The Malacca Conspiracy (40 page)

“Why, the answer is simple. President Mack Williams and the American government.”

He banged his fist on the table, as if he were Nikita Khrushchev before the United Nations.

“And how can the American government protect its people from such carnage again?” An arrogant smile crossed his face. “This is very simple, my friends. End your support of Israel. Go to the United Nations, an institution located in your largest city, and demand withdrawal of all recognition of the Zionist state. Recognize only the government of Palestine. Join the world in demanding justice for those who have been displaced by Zionist murderers.”

Another broad smile. “As I said, Indonesia has no control over this. But our intelligence has learned that if this is not done, tragedy will strike America again. Soon. Another city, perhaps multiple cities, will face the same fate as Philadelphia. We share this intelligence with you for your own benefit and protection. Our intelligence has shown that your time is running out.

“While you have less than twenty-four hours to introduce and support these resolutions before the United Nations, your president must take decisive action even sooner.

“There must be a sign of good faith. We have been told that the president of the United States, must, within four hours of the completion of this broadcast, appear on television to renounce the Zionist state and announce the intention of the United States to support these resolutions in the United Nations.”

Admiral Jones shook his fist. “He’s just reduced his own time frame.”

The tinhorn was staring intently now into the camera, his voice reeking confidence, arrogance, and authority. “Four hours! That’s your deadline, Mr. President. Do the right thing. Denounce evil, and save the lives of millions of your own.”

A satisfying pause. “Good day.”

The screen went blue. Then the words
Jakarta Indonesia
1225 A.M.
blinked rapidly in white on the screen. Then, nothing. The screen went blank.

Mack looked at his watch and quickly calculated the time. It was 12:26
P.M.,
Washington time.

“By four-thirty, this guy’s gonna blow another city,” he said.

“We’ve gotta take that guy out,” the secretary of defense said.

“No kidding,” Mack said. “Find me a way to do it.” The president’s eyes locked upon his secretary of defense. “Now.”

United States Embassy
Singapore

12:50 a.m.

F
or Kristina, the night was a living whirlwind of wildly swinging emotions. Her body had undergone the cold rush of fear from running for her life in Jakarta, to the uncertainty of having to beg for refuge from Father Ramon, to the excitement and nervousness of flying for the first time in her life. And now this.

Like most Indonesians who were too poor to afford international travel, Kristina had never left her country. For that matter, she had never even left the island of Java.

Now, she not only found herself mesmerized by the millions of exciting lights of Singapore, but also her eyes fixed upon another colorful object in the night that was sending chills up her spine.

The flag of the United States—flapping gently on a pole under two powerful searchlights, its deep red, white, and blue signifying the hope of the free world, and glowing almost like a halo against the starspangled Singaporean sky.

“This is the US embassy,” announced the Catholic priest who was driving the black SUV carrying the nuncio, along with Kristina and Father Ramon.

The SUV pulled to a stop on Napier Road, just in front of a large iron gate that was guarded by two American soldiers, wearing dark blue jackets and light blue pants with white caps.

“These are US Marines,” the driver said, looking over his shoulder at Kristina and Father Ramon. “They will lead us into the embassy.”

The black gate swung open, and the marine who had walked out of the embassy motioned the driver forward. The SUV rolled inside the gates, and when the gates were closed, the marine opened the back left door where the nuncio was sitting. The marine flashed a sharp salute. “Mr. Ambassador.”

“Good evening, officer,” the nuncio said.

“Good evening, sir. If you and your party would follow me, please, sir.”

The nuncio stepped out first, followed by the driver, and then Kris
tina and Father Ramon. The marine led them down a walkway past the spotlighted flag.

The double doors to the embassy swung open. Another marine was waiting just inside the doors, also in a snappy blue uniform. As this marine was leading them down a marble hallway, under sparkling crystal chandeliers, Kristina could not help but notice how well-chiseled and handsome these American marines looked.

