The Malacca Conspiracy (7 page)

“Follow me,” Diane told her Singaporean naval escort. They stepped through the whipping breeze onto the catwalk, quickly marched over the water, and crossed the threshold onto the ship’s quarterdeck.

Adhering to naval tradition, Diane turned sharply to her left and saluted the national colors flying off the stern, then saluted the officer of the deck.

“Lieutenant Commander Colcernian. US naval attaché to the Republic of Indonesia. Request permission to come aboard, sir.”

“Permission granted, ma’am.” The OOD, a US Navy lieutenant, sharply returned the salute. “The skipper’s expecting you. I’ll escort you to the bridge.”

“Very well.”

They walked along the starboard gunwale, then left, up another ladder, to the entrance of the bridge. “Skipper, Commander Colcernian has arrived.”

“Commander.” The handsome sea captain nodded. “I’m Captain Shugert. Welcome aboard. Congratulations on your new job.” He reached out to shake her hand. “I hear your buddy, Commander Brewer, has a similar post here in Singapore.”

“Thank you, sir. For Zack, the job’s been in the works for a while. For me, it was late-breaking. Three days ago, I was headed to the Naval Academy to teach military law. Now, well, you know our mantra. We go wherever and whenever the navy calls.”

“You’ve got that right, Commander,” Captain Shugert said. “Well, I know you’re not here to tour another
Hazard-class
frigate. So let’s get down to business. I understand we’ve got some bodies you wanted to see before they’re off-loaded.”

Diane nodded. “Yes, sir. I understand two are Indonesian.”

“Right.” The skipper lifted a mug of black coffee just under his nose and took a whiff. “And the other two, well, put it this way. I think you’ll be in for a big surprise.” Shugert raised his black, bushy eyebrows and took a swig.

“You’ve aroused my curiosity. Could we see?”

Shugert set the mug down. “You sure? They’re shot up bad. If you want, we can bring out the evidence bag. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

It was still a man’s navy.
The rugged, handsome sea captain, offering to protect a lady, even a lady officer, from a gruesome sight.

“Thanks, Skipper. I’ve seen worse. Remember? I was once a hostage. I’ve seen it all.”

Shugert nodded. “Fine, Commander. Suit yourself.”

A few minutes later, they entered the ship’s sick bay. Diane’s stomach twisted. All four were laid out on stretchers. Their faces were only somewhat recognizable.

“Odd,” the skipper said. “They all had IDs on them. Like they wanted us to know who they are.”

“Terrorists love taking credit for murder,” Diane said, “even in death.”

“The two on the left are Indonesian,” Shugert said.

“I can see that,” Diane said. “They look southeast Asian.”

“But the two on the right. Guess their nationality?”

“Not sure,” Diane said. “A bit brown-skinned, but definitely not African. Maybe Indian or Middle Eastern?”

“Check this.” Shugert handed Diane two plastic cards, about the size of a standard driver’s license.

United States Armed Forces
Service Member Identification Card
Moore, Rahim
SR, USN
241-97-5910

United States Armed Forces
Service Member Identification Card
Abdul, Shamu
AN3, USN
241-97-5910

“They’re ours!” Diane said.

“Apparently so.” Shugert winced. “Here’s what we know from NCIS. They’re both stationed on board USS
Abraham Lincoln.
Both have thirty days’ leave. Both just started their leave.”

“Where’s the
Lincoln
now?”

“The Indian Ocean,” he said. “Near Diego Garcia.”

Diane checked her watch. “Skipper, a marine courier from our embassy here in Singapore will come and collect the evidence. I just spoke with Ambassador Griffith, and I’m recommending that we hold all four bodies and the evidence at the US embassy here until Washington gets this sorted out. Since Lieutenant Commander Brewer is the new naval attaché to Singapore, he’ll be your point of contact while you’re in port.” She extended her hand. “Sir, I appreciate the hospitality, but it looks like I need to catch a flight to the Indian Ocean.”

She released the captain’s firm grip, then as they stepped out onto the ship’s fantail, popped a sharp salute. “Permission to go ashore, sir.”

“Permission granted.” He dropped the salute. “Take care of yourself, Diane. And be safe.”

