle touch of Zack’s hand on her back, made her forget that she was in the midst of a virtual war zone. Her fearlessness at the moment amazed her. Shot down in a foreign land, soon to be hunted by troops that could possibly kill them all.

Yet she had faced death before, when she had been kidnapped and held hostage in Mongolia two years before.

Tonight, her fear had vanished, at least temporarily, after the chopper went down. The fear might return, she knew. But for now, the fact that she was with Zack, the most self-confident man she had ever known, along with a team of rugged, handsome, and brave SEAL warriors, all brought a placid calm in the eye of the vicious storm surrounding them.

The faint sound of chopper blades in the barely audible distance began to pollute the serene darkness.

“I hear our ride,” Captain Noble commented, as the chopper’s roar grew louder.

“Thank God,” one of the SEALs said.

“Get ready to move out, baby!” said another.

“Rock and roll!” Zack said in the dark. And by the time Diane planted a flirtatious pat on the middle of his back, as if to remind him that he was not really a Navy SEAL but a Navy JAG, the black silhouettes of the two choppers were upon them, hovering perhaps a hundred yards down the ridge over a relatively flat surface on the slope.

“Night goggles on. Move out, men,” Captain Noble ordered. In an instant, the entire wave of SEALs was on its feet and instinctively rushing down the slope toward the roaring Seahawks.

“Come on, Diane.” Zack took her by the elbow. Peering through the eerie greenish glow thrown off by her night goggles, she rose to her feet, crouched, and ran in single file between Zack and Captain Noble toward the warm air blast of the helicopters.

Residence of General Perkasa
Indonesia

2:45 a.m.

T
he general was pacing back and forth behind his desk, arms crossed, with a look of satisfaction on his face. “How much longer does Mack Williams have?” he asked.

“Just a few more minutes,” Colonel Croon said. “We have already initiated our operation in San Francisco, just in case Williams does not cooperate.”

“What precisely does it mean that we have initiated our operation?”

“The driver has left his hotel and is driving toward the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Ahh,” Perkasa said smugly. “Captain Taplus, pour me another drink.”

“Yes, General,” Hassan said, trying to project a cheery spirit. Deep down, however, Hassan fumed. Too much repartee was taking place between the general and the colonel in the midst of a crucial operation, while
he,
the glorious architect and executor of Gag Island, one of
the most significant events in Indonesian history, was relegated to staff bartender.

Hassan mixed the whiskey and handed it to the general. The general took it without so much as a
thank you,
and took a swig.

One of the secure telephones rang.
Air Force Chief of Staff
blinked on the caller ID.
A chance to become involved again.
Hassan grabbed it quickly. “General Perkasa’s office. Captain Taplus.”

“This is the chief of staff. I need to speak with the general.”

“He is detained at the moment. I will be happy to pass on any message to him.”

“Tell the general that we have US Navy jets swarming all over Jakarta!”

“Stand by, please.” Good. He was back in the game. “Excuse me, General. It is the air force chief of staff. He says American navy jets are over our skies here in Jakarta.”

Perkasa slammed his glass down. “Well, tell the general that I am already aware of the US Navy jets in our airspace. His orders are to get his planes in the air and shoot them down.”

“Yes, General,” Hassan said. “General, your orders from General Perkasa are to get our jets airborne and shoot down the Americans. Is that clear?”

“Tell General Perkasa that my commanders are reluctant to engage the Americans because we have no way of overriding their jamming.”

“Are you sure you want me to tell him that?”

“Tell him!”

“Excuse me, General,” Taplus said. “The chief of staff wishes to inform you that our pilots are reluctant to challenge the American navy.”

“What?” Perkasa screamed. “Give me the phone, Hassan.” He ripped the receiver from Taplus’ hand. “This is General Perkasa! On my orders, any pilot who refuses to fly will be shot! Is that clear?…I thought so!” Perkasa slammed the phone down. “That should take care of that.” He looked at Hassan.

“Taplus.”

“How can I help, General? Would you like for me to personally drive over to Jakarta Air Base to oversee the nation’s air defense?”

“Perhaps later. For now, I want you to arrange for another broadcast.”
The general picked up his whiskey and downed the rest of it. “The Americans have upped the stakes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jakarta Air Base

2:48 a.m.

G
eneral Megawati Wahid, the chief of staff of the Indonesian Air Force, slammed the phone down. Perhaps this coup had not been such a great idea. War with America was imminent now, it appeared, and the general was in no mood to sacrifice every plane in his air force to the superior US Navy air wing from the carrier Reagan.

But Perkasa had issued his order. And Perkasa already had been powerful enough to take out the president and the vice president, and to launch a nuclear attack against America.

Wahid wrung his hands. He had no choice. At least not for now.

He picked up the microphone to speak to the two F–16 jets sitting on the runway in takeoff position.

“Falcon Leader. Jakarta Tower.”

“Falcon Leader.”

“This is General Wahid. Your orders are to take off and engage the American jets.”

“But, General…”

“This is an order from Perkasa himself. He has said that any pilot not flying will be shot.”

“Yes, General.”

“Falcon Leader and Falcon 2, you are clear for takeoff on Runways 1 and 3. Stay low and be safe.”

“Jakarta Tower. Falcon Leader. Roger that.”