“Right through here, Mr. Ambassador.” The second marine pointed to the left, and they stepped through a large doorway into an ornate, brightly lit conference room. A very large wooden table surrounded by ten black leather swiveling chairs was in the center of the room, and at the end of the table the US flag was erected in a stand. “Ambassador Griffith will be right with you, sir,” the marine said, then stepped out of the room.

“Very nice,” Father Ramon remarked, his eyes taking in the room.

“The Americans still have the best facilities,” the nuncio said.

“Good evening, Nuncio.” Kristina looked around and saw a distin-guished-looking man with silver hair, presumably American, walking through the doors from the hallway.

“Ambassador Griffith,” the nuncio said, as he stood and extended his hand to the American ambassador.

“Please be seated,” the ambassador said. “I understand that you’ve uncovered some sensitive information of urgent importance.”

“Mr. Ambassador,” the nuncio said. “This is Father Ramon from Indonesia”—the nuncio extended his hand toward the priest—“and this is one of his new parishioners, Kristina Wulandari.” She felt nervous when the nuncio touched her shoulder. “These are extraordinary circumstances. The Holy See has granted asylum to them both.”

“I see,” Ambassador Griffith said.

He nodded at Kristina. “Kristina knows this General Perkasa, this fellow with the new atomic bomb, over in Indonesia.”

“Yes, unfortunately, we have become aware of him.” The ambassador flashed a look of disgust.

The nuncio continued. “She has come across some computer files that we believe will be of urgent and extreme interest to your government. That is why we have requested this meeting.”

“Urgent and extreme,” the ambassador said, parroting the words of the nuncio. “How so?”

“Mr. Ambassador, the file on this memory stick”—the nuncio held up the stick in his hand—“that was taken by Kristina from the general’s residence, shows evidence that the Indonesian junta is responsible for today’s attack on Philadelphia.”

“Really?” A stunned look came over the ambassador’s face.

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador. And not only that, but it looks like they are preparing attacks on two other American cities.”

“Which cities?”

“First, San Francisco. Then Washington,” Father Ramon spoke up. “My apologies,” he added, realizing that he had spoken out of turn.

The nuncio spoke again. “We brought a laptop if you would like to see for yourself, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Yes, please,” Ambassador Griffith said.

Chapter 19

Bogor, Indonesia

12:05 a.m.

D
iane had gotten into pretty good physical shape during her tour in Naples. She had even trained for and run a marathon, having finished the grueling twenty-six miler in just under five hours. Still, she was grateful for the five-minute water break.

And while she was an avid runner, this was no marathon course. The SEALs pushed along the craggy, mountainous terrain at a pretty rapid clip. The muscles she was exercising were muscles she had not noticed in quite some time. Already, her calves, thighs, and buttocks were sore from the rapid hike up and down the uneven path.

On the road below them, perhaps three quarters of a mile downrange at a sloping angle, only an occasional set of headlights had come and then gone. And the noise from the cars, trucks, or whatever was moving along the road, was barely audible from here.

Another set of headlights zoomed past just below their position. The headlights gave way to taillights in the distance, and then, nothing.

She looked over at Zack, whose visage was now visible to her in the dark, her eyes now dilated and more accustomed to seeing under the starlight. He was following the most recent vehicle sighting with night-vision binoculars, his direction pointing toward the disappearing taillights.

Silence again. The inactivity had been eerie. No helicopters overhead. No searchlights. Where were they? It was as if the Indonesians were not even aware of their presence.

Zack dropped the binoculars and rested his hand on her shoulder. His touch made her want to melt, now as never before. Why all the wasted time? Why all the years gone by?

Was the navy his real mistress? Did he love the sea more than he loved her? Did he really love her?

“You okay?” he whispered. And the sound of his voice weakened her knees more than the jagged terrain. If he were to ask her to marry him, she would do it on the spot.

“You guys okay?” Captain Kelly approached out of the dark and was walking down his line of men. Zack dropped his hand off her shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” she lied.
Except for the fact that I’m sore, scared, and horribly lovesick. Could you perform a marriage ceremony?

