Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

“Reagan. Growler. Standing by with our fingers on the light switch.”

Indonesian Air Force C-9

Over the Java Sea

6:25 p.m.

From his seat in the VIP section just behind the cockpit of the military jet, Captain Hassan Taplus looked out over the darkening waters of the sea and smiled. This would be the last sunset in which anyone would call him “Captain.”

He would surely be promoted to “Colonel” Taplus once he stepped off the plane. Perhaps the general himself would be there to meet him at the tarmac to pin his new rank upon his collars, and perhaps even an award for heroism on his chest.

Ah, yes. The glorious moment would come soon.

But no, on second thought, the general would be too busy for an airport promotion ceremony. As much as the general would personally like to be there, his duties would not allow it. That was understandable. The general could not be out in the public.

At least not yet, anyway.

The general would dispatch Colonel Croon to preside over the on-the-spot promotion, and then, there would be a more formal ceremony later on, replete with the appropriate cast of military and civilian dignitaries. The promotion would come now, and the medals for heroism would come at the formal ceremony. Yes, that was the way they would do it, he decided.

There would be a tickertape parade for him. He knew it. Much like the ones he had seen and read about in America. It would be the kind of tickertape that he had seen on YouTube for the American astronauts who walked on the moon all those years ago.

Of course, realistically, the parade would not only be for him. The general, of course, would have to be at the head of it, but there would be no reason whatsoever that he, the soon-to-be Colonel Taplus, would not be riding in the backseat of the convertible alongside the general. After all, the names of Perkasa and Taplus would go down forever as founding fathers of the Islamic Republic of Indonesia.

Of course, others would be in the parade as well. Perhaps even some of the people sitting behind him on this plane. There weren’t many of them. Only a handful were on the mostly empty plane. They were the scientists who worked on the project and a few other military advisors. That was okay. The parade would have to be long enough to make it worthwhile for the throngs of adoring Indonesians and the international media that would be clamoring to focus on the lead car.

But the point is, they would all be in the cars trailing him and the general. Even Colonel Croon could be in the parade. But he should be riding behind the lead car. Yes, Croon still outranked Hassan, for the time being anyway. But the general would come to the realization, if he had not already, that Croon was a stooge yes-man. Nothing wrong with a stooge yes-man who happened to be in the right place at the right time. History was replete with them. They were good at feeding the egos of the real changers of history. And yes, they were loyal to their hero idols.

Croon was loyal to the general. That, Hassan had to admit. But Croon could never have pulled off what Hassan had just pulled off. There was a reason the general sent the bright, young, handsome star of his staff, and not the old, dull, decrepit yes-man to pull off the most stunning technological feat in Indonesian history.

Hassan closed his eyes and smiled some more.

Yes, except for the on-the-spot promotion he was about to receive from the colonel at the airport, perhaps the colonel had already outlived his usefulness.

It was a thought anyway.

“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice came over the plane’s intercom system, “but there’s been an unexpected radar failure at Jakarta, and we’ve been ordered to turn the plane around and head to Bali. Don’t worry, Bali Control has us on their screens. We’ll keep you posted on developments.”

“What?” Hassan blurted. Had he heard that right? This could not be. He had just pulled off the single most historic achievement in his nation’s history. Now he was needed in Jakarta. The general would want his briefing. Perhaps even a joint press conference before the nation would be in order. Perhaps his promotion would take place on live television, and then they would go into the press conference.

He unholstered his safety belt, stepped into the aisle, and marched three steps forward to the cockpit area.

“What do you mean, we are turning the plane around?” Captain Taplus was now standing at the door of the cockpit.

“Air traffic control has rerouted us because of a radar failure,” the copilot said.

“Do you know who I am?” he snapped at the pilot. “I am Captain Hassan Taplus of General Perkasa’s staff. As you know, General Perkasa is now in charge of the Indonesian government. My presence in Jakarta is a matter of extreme urgency.”

“I understand, Captain Taplus,” the pilot said over his shoulder, as the plane began a wide, slow, banking maneuver. “But I have regulations I must follow. There is much confusion on the ground because of the assassination of the president. My regulations are mandated by the air force, of which I am an officer. If a controller tells us to turn away, we must turn away. We run the risk of midair collision by flying into heavily trafficked airspace without radar control.”

“Captain,” Hassan shot back, “I am sorry, but on the authority granted me by General Perkasa himself, I am ordering you to fly to Jakarta.”

The pilot looked over his shoulders, with an arrogant nobody-tells-me-what-to-do look on his face. “Captain Taplus, this is my airplane, and I am in command of it. And until someone on the ground with a higher authority than yours tells me otherwise, I am obligated to follow orders and procedures.”

Hassan instinctively reached for the pistol grip in his holster and whipped out his nine-millimeter Beretta. “Here is your higher authority!” Hassan pointed the gun directly at the sycophant. “Your orders are to turn this plane back to Jakarta! Now! A good pilot can fly in on direct reckoning, without radar. Do it!”

“Direct reckoning is almost impossible at night,” the pilot protested. “You can’t see anything unless you’re right on top of the airport.”

“Then use your compass, you idiot,” Hassan said. “You can figure it out!”

“And if I don’t you’ll shoot me?” the pilot snarled. “Who will fly the plane?”

Hassan swung the gun to the copilot’s head. “How about if I shoot your buddy over here first?” He jammed the barrel right behind the copilot’s ear.

“Don’t turn around,” the copilot said. “Let him shoot.”

The pilot’s eyes shifted between the gun, the copilot, and Hassan.

“I must remind you that until you turn this plane around, Captain, you are disobeying a lawful order, which will subject you to court martial if and when this plane lands. Now I’m going to count to ten,” Hassan said. “And when I reach ten, I’m going to splatter your friend’s brains all over the cockpit.” The pilot’s eyes shifted even more rapidly. “One, two, three, four, five, six…”

“Let him shoot…”

“Seven, eight…”

“Don’t give in to this idiot…”

“…Nine…” Hassan brought his finger to the trigger.

“Stop!” the pilot screamed. “Okay…okay…we’re turning around!”

Hassan pulled the gun back. Slightly.

“But I’m warning you, Captain Taplus,” the pilot said, as he began steering the plane back to a course approaching due west, “if and when we get this plane on the ground, I’m reporting you to the authorities.”

“Report all you want, Captain,” Hassan said. “But just remember this: General Perkasa is not going to be happy with you disobeying the lawful order of his chief assistant. Report me, and you’ll go from flying jets in the air force to driving a milk truck for the national guard. And that’s if you’re lucky.” He waved the gun in the general direction of the pilot. “Remember this too: you’ve got one hour to get this plane safely down on the ground in Jakarta. If not, you’ll need a body bag for your buddy here when we land. Am I clear?”