The
Altair Voyager
Near the Strait of Malacca

1:50 p.m.

H
ow strangely quiet it was—blue-green, a white hue at the horizon, stretching forever eastward.

A gull hovered in the sky, a visible reminder that the endless water would soon give way to the jagged contours of the Indonesian coastline and the mammoth island of Sumatra. A school of dolphins leaped in graceful unison about a hundred yards off the starboard. There was little breeze.

The weather was as it was centuries ago, when sailing ships of old got stuck in the water, in the midst of a vast ocean, paralyzed by windless doldrums, their crews fighting scurvy, needing fresh water, with nowhere to go. If his were a sailing ship, he would be dead in the water. But his was an oil tanker.

At this moment Captain Fred Eichenbrenner wished that the ship he was piloting was a sailing ship—that they could stop, at least for a moment, here in the Andaman Sea, in the eastern sector of the Indian Ocean, and wait.

With only sails and no wind, he’d have a legitimate excuse for stopping. His employers could not complain.

But it wasn’t to be.

The news had spread all over the ship-to-ship radio networks. Two tankers burning off Singapore. Another attack attempted in the straits. As captain of a Chevron oil tanker, he was a prime target.

The US Navy had promised him an escort through the Malaccan Straits, courtesy of the guided missile frigate USS
Ingraham.

Here though, in the Andaman Sea just outside the straits, he was vulnerable to strike by small craft. It would be a reach, but still, they could strike from Sumatra, from the Andaman and Nicobar Islands to his west, or more likely, from the tip of Muslim Sumatra to his south, or from anywhere on the Malay Peninsula to his east.

He would be safe on the open seas, they said.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe they weren’t.

Eichenbrenner brought his binoculars down. Why was he in this business? This was no place for a family man. The sea was a jealous mistress.

He’d lost his wife in a divorce five years ago. Her name was Sadie. He’d loved her with all his being.

It happened while he was out on a four-month cruise traversing the Pacific. Sadie found a younger man, an
accountant,
of all people, while working out at the gym. But the marriage was not a total failure.

Dana and Laura. They had come by surprise. Eight years ago. The twins were named for each of their grandmothers. Born carrot tops, each bore haunting blue eyes and rosy smiles.

When he brought them porcelain dolls from Shanghai, stuffed kangaroos from Australia, and handmade beaded jewelry from India, their eyes sparkled like the stars of the Milky Way on a clear, moonless night.

He would’ve given up the sea for their sake. He had struggled. The decision was hard.

The sea was who he was.

The sea made him unique as a father.

The sea was part of what they loved about him.

And despite his ex’s obsession with Mr. Bleach-Blond, Part-It-Down-the-Middle Man, the silver lining was this: her self-absorption with Charles Atlas meant more time for Fred with his twins. Though Sadie was too proud to admit it, fact is, the kids imposed on her time with her new lover.

That meant quality time with the girls when he was ashore.

They were the lights of his life. Last summer, they’d spent a week at Disneyland, camped at Yosemite, and visited San Diego. They took in Sea World, the Wild Animal Park, and the San Diego Zoo.

Enough reminiscing.

“How far to the rendezvous point with USS
Ingraham?”
The captain shouted this question to his first mate, between two satisfying drags of nicotine-saturated tobacco smoke.

“About two hours, Skipper.”

Eichenbrenner cursed, then dropped the cigarette.

They were out there.

Somewhere.

He knew it in his gut.

This day reminded him of 9/11. That day, they were after airplanes. Today…they were after ships.

Eichenbrenner struck another cigarette. “Steady as she goes,” he said. The smoke in his lungs calmed his nerves, but not his stomach. If he were a praying man, this would be the time to bow his head. But the sea dog was not into prayer. Maybe his luck would hold out for a couple of more hours.

New York Mercantile Exchange

2:55 a.m.

R
obert Molster sat back and sipped more coffee. Had he done the right thing? He had called the chairman, but his boss hadn’t seemed overly concerned, just told Bob to call again if anything else developed.

Yes, the two limit moves were unusual, but it could’ve been anything. Probably coincidence. Things were calm now.

