Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

The White House

3:45 a.m.

Ladies and gentlemen, the president.” Arnie stepped into the Situation Room just ahead of Mack.

The group of six men and women, which included the vice president, the defense secretary, the secretary of state, the national security advisor, the director of national intelligence, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, all rose to their feet.

“Sit down,” Mack said. “It’s not like Judge Judy stepped onto the bench or something.”

That brought a few chuckles, as US Navy stewards in black dress pants and white chef’s shirts pushed silver trays with steaming coffee and fresh blueberry muffins about the room.

“Cyndi.” Mack looked at his fifty-year-old, red-haired national security advisor, Cynthia Hewitt, who was seated just to his left. “You called this meeting. What’s up?”

“Terrorist strike in Singapore, Mr. President,” Hewitt said. “Multiple strikes on oil tankers in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore. Oil futures prices rocketing out the roof. The markets are teetering on the brink.”

“Spell it out.” Mack sipped a cup of the hot coffee that had just been poured by a navy steward. “What’s been hit in Singapore?”

“A bomb in the lobby of the resort hotel Rasa Sentosa. Preliminary count showing dozens dead and injured.”

“Any of our people?”

A wince crossed Cyndi’s face. “Sir, Commander Zack Brewer had just arrived as our naval attaché reached the rendezvous point wi to Singapore. He was at the hotel when the bomb went off.”

Mack felt his stomach drop. Over the past five years, Zack Brewer had become something of a national hero and the navy’s most famous officer for his prosecution of three Islamic US Navy chaplains accused of treason.

“Please don’t tell me we’ve lost Commander Brewer.”

“He’s in a hospital in Singapore. That’s all we know right now.”

Mack passed a hand over his face. “Tell me about these strikes on oil tankers.”

Hewitt adjusted her reading glasses. “Four attacks in the last four hours. One was foiled by the navy, sir. USS Reuben James intercepted and destroyed a suicide boat full of explosives trying to ram the tanker SeaRiver Baytown.

“Two other tankers guarded by the Royal Navy in the Singapore Straits weren’t so lucky. Both were hit by suicide boats and are aflame even as I speak.”

“How bad?” Mack nervously sipped coffee.

“Bad, sir. South Singapore is in chaos. They’re dousing water on the burning tankers, but it’s hard to get burning oil under control. Meanwhile, the oil that hasn’t caught fire is slicking all over the Singapore Strait, and it’s lapping on the beaches around Singapore and Sentosa Islands. Dead birds and fish are washing onto the beaches. Smoke clouds from the oil are already rising over the city.”

Cyndi Hewitt whipped off her reading glasses and paused. “We’ve got an environmental disaster on our hands, Mr. President. Think the Prince William Sound in a major metropolitan area.” She was referring to the 1989 mammoth oil spill in Alaska, when the tanker Exxon Valdez ran into a reef, spilling millions of gallons of crude in one of the most devastating environmental disasters in human history.

“And the fourth tanker? Where’d they hit it and how bad?”

Hewitt readjusted her reading glasses. “Mr. President, the Chevron tanker Altair Voyager was just attacked a few minutes ago in the Andaman Sea, right outside the entrance to the Malaccan Strait. She was to be escorted through the strait by USS Ingraham, but she was hit before she reached the rendezvous point with the Ingraham. She’s on fire and sinking. Oil is leaking into the sea, but they’re over a hundred miles from shore. Nearest city is Banda Aceh, Indonesia.”

“Banda Aceh. Why’s that familiar?”

“Mr. President,” Secretary of State Robert Mauney spoke up, “Banda Aceh is the city that took the biggest loss from the 2004 Boxer Day tsunami that devastated the region. Over one hundred sixty-five thousand died there.”

“Those poor people,” Mack said. “Wiped out by a tsunami. Now they’re at risk of a mammoth oil slick reaching their beaches.”

“That’s correct, Mr. President,” Hewitt said, “and all the environmental hazards that go with it, unless we can stop it.”

“We’ve gotta try,” Mack said. “Any Americans on board that tanker?”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Roscoe Jones, responded. “Mr. President, the Chevron tanker is flying under a Panamanian flag. But the captain is American, along with several members of the crew. We’ve got two Seahawks from Ingraham out there right now, sir, but they can’t do much.”

Mack rubbed his temples. “Why not, Admiral?”

“Thick smoke clouds from the burning oil. Choppers can’t fly through ’em.”

“Do we have any ships in the area that can help?”

Admiral Jones ran his hand through his hair. “USS Ingraham is steaming that way and should be on site within a couple of hours. One of our fast attack subs, USS Boise, is in the area. Also, the president of Singapore has requested that we dispatch a carrier task force to the area immediately.”

“What’s our closest carrier operating in the area?”

“USS George Bush is operating in the South China Sea, sir.”

“Then that request is approved. Get the Bush as close to Singapore as you can. Plus, I want all available military resources dispatched to help that burning tanker. Save lives.”

“Aye, Mr. President.”

“Cyndi, what’s going on in the international markets?”

“Mr. President, someone’s making tons of money off this. I’ll defer that question to Admiral Jones.”

Mack raised his eyebrow. “I didn’t realize the admiral was an economist.”

“I’m not, Mr. President,” Jones said. “But we may have correlation between skyrocketing crude oil futures prices and these attacks.”

Mack rubbed his chin. “Explain, Admiral.”

Jones, wearing his service dress-blue uniform with the massive gold sleeve bands of a four-star navy admiral, steepled his fingers together. “Sir, one of our reservists, an intelligence officer assigned to J-2, works as a commodities analyst at the New York Mercantile Exchange. This officer alerted the chairman that huge limit moves in the price of crude oil took place at roughly the same time as the attacks. The verdict is still out, but someone could be making billions from these terrorist actions. Perhaps someone with advance knowledge.”

“Hmm.” Mack stood up, crossed his arms, and paced back and forth. “Who’s making billions? And what are they doing with the money?”

“Good question, Mr. President,” Hewitt said.

“I need an answer to that question…and fast.” The president turned back to Admiral Jones. “Admiral, if I catch your drift, you’re suggesting…possibly…that there is a correlation between huge limit moves in oil futures and these attacks?”

“Quite possibly, sir,” the admiral said, “at least that’s what the reservist I mentioned to you believes. He thinks he detected a correlation in the overnight limit moves and the attacks around the Malaccan Strait. This is certainly worth monitoring.”

“This reserve officer. What’s his name?”

“One moment, Mr. President.” Admiral Jones checked some notes in his file. “Molster. Lieutenant Robert Molster.”

“Robert Molster.” The president instinctively repeated the name. “Well, Admiral, I want you to call this Lieutenant Robert Molster, send him greetings on behalf of his commander in chief, and inform him that as of”-the president looked at his watch and calculated-“nine o’clock this morning, he is officially called up to active duty in the United States Navy, to serve at the pleasure of the president and the Joint Chiefs of Staff until further notice.”