The Malacca Conspiracy (45 page)

“Reagan.
Viper. Missiles away.”

“Viper.
Reagan.
Copy that. Now we wait.”

Residence of General Perkasa
Jakarta, Indonesia

3:44 a.m.

A
re you sure this will work, Hassan?” The general, who had suddenly become Hassan’s best buddy, was leaning over Hassan’s shoulder peering at the computer screen. This was a good thing. After the annihilation of Washington, Hassan would press the general for promotion from colonel to one star. Things were working perfectly, according to the plan of Allah.

“Yes, of course this will work, General.” He was logging into the e-mail account especially set up for the contingency. “All I have to do is type one word”—he typed the word
airborne
on the e-mail as he was saying it—“and hit the
send
button, which will go to both the driver and the pilot. Immediately, the contingency plan will go into effect.”

“Do it quickly, Hassan,” Perkasa said.

“Here we go.” Hassan clicked
SEND,
instantly sending the cryptic message into the galaxies of cyberspace. “Done,” Hassan said, exhaling. “Now, we wait.”

BOOM!
Two great thunderbolts shook the building. Dust and plaster immediately rained in torrents from the ceiling, and then the ceiling began to fall. Hassan tried scrambling for the doorway, but a steel beam dropped from above and crushed his head. It would be his last memory of life on earth.

And then, fire.

US Navy F/A-18 (“Viper 1”)
Over Jakarta, Indonesia

3:46 a.m.

R
eagan. Viper 1. Looks like we’ve got a double hit. Both missiles detonated on target.”

“Viper 1.
Reagan
control. Good shooting. Climb back to eighteen thousand feet. Resume patrol and await new orders.”

“Reagan
control. Viper 1. Roger that.”

Chapter 21

Martinsburg Pike, near I-81
Winchester, Virginia

5:00 p.m.

S
alaam sipped the hot coffee and pressed his foot on the accelerator. He pulled out of the McDonald’s parking lot and swung right onto the Martinsburg Pike, only a hundred yards or so from Interstate 81. Long dark shadows stretched across the road, as the sun set early in northern Virginia in the wintertime. He glanced at the digital dash clock.

As he drove under the Interstate 81 overpass, he put down the coffee and instinctively flipped on his headlights.

A second later, the truck passed on the other side of the interstate, just northeast of town, headed toward Washington.

His cell phone beeped. Someone had sent him a text message. He flipped open the phone.
New e-mail waiting!

He hit the send button.
Connecting to e-mail
…a few seconds passed.
Connected to e-mail!

He opened the newest message.
AIRBORNE!

He hit the brakes and pulled off the side of the road. He looked at the message again.
AIRBORNE!

His heart was beating out of his chest. “Praise be to Allah!” He needed to get to the airport. Now.

Perhaps the timing of all this was perfect. The airport terminal had just closed at five. There was no tower at Winchester Regional and no
one to monitor nighttime takeoffs and landings. With a bit of luck…or divine providence…if the driver responded and received the text message…

He quickly did a U-turn and headed back toward I-81, taking the ramp to the southbound lanes toward Roanoke. Four minutes later, he exited onto US-17 south, and then quickly turned another right onto the Front Royal Pike. The dark of dusk was blanketing the Virginia countryside now, and the lights of only a few cars were passing in the opposite direction down the pike.

Two minutes later, he turned left onto Airport Road. A minute after that, he pulled into the asphalt parking lot in front of the small terminal building. No cars were in the lot. Where was the U-Haul?

He got out. The air at dusk was cold, chilling his lungs as he inhaled. He checked his watch. Five-ten. Surely the driver had gotten the message. Of course he had.

He leaned against his truck and pulled a pack of Camel cigarettes from his front pockets. The Bic lighter came from the pockets of his blue jeans. A single flick of the igniter, and a blue and white flame leapt from the top of it. He cupped the flame with his hand and sucked through the filter of the cigarette, lighting the other end of it.

Headlights.