Robert took a pinch from the whole-grain muffin to help quell the late-night munchies.

He decided to check his email. He tapped the keyboard on the computer attached to the internet. The screen awakened. AOL headlines streamed across the screen.
Multiple Attacks Against Oil Tankers in Singapore! Luxury Hotel Burning! US Navy Foils One Attack!

He clicked on the links and started reading.

“Wait a minute,” he said.

He went back and checked his tapes to compare the time of the attacks against the graphs showing the start of the two limit moves.

The timing was odd. Coincidental? Maybe. Maybe not. It was as if someone knew about the attacks and bought oil futures just beforehand to profit from the run-up in prices. He went back to his computer and called up the AP version of the breaking news story.

The Associated Press is reporting attacks overnight on oil tankers in the Singapore Strait. Also, word out of Singapore is that a luxury hotel has been hit, and a planned attack on an oil tanker in the Malacca Strait region was evidently foiled by the US Navy. Stay tuned for further developments…

“What?” The cold sensation running down his spine drove him
immediately to the flat-screen TV, and he flipped on CNN. An aerial shot of an oil tanker billowing smoke flashed across the screen. It was like someone had dumped a bag of ice on him. Was he the only person in the world who was connecting the dots of what was going on here?

His buzzing monitor broke the silence. “Not again!” He cursed and rushed back to his computer, sending a splash of black coffee onto his starched white shirt.

Limit Alert…Limit Alert…Trading in January Light, Sweet Crude Calls, and Brent Crude Calls halted due to limit move of $10.00. Trading to resume at
3:15 A.M.,
EST,
8:15 A.M.,
GMT.

“A third limit move. Oil tankers attacked.” Something was definitely happening here. Robert picked up the phone, punching the direct line to his boss’s bedside.

“Mr. Chairman, Robert Molster here. Sorry to wake you again, sir, but we’ve got a major-league problem brewing.”

The
Altair Voyager
Near the Strait of Malacca

2:00 p.m.

C
aptain! Small craft approaching!” “What? Where?” Captain Eichenbrenner lifted his binoculars toward the horizon.

“Zero-nine-zero degrees. Off the starboard, sir,” the first officer said. “He’s approaching fast!”

“I see him.” Eichenbrenner cursed. The speedboat was racing inbound. “First Officer, empty the small arms locker! Get a rifle team down to the starboard gunwale. Be prepared to open fire.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Captain!” The ship’s navigator was pointing out to the right. “There’s another one.”

“Where?”

“Just right of the first one, sir! Inbound!”

Eichenbrenner adjusted the focus ring on the binoculars and found the second inbound speedboat. “I knew it!”

“There’s a third one, sir. Now a fourth!”

“Lord, help us!” Eichenbrenner uttered his first prayer in more than thirty years. “Radio officer, open emergency channel to USS
Ingraham.
Tell ’em we’re under attack. Multiple small craft approaching. Intentions hostile. Estimated time to impact, three to five minutes. We need air cover! ASAP!”

“Right away, Captain!”

“First Officer, I want every small arm on this ship firing at these suckers!”

“Yes, Captain!”

USS
Ingraham
Near the Strait of Malacca

2:02 p.m.

R
adioman First Class Michael Griffin had assumed his post only five minutes before the shrill static crackled across his headset.

“USS
Ingraham…
This is the tanker
Altair Voyager.
We are under attack! Estimate five speedboats approaching at high rates of speed. Repeat, tanker
Altair Voyager
under attack! Request air cover! USS
Ingraham,
acknowledge!”

Griffin reached to the control panel and switched the radio to the transmit button.
“Altair Voyager.
USS
Ingraham.
Acknowledge. Stand by!”

Griffin punched several buttons to triangulate the source of the radio signal.
Got it.
He switched to the ship’s internal intercom system. “Radar. Radio. I’ve got a distress call from the tanker
Altair Voyager.
Please confirm coordinates.”

Two seconds passed. “Radio. Radar.
Altair Voyager
coordinates currently at zero-niner-four degrees, thirty minutes, fifteen seconds east longitude; zero-six degrees, twenty-five minutes, ten seconds north longitude. Course bearing one-two-zero degrees.”