The Malacca Conspiracy (28 page)

“You’re in no condition to leave, my dear.” Elizabeth’s hand rested on her shoulder. “Wait until Tom gets home. I can take you to our doctor.”

“No!” Kristina handed Elizabeth the blanket. “Thank you, but…it’s not safe here.” Her breathing accelerating, she headed for the door. “Thank you, Elizabeth. Remember that I love you and thank you for all that you and Tom have done for me.” She opened the door and ran back down the sidewalk, under the shadow of the palm trees.

“Kristina!” Elizabeth shouted from the front door. “Please come back!” The soft British voice faded as she sprinted away.

*******

The reality for Kristina was this: there was no safe haven. At least not with the Martins.

She could not, would not turn back. She must keep running.

But where?

The White House

4:40 a.m.

T
hey’re lying, Mr. President.” The secretary of defense banged the table, as the image of the Indonesian anchorman again gave way to the live shot of the red-and-white Indonesian flag. “How could they have no information about the ambassador and Commander Colcernian?”

“Agreed, Secretary Lopez,” Mack said. “It doesn’t smell right.” He turned to his chief of staff. “Arnie, call the secretary of state. I don’t care if he’s asleep. Get him up. Tell him I need him back here in Washington. Send my apologies to the Mexicans. Tell them we’ll reschedule the summit as soon as we can.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Who is this General Perkasa?” Vice President Douglas Surber asked.

“We’re getting ready to find out, Mr. Vice President,” the national security advisor said, pointing at the television screen.

Mack looked up at the flat screen and saw an Asian man, slightly plump, in a green military uniform. Behind him were stacks of books, as if he were sitting in an office with a personal library behind his desk. He stared into the camera, as if waiting on someone to cue him to begin. At the bottom of the screen, in English, were the words
General Suparman Perkasa, Chief of Staff, Indonesian Armed Forces.

“He looks like Manuel Noriega,” someone said.

“Like a tinhorn dictator,” someone else said.

“No kidding,” came a response.

“Shhhhhhhh.”

“Good afternoon,” the man said. “I am General Suparman Perkasa, chief of staff of the Armed Forces of the Republic of Indonesia.

“By now, you have been informed of the tragic death of our leader, President Enrique Santos. I would like to begin by extending my deepest sympathies to our first lady, to the Santos children, and to our great nation. In this hour of tragedy and uncertainty, I would like to reassure all Indonesians there is no reason to panic.”

A pause.

A close-up.

“I am in charge.”

“The guy sounds like Alexander Haig the day Reagan was shot,” Mack quipped.

“While this is indeed one of the saddest days in the history of our republic, I wish all Indonesians, indeed all citizens of the world, to know two things:

“First, the government will track down and prosecute the president’s killers to the fullest extent of the law. Make no mistake about this!”

“Why is this guy speaking on behalf of the government?” the vice president asked. “Where is the vice president of Indonesia?”

“Good question,” Mack observed.

“Second, I wish all Indonesians to know that our leader has not died in vain. In fact, I am announcing this day that the government is enacting several crucial and bold initiatives in honor of our slain president. He has secretly supported these initiatives for years, and they now become a fitting memorial and a lasting memory in his honor.”

“Where’s this guy coming from?” the secretary of defense wondered aloud.

“The first is that the Republic of Indonesia is henceforth, and from this day forward, known forever as the
Islamic
Republic of Indonesia.”

“Son of a—”

“This great change reflects our status as the world’s largest Islamic country, and indeed is a reaffirmation of our adherence to the principles of the Great Faith.”

“This smells.”

“The second great change, and I know in my heart at this moment that our president must be beaming in paradise,” a sinister grin crossed the general’s face, “is that I am pleased to announce that today—in fact about one hour ago—the Islamic Republic of Indonesia has become the world’s first Islamic nuclear superpower.”

Mack narrowed his eyes.

