Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

“Our source says that Indonesian Vice President Magadia is being held captive at one of the presidential palaces in Indonesia, located near the city of Bogor.”

“Is this intelligence accurate?”

“Dunno, sir. It’s the best we’ve got.”

“Recommendation?”

“Our first priority is protection of these American cities.”

“Agreed, Admiral.”

“That means we’ve gotta find these trucks. So first thing we do is shut down all air traffic in the area over San Francisco, as we’ve done with Washington.”

“Okay, done,” Mack said.

“And in addition to alerting all law enforcement authorities in both these metro areas, the military provides increased air cover in the way of camera-equipped drones to keep an eye on the roads. We also need to get our F-16s crisscrossing these cities at high altitudes, and we need three Apache helicopters armed with air-to-surface missiles hovering on station in each city.”

Mack felt himself raise an eyebrow. “Air-to-ground missiles? Armed over an American city?”

“Part of the problem, Mr. President, is this: we’ve got two U-Hauls driving around somewhere with nuclear bombs inside. What happens if a police officer tries pulling the truck over? Or suppose we stop ’em in a roadblock?”

Mack nervously ran his hand through his hair. “You’re saying he might blow the bomb prematurely.”

“Yes, sir,” the admiral said. “The danger is that the driver panics and hits the detonate button on the spot.”

“So you’re advocating taking him out by air.”

“Yes, sir, unless we can get a sniper on them and shoot them through the windshield.”

“I see.” Mack did not like it. An air-to-surface missile could kill innocent Americans who might be around it. But even that wasn’t the president’s greatest concern. “Doesn’t the explosion risk detonating the nuclear device?”

Smith was quick with his response. “Most small nukes are detonated by the fission process and not the fusion process. The fission process involves firing a fission bullet down a gun barrel into a nuclear core, which sets off the nuclear device. We believe the explosion would take out this gun-barrel assembly device, and wreck the bomb before it would detonate.”

A pause.

“Can you guarantee the ASM won’t set off the nukes?”

Another pause. “No sir, Mr. President. We cannot guarantee it. But we can pretty much guarantee that two cities are going to get hit by nukes anyway.”

That thought sank in. “Get the birds in the air.”

“Aye, sir. And one other recommendation.”

“Go.”

“This is your call, sir. But we can send a SEAL team in to try and pull Vice President Magadia out of Istana Bogor.”

Mack thought about that. He looked at his secretary of state. “Restore power in Indonesia to its status quo?”

“Yes, sir,” Secretary Mauney said. “Or at least prop up a credible opposition leader to this Perkasa nut until we can take Perkasa out.”

“Okay, Admiral. You have my authorization. Do what we need to do to pull Magadia out of there.”

“Aye, aye, Mr. President.”

Bogor, Indonesia

1:15 a.m.

Gentlemen,” Captain Noble announced in the dark of the night, once again seeming to forget that Diane was in the group. “Huddle around. We’ve got new orders.”

Like a football team in a huddle on offense, the black-faced SEALs gathered around their leader, who was at the far end of the group. Diane stepped into the huddle beside Zack, who at the moment seemed far more focused on Captain Noble than on her.

“The good news is that we’ve come to the end of our march. We stay put here, and in approximately thirty minutes, a couple of Seahawks from the Reagan will be here to pick us up.”

Some of the SEALs gave a thumbs-up into the night, as if relieved that a ride home was on the way. Diane breathed a sigh of relief.

“But we’re not going directly back to the Reagan.” This got the men’s attention. “The president has a job for us to do.” A quick pause. “Commander Colcernian?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re the naval attaché to Indonesia, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell these men who Muhammed Magadia is.”

“He’s the vice president of Indonesia, sir.”

“That is correct. And right now, we’ve got intel that the vice president is being held hostage against his will by gunmen loyal to this madman General Perkasa at the presidential palace in Bogor. That’s about ten minutes’ flight from here by chopper, if even that.

“The XO’s on his way right now with other members of the SEAL team. We’re going in, and we’re going to rescue the vice president and give him a ride to the USS Ronald Reagan.”

Cheering and whoops and hollers.

“We don’t have much planning time. The XO, however, is getting an intel briefing, and he will lead the other guys in the palace to pull the vice president out. Our job will be to secure the top of the building and the perimeters while our shipmates go in and pull the man out. Should be a piece of cake.”

The distant roar of a jet engine came from the direction of the sea. The roar grew louder. Then another.

“Gentlemen,” Noble announced, “the sound of freedom. Our guys are on the way. In a few minutes the only sound of jets that you will hear will be the sound of F-18s and F-22s from our carrier air wing. We will own the skies over this country, and we will have plenty of air cover for our operation. Any question?”

“Let’s go!” one of the SEALs shouted.

“Let’s do it, baby!” another said.

“Rock and roll!” Zack said, pumping his fist in the air.

Diane shook her head in the dark. The love of her life was becoming Rambo.

Beechcraft Bonanza Aircraft

Above the Virginia-Maryland border

2:30 p.m.

Salaam banked the plane to the left, almost directly toward the bright overhead sun. No point in flying any further to the north. Not now anyway.

The FAA had closed the airspace around Philadelphia, and word had come that all non-military traffic headed into Washington was being vectored away.

The airspace over the Potomac River was as close as he needed to go, he had decided. No need to arouse their suspicions, especially when there was no reason to do so.

Still, as the plane turned to the west, into the bright sun, Salaam craned his neck to the right, in the direction of Philadelphia, hoping, somehow, to see the glorious mushroom cloud on the horizon.

But from here, there was nothing but a haze just over the earth’s curvature in the distance.

Still, the thought of what had happened brought shivers all over his body. And despite this most glorious day for Islam, Salaam felt both envy and resentment. He had trained for this day too. He had been ready. They had told him to be ready, to be prepared to use his plane on a moment’s notice. He was prepared for martyrdom.

Yet the honor for this mission had been bestowed on others. But who was he to question Allah? He had been prepared to give his all. What more could he give?

He circled the plane further to the left, now headed to the south. The buildings of the small city of Winchester were coming into sight. The small, private airstrip would be off somewhere to the right.

Salaam scanned the landscape to the right of the town. A red and white water tower appeared in the distance. The runway would be just across the road from there.

A slight push of the yoke to the right brought the nose of the Beechcraft in line with the water tower.

In a few minutes, he would be on the ground. From there, he would rush home to watch more live feed coverage from Philadelphia, then fall to his knees and pray that his phone would ring.