“Doing fine, Captain,” Zack said. “But what’s up with all this inactivity? I thought they’d be on us like white on rice by now.” Zack spoke with a supreme confidence in his voice, as if he enjoyed playing his newfound role as a Navy SEAL, more so than his real-life role of a Navy JAG.

“Good question, Zack. Feels like the calm before the storm, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, it does.”

“Not that I’m complaining,” Noble said. “I’ll bet they think they shot us out of the sky, are having a celebratory drink or twenty, and will look for the wreckage and our bodies in the morning.”

“Hope you’re right, Skipper,” Zack said. “Anything else from the
Reagan?”

“Not since our last communication. Our orders are to proceed in this direction, away from the wreckage, hide from the enemy, and wait for further instructions.”

“Got it,” Zack said.

“Anyway,” Noble said, “gotta keep moving. Chug down some more water and be prepared to move out in about two minutes.”

“Aye, sir,” Zack and Diane said together.

The White House

1:45 p.m.

T
hank you, John,” Mack was saying to the prime minister of the United Kingdom, John Suddath. “You are a good friend, and Britain
is and always will be America’s best friend. Yes, yes…Thank you for your kind offer of assistance. I will pass that on to all Americans and to the citizens of Philadelphia…Yes, the clock is ticking. We have less than three more hours, but as of now we don’t know if that’s a bluff or if he has a specific target in mind. You will be the first call I make when we know something…Thank you. Good-bye.”

The president hung up the phone and looked across the desk in the Oval Office at his chief of staff.

“Okay, Arnie. What else do we have before we head back down to the Situation Room?”

“Well, you’ve spoken with the prime ministers of Japan, Germany, Canada, and Great Britain, along with the presidents of France and Russia. So we’ve taken care of our closest allies, along with Russia. Let’s see…” Arnie’s face was contorted in an apprehensive twist.

“What is it, Arnie?”

“One other thing.”

“What?”

“You’re getting pressure to make an announcement again.”

“An announcement of what sort?”

“Well, this comes from a number of anti-Israeli groups in New York, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. Also a number of key Democrats in Congress.”

“What do they want me to say?”

“It varies. But something to the effect that you are leaning toward a UN Resolution on Israel…”

Mack looked over at one of the Secret Service agents. “Bob, flick on CNN, will ya?”

“Yes, sir.”

The agent complied, and a moment later, the image of America’s most venerable and respected anchorman, Tom Miller, was on the plasma screen in the Oval Office.

“This is Tom Miller at the White House.” The bespectacled Miller, distinguished in his wire-rimmed glasses, was looking down at his watch. “It’s now one forty-seven Washington time, less than three hours before the deadline imposed on President Williams by the Indonesian madman, General Suparman Perkasa.”

Miller looked back up at the camera, the stately white columns of
the North Portico in the background behind him. “Still no word from the White House other than this statement issued by White House Press Secretary Arnie Brubaker.” Miller held the statement up. “‘The threatening demands of General Perkasa are dangerous and irresponsible. This president and this nation will not give in to blackmail.’”

“Good statement, Arnie,” Mack said.

“Thank you, sir.”

Miller continued. “Meanwhile, panic reigns in many of America’s largest cities. In Atlanta, Dallas, New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago, outbound interstates are jammed with people trying desperately to get out of town, for fear that their city could, in just a few short hours, be facing Philadelphia’s fate.

“Meanwhile, pressure is growing from members of Congress for the president to take some sort of action. Representative Charlie Hank of Massachusetts spoke to reporters just a few minutes ago on Capitol Hill.”

The image switched to that of a double-chinned, portly congressman, the ultra-liberal Charlie Hank of Massachusetts, who was standing in front of a battery of microphones, just in front of his belly, which sufficiently protruded in his white shirt so that buttoning his gray jacket would have been an impossibility.