The Malacca Conspiracy (24 page)

“Okay. I’m ordering the
Reagan
and
Lincoln
task forces to the area. Get our forces deployed into these sea lanes. Now.”

“Aye, aye, Mr. President,” Admiral Jones said.

“Also,” the president continued, “we’re proceeding on the assumption that an attack will occur against a tanker in the region. Just to be safe, I want to cover some of these other choke points where we have tanker traffic. So I’m ordering beefed-up naval presence in the following regions.” The president held up his hands and began ticking off a list of the choke points. “The Strait of Hormuz, the Gulf of Aden, the Red
Sea, the entrance to the Suez Canal, the Gulf of Oman, the Persian Gulf, Gibraltar, and the Sea of Marmara leading to the Bosporus.”

Admiral Jones took notes and winced as the president continued.

The president looked over at Admiral Jones. “I gather that you have some sort of problem with this, Admiral?”

“No, sir, Mr. President. It’s just that rapid deployment of beefed-up naval forces to all these areas all at once will stretch the navy and make us thin in other areas, sir.”

The president exhaled. “I was afraid you might say that.” He drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. “Secretary Lopez.”

“Yes, sir,” the secretary of defense replied.

“I want you to order the secretary of the navy to prepare an order for my signature, which I may or may not sign, which would immediately call up all naval reserve forces.” He held up one finger. “Check that. Give me three options in the order. Option one, to call up one-third of all naval reserve forces. Option two, to call up two-thirds. Option three, to mobilize the entire naval reserve.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Also”—he was looking at SECDEF—“if these clowns, whoever they are, are going to start hitting oil tankers, we’re going to need more warships to deter threats around the globe.

“So I want to revive President Reagan’s plan for a six-hundred-ship navy, and I want you to instruct the navy to bring me several workable plans from which I can select and present to the Congress. Place an emphasis on the geostrategic objective of protecting vital sea lanes and littoral regions. I want these plans on my desk within thirty days.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Very well. Let’s reset to meet again at zero-eight-hundred tomorrow morning, unless you hear from me. Let’s pray that Lieutenant Molster’s assessment is wrong. You are dismissed.”

The president rose, prompting the members of the NSC to rise and stand in their places as he stepped out of the room.

“Good job, Lieutenant,” Admiral Jones said. “Now let’s get back over to the building and pray that you are wrong.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Brownsville, Texas

8:30 a.m.

T
he sun had been blazing for an hour over the Gulf of Mexico when Emanuel Gonzales turned his beat-up, red Toyota Celica left off Boca Chica Boulevard into the parking lot of the Old Port Isabel Warehouse.

He had slipped across the border into Brownsville with his wife, his kids, and his three cousins six years ago. He’d found work at the warehouse and had been promoted to manager of the place six months later. No one asked about a green card or anything else. Not even a Social Security number was required, since the owner said that he would be paid as an “independent contractor.”

Last week he’d gotten a pay raise of an extra five bucks an hour, which was nice considering that it cost a lot to support three kids, a wife, and three cousins. Their eleven-hundred-square-foot house ran seven hundred bucks a month. And although his cousins Julio and Juan-Carlos were working construction to help out with the bills, things were still tight. So Emanuel was grateful for the raise.

Of course, there was a price to be paid for a more luxurious lifestyle. In this case, that price was a longer workday. No longer could he show up just before the joint opened at nine o’clock. Now, with his new responsibilities as manager, he had to show up at work half an hour ahead of time.

Emanuel checked his watch. Eight-thirty. He was right on time.

Old Port Isabel Warehouse wasn’t scheduled to open for another half an hour, but already, three smaller-sized U-Haul cargo vans were sitting in front of the warehouse.

The Toyota puttered into the manager’s reserved parking space just outside the offices. Emanuel got out of the car, his huge key ring snapped to his jeans, and walked to the front door of the office. Jingling the keys, he inserted the silver one into the dead bolt lock.

The sound of a slamming car door echoed across the parking lot.

