The Malacca Conspiracy (35 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re with you, sir.”

“Very well,” he said. A solid confidence resonated in his voice. “Hang on tight.” He eyed them all. “It’s going to be a rough ride down.”

I
n the cockpit, Lieutenant Cameron glued his eyes to the airspeed indicator, which at the moment was showing ninety knots. “Too fast. Too fast,” he said aloud, and pulled back slightly on the cyclic stick. The chopper’s nose flared slightly, and the airspeed indicator started dropping.

Eighty-five…eighty…seventy-five…seventy…

“Come on, baby.”

Seventy…

“Slow down. Slow down.” He feathered the stick back a quarter of an inch. He had to get the speed down if they were to have any chance of surviving the impact. But this was a potentially dangerous maneuver. If he slowed the chopper too much, they would stall out and fall quickly to the earth like a rock.

Seventy…sixty-five…sixty…

“Hold there.” He pushed the stick a bit forward. “How’s it looking out there?” he asked his copilot.

“Dark,” the copilot said.

“One day, they’ll invent night vision goggles that work from this altitude,” Cameron muttered, as he looked down over the dark landscape, searching, somehow, for a landing spot. Sporadic lights dotting the darkness were off the left and right. But the area just in front of the rapidly descending helicopter was a dark chasm.

Perhaps it would be a rural area, which could be ideal for an emergency landing. Or perhaps wooded or rough terrain, which could be disastrous.

The altimeter crossed under sixteen hundred feet. Fifteen hundred feet…Fourteen hundred feet. The ground, whatever was down there, was moving up fast now. Cameron picked up the microphone, opening a speaker to the cargo bay.

“SEAL team members. We will be on the ground in about one minute. Brace yourselves. It could be a rough landing.”

Cameron checked his watch. Less than one minute to impact.

Only God could control their fate now.

O
ur Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…”

Zack looked over and saw Diane whispering the Lord’s prayer.
Lord, if you pull us through this, I’m going to ask her to marry me.
He put his arm around her and pulled her close to him.

“Thirty seconds to impact.”

T
wenty seconds,” the copilot said, as Lieutenant Cameron looked feverishly out the windshield for something…anything…praying that they would miss trees, power lines, rocks, and buildings.

“Ten seconds.”

Altitude eighty feet…seventy feet…sixty feet.

“Now,” Cameron said, pulling up on the cyclic.

The helicopter’s nose rotated forty-five degrees to the sky, revealing a bright canopy of stars, then leveled out as they dropped.

THUD.

Cheering erupted from the cargo bay.

Lieutenant Cameron exchanged glances with his copilot, who exhaled, then broke into a smile.

T
hank you, Jesus,” Diane whispered under her breath.

Zack reached over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

“Told you it would be a piece of cake,” he said.

“Get your night goggles and your weapons,” Captain Noble said. “Let’s move.”

Zack helped Diane strap on a pair of night vision goggles as the SEALs ripped open the bay door and quickly stepped out of the helicopter.

Zack took Diane’s hand and led her out onto the grass.

The pilot, Lieutenant Cameron, was already outside and suggesting that they move quickly away from the chopper in case it exploded.

Single file, they moved quickly up a hill about two hundred yards, and then gathered quickly in a semicircle. Green bushes, about knee-deep, were growing all around the helicopter.

“You got a fix on where we are, Lieutenant?” Captain Noble directed this question to the pilot, Lieutenant Cameron.

“Yes, sir. I’ve got our coordinates, and we’re about sixty miles southeast of Jakarta. Maybe twenty miles north of the coastline. According to our charts, this is tea plantation country, and I think these plants are tea plants…”

“That’s exactly what they are,” Petty Officer Rodriguez spoke up. “My parents were missionaries to Indonesia. I’ve been in this part of the world before.”

“Thanks, Rodriguez,” Lieutenant Cameron continued. “There’s a road about a mile north of here that connects Bogor and Bandung. The region north of that between here and Jakarta is hilly, mountainous, and largely uninhabited. That’s probably the best place to head if we want to avoid detection.”

