Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. The heartbeat monitor blipped a normal, sharply spiked green line across the black screen. Good. Now to make sure that Guntur didn’t wake up…

He lifted a syringe against the overhanging spotlight and worked the plunger slightly.

Here he had to be careful. The tranquilizer succinylcholine, which was in the syringe, had been used in euthanasia killings of horses around the world. If not controlled carefully, the drug could easily kill a man.

He held the syringe up again against the light, just to be safe. The bright light showed the standard dosage of 1 mg/kg in the barrel.

He plunged the needle into Guntur’s upper arm, then pushed slightly on the plunger…slowly…slowly…until a one kilogram dose of succinylcholine had oozed under the skin.

Beeeeep beep. Beeeeep beeeeep. Beeeeep beep. Beeeeep Beeeeep.

The beeps grew elongated as Guntur’s pulse slowed. Anton watched the heart monitor for a minute or two.

Good. Pulse, breathing, oxygen content in the blood had all stabilized. Anton buffed sweat from his forehead with his forearm.

Now for the next step.

He would employ a surgical procedure that was being used in the United States. Anton had read about it but had never performed it. He would access the lung by cutting an incision under the arm. Then, after cutting through cartilage, he would separate his brother’s ribcage at the entry point with a mechanical clamp.

From there, he would use probes, scalpels, and suction devices to remove the lung.

Although Anton had never tried this procedure, the techniques in the manuals seemed simple enough. So it was not the risk of trying something for the first time that concerned him.

Infection was always a concern whenever a foreign object was inserted in the body.

Guntur was going to die anyway. But Anton wondered if Guntur could live long enough to carry out his plan before infection would set in and either debilitate him or kill him.

Most foreign objects inserted by surgeons, whether shunts, prosthetic devices, or artificial kneecaps, were sanitized to kill germs and bacteria.

But there had been no effort to sanitize the considerable amount of C-4 plastic explosive that would be inserted in Guntur’s hollow lung cavity.

Nor had there been any effort to sanitize the remote-controlled detonator that would be inserted into the chest cavity and would look like a pacemaker to any metal detector that Guntur passed through.

To counteract the certain onset of deadly infection, he would pump Guntur heavily with antibiotics and hope that a combination of penicillin and other drugs would keep him alive long enough to finish the mission.

Anton again checked Guntur’s vitals. All signs were still stable. Good.

He took his sleeping brother’s left forearm and lifted it up over his head, laying it at the head of the operating table. Next, with a flesh marker, he carefully marked off a line under the arm in the chest area where he would begin this incision.

Anton put down the marker. He took a deep breath. Turning to the table full of surgical instruments that was right beside him, he lifted a stainless-steel scalpel between his fingers.

Carefully, he brought the tip of the razor-sharp blade to the beginning of the line on his brother’s body. He pushed slightly, and the blade sliced through the skin, giving way to red, oozing blood.

It had begun.

Five hours later, Anton looped the last thread of suture through the incision. The surgery was now complete. He laid the forceps and threading needle on the instrument tray.

He checked the monitors for vital signs. Pulse. Body temperature. Blood pressure. Respiratory rate. All normal.

He adjusted the penicillin drip that was already flowing into Guntur’s body via intravenous administration. The key here, he again reminded himself, would be battling infection long enough to complete the deed.

Guntur’s pulse was starting to pick up. The effects of the succinylcholine would soon be wearing off.

Physically exhausted, Anton slumped into a hospital chair at the foot of the operating table.

He would be implicated in this.

He knew it from the beginning. Guntur had to know it too.

But what could he do? Refuse to do it because he was afraid of becoming an accomplice to the murder of the president? Guntur was right. The president’s Western-oriented army had killed their father.

It had always been about Guntur. And rightly so. Guntur was the brave one. The visionary. If Guntur would lay down his life to avenge their father’s murder, how could he not? He would be with his father…and his brother again soon, in paradise.

Guntur’s body moved slightly. A grunt came from his vocal cords. Then another grunt.

Anton stood and walked over to his brother. Guntur’s eyelids flickered and then opened.

“How do you feel?” Anton asked.

“Fabulous,” Guntur whispered. “Are we done?”

“We are done,” Anton said, “and you responded beautifully.”

Guntur reached his hand out and took Anton’s. “I am doing well because I was just operated on by the finest surgeon in all of Indonesia.”

“You are prejudiced, Guntur.”

“Prejudiced, but also truthful. When can I resume my duties?”

Anton released his brother’s hand. “You will have to attend to your duties quickly, Guntur. Infection is inevitable. You know that.”

Guntur’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I know. My choices are death by bacteria or death by bomb. It is my destiny.”

“It is our destiny.”

“Tomorrow.” Guntur’s black eyes glazed. “Tomorrow I have an important examination to conduct. Will the antibiotics hold me until then?”

Anton hesitated. Guntur knew the answers to these questions as well as he did. But he seemed to be relishing his role as patient. Perhaps he knew that he may be Anton’s last patient.

“This depends on how rapidly infection sets in, my brother. I am going to take you home and keep you on an antibiotic drip. I am canceling all of my patients today.” He took his brother’s hand again. “Whatever happens tomorrow, my brother, I am with you.”

Guntur smiled beatifically. “To tomorrow.”

“To tomorrow.”

United States Embassy

Jakarta, Indonesia

9:00 a.m.

The waiting area outside the ambassador’s office was surprisingly plain, Zack thought, especially in contrast to the embassy offices in Singapore, where the anteroom outside Ambassador Griffith’s office was ornate, complete with intricate wood carvings adorning the bookcases, swanky loveseats, silver tea trays, and an expensive grandfather clock.

But here in Jakarta, a black leather sofa and a couple of end tables that could have come from OfficeMax filled the room. The secretary’s pitiful, Rooms-to-Go-ish desk was not even manned at the moment.

Perhaps this should not be surprising.

Indonesia, for all its geostrategic importance to the free world, was out of sight and out of mind for most Americans.

Unlike Singapore, Indonesia was a poor country. Poor countries rarely get noticed by rich countries.

Its moderate Islamic government had made no waves, and other than the horribly devastating 2004 tsunami, Indonesia had pretty much stayed out of the news in the United States.

Most Americans could not say, if pressed, which country around the Indian Ocean had been most devastated by the tsunamis, nor could they finger Indonesia on the globe if someone put a gun to their heads.

Yep. Out of sight, out of mind.

He turned and looked at the stunning naval officer, sitting in her summer white dress uniform, complete with white skirt and shiny white pumps. He gave her an affectionate tap on the hand.

“You sleep okay?”