“Hola, amigo!”
Gonzales looked around. An Arab-looking guy had stepped out of the first van and was walking over.

These eager beavers can’t even let a guy get in the office to take a leak. And why do they think I only speak Spanish? “Hola,
my friend,” he replied. “We no open for thirty minutes.”

“I understand,
amigo.”
The man walked closer. “My friends and I are in a hurry. We’ll make it worth your time if we can pick up our cargo and get out of here.” The man handed a green, crisply folded bill to Emanuel.

Emanuel opened it, found a picture of a somber-looking, dead, white American named “Franklin” in an oval frame in the middle.

“Gracias, amigo.”
Emanuel stashed the hundred-dollar bill in his pocket. “I’m not supposed to do this.” He gave a wink and a nod. “The owner says if we open early for one customer, we must open early for them all,” he said.
But one hundred bucks would go a long way in the frozen food section of Wal-Mart, where you could buy a pizza or a TV dinner for a buck. Señora Gonzales would be very pleased tonight.
That thought brought a big, cheesy grin to his face. “But under the circumstances, we can accommodate. What are you here to pick up?”

The man smiled. “You should have three crates of bottled water.”

“Ah. The mysterious boxes of bottled water.”

“Mysterious? Why do you say that?” the man asked.

“No reason. Except that they were dropped off after hours last night, with enough cash to store them for a year, and with a note that someone would come to pick them up soon. I guess that’s you? No? I would say that’s soon, all right.”

“That’s us,
amigo.
We are in a hurry.”

“Okay.” The call of nature, though mounting now, could wait. “Bring your trucks around this way.” He pointed to the chain-locked gate that separated the parking lot from the main warehouse entrances. “Meet me around there. I’ll unlock the gate.”

Key rings still jingling, Emanuel jogged over toward the gate at the entrance to the loading area. At the gate, he fumbled through the key ring, found the right key…the silver one…and inserted it into the heavy-duty dead bolt lock.

The lock opened, the chains dropped off, and within a few seconds, he was waving the trucks through the gates. A minute after that, the three U-Hauls were backed up to the entrance of the warehouse. A few minutes later, the drivers were loading the three crates of bottled water into each of the three vans.

By ten ’til nine, they were gone. Two other trucks were now in the parking lot.
More eager beavers.
Emanuel locked the gates again.

He had a hundred bucks in his pocket and tonight would be his lucky night.

The trucks could wait.

The call of nature could not.

Merdeka Palace
Jakarta, Indonesia

1:20 p.m.

D
r. Guntur Budi checked his watch. Good. Still ten minutes before the president’s physical was officially scheduled to start, and probably twenty minutes before it actually started. The timing should be perfect.

He felt well, considering the unsanitary plastics stuffed in his ribcage, and thanks to the antibiotics administered intravenously until just moments ago, when Anton had dropped him off in front of the palace.

He had stepped out Anton’s car, walked through the bright afternoon sun, crossed the street, and entered the inner sanctum of the palace as usual.

Rank had its privileges, and in this case, rank included being recognized as the president’s personal physician. He was waved past the first two checkpoints, with a few friendly greetings of “Good afternoon, Doctor” from several of the all-too-familiar security guards who nonchalantly motioned him through.

Now for the first big test.

The high-intensity metal detector was located just outside the corridor leading to the president’s office. He had been waved past the other metal detectors before, but never past this one.
Everyone,
including the president’s family, was required to walk through this machine as a matter of routine.

“Good afternoon, Doctor,” the first security guard said. The guard, a muscular, stocky fellow with a mustache, wearing pistols on each hip, was a member of the president’s personal security detail, as were all of the guards on the other side of this final metal detector. “I see you are here for the president’s physical.”

“Yes.” Guntur tried to mask the nervousness flashing throughout his body. He stopped just short of the metal detector. “Here is my bag
with my examination equipment.” He handed his medical bag to the guard. “Just the routine stuff. Blood pressure machine. Stethoscope. EKG machine and equipment. That sort of thing.”

The guard rummaged through the assortment of medical equipment in the bag.

