Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

“Yes, they are, Mr. President.”

“What’s our naval presence in the area?”

“Right now,” the admiral continued, “we have four Los Angeles-class attack submarines and three Aegis-class cruisers patrolling roughly along this line from the south of Jakarta to the Timor Sea.

“USS Abraham Lincoln is steaming east from Diego Garcia. I recommend moving the Lincoln battle group along this line so that we can get our subs and cruisers up into these sea lanes around Irian Jaya and the Halmahera Sea.

“We also have one Los Angeles-class and two Virginia-class attack subs, along with three Oliver Hazard Perry-class frigates patrolling in the south Philippine Sea. These ships can be quickly deployed into the Halmahera Sea and can patrol this area off Irian Jaya. The Aegis-class cruiser USS Port Royal is steaming south of Indonesia and is available for escort duty if necessary.

“Our biggest stick in the area, USS Ronald Reagan, has just left port at Perth and is steaming north in the IO along the west coast of Australia toward Indonesia. Reagan is our closest carrier at the moment. The Gipper’s jets will be within striking distance of these sea lanes in just a few short hours, Mr. President, and the Lincoln won’t be far behind.”

The president folded his reading glasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. Every American president, in every international crisis since World War II, had instinctively asked this question: “Where are the carriers?”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs had just answered it even before it was specifically asked. The president appeared to take comfort at the news that two of America’s mightiest warships, both named after the two greatest Republican presidents in history, were in the area.

“Okay. I’m ordering the Reagan and Lincoln task forces to the area. Get our forces deployed into these sea lanes. Now.”

“Aye, aye, Mr. President,” Admiral Jones said.

“Also,” the president continued, “we’re proceeding on the assumption that an attack will occur against a tanker in the region. Just to be safe, I want to cover some of these other choke points where we have tanker traffic. So I’m ordering beefed-up naval presence in the following regions.” The president held up his hands and began ticking off a list of the choke points. “The Strait of Hormuz, the Gulf of Aden, the Red Sea, the entrance to the Suez Canal, the Gulf of Oman, the Persian Gulf, Gibraltar, and the Sea of Marmara leading to the Bosporus.”

Admiral Jones took notes and winced as the president continued.

The president looked over at Admiral Jones. “I gather that you have some sort of problem with this, Admiral?”

“No, sir, Mr. President. It’s just that rapid deployment of beefed-up naval forces to all these areas all at once will stretch the navy and make us thin in other areas, sir.”

The president exhaled. “I was afraid you might say that.” He drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. “Secretary Lopez.”

“Yes, sir,” the secretary of defense replied.

“I want you to order the secretary of the navy to prepare an order for my signature, which I may or may not sign, which would immediately call up all naval reserve forces.” He held up one finger. “Check that. Give me three options in the order. Option one, to call up one-third of all naval reserve forces. Option two, to call up two-thirds. Option three, to mobilize the entire naval reserve.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Also”-he was looking at SECDEF-“if these clowns, whoever they are, are going to start hitting oil tankers, we’re going to need more warships to deter threats around the globe.

“So I want to revive President Reagan’s plan for a six-hundred-ship navy, and I want you to instruct the navy to bring me several workable plans from which I can select and present to the Congress. Place an emphasis on the geostrategic objective of protecting vital sea lanes and littoral regions. I want these plans on my desk within thirty days.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Very well. Let’s reset to meet again at zero-eight-hundred tomorrow morning, unless you hear from me. Let’s pray that Lieutenant Molster’s assessment is wrong. You are dismissed.”

The president rose, prompting the members of the NSC to rise and stand in their places as he stepped out of the room.

“Good job, Lieutenant,” Admiral Jones said. “Now let’s get back over to the building and pray that you are wrong.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Brownsville, Texas

8:30 a.m.

The sun had been blazing for an hour over the Gulf of Mexico when Emanuel Gonzales turned his beat-up, red Toyota Celica left off Boca Chica Boulevard into the parking lot of the Old Port Isabel Warehouse.

He had slipped across the border into Brownsville with his wife, his kids, and his three cousins six years ago. He’d found work at the warehouse and had been promoted to manager of the place six months later. No one asked about a green card or anything else. Not even a Social Security number was required, since the owner said that he would be paid as an “independent contractor.”

Last week he’d gotten a pay raise of an extra five bucks an hour, which was nice considering that it cost a lot to support three kids, a wife, and three cousins. Their eleven-hundred-square-foot house ran seven hundred bucks a month. And although his cousins Julio and Juan-Carlos were working construction to help out with the bills, things were still tight. So Emanuel was grateful for the raise.

Of course, there was a price to be paid for a more luxurious lifestyle. In this case, that price was a longer workday. No longer could he show up just before the joint opened at nine o’clock. Now, with his new responsibilities as manager, he had to show up at work half an hour ahead of time.

Emanuel checked his watch. Eight-thirty. He was right on time.

Old Port Isabel Warehouse wasn’t scheduled to open for another half an hour, but already, three smaller-sized U-Haul cargo vans were sitting in front of the warehouse.

The Toyota puttered into the manager’s reserved parking space just outside the offices. Emanuel got out of the car, his huge key ring snapped to his jeans, and walked to the front door of the office. Jingling the keys, he inserted the silver one into the dead bolt lock.

The sound of a slamming car door echoed across the parking lot.

“Hola, amigo!” Gonzales looked around. An Arab-looking guy had stepped out of the first van and was walking over.

These eager beavers can’t even let a guy get in the office to take a leak. And why do they think I only speak Spanish? “Hola, my friend,” he replied. “We no open for thirty minutes.”

“I understand, amigo.” The man walked closer. “My friends and I are in a hurry. We’ll make it worth your time if we can pick up our cargo and get out of here.” The man handed a green, crisply folded bill to Emanuel.

Emanuel opened it, found a picture of a somber-looking, dead, white American named “Franklin” in an oval frame in the middle.

“Gracias, amigo.” Emanuel stashed the hundred-dollar bill in his pocket. “I’m not supposed to do this.” He gave a wink and a nod. “The owner says if we open early for one customer, we must open early for them all,” he said. But one hundred bucks would go a long way in the frozen food section of Wal-Mart, where you could buy a pizza or a TV dinner for a buck. Señora Gonzales would be very pleased tonight. That thought brought a big, cheesy grin to his face. “But under the circumstances, we can accommodate. What are you here to pick up?”

The man smiled. “You should have three crates of bottled water.”

“Ah. The mysterious boxes of bottled water.”

“Mysterious? Why do you say that?” the man asked.