“This was our late president’s dream. Top-secret plans had been in place for months to bring about this glorious event. My fellow citizens, and citizens of the world, I invite you to watch. This was the scene on
Gag Island, in the remote eastern section of our country, only one hour ago.”

The screen switched from the stout general to a seascape. In the middle of it, an island rose from the sea. The shot looked as if the island were several miles from the camera.

At the bottom of the screen, a message was superimposed declaring,
Gag Island, Halmahera Sea
—
4:45
P.M.
L
OCAL
/2:45
P.M.
J
AKARTA.

Swells could be seen crossing the water, gently, from left to right, between the camera and the distant island.

And then…

The center of the screen exploded in blinding white colors like the center of the sun. A mushroom rose over the island, its stem extending to the heavens. The sea in the foreground grew more violent. The video itself jolted up and down, as if the ship hosting the camera was being rocked by sudden swells.

Mack winced for the crew of USS
Port Royal.

The rising mushroom disappeared. The general with the sinister grin reappeared.

“And so, my fellow countrymen, today is the most bittersweet day in the history of Indonesia. We have lost a great leader. But by fate…by destiny…Allah has by divine coincidence given us the hope of glory, by making our great nation among the greatest and the most powerful on the stage of the world.”

“What a madman,” the vice president mumbled.

“We shall execute our late president’s plan, and we shall do so from this day forward in his honor.”

“Scary,” said the secretary of defense.

“And the first matter of importance to a new global order is the question of the so-called Jewish state.”

“What?” This was the national security advisor.

“Someone…some nation…must become an advocate for those who have long since been forgotten…for those with no voice from the other nuclear powers.

“For too long, our Islamic brothers…those Arabs in Palestine…have been neglected by the powers in the United Nations who acquiesce to the belligerent, inhumane practices of the so-called Jewish state.

“No more! Again I declare, no more!” The dictator pounded his
hand on his desk. “The Islamic Republic of Indonesia now insists upon the repeal of certain United Nations resolutions concerning the Jewish State of Israel.

“Our demands are simple. Our determination is resolute. We call these steps the Three Steps of International Justice.”

“The what?”

“As a first step, the United Nations must repeal UN Resolution 181. This was the resolution passed in 1947 that recognized the illegitimate right to a so-called Jewish state.

“As a second step, the United Nations must repeal UN Resolution 273. This was the resolution passed in 1949 that called the illegal Jewish state a
peace-loving
state.”

“What an idiot!”

“Finally, as a final step of good faith, the United Nations must repeal UN Resolution 46/86, and in its place, restore UN Resolution 3379, which was originally adopted in 1975 before Zionist forces had it repealed.

“These are not just the demands of the Indonesian government. These are the demands of free people around the globe. These are the cries of the blood of those who have been murdered, raped, pillaged, and thrown from their homeland of a thousand years. These are the demands of justice.”

“We’ve got problems, gentlemen,” Mack interposed.

“Be forewarned”—the tinhorn pointed into the camera—“the powerful nations that run the UN must facilitate bringing about these three steps of justice. You know who you are.”

“Is he threatening us?”

“I doubt he’s talking about Mexico.”

“You, the nation, and the nations who control the United Nations must act swiftly to carry out these steps of justice that I have outlined. If you fail to do so, understand this: freedom fighters all over the world now share in the type of power that you have witnessed today. If these measures are not implemented in twenty-four hours, I have no control over the actions of these freedom fighters. However, it is my duty as a human, as one who cares for the lives of millions, to warn those who would oppose justice, for the protection of the lives of the innocent.”

“Is he threatening to nuke us?”

“Sounds like it.”

“Us and maybe the Brits too.”

“Do the right thing,” the tinhorn continued. “And remember, you nations controlling the United Nations, you have twenty-four hours. I bid you farewell from the Islamic Republic of Indonesia.”

The screen went black.

“What’s that last resolution he wants repealed?” the secretary of defense asked.