Thrusting the cigarettes and lighter into his pockets, he drew smoke into his lungs and watched the headlights approaching down the airport road. The vehicle drove into the parking lot, shining its lights toward Salaam.

As it came closer, he made out the image of a box panel truck. Under the red running lights, he made out the black lettering against the orange and white panel.

U-HAUL.

US Naval Air Station
Patuxent River, Maryland

5:15 p.m.

C
old sweat beading on his forehead wasn’t supposed to happen to a navy fighter pilot.

At Top Gun school in Fallon, Nevada, navy pilots were trained to be steel-nerved in the face of death. Sweating was not an option.

But this, somehow, was different. Dueling with the finest Russian, Korean, and Chinese pilots was one thing. Protecting the nation’s capital against nuclear obliteration was quite another.

Lieutenant Commander Billy Belk, sitting in the cockpit of his F/A-18 Super Hornet at the end of Runway 14, was well aware of the consequences of this mission. The beading sweat was driven by the haunting images he had witnessed over Philadelphia just hours earlier. The burning image of the rising mushroom cloud over an American city was enough to make his hands shake, to cause his knees to knock, to make him wonder if he was of the mettle to carry out the mission that his country was now asking of him.

Two Navy F/A 18s from Pax River Naval Air Station, along with two Air Force F-15s from Langley AFB, would provide the air vanguard over Washington tonight. Because of his combat experience, he was considered one of the navy’s best aces. And so he had been selected as one of the four jet pilots to fly coverage for the evening, to make sure that in the morning, Washington would still be Washington.

The quartet of fighters, two navy and two air force, could provide more than sufficient power to shoot down anything the enemy could throw at the capital city. The problem, however, wasn’t the ability to shoot down an invader. The problem was finding the target in time to shoot it down. Small craft flying inbound at treetop more often than not cannot be picked up by ground radar. The only defensive tactic was to find the target from above with “look down, shoot down” radar, the type of which was installed on the F/A-18. This was somewhat akin to looking for a needle in a haystack.

Frankly, that meant getting lucky. The attacker had to fly in an area almost directly over the invading aircraft, to shoot down the radar beam in an expanding electronic cone, and hope that the plane passed under it. It was sort of like flashing a high-powered flashlight beam into a pitch-dark barn, and hoping that a rat happened to be somewhere inside the round, bright circle of the beam. Then you had to get off a shot before the rat got away. This was tricky business.

No, on second thought, it would not be a matter of luck. Finding a low-flying aircraft bound and determined to fly a suicide mission into the capital would be a matter of divine intervention.

“Hornet 1. Patuxent Control. Stand by to be cleared for takeoff.”

“Pax River. Hornet 1. Roger that.”

The jet taxied into takeoff position at the end of the runway, sixty-five miles to the southeast of Washington.

“Lord, if they’re out there, help us find them. Give us victory in battle. Protect our capital.”

“Hornet. Pax Control. Please be advised. You are clear for takeoff. Good luck and Godspeed.”

“Pax Control. Hornet 1. Roger that. Clear for takeoff. See you soon.”

Belk pushed down on the power stick, all the way to the floor. The Hornet rolled forward, then rocketed down the runway and lifted into the star-filled twilight.

Airport Road
Winchester, Virginia

5:20 p.m.

A
ll units are reminded to be on the lookout for a U-Haul truck, believed to be in the vicinity of the northern Virginia, southern Maryland, DC metropolitan area. Truck is believed to have a Florida tag, license number MQR 1428.

“Any unit spotting this vehicle must notify dispatch immediately on all overriding emergency frequencies. The vehicle is believed to be carrying explosives, possibly nuclear explosives to be used in an attack in the Washington area.

“Repeat…”

“Holy smokes,” the Frederick County sheriff’s deputy said as the warning message repeated itself. On his routine patrol route, the deputy turned off Airport Road into the parking lot of the now-closed Winchester Regional Airport, where he would call in his position, turn around, and head back, hopefully with enough time to stop at Denny’s for some supper.

