Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

Guntur checked the wall clock. One fifty-seven.

“Of course, Mr. President. It would be a pleasure to meet the ambassador.”

Merdeka Square

1:59 p.m.

A single cloud floated in front of the sun, sweeping a large shadow over the green grass of the square. Sunlight still crested the buildings surrounding the grassy plain in the midst of the city, but it was as if Allah was dimming the lights to provide cover as the clock ticked down.

Anton gazed at his watch.

1:59:30

1:59:35

1:59:40

He squeezed the plastic transmitter with his right hand, his thumb on the detonation switch. He walked toward the palace. His heart pounded like a jackhammer.

1:59:48

1:59:52

1:59:55

1:59:57

Anton closed his eyes, held his breath, and waited for the alarm.

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep.

Click.

A delay.

Boom!

Silence.

A single plume of black smoke rose from atop the palace.

Eerie silence.

Then, screaming.

Confused voices, more screaming, followed by the sound of chaos pouring from the palace.

Anton turned away. The first siren wailed in the distance, growing louder. Now a second siren.

The cloud passed from beyond the sun, and a bright reflection glowed from the gold tip at the top of the Monas.

The Monas. The monument of independence. The monument of freedom.

At last, freedom!

Anton walked toward it. A third siren pierced the air. Now a fourth.

Armed troops in shining helmets scrambled across the grass, brushing his shoulders as they ran right by him, headed to the palace.

The air filled with sirens screeching as he approached the Monas. He stopped at the base of the great tower and looked straight up. From here, the Monas was a great arm reaching into heaven, its gold tip glowing, basking in the afternoon sunlight.

What a glorious, final sight to pass from this world into the world of his father and now his brother.

The sound of helicopters roared over the square and over the palace, muffling the ear-splitting sound of the sirens. Whirling lights atop police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances filled the streets surrounding the square.

Good. No one would hear what was about to happen.

The gun had been wedged under his belt. It was a nine-millimeter Glock that his father had used in Aceh.

He pulled the pistol from his belt and carefully worked the action. Soon, they would be scouring the area for suspects. Anyone with a pistol would be arrested or shot. He would have to be swift.

He brought the barrel to his mouth. The steel was cold to his lips and tongue.

“You with the gun!”

He turned toward the smoking palace. Two armed soldiers were charging him from across the grass. They brought their rifles up, aiming squarely at him.

“Drop it!” one of them shouted.

Anton stepped back, pressed his skull against the base of the Monas, and squeezed the trigger.

The White House

3:15 a.m.

The staticky buzz prompted a murmur and a grunt from the First Lady of the United States, who responded to it by wrapping her leg around the president and grunting again.

Now in his eighth year in office, Mack wished that he could ignore a post-midnight call on the presidential hotline. But he had campaigned for this job, and part of the territory of holding the most powerful job on the planet was taking calls at all hours of the night. And a call on the hotline at three-fifteen in the morning could not be a good thing.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and reached over to pick up the phone. “Whatcha got?”

“Sorry for the interruption, Mr. President,” Chief of Staff Arnie Brubaker said, “but we’ve got an emergency situation in Indonesia, sir.”

Mack rubbed his eyes. “Not another tanker attack in the straits, I hope.”

“Even worse, Mr. President.”

A twisting wrenched the president’s stomach. “What?”

“Mr. President, there’s just been an attack at the Merdeka Presidential Palace in Jakarta. We think it’s an assassination attempt on President Santos.”

“Dear Lord.” That one word-assassination-sent chills up the spine of any red-blooded politician. Even the president wasn’t immune to it, and the first lady went into a clammy near-panic at the news of an attempt on the life of any leader anywhere in the world. She had seen the Zapruder film of the JFK assassination and tried her best to keep Mack from running. “When? How?”

“Fifteen minutes ago, sir. Apparently a bomb in Santos’ office. And there’s something else.”

Mack swung his seat over the side of the bed. “Let’s hear it.”

“Ambassador Stacks may have been with President Santos at the time.”

“Not Martin.” Mack wiped his forehead. The president and Martin Stacks had been fraternity brothers at the Sigma Chi fraternity house at the University of Kansas. “Have we heard anything from him?”

“No sir, Mr. President, we haven’t. And I’m afraid there’s more potentially bad news.”

“Arnie, just give me all the bad news at once. This business of doing it piecemeal is driving me bananas.”

“Sorry, Mr. President. The last thing involves Lieutenant Commander Colcernian.”

Mack could not bring himself to respond. He had gotten to know Diane Colcernian four years ago in connection with her duties as a US Navy JAG officer when she had assisted JAG officer Zack Brewer in the prosecution of three Islamic chaplains, all members of the Navy Chaplain Corps. The case had gotten international attention, and when it was over, Mack had invited Zack and Diane to the White House.

Diane was later kidnapped by terrorists and presumed dead, but thanks to the brilliant investigative work of a young agent in the Naval Criminal Investigative Service named Shannon McGilverry, evidence surfaced suggesting that Diane might be alive.

Risking the possibility of war with Russia and China, Mack had personally ordered a daring rescue mission by Navy SEALs across Chinese and Russian airspace into Mongolia’s Gobi Desert, where Diane was found alive and rescued by the SEALs.

Mack had paternalistic feelings toward Diane. This was in part because her father, a retired navy admiral, had died just before Diane accepted her commission, and it had been rumored that Diane had passed up a lucrative modeling career to serve in the navy. Her mother had died long ago, and Diane had told Mack when she came to the White House that she was fulfilling her father’s wishes that his only child follow in his footsteps as a naval officer.

The navy had sent Diane to an attaché job in Jakarta to get her into a relatively safe position to give her time to recover from captivity, out of the limelight of the press.

And now, this.

“Mr. President?”

“What about Commander Colcernian?”

“Sir, she accompanied Ambassador Stacks to the Merdeka Palace. That’s all we know at the moment.”

“What about Commander Brewer? Does he know?” Mack asked.

“Lieutenant Commander Brewer was in Singapore in the old British military hospital. But he left against doctor’s orders, and persuaded Ambassador Griffith to let him travel to Diego Garcia and then to Indonesia to help in the investigation. We know he’s in Indonesia, but as far as we know, he did not accompany the ambassador or Commander Colcernian to the embassy. We don’t know what he knows at the moment, sir.”

The president flicked on a small reading light that he kept on the lampstand.

“Mack?” This was the voice of the first lady. He looked around and saw her squinting and starting to push herself up. He held up his hand to shush her.

“Okay, Arnie. Assemble the National Security Council together in the Situation Room in one hour. Tell the chairman of the Joint Chiefs I want a full briefing of everything we know.”