“That resolution equated Zionism with racism,” the national security advisor said. “It was an anti-Israeli resolution the UN passed in 1975. We mustered the votes, finally, to repeal it. He wants the repeal repealed, restoring the original declaration.”

“This guy sounds like Hitler,” the vice president remarked.

“Hitler didn’t have nukes,” Mack retorted. “Arnie, have we gotten through to the secretary of state?”

“Yes, sir. I just got a flash message that he’s being driven right now from the Hotel Del to North Island Naval Air Station in San Diego. He’ll be on a military jet headed back east any minute.”

“Good. I want him, along with the Indonesian ambassador, in my office just as soon as his plane touches down.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“And we’ll need to open up a line with the Brits. Where’s Prime Minister Suddath?”

“He’s flying back to London from Singapore,” Cyndi Hewitt said.

“Get him on a secure line,” Mack said. “Sounds like the Brits could be in their gunsights too.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

Outside Merdeka Square
Indonesia

4:15 p.m.

H
e knew it was probably dangerous for him to be here at the moment. At least, that was the official warning given by the State Department and relayed by the deputy chief of mission after Perkasa’s speech, which clearly, in the minds of the US government, had been aimed at America. All US civilians and embassy officials were to remain inside the walls of the embassy until further notice.

“Stay here, Zack,” Deputy Chief of Mission Bruce Laredo had told him. “The State Department wants all our personnel inside the embassy compound until we get this sorted out. They’re worried that we may have another hostage situation brewing like Tehran in 1979.”

Of course none of that made sense to Zack, since in Tehran in 1979, the US embassy was stormed by Iranian militants who took embassy personnel hostage. It seemed that if the State Department was really worried about an embassy siege, they’d get personnel
out
of the embassy and onto navy ships, as had been done in Hanoi in 1974. But their response was to declare that they were worried about an embassy siege, and then hole up inside it.
Typical State Department logic. Notoriously oxymoronic.

Zack Brewer was a United States naval officer, not a State Department beanie head.

And even if he were a State Department beanie head, technically he was attached to the embassy in Singapore, not Jakarta. And unless someone in his direct chain of command ordered him to stay away…and his bosses in Singapore were too busy at the moment dealing with the disastrous oil slick to even wonder where he was…he was going to be here. As a compromise, he had agreed to doff his navy uniform and change into civilian clothes, but he was going to get as close to her as possible.

His heart pounded as he approached the edge of the square and looked across it at the smoking palace.

She was in there.

Somewhere.

Alive. She had to be. As he stood on the sidewalk, crowded in by throngs of thousands, some wailing, others cheering, many spreading their arms into the tropical skies, his spirit cried out to God, begging for her safety.

His cell phone rang.
United States embassy.
Deputy chief of mission. “Yes, sir.”

“You okay, Zack?”

“Yes, sir. I’m fine.”

“What are you seeing?”

“It’s chaos over here. Hundreds of armed troops are surrounding the palace. There must be fifty thousand civilians out in the square. A helicopter has landed on top of the palace. No way to get in or out right
now other than by air, unless they clear these crowds out.”
Lord, please protect her.
“Any news on the ambassador or Commander Colcernian?”

“Nothing. We got the foreign minister’s office on the phone, but they say they don’t know anything from inside the palace other than the president has died.”

“They’re stonewalling, sir.”

“Can’t say that I disagree with that, Zack.”

“I’ve got to find a way to get inside.”

“Zack, don’t be crazy.”

He did not respond. Maybe he could wait until nightfall. Maybe his chances of penetrating the perimeter would increase under the cover of darkness. He had to get in.

“Zack, we need you back at the embassy.”

“Mr. Laredo, I’m fine. No one’s even noticed me.”

“I know you’re fine. I know that you’re going to be fine if you’re here or there. But, Zack, the ambassador’s gone. I need you here.”

“But…”

“Zack. There are things I need to talk to you about. Your country needs you here.”