“You got a navigational map, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir,” Cameron said. Quickly, the pilot unfolded the map and laid it carefully on the grass. “Here’s our location, sir. We’re at approximately seven degrees south latitude and one hundred seven degrees east longitude. The city of Bogor is just over here to our west. The city of Cianjur is just to our east. Here’s that road, and that mountain range is just to our north.”

“Okay, I’ve seen enough,” Noble said. “Group off in threes and let’s move out.” He looked at Diane. “Zack, Diane, you two come with me.”

Those words were somehow a relief to Diane. “Aye, Captain.”

Chapter 17

The White House

9:00 a.m.

W
ith his shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms and his arms folded, President Mack Williams was pacing back and forth just at the head of the long conference table in the Situation Room.

“Still nothing?” He glanced at the secretary of defense, Erwin Lopez, as if tossing him a presidential glance would somehow speed the flow of information from a nighttime military operation half a world away.

“Still nothing, sir,” Lopez said. At that very instant, the secure line from the Pentagon rang in front of the defense secretary. “Secretary Lopez.”

Mack watched as Lopez sat with the phone to his ear, scribbling on a legal pad.

“The ambassador is out?” Lopez looked at the president and nodded. “One chopper down…”

Not again.

Secretary Lopez hung up the phone.

“What’s going on, Mr. Secretary?”

“The good news is that we’ve rescued the ambassador. He’s injured, but he’s on board one of our choppers over the Indian Ocean, headed for the
Reagan.
They’re under fighter escort and out of range of the Indonesians.”

“Thank God,” Mack said. “Did I hear you say we’ve got a chopper down?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. President.”

“Who was on board?”

“That’s not clear yet, sir. The SEAL team was spread out over all three choppers.”

“Did they find Commander Colcernian?”

“No word on that, sir. I’m sure we’ll know when the other two choppers land on the carrier.”

“What about Perkasa?”

“Nothing, Mr. President.”

Mack slammed his fist on the table. “A chopper down. Perkasa still at large. I feel like I’m one for three.”

Members of the National Security Council sat for a moment, many with blank looks on their faces.

Then the secretary of state spoke up. “You know, Mr. President, in baseball, one for three at the plate is pretty darned good. And the game’s not over. In fact, we’ve just started.”

The comment brought a smile to Mack’s face. “Secretary Mauney, you always have a way of finding the right thing to say at the right time.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That’s why you’re this nation’s chief diplomat.” Now Mack had Robert Mauney smiling. “And you’re right, this is not the end. In fact, your baseball analogy reminds me of the words of one of my political heroes, Winston Churchill. ‘This is not the end. This is not, even, the beginning of the end. But it may, just possibly, be the end of the beginning.’”

The quote brought chills to his spine.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, leaning forward with his hands on the table, and eyeing the members of the NSC, “Winston Churchill, Ronald Reagan, and other great leaders of the twentieth century showed us by their words and their actions that evil is not always easily defeated. Nothing worthwhile is easy.

“Let’s get back to work. I want to find Perkasa, and I want to take him out.”

Across from St. Stephen’s Catholic Church
Jakarta, Indonesia

8:05 p.m.

T
he white marble was lit against the night by bright spotlights shining up from the ground. The statue was inanimate, she knew. But still, somehow, the image of Jesus holding his palms to the heavens brought comfort to her in the midst of a personal maelstrom. The other times, she had visited the church during daylight hours, and she had never really noticed the statue.

If only he could talk. If only he were here. But strangely, it seemed that he
was
here. As if he had walked and run and jogged with her all the way across the city to the doors of this house that belonged to him.

In the hours after she had fled from the Martins’ home, Kristina started sensing a warm presence with her, somehow drawing her here. Now that she had arrived outside the church, the statue of him stood out like a sign that she was about to do the right thing.

