Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

“Excuse me, ma’am.” She looked around, prompting Zack to roll his eyes to the tropical sky. The copilot of the C-130, a lieutenant aviator type, was standing there, holding her bags in both hands. “Where would you like these?”

Zack spoke up. “You can take them over to the chopper, Lieutenant. He’s going to shuttle us over to the Abe.”

“Yes, sir, Commander,” the copilot said. He started walking toward the roaring chopper with Diane’s briefcase in one hand and seabag in the other.

They followed, holding their heads down as they stepped under the rotating chopper blades. A petty officer took Diane’s hand and assisted her into the cargo bay. Zack stepped in and announced to the pilot, “Let’s do it.”

With the cargo bay door still open, the rotors revved faster, and the chopper lifted into the sky, about a hundred feet off the ground. It rotated fully around, as if at the center of a merry-go-round, then dipped its nose and flew over the lagoon, where the mighty aircraft carrier USS Abraham Lincoln was at anchor.

The chopper flew perhaps a half mile, if even that, and hovered over the anchored aircraft carrier. Within less than a minute, the Seahawk was feathering down onto the massive gray flight deck of the carrier.

Flight deck crew members, clad in multicolored motorcycle-style helmets and dark shades, were giving hand signals as it touched down.

The pilot cut the engines, and the rotor blades whirled to a stop. A tall naval officer approached the chopper. Two sailors flanked the officer and were walking slightly behind him. “Zack, Diane, welcome aboard the Abe,” Lieutenant Commander Bruce Dejardins said, approaching the open bay door of the helicopter.

“Glad to be aboard,” Zack said. He stepped out of the chopper and onto the deck of the aircraft carrier. He offered Diane his hand. She took it and stepped onto the sun-drenched deck.

“Thanks for having us.” Diane extended her hand to shake the commander’s. “Anyway, I wish we had time for pleasure. Unfortunately, whatever’s happening out there, we’re trying to shut it down before it goes much further. We’re hoping that we can pick up some clues from the guys stationed on board the Abe.”

“Understood,” Dejardins said. “If you’ll both follow me, let’s get to work.” He turned and led them on a brisk walk across the breezy deck.

Ding-ding. Ding-ding. Loud bells pealed over the Lincoln’s PA system. “Abraham Lincoln. Departing,” a voice on the loudspeaker said, indicating that the commanding officer of the Abraham Lincoln was at that moment leaving the ship.

“The skipper apologizes for not being able to personally welcome you aboard,” Dejardins said. “He’s got a meeting with the CO of the naval station, and we’re shuttling him over there by motor launch.”

“No problem,” Zack said.

“Anyway, Bruce,” Diane spoke up, “what can you tell us about these two wayward sailors that were on board the suicide boat?”

“This way.” Dejardins opened a door to a passageway leading inside the carrier’s “island.” They stepped into an elevator, and he punched the down button. “Both were loners.” The elevator doors opened and the officers stepped in. He punched the button for four decks below the flight deck. The doors closed, and the elevator started descending. “Muslim. Educated in Muslim schools in the Detroit area.

“Both kept their noses clean. No trouble from either one. Both took thirty days’ leave, which they were entitled to do. Then they go on this crazy suicide mission, and now, you guys show up.”

The elevator doors opened. “My office is to the left.”

They stepped into the passageway, turning left. Dejardins kept talking. “We’ve got their seabags and papers available for your inspection. But we found something in Seaman Moore’s locker that you might find interesting.” He stopped. “Here we are.” They stepped into the JAG offices.

“You’ve got my curiosity up,” Diane said. “What do we know about Moore?”

“Rahim Moore, Seaman Recruit. US Navy. From Dearborn, Michigan. Kind of a loner. Apparently of Middle Eastern origin, but we’ve heard that his father changed the family’s last name for whatever reason.”

“Wonder why,” Diane said.

“Who knows? Could be anything,” Dejardins said, then turned to one of his men. “Petty Officer Jones, lay the contents of Moore’s seabag on the table.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clothes, shoes, boots, ball caps were spread out in front of them-the typical belongings of a sailor in the US Navy. In the middle of all the clothing, Dejardins reached down and picked up a small plastic card and handed it to Diane.

The card had a photograph on it, and the red-and-white flag of Indonesia.

“Unbelievable,” Diane said. “I don’t read much Indonesian, but we’ve got an Indonesian Armed Forces military identification card on our hands. Service member by the name of Susilo Mulyasari.”

“Susilo Mulyasari.” Zack repeated the name. “Can you tell which branch?” Zack asked.

“Looks like navy.” She looked at the card again. “Yep. I’m pretty sure the phrase Angkatan Laut is a reference to their navy.” She held the ID up against the fluorescent light. “Why’s this familiar?” She looked over at her bags. “Petty Officer, pass my briefcase, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The legalman handed Diane the briefcase. She opened it and retrieved a file that she had quickly started assembling last night. From the accordion file, she pulled out a sub-file containing several eight-by-ten glossy color photos that had been taken on board USS Reuben James.

She laid one photograph on the table and compared it to the Indonesian identification card. She looked at Zack, who was standing to her right. “What do you think?” she asked him.

Zack picked up the color photo and studied it under the bright fluorescent lights. Bruce Dejardins crouched to Zack’s right, put on his reading glasses, and also peered at the photo.

“A little hard because it looks like a fifty-caliber round must’ve glazed part of the guy’s skull. But from the nose down, the mouth, I think we’ve got a match.”

Diane nodded her head.

“Bruce?”

“Agree.”

“I agree too, guys,” Diane said. “So that gives us a potential identification on one of the two non-Americans who tried to attack the SeaRiver Baytown.” She looked at Commander Dejardins. “But why would this Indonesian sailor’s ID be in Moore’s seabag?”

“Good question,” Zack said. “My experience has been that criminals can be both brilliant and stupid at the same time. The Indonesian must have given it to Moore at some point. Maybe they were trying to keep his identity anonymous for whatever reason.”

“Hmm.” Diane scratched her chin. “And we’ve searched and haven’t found anything in either of the two seabags that would give us a clue about the other guy?”

“Nothing, other than this one identification card,” Dejardins said.

“Well, the identification card is a start,” Zack said. “The more we learn about this cat, the better.”

“Agreed.” Diane turned to the Lieutenant Commander. “Bruce, could you arrange for me to use the ship’s message center to send a top-secret flash message to our embassy in Jakarta? I’d like to see if we can get the cooperation of the Indonesian military to get some background on this guy.”

“Consider it done,” Dejardins said.

“Then I need a flight back to Jakarta ASAP.”

“Oh, I’m sure we could find a few pilots lounging around here who would be happy to volunteer for that duty.” Dejardins smiled. “I’ll check with the air wing commander.”

“Appreciate it, Bruce.”