He swung around the parking lot in a big loop. His headlights caught the vehicle parked beside the red truck.

U-Haul.

He cut the lights of the patrol car and came to a stop, immediately unholstering his sidearm.

“Dispatch, Baker 14. Be advised I’ve found a U-Haul parked here at the airport parking lot at Winchester Regional. Probably nothing to it, but I’m going to check it out. What was that license tag again?”

“Baker 14, that’s Florida tag MQR 1428.”

“Dispatch. Baker 14. Roger that. Request backup if you haven’t heard from me in five minutes.”

“Baker 14, I’m going to alert a backup now just in case.”

The deputy wrote down the tag number, then got his pump shotgun out of the backseat.

He stepped out into the dark, shotgun pointed out, and walked toward the U-Haul, which was about twenty feet away.

No signs of life or activity so far.

Approaching the back of the truck, he crouched down and hit the tag with the beam from his flashlight.

Florida tag. MQR 1428. A surge of energy took control of his body. “Dispatch. Baker 14. I have a match on the U-Haul. Repeat. I have a match. Request backup immediately.”

“Copy that. Backup on the way.”

The distant sound of an airplane cranking off in the distance. Then the roar of an engine. He looked over and saw the running lights of an aircraft lifting into the sky.

He shot his flashlight into the U-Haul. Nothing. No one.

He kicked in the back door. Still nothing. No one was in the other truck.

“Dispatch. Dispatch. We’ve got a propeller aircraft, unknown make and model, taking off right now from Winchester Regional. Subject U-Haul is abandoned in the parking lot!”

“Baker 14. Roger that. Wait for backup and secure the U-Haul. We are notifying the military now.”

Beechcraft Bonanza Aircraft
Above Virginia

5:23 p.m.

A
s his newfound friend, Anwar, sat in the passenger’s seat, praying to Allah, Salaam held onto the plane’s yoke. He set their course at one-hundred-one degrees, just south of a due easterly direction, and
quickly glanced at navigational charts. He started plotting a low-flying course directly to Washington that would keep them from flying over densely populated areas until the last minute.

Following the general trajectory of the Middleburg Pike, also known as US Highway 50, they would pass over the rural horse country of Loudoun County, flying near the small towns of Paris, Upperville, Middleburg, and Aldie, before heading into the densely populated fringes of Fairfax County near Chantilly.

He looked up. A red blinking radio tower was quickly approaching! He jerked the yoke to the left. The Bonanza responded, barely missing the tower by no more than fifty feet. He looked over. Anwar was still praying, unfazed by the near-miss.

Salaam looked back down. He had to plot this course quickly. Once they hit Fairfax County, he would turn the plane due east, passing near the suburban bedroom communities of Vienna, Falls Church, and finally Arlington. There he would fly low across the Potomac River near the Pentagon, and then turn and fly up the National Mall, where he would steer around the Washington Monument, and detonate the nuclear bomb just over the dome of the US Capitol.

He double-checked the flight plan. That should do it. The flight should last a little over fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to eternal glory!

Now if he could just stay below ground radar and steer around radio towers and water towers, the mission was in Allah’s hands.

US Navy F/A-18 (“Hornet 1”)
Over St. Charles, Maryland

5:25 p.m.

H
ornet 1, Andrews Control.” The call was from air traffic control at Andrews Air Force Base, just outside of Washington.

“Andrews. Hornet,” LCDR Billy Belk responded.

“Hornet, be advised we have a report of a small craft taking off out of Winchester, Virginia, suspected to be target. Go to two-five-hundred feet and divert toward Arlington. Execute loop pattern over Fairfax County until further orders. Your orders are to shoot down anything flying in the area that is not US military.”

“Andrews. Roger that. Go to two-five-hundred, divert to Arlington. Shoot down anything flying.” Belk pushed down on the stick; the Hornet dove at an angle. The altimeter responded.

Five thousand, forty-five hundred, four thousand, thirty-five hundred, three thousand…