Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

“Now? I was hoping for a few minutes to get my thoughts together. And what about my bags?”

“Senior Chief Fryermier here will take care of your bags.” Sellers gave a hitchhiking reverse thumb maneuver back over his shoulder, and Robert saw that a navy senior chief petty officer, a submariner, was standing just a few feet behind him.

“Let’s roll,” Sellers said. “The president and the National Security Council are waiting. You can prep in the car as we cross the river.”

“The National Security Council too?”

“You’re in high cotton, Lieutenant. Whatever you’re serving, the big brass wants some of it.”

Lieutenant Molster followed Sellers out to a navy blue Ford Taurus with US government tags. The car hugged the banks of the Potomac River as it sped north along the George Washington Parkway from Reagan Airport.

Passing under Interstate 95 and Robert’s future duty station, the limestone monstrosity that is the Pentagon, the car bore to the right, rolling onto Memorial Bridge, where traffic slowed as the car headed straight toward the Lincoln Memorial.

With the blue waters of the Potomac gently flowing under the cars jammed on the bridge, the sight of the great memorial dedicated to the life and service of America’s sixteenth president reminded Robert again that in just a few minutes, he would be standing in front of America’s current president.

Perhaps a little conversation would calm him down.

“Isn’t the North Portico blocked off?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lieutenant Sellers said, “but we’re not going that way.” Traffic cleared, and the Taurus sped by the Lincoln Memorial and headed left onto the broad, tree-lined expanse of Constitution Avenue. They passed various government buildings, mostly three- and four-story stone and limestone structures from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, including historic buildings which housed part of the Department of the Interior.

To their right, the long, black V-shaped wall of the Vietnam Memorial, sunk into the grass of the Mall, hosted curious seekers and visitors placing flowers next to the names of loved ones who had died in that war.

The black sheen of the Vietnam Memorial was in stark contrast to the gleaming white obelisk that was the Washington Monument, which rose triumphantly in the very middle of the long, famous Mall that began at the Lincoln Memorial and ended at the US Capitol.

Robert closed his eyes and uttered a quick, silent prayer. Lord, give me strength, courage, and wisdom for whatever it is you are calling me to do.

When he opened his eyes, the car was turning left off Constitution Avenue and onto 17 thStreet. Now, as the car slowed, the Ellipse and the South Lawn were suddenly to their right, and Robert’s eyes fell on the White House itself. At the sight of it, a remarkable calm fell over him.

The car slowed more and turned right from 17 thStreet onto E Street, where it stopped in front of four blue-uniformed US Marines who were standing guard at a gate blocking the E Street entrance to the White House grounds.

Sellers rolled down the window as a marine approached the car and saluted. “May I help you, sir?”

Sellers flashed an Armed Forces identification card. “I’m Lieutenant Sellers with Admiral Jones’ staff.”

The marine examined the card. “Ah, yes, sir. My apologies that I didn’t recognize you, sir.”

“This is Lieutenant Molster.” Sellers nodded to Robert, who by now was flashing his Armed Forces identification card also. “He’s scheduled to brief the president and the NSC.”

The marine took Robert’s card. “Yes, sir.” He popped another salute, then crisply dropped it. “We have you on the list. Pull forward, please, then make your first left. You’ll have to stop at the next gate and pass through security.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Sellers said. The car rolled forward, then swung left slowly onto the oval portion of West Executive Drive, headed straight toward the White House. The entrance into the inner portion of the south lawn was blocked by a row of marines and several black-suited Secret Service personnel.

“This is the Southwest Appointment Gate,” Sellers said. “The West Wing is right up there, just to the left of the main building.” Two marines and a uniformed Secret Service agent approached the car. “They’ll take us through metal detectors, just as a precaution; then they’ll escort us in.”

“Lieutenants, if you would step out of the car and follow me,” the marine said. They got out of the car. A woman, a naval officer bearing the rank of lieutenant commander, was walking from the White House toward them.

“That’s Lieutenant Commander Beth Murray,” Sellers said. “She’s an intel officer, attached to JCS. I’m sure you’ll be working with her.”

“Roger that.” Robert opened the door, put his cover on his head, stepped out, and was immediately greeted by the faint scent of perfume carried by the gentle southerly breeze. He looked up, and there she stood: Lieutenant Commander Murray, her smile revealing perfectly white teeth, and her blue eyes seeming to dance under the light of the overhead sun.

He came to attention and snapped off a sharp salute. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

“Lieutenant,” the commander said, returning an equally sharp salute. “I’m Beth Murray, with J-2.”

“A pleasure, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Beth. And follow me. We can talk on the way to the briefing.”

“Sure thing, Beth. I’m Robert.”

“I’ll accompany you to the cabinet room, where the NSC is meeting with the president, and I’ll be there to support you in your briefing.”

“You know commodities, Beth?”

“Not exactly, Robert,” she said. “But since I’m an intel officer, somehow I got picked to be your support in the briefing. Lucky me, huh?” She smiled, and as she did, two cute dimples appeared on each side of her face.

“Commander…Excuse me, Beth. To be honest, this morning I’m minding my own business. Now I’m suddenly called to active duty, flown to the White House to brief the president of the United States, of all people, and I don’t even have a briefing prepared. Can you give me a hint on what they want?”

A marine, again in full blue regalia, came to attention, saluted, and opened a door leading into the West Wing.

“They’re interested in the theory that these…what do you call them…limit moves?”

“Right. Limit moves,” he said, as they stepped into an ornate hallway.

“That these limit moves may be in some way tied to terrorist activity.”

“It’s possible,” he said. “The timing is suspicious.”

“I’m armed already with charts and PowerPoint presentations. Anything you need. I have a timeline sequence, which I figured you may want to illustrate your briefing, that shows times of limit moves in relationship to real-time events in the Malaccan Strait and Singapore.

“They’ve concluded that you understand this stuff better than any officer in the navy. And you’re an intelligence officer. In addition to my real-time chart, we’ve got an overhead projector, audio visual stuff, maps of the area, and even stock charts if you want them at your fingertips. Just let me know, and I’ll call up any chart or map you want. But right now, Robert, the stars are aligning in your favor. You’re the expert they need. You are the man.” She stopped in front of large, ornate double doors, which were guarded by four marines and four Secret Service agents. “We’re here. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

She nodded at one of the Secret Service agents. The double doors slowly opened, and faces that he had seen only on television came into view.

There was the vice president, the secretary of state, the secretary of defense. Next to the secretary of defense sat the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Roscoe Jones. Beside Admiral Jones sat one of the most glamorous figures in America, National Security Advisor Cynthia Hewitt, who was the first in the group to speak up in her famous velvety voice. “Mr. President, I believe he’s here.”