Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

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.

Robert 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.

Captain! 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.

Radioman 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.”