Was she? Could she really trust the priest? Suppose she had been followed?

If they had killed the president, was anyone off limits? Of course not. They would kill her, she knew, for what she knew, for who she knew, and for what she held in her hands.

Still, it was as if a spirit within her had drawn her here—it was a strange and gentle spirit through the midst of danger and death. Perhaps this was the spirit of God? She could not say for sure. But if she were going to die anyway, it seemed that the spirit was reassuring her that this was a place to die in peace.

She looked behind her to see if she had been followed, and then finding a slight gap in the cars that were zooming back and forth in both directions, she jogged across the street and up the granite steps to the front doors.

Panting, Kristina reached for the doorknob and turned.

Locked.

Her eyes turned back to the busy street and sidewalk. Surely somebody was watching her. They were out there. Somewhere. Perkasa’s
men. In the dark behind the streaking cars, someone had a rifle trained on her.

Panic gripped her body now.

Of course the church was going to be closed at this hour. What was she thinking? Where to go?

Instinctively, her body pivoted back around to the door—and her hand went to the doorknob. She shook it, twisted it, and tried knocking on the door. Then she beat on it. No one. Nothing but the noise of traffic swirling behind her.

The warm feeling turned to ice, and she cocked her head to the heavens, her eyes again on the illuminated statue. “Did you bring me here just to lock me out?” she screamed, as tears began welling in her eyes.

As her eyes moved from the statue, gradually back down the outer walls of the cathedral, she saw it. A small sign illuminated only by the fluorescent glow of a distant street light.

After Hours Emergencies Only: Press Buzzer Below.

“Thank you!” She pressed and held the button, igniting a long, grating buzz.

Nothing.

She pressed the buzzer again.

“May I help you?” A woman’s voice came back over the loudspeaker.

“I need to see the father.”

“Which father? We have several priests on the staff.”

“I don’t know. The one that does confession. I’ve been several times.”

“One moment, please.”

A couple of minutes passed. The woman’s voice returned. “Is there something I can help you with? We have a food pantry around the back of the church if you are in need.”

“I need the father. Now! Please tell him it’s an emergency!”

“Could I tell him what kind of emergency?”

What to do? Kristina wiped her forehead. “Tell him I am the one who said that someone is going to die. Someone
important!
Tell him that it happened…that it happened today!”

A pause. “Wait one moment, please.”

Now it was out. She knew. They would know that she knew. They would figure out that she was talking about the president…that she
knew about the assassination. Her mind swirled like a raging windstorm. They had probably called the authorities.

The sound of a siren approached from down the highway in front of the church. A police car sped down the road. Its flashing lights swirled.
Run! Now!

The police car zoomed past the church. It did not stop.

At that moment, the door opened. A man’s voice came from the dark shadows. “Sister Marguerita says you are looking for me.” She recognized the voice from the confessional booth. A figure appeared. “I’m Father Ramon. I believe we’ve spoken before.”

“I am afraid, Father. I am so afraid.”

“Please come in. This is God’s house. You are safe here.”

Northbound Interstate 95
Five miles southwest of downtown Philadelphia

9:10 a.m.

T
he traffic was remarkably light for this time of morning, Mohammed thought as the van curved to the left and then crossed Island Avenue, leaving the perimeter of the airport off to the right. Another curve to the left brought the van to the bridge crossing the Schuylkill River. Here, three northbound big rigs clogged the swift flow of traffic to a slow-moving bottleneck creeping onto the bridge.

In the middle of the I–95 bridge, the U-Haul came to a stop behind the eighteen-wheeler. Mohammed cursed. Then, with nowhere else to go, he realized that he was witnessing the last view of a waterway that he would ever see this side of paradise.

What a depressing sight, under the bright light of the morning sun, this vintage panorama of the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard, home of America’s Atlantic “mothball fleet.” Rusting steel hulks by the hundreds, in the form of US Navy warships, testified that America’s greatest days as a world power ended with the last century.