“You should know that I have just gotten out of surgery.”

“Ahh.” The guard showed genuine concern on his face. Or perhaps a look of suspicion? “I hope you are all right, Doctor.”

“Yes, I am fine. They inserted a pacemaker to regulate an irregular heartbeat.”

The guard went back to his mindless examination of the instruments. He seemed fascinated by the ophthalmoscope, and was holding the instrument up against the light, looking through the glass.

“Just a routine thing,” Guntur said. “I wanted to alert you in case the darn thing sets off the metal detector.” Guntur forced a chuckle, trying to appear to make light of it. The guard did not smile as he put the ophthalmoscope back into the bag.

“Very well, Dr. Budi. Step through the metal detector, please.”

One step forward, and then…a rapid and shrill
beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep.

“Step back!” the guard ordered. His hand gripped his right pistol, which was still holstered.

“I was afraid this might happen,” Guntur muttered. “Darn pacemaker! I’ll have this thing in my chest the rest of my life.”

“All right. Let us have a look.” He waved Guntur back into the X-ray scanner. “Just a routine procedure as you know, Doctor. We would do the same thing if you were the president’s wife. Let’s hope you are not the first lady.” A terse chuckle. Finally, a semblance of something other than iron. “Stand here.” The stern tone returned. “Be still for a moment, Doctor.”

The guard squinted his eyes and examined the screen on the monitor beside the X-ray machine. “That’s an odd-looking pacemaker, Doctor. Hmm.” He eyed it for a moment. “I’ve never seen one like it before.” More squinting. “Rahmat! Check this out.”

“It’s a brand new design. Just imported from America,” Guntur said. “It is supposed to go fifteen years without a battery replacement.”

“Hmm.” The two guards crowded over the monitor. Guntur held his breath.

“Very well, Doctor. You may proceed. The president is running about fifteen minutes early today because the Chinese ambassador canceled his meeting due to illness.” The guard motioned Guntur through. “Take good care of the president.”

“He will be in good hands.”

Gag Island

3:25 p.m.

C
aptain Hassan Taplus, army of the Indonesian Republic, was wearing dark sunglasses and standing on the shores of the beach with his back to the sea.

Light swells lapped just a few feet from where he had buried his heels partially into the sand, and he brought his hand up to his eyebrows, palm down, almost in the gesture of a salute to shade his eyes from the bright overhead sun.

The ugly monstrosity standing against the island’s luscious, tropical beauty rose perhaps fifty feet in the air, and closely resembled a rapidly erected observation tower. Four gray steel poles dug deeply into the sand made the corners of a square at the base, and looking something like a giant erector set, rose into the blue sky and supported a square steel platform at the top.

On the platform, electronic equipment and an arming mechanism had been bolted in place. Suspended in the air below the platform, about fifteen feet from the top, the bomb hung from four thick chains. An array of cords, bound together in a single strand by some sort of heavy-duty duct tape, hung down from the center of the platform.

One nuclear engineer was standing on a catwalk perhaps thirty-five feet off the ground, making an adjustment to the bomb with a screw-driver.

The other engineers were standing on the beach, pointing toward the tower, laughing and carrying on as if they had just passed their final examinations before graduating from university.

It would soon become evident whether they had passed or not.

The last nuclear engineer was now making his way down the ladder to the beach. His feet hit the sand, then he turned and started walking rapidly straight toward Taplus. The engineer grinned as he approached.
“Our work is complete, sir. The bomb is armed, ticking, and set to go off in a little more than an hour. I suggest that we get out of here!”

“Good work, Lieutenant,” Taplus said. “Very well. Everybody to the choppers! Let’s get to the ship! On the double! Move! Move!”

Five minutes later, the first of two helicopters lifted off the tropical paradise. Hassan looked down at the splendor of Allah’s breathtaking beauty. A sailboat, perhaps a thirty-footer, cut through the seas about a mile off shore. Probably Australian.

The poor fools had sailed into the wrong place at the wrong time.

Merdeka Square
Jakarta, Indonesia