Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

US Navy C-130

Over the Indian Ocean

10:30 p.m.

We’ve got a great view of Diego Garcia if you’d like to come up to the cockpit, Commander.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Diane unbuckled her safety harness and made her way into the cockpit. The magnificent crystal-blue vista of sun-sparkled waves on the open ocean was splendid, a revivifying contrast to the oil-drenched environmental disaster on the beaches at Singapore.

The sight of God’s panoramic masterpiece made her forget, momentarily, that she was on a mission to investigate and combat the modern scourge of the twenty-first century: international terrorism.

I wish Zack could be here.

“Where’s Diego Garcia?”

“Look to the left, Commander. About ten o’clock.”

She did. “Wow. It looks like the outline of a giant footprint in the ocean.”

“This your first visit to the Rock?”

“I’m afraid so, Lieutenant.”

“Welcome to the middle of the Indian Ocean.”

The plane banked to the left, and Diego Garcia was now visible, almost in front of the aircraft, but just slightly to the left. Lush palm trees and vegetation glimmered in the sunshine. “It doesn’t look like a rock,” she said. “It looks like an atoll.”

“That’s right, ma’am. I’m not sure where it got that name. But it’s really a huge tropical atoll. From the air, it looks like a giant footprint. The Brits own it and provide a token presence, including a provisional government. But the US Navy leases it, and we’re the main occupant.

“The whole place is only about seventeen square miles,” the pilot continued. “But the water in the middle of the lagoon is hardly like an ordinary lagoon.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, the water in the middle of it is so large and so deep that we could bring the entire Seventh Fleet in there if we wanted. In fact, the water is so deep around the place that those huge tsunamis that swept across the Indian Ocean in 2004 barely caused any damage at all.”

“Wow.”

“Wow’s right. This place is America’s best-kept secret in this part of the world,” the pilot said. He pushed down on the yoke and the plane nosed down. “You say it looks like a footprint,” the pilot continued. “Well, the British and American navies have for years called it “The Footprint of Freedom.” We’ve even let the Air Force borrow it to launch B-2 and B-52 airstrikes from here against Iraq and Afghanistan. President Bush visited back in 2007.”

The pilot banked the C-130 again to the left. The Footprint was in the middle of the sparkling blue ocean, right in front of the nose of the plane.

“Amazing that a place so far from everything, a place that most Americans have never heard of, would have so many names,” Diane said.

“True, Commander,” the pilot said. “Diego Garcia. The Footprint of Freedom. The Rock.” He took a swig of bottled water. “But know what the best one is?”

“What’s that?”

“Well, a few years ago, Stars and Stripes ran an article about it and called it Gilligan’s Island with Guns. That nailed it. That’s exactly what that place is-a beautiful tropical island with white sands, clear water, coconut and palm trees, multicolored fish, and enough firepower to single-handedly take out most nations on the face of the earth. In fact, USS Abraham Lincoln is moored there now. Just waiting for your arrival.”

Diane let that thought sink in. She would have no time for picking coconuts or fun in the sun.

“We’ve just been cleared for landing, ma’am,” the pilot said. “You may want to strap in.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Diane moved back to her jump seat and clicked the aluminum buckles of her shoulder harness. She tightened the belt and then sat back and closed her eyes.

In her stomach, she felt the plane descending more rapidly now, but it was an easy descent, free of turbulence, indicating smooth, warm air and no cloud cover.

A moment later, the plane bounced slightly on touchdown, its rubber wheels hitting the concrete runway a little too hard for comfort. The pilot threw the props in reverse, and the reverse wind drag slowed the plane on the runway.

“Sorry about the bump,” the pilot said. “Got a little wind shear just as we touched down.”

“Not a problem.” Diane unbuckled her shoulder harness. The plane was in a slow taxi now. A few minutes later, the plane stopped rolling. The engines whined down and cut off.

A moment later, the copilot stepped back out of the cockpit area and opened the outside door of the airplane. Bright sunshine, a warm, tropical breeze, and the roar of helicopter engines all rushed in.

“Commander, we’ll get your bags.”

“Thank you,” Diane said. She donned a pair of shades and stepped onto the ladder, where she stopped to enjoy the tropical ambiance before beginning her descent. Swaying coconut and palm trees surrounded the inside of the runway. Off to the right, a giant British C-17, one that looked just like the one that had taken off ahead of them in Singapore, was parked on the tarmac.

To the left, a US Navy helicopter, a gray, carrier-based SH-60F Seahawk, was sitting on the tarmac about fifty yards away with its engines running. On the fuselage of the Seahawk, painted in black, was the word NAVY. Painted in smaller letters, also in black, was the name of the ship to which the Seahawk was assigned, USS Abraham Lincoln.

A few sailors wearing blue baseball-style caps, white T-shirts, and blue jeans were milling about down on the tarmac at the bottom of the portable staircase and over near the helicopter.

Where was her escort? She impatiently checked her watch.

The JAG officer from Abraham Lincoln, Lieutenant Commander Bruce Dejardins, was supposed to escort her onboard the aircraft carrier. But where was he?

She started to descend the staircase, and when she was about halfway down, she noticed a US naval officer step out of the helicopter. He was trim and physically fit in his well-cut khaki uniform, and he was wearing dark shades.

A gold oak leaf on his collar, showing that he bore the rank of lieutenant commander, glistened brightly in the afternoon sun. The officer was walking from the chopper in the direction of the C-130. He looked familiar from a distance, she briefly thought. She took her eyes off him to descend the rest of the aluminum staircase. Probably Lieutenant Commander Dejardins.

Good.

About time.

“What’s up, Diane?” a familiar voice called out as she stepped onto the concrete. She looked up and saw that the handsome officer, still approaching on foot and with a huge grin on his face, was now close enough to her that his identity was no longer in question.

“Zack!” she shouted instinctively. A rampant fluttering rocked her heart. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve got friends in the British military. Remember?” A wider grin crossed his face. He pointed at the Royal Air Force C-17 sitting on the tarmac.

That response prompted her to pop him on the arm, half angrily yet half playfully. His reference to the British military was a joking reference to the British Royal naval officer in Australia. Zack could joke about it easier than she could. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital recuperating. Remember?”

He laughed. “Doc said a tropical environment would be the perfect antidote for my smoke inhalation.”

“I won’t ask.”

“Don’t,” he said. “Just let me kiss you.”

“Zack,” she uttered a sheepish protest. He pulled her to him. “The navy has rules against public displays of affection,” she whispered.

“I’m a JAG officer. You don’t think I know the navy’s rules? The heck with the navy. For now anyway.” He ripped his sunglasses off.

Bolts of lightning shot through her body at the touch of his lips. Oh, dear. What had she been missing all these years? The heck with the navy, he had said, and he was right. At this moment he was right. And the heck with everything else. For now…