“Jakarta Tower. Falcon 2. Roger that.”

Wahid put down the microphone and picked up a pair of binoculars. He aimed over to the far right of the twin runways, where two of his F–16s that he had commanded into the skies were still sitting. Through the binoculars, he could make out their silhouettes and could clearly see their running lights. One started rolling, and then the other.

They whizzed down the runway from right to left, a parallel tandem,
and as they lifted into the sky, fire from the back of their twin rocket engines was clearly visible in the binoculars.

They had been airborne less than twenty seconds when chaos boomed over the air traffic control frequency. “Jakarta Control, Falcon Leader! I’ve got a bogie up my rear!”

“Jakarta Control, Falcon 2! I’ve got one too!”

General Wahid rushed to the microphone and grabbed it back from the air traffic controller and barked instructions. “Falcon Leader! Falcon 2! Split! Split!”

“Jakarta Tower! Falcon Leader! Missile in the air! On my tail! Closing fast!”

“Falcon 2! I’ve got one too!”

“Falcon Leader! Falcon 2!” Wahid yelled. “Fire chaff! Evasive maneuvers!”

A bright fireball lit the skies.

“He’s hit!” came over the radio from one of the planes.

A second fireball nearly turned night to day.

“Falcon Leader, Falcon 2! Come in. Come in! Falcon Leader. I say again. Falcon Leader, talk to me. That’s an order!”

Nothing.

Wahid was breathing heavily. He set the microphone down, still panting as the fireballs broke into long strings of light reaching downward, now looking like a pair of bright octopuses on the horizon.

“General.” He heard the voice of his aide but did not respond. “General,” the voice spoke again.

“What is it, Colonel?”

“Sir, we have two more F–16s in takeoff position. What are your orders, sir?”

Nothing. There was nothing he could say.

“Sir, shall the tower clear them for takeoff?”

His heart still pounding, Wahid exhaled again. “Tell them to stand down. I will not sacrifice our young men and our air force in an impossible situation.”

“But what shall we say if General Perkasa calls again?”

Wahid looked at his aide. “Tell him if he wants to shoot anybody, he can shoot me.”

The White House

3:59 p.m.

W
e’re running out of time, gentlemen,” Mack Williams said, checking his watch again, as he paced across the Oval Office. “Secretary Lewis?” He looked at the secretary for homeland security, who had just arrived back in Washington from a meeting in Portland. “We found those U-Hauls yet?”

“Still working on it, Mr. President.”

“We’ve got about twenty minutes max before San Francisco blows.” He checked his watch again. “Find those U-Hauls.”

“Look, Mr. President!” Cyndi Hewitt was pointing to the muted video screen in the corner of the Oval Office. “The idiot dictator is on the air again.”

“Sound.” Mack ordered, and a Secret Service agent complied.

“We are extremely disappointed at this time with the actions of the American administration.” The dictator’s voice contained a forceful anger. “Not only has there not yet been a response to our demands concerning the diplomatic derecognition of the criminal state of Israel, as the freedom-loving masses of the world have demanded, but also tonight, US Navy warplanes are at this very hour violating the sovereign, territorial airspace of the Islamic Republic of Indonesia.” The dictator slammed his fist onto his desk. “This must stop!” He held his arm up, as if glancing at his watch. “Your time is almost up, Mr. President. My patience is running out!”

Chapter 20

San Francisco

1:00 p.m.

A
ll units, be on the lookout for a U-Haul truck, Florida license MNL 742, on the move in the San Francisco metropolitan area. If this unit is spotted, do not engage. Maintain surveillance. Report coordinates immediately. This vehicle is believed to be carrying weapons of mass destruction, and interception efforts must be coordinated with the US military.”

Sergeant John King, California Highway Patrol, was just finishing his Big Mac, and was swallowing a gulp of Diet Coke when the U-Haul passed him on his left.

Florida tag!

“Dispatch. One Adam Fourteen. Please repeat the tag number on that U-Haul.”

“Adam Fourteen, roger that. That’s Florida MNL, as in Mike November Lima, 742.”

King blinked his eyes and rechecked the tag number. His heart rate shot into a rapid pound. “Dispatch, please be advised that I have a visual contact on subject vehicle. Headed north at thirty-five miles per hour.”

Creech Air Force Base
Indian Springs, Nevada

1:05 p.m.

F
rom his duty station at the 17th Reconnaissance Squadron at Creech AFB about thirty miles northwest of Las Vegas, LCOL Blake Winters, a fifteen-year F-15 pilot who had served combat tours in Iraq but was hoping to get more stateside time just before his retirement so that he could watch his son play high school football, was sipping bottled water, his eyes glued on a live, aerial view of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge.

Winters was one of the “older” fighter pilots the Air Force had put in its new drone program, perfect for those who had put in many years in the cockpit and who were not quite ready to hang up the wings just yet. The MQ-1 Predator was the most famous drone in the Air Force, after gaining popularity in the Iraqi theatre of operations in the early 2000s. The Predator was armed with two laser-guided AGM 114 “Hellfire” surface-to-ground missiles, and when it was flown over the Iraqi war zone, the Predator allowed pilots back in the United States to operate the aircraft by remote control from the ground thousands of miles away. It also allowed them to conduct aerial surveillance, and to strike and destroy enemy targets on the ground.