Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

“No sir, Admiral, but…” He hesitated.

“But what, son?”

“Well, sir, I’ve been monitoring the news about these tanker attacks in Singapore and now the Malacca Straits. And I’m concerned that…” He hesitated again.

“You’re concerned that there might be a linkage.”

Robert exhaled. “I can’t prove it, sir, but as an intel officer and as a commodities analyst, yes, sir, I do have that concern.”

“We’re concerned about that too, Lieutenant. That’s part of the reason you’re being called to active duty. You might be a reservist, but you’re the only intel guy we’ve got with the breadth of commodities experience to give us a briefing on this. Now then, do you have any other questions?”

“Negative, Admiral. No other questions.”

“Very well. Then get your stuff packed, get in your uniform, and get your tail down to the airport. Understood?”

“Understood loud and clear.”

St. Stephen’s Catholic Church

Jakarta, Indonesia

5:05 p.m.

It had seemed so right in one sense. She was, after all, a woman, with all the needs and wants of any healthy, trim, and fit female in her late thirties.

They called her “beautiful,” “lovely,” and “stunningly gorgeous.” Such praise had been lavished upon her all her life from friends, family members, and the men she had been with over the years.

Yet despite the beauty they claimed she possessed, she had been living with a chasm of emptiness within her soul.

So lonely.

God hadn’t meant for her to feel this way, had he?

Years had passed since she was last in this place. Would she still know what to do?

She closed the door of the confessional and sat. A small wooden table supported a single lamp with a dim bulb burning. On the wall hung a single picture of Jesus. His eyes were sad and his face compassionate.

Just under the picture, and also on the table, lay two black, Catholic Bibles, one in English and one in Indonesian. She allowed her fingers to caress both of them. It had been years since she had touched a Bible. Perhaps it was her imagination, but something like a surge of electricity ran down her back as her fingers touched the leather.

She stared at the bell next to the veiled window. Should she ring it? Perhaps she should leave now.

Could she trust that her darkest confidences would remain secret? They would place her head on a chopping block if her confessions got out.

The risk was too great. She stood to leave. But the twisting in her soul forced her back into the chair.

For a few seconds, her hand hovered over the bell.

God, if you are still there, tell me what to do.

No answer.

Her hand struck the bell. The single, brassy chime echoed throughout the room.

From behind the wall, the voice of a man came. “How may I help you?” The voice was warm and friendly.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she said.

“That would make you human, my daughter,” the voice said. “For the holy Scripture proclaims that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. And also, that if we confess our sins, then he is faithful and just, so as to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all iniquity.”

Her eyes found the picture of Jesus on the wall. It was only a picture, but his eyes seemed so real. So alive. “I feel that I need this, Father, that I need purification.”

“You are Catholic?”

“Yes, Father.”

“It has not always been easy to be Catholic in Indonesia. Especially not on Java.”

“No, Father, it has not.”

“When did you last come to confession?”

Embarrassment caused her to hesitate. She thought about lying. But confession was about telling the truth, wasn’t it? “Over twenty years ago. I was eighteen. I have been away from the church since.”

“The Lord is pleased that you have returned. He says, ‘My sheep know my voice.’ Surely you are responding to his voice.”

“I hope that is right.”

“What is your sin, my daughter?”

Her stomach knotted again. “My sin, Father, is with a man.”

“A man? What is your sin with this man?”

She hesitated. Should she tell him everything? “To tell you the truth, Father, it is not just one man. It is more than one man.”

There was a pause. “Oh, I see.” The voice of the priest remained calm. “As I said, Jesus died for your sins. He paid the price for all of our sins, even before we were born. There is no end to his compassion. Please. Relax. Bask in the warmth of his love, and release the secret of your innermost sin from your soul.”

The words of the priest were warm, but the sweat on her forehead was cold.

“Father, I am not ready for this. I must go now.”

“Wait! Do not leave!”

She stood. “Thank you, Father.” She reached for the door and ran outside, down the hallway to the exit. The warm evening air felt good to her face, but her stomach clenched tighter than ever.

Ronald Reagan National Airport

12:00 p.m.

Only a Virginian would understand it, Robert thought. The tingle of exhilaration, deep down, somewhere within the soul.

Lieutenant Robert Molster had been gone for two years now. But he felt the spark, each and every time he returned to the native soil of his blessed Virginia.

He had often wondered why. Why the little tingle every time he returned home?

Deep down, though he could not fully articulate the reason, he knew why.

No, he had not marched with Washington into Trenton, nor been there when Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown, nor stood with the sons of Virginia under the command of the immortal Robert E. Lee in the moment before Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg. Yet, in a sense, he was there.

He was feeling it now. No, he had technically not set foot on his native soil, but sat in row 17C of Continental Flight 1240, which had just touched down and was taxiing down the runway at Ronald Reagan National Airport. Robert gazed across the banks of the Potomac, from the soil of his native Virginia to the green, flowered banks of the District of Columbia, where the white marble of the Washington Monument and the US Capitol dome gleamed against the noontime sun.

Virginians felt a special kinship with the District, and rightly so. With that thought, Robert remembered that in two hours, he would be in the White House, briefing his commander in chief, the president of the United States.

Surrealistic. That was what kept coming to mind. Was he dreaming?

The plane rolled forward slowly, then came to a stop.

Ding. The sound of the electronic double bell on the airplane’s PA system.

Passengers stood, crowding into the aisle. Why did some people cram themselves into the aisle of an airplane like sardines when the door hadn’t even opened yet? Robert stayed seated by the window until the crowd cleared.

He stood, resplendent in his service dress-blue uniform, and grabbed his white uniform cover from the overhead compartment. Then he exited the plane and headed toward the baggage claim area.

“Lieutenant Molster?”

Robert turned around and saw another US Navy lieutenant, also in a service dress-blue uniform, standing just behind him. This lieutenant, bearing a name tag that said Sellers, wore a gold, corded armband around his shoulder, indicating that he was an aide to an admiral.

“I’m Lieutenant Mike Sellers. I’m on Admiral Jones’ staff. Welcome to Washington.”

“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant,” Robert said. “I guess you’re my ride to the Pentagon?”

“Actually,” Sellers said, “there’s a slight change of plans. I’m your ride to the White House.”

“The White House?” Robert gulped. “I didn’t think that was until fourteen-hundred.”

“You’re right,” Sellers said. “The president changed his mind. He wants to see you now.”