Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

The Altair Voyager

Near the Strait of Malacca

3:00 p.m.

The aft of his ship was rising into the air like the back end of a seesaw. The bow section, which was flooding rapidly, was aflame and sinking into the sea.

Captain Eichenbrenner grabbed the steel cable surrounding the perimeter of the deck and looked down over the port side into the water below, which was growing darker under the black cloud of oily soot spreading overhead.

All of his men had jumped into the water, somewhere below.

He looked, one last time, at the flames leaping from the forward section of the Altair Voyager.

The thought crossed his mind that as captain, he should go down with his ship. There was a certain chivalrous lore about this time-honored maritime notion.

To go down with a ship was one thing. Being burned alive on it was quite another. Heat rolled in oppressive, hundred-plus-degree waves from the front of his ship. His body and clothes were drenched in perspiration from scorching flames.

The helicopters were out there, somewhere, and by the roar of their engines, they had to be nearby.

But where?

And how would they possibly rescue his crew?

The late afternoon sun was shining on the horizon, but the sky over the ship was black, as if a solar eclipse had darkened the sea.

“Attention! This is the US Navy!” Loudspeakers blared from helicopters somewhere above the smoke. “If you are in the water below, swim away from the ship in the direction of the ship’s aft!”

Eichenbrenner looked off the stern. The smoke cover extended a couple of hundred yards behind the ship, and perhaps five hundred yards to the left. The navy was urging his crew to swim out from under the smoke cloud so they could start rescue operations. Aft of the ship was their best chance. But that was a long shot. The smoke cloud was spreading in every direction, probably faster than his men could swim. They needed a miracle from the wind.

“Swim away from the ship in the direction of the ship’s aft! Repeat, this is the US Navy!”

“Skipper! Jump in the water!” a voice called from below.

Despite the heat, he felt frozen, alone on the great vessel that was under his command. A captain must never abandon his ship, even at the moment of death.

“Jump, Skipper!”

He looked back toward the flames.

And then, he saw them.

Dana and Laura.

Their red hair was blowing in the wind. Teardrops beaded in their blue eyes. Was it a hallucination? He heard that people had hallucinations before death. Or maybe they were angels. Maybe angels were real.

“We love you, Daddy,” Dana said.

“Daddy, please come home,” said Laura.

The smoke was affecting his breathing. His mind was playing tricks on him.

“Jump!”

He stepped onto the ship’s ledge. “God, let me see my girls again.” He leapt into the air, his stomach in his throat, as he flew down, down, toward the dark waters below.

USS Boise

The Andaman Sea

3:02 p.m.

Wearing his wash khaki uniform and a navy blue ball cap with the emblem of his submarine and the initials “CO” stitched in gold on the front, Commander Graham Hardison walked across the control room and put his hand on the shoulder of the enlisted man who was seated at a control panel just in front of the skipper’s seat.

“Got any more of that black stuff, Mr. COB?” Mr. COB was the acronym that submariners often used to refer to the chief of the boat, usually the senior enlisted man on board a US Navy submarine. In this case, the COB was Radioman Senior Chief Fred Gimler, a tall, balding South Dakotan who was approaching thirty years in the submarine service.

“Yessir, Captain,” the COB said. “Just brought a pot up from the galley.” Gimler turned around with a knowing grin.

“I thought I saw you tiptoeing onto my bridge with steaming contraband in hand,” Hardison joked.

“Guilty as charged, Captain.” The COB twisted the plastic top off the insulated thermos. The scent of fresh coffee permeated the control room, and Commander Hardison felt a jolt to his senses just from the scent of it. “Your mug, sir?”

Hardison held his white, porcelain coffee mug, with coffee acid rings circling the bottom-a badge of honor among submariners-out to the chief. “Mug looks a little clean, sir.” The COB grinned as steaming, black, battery-acid strength coffee oozed into the skipper’s mug.

“Maybe in my next life, I’ll come back as a navy chief, Mr. COB,” Hardison joked. “That way, I’ll always make sure there’s something growing in the bottom of my mug.”

“Trust me, Skipper, the pay’s better in your seat,” the COB chuckled.

Hardison laughed. “Thanks for reminding me, Chief.” He took a refreshing sip of the strong stuff. The kick was immediate. “Ahh. Good stuff.”

Hardison returned to the captain’s chair. “XO, report our updated position, please.”

“Aye, Captain,” the executive officer said. “Currently eighty-three miles east of Nicobar Island. Speed ten knots,” the XO said. “Course zero-nine-zero degrees.”

“Very well,” Hardison said. “Steady as she goes.”

“Steady as she goes. Aye, Captain.”

“Conn. Radio.” The radio officer’s voice blared over the intercom.

“Radio. Conn. Whatcha got?”

“Sir, we’ve got an all-frequency distress call from USS Ingraham.”

“The Ingraham?” Dear Lord. The Ingraham was one of the US Navy frigates assigned to tanker escort duty in the Malaccan Strait. “Don’t tell me another terrorist attack.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

Hardison sloshed his coffee. “What is the position of the Ingraham?”

“The Ingraham is not under attack. She’s relaying a distress call for the tanker Altair Voyager. The tanker’s on fire in the Andaman Sea, near the western entrance to the Strait of Malacca. She’s taking on water. They’ve abandoned ship. Two choppers from the Ingraham are in the area, but rescue efforts are being hampered by a smoke cloud. They need assistance on the surface, sir.”

Hardison stood. Adrenaline was starting to kick in.

“Navigator. Plot a course to Altair Voyager. Advise on ETA at full power.”

“Aye, Captain.” The navigator punched the coordinates into the sub’s navigational computer. “Estimated time of arrival at full power…twenty-two minutes, Captain.”

“Very well. Radio. Contact Seventh Fleet. Mark it. USS Boise requests permission to surface to assist USS Ingraham in rescue efforts of tanker Altair Voyager.”

The Andaman Sea

3:14 p.m.

Captain Eichenbrenner lay back in the warm sea water, trying to stay afloat.

Where was his crew? Perhaps they were swimming aft, trying to get out from under the thickening black smoke.

“Skipper! Over here!”

Eichenbrenner pulled his arms through the salt water and saw two of his men clinging to a single donut flotation device.

The flotation rings were designed to hold one man, not two. “I’m okay!” he shouted. “You men keep that ring. I’ll be fine.”

“Skipper. You better get over here!”

The men kept motioning for him to swim in their direction. “Hurry, Skipper!”

Instinct took over. If he didn’t get away from the ship, he’d be sucked under when it went down. He started swimming in the direction of their voices.

“Swim away from the ship in the direction of the ship’s aft! Repeat, this is the United States Navy!”

He pushed his arms through water and pulled down, beginning a backstroke. The sky blackened by the minute. If the cloud came much lower, it would cut off their oxygen.

“Hurry, Skipper!”

He pulled his hands through the water, then pushed water down from over his head to his sides.