Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

Wahid wrung his hands. He had no choice. At least not for now.

He picked up the microphone to speak to the two F-16 jets sitting on the runway in takeoff position.

“Falcon Leader. Jakarta Tower.”

“Falcon Leader.”

“This is General Wahid. Your orders are to take off and engage the American jets.”

“But, General…”

“This is an order from Perkasa himself. He has said that any pilot not flying will be shot.”

“Yes, General.”

“Falcon Leader and Falcon 2, you are clear for takeoff on Runways 1 and 3. Stay low and be safe.”

“Jakarta Tower. Falcon Leader. Roger that.”

“Jakarta Tower. Falcon 2. Roger that.”

Wahid put down the microphone and picked up a pair of binoculars. He aimed over to the far right of the twin runways, where two of his F-16s that he had commanded into the skies were still sitting. Through the binoculars, he could make out their silhouettes and could clearly see their running lights. One started rolling, and then the other.

They whizzed down the runway from right to left, a parallel tandem, and as they lifted into the sky, fire from the back of their twin rocket engines was clearly visible in the binoculars.

They had been airborne less than twenty seconds when chaos boomed over the air traffic control frequency. “Jakarta Control, Falcon Leader! I’ve got a bogie up my rear!”

“Jakarta Control, Falcon 2! I’ve got one too!”

General Wahid rushed to the microphone and grabbed it back from the air traffic controller and barked instructions. “Falcon Leader! Falcon 2! Split! Split!”

“Jakarta Tower! Falcon Leader! Missile in the air! On my tail! Closing fast!”

“Falcon 2! I’ve got one too!”

“Falcon Leader! Falcon 2!” Wahid yelled. “Fire chaff! Evasive maneuvers!”

A bright fireball lit the skies.

“He’s hit!” came over the radio from one of the planes.

A second fireball nearly turned night to day.

“Falcon Leader, Falcon 2! Come in. Come in! Falcon Leader. I say again. Falcon Leader, talk to me. That’s an order!”

Nothing.

Wahid was breathing heavily. He set the microphone down, still panting as the fireballs broke into long strings of light reaching downward, now looking like a pair of bright octopuses on the horizon.

“General.” He heard the voice of his aide but did not respond. “General,” the voice spoke again.

“What is it, Colonel?”

“Sir, we have two more F-16s in takeoff position. What are your orders, sir?”

Nothing. There was nothing he could say.

“Sir, shall the tower clear them for takeoff?”

His heart still pounding, Wahid exhaled again. “Tell them to stand down. I will not sacrifice our young men and our air force in an impossible situation.”

“But what shall we say if General Perkasa calls again?”

Wahid looked at his aide. “Tell him if he wants to shoot anybody, he can shoot me.”

The White House

3:59 p.m.

We’re running out of time, gentlemen,” Mack Williams said, checking his watch again, as he paced across the Oval Office. “Secretary Lewis?” He looked at the secretary for homeland security, who had just arrived back in Washington from a meeting in Portland. “We found those U-Hauls yet?”

“Still working on it, Mr. President.”

“We’ve got about twenty minutes max before San Francisco blows.” He checked his watch again. “Find those U-Hauls.”

“Look, Mr. President!” Cyndi Hewitt was pointing to the muted video screen in the corner of the Oval Office. “The idiot dictator is on the air again.”

“Sound.” Mack ordered, and a Secret Service agent complied.

“We are extremely disappointed at this time with the actions of the American administration.” The dictator’s voice contained a forceful anger. “Not only has there not yet been a response to our demands concerning the diplomatic derecognition of the criminal state of Israel, as the freedom-loving masses of the world have demanded, but also tonight, US Navy warplanes are at this very hour violating the sovereign, territorial airspace of the Islamic Republic of Indonesia.” The dictator slammed his fist onto his desk. “This must stop!” He held his arm up, as if glancing at his watch. “Your time is almost up, Mr. President. My patience is running out!”

San Francisco

1:00 p.m.

All units, be on the lookout for a U-Haul truck, Florida license MNL 742, on the move in the San Francisco metropolitan area. If this unit is spotted, do not engage. Maintain surveillance. Report coordinates immediately. This vehicle is believed to be carrying weapons of mass destruction, and interception efforts must be coordinated with the US military.”

Sergeant John King, California Highway Patrol, was just finishing his Big Mac, and was swallowing a gulp of Diet Coke when the U-Haul passed him on his left.

Florida tag!

“Dispatch. One Adam Fourteen. Please repeat the tag number on that U-Haul.”

“Adam Fourteen, roger that. That’s Florida MNL, as in Mike November Lima, 742.”

King blinked his eyes and rechecked the tag number. His heart rate shot into a rapid pound. “Dispatch, please be advised that I have a visual contact on subject vehicle. Headed north at thirty-five miles per hour.”

Creech Air Force Base

Indian Springs, Nevada

1:05 p.m.

From his duty station at the 17th Reconnaissance Squadron at Creech AFB about thirty miles northwest of Las Vegas, LCOL Blake Winters, a fifteen-year F-15 pilot who had served combat tours in Iraq but was hoping to get more stateside time just before his retirement so that he could watch his son play high school football, was sipping bottled water, his eyes glued on a live, aerial view of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge.

Winters was one of the “older” fighter pilots the Air Force had put in its new drone program, perfect for those who had put in many years in the cockpit and who were not quite ready to hang up the wings just yet. The MQ-1 Predator was the most famous drone in the Air Force, after gaining popularity in the Iraqi theatre of operations in the early 2000s. The Predator was armed with two laser-guided AGM 114 “Hellfire” surface-to-ground missiles, and when it was flown over the Iraqi war zone, the Predator allowed pilots back in the United States to operate the aircraft by remote control from the ground thousands of miles away. It also allowed them to conduct aerial surveillance, and to strike and destroy enemy targets on the ground.

Winters had put the pilotless bird in a broad, looping circle over the bridge at fifteen-hundred feet, between Marin County on the north side, and Fort Point on the San Francisco side to the south.

So far, there was just traffic flowing back and forth, and glistening blue water under the huge, burnt-orange suspension bridge.

Just above the video feed from the drone were live video images from two other drones, one over a smoldering Philadelphia and one over Washington, where shadows were beginning to lengthen on the east coast. The other drones were being flown by two other pilots, one sitting to Winters’ left and one to his right.

The headset on Winters’ ears squawked with static, and then the sound of the controller’s voice.

“Predator 2. Creech Control. Be advised that target has been spotted by civilian law enforcement ground unit. Stand by for coordinates…” Winters felt sweat on his palms. Even sitting on the ground over five hundred miles to the southeast of the target, without even the specter of a dogfight with an enemy jet, the warrior’s edginess set in his body. The consequences of failing were not lost on him. “Okay, coordinates are northbound on the Embarcadero between piers thirty-eight and thirtytwo. Speed approximately fifteen miles per hour.”