Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

Winters typed in the location, which instantly gave him the latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates. “Okay, I’m going in for a look. Stand by.” He set the coordinates onto automatic pilot, turning the Predator slightly to the southeast.

The White House

4:10 p.m.

His tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, the secretary of defense rushed into the Situation Room, where Mack had reestablished himself after spending the last couple of hours in the Oval Office. “Mr. President! We think we’ve located one of the U-Hauls!”

Mack looked up. “Talk to me.”

“Trying to get it up on the screens now!” Secretary Lopez said, as a couple of marine corps intelligence officers fiddled with some knobs under two of the flat-screen monitors on the wall beside the conference table.

“Got it!” one of them said, and stepped back.

An aerial shot of traffic flashed on the screen. At the bottom of the screen, the words superimposed USAF PREDATOR 2/Aerial San Francisco Live 1310 PST/1610 EST. The shot zoomed in closer and showed what seemed to be a single U-Haul van from the top. It was surrounded by slow-moving traffic, jammed between two vans, one green and one white.

“That’s it, Mr. President.” The defense secretary was pointing to the screen at the U-Haul.

“My recommendation is that we take it out,” Admiral Roscoe Jones said.

“Don’t we need to get a Blackhawk helicopter in place to take it out?” Mack asked.

“No sir,” Jones said. “The Predator has two Hellfire missiles under the wings. We can take it out on your command.”

Mack looked at the screen. Traffic had ground to a halt.

“Where is it in San Francisco?”

“He just came onto the Embarcadero, Mr. President. They’re at the intersection of the Embarcadero and Washington Streets,” the secretary of defense said. “Have the pilot pull the shot back and pull back in,” he said to one of the marines wearing a headset. The marine mumbled into the headset and the camera pulled back, showing the piers lining the glistening waters of San Francisco Bay to the right, and several green parks along the Embarcadero to the left. The shot triggered Mack’s memory that the Embarcadero was the main road that paralleled the tip of San Francisco’s thumb-shaped peninsula all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Now here’s the Embarcadero snaking along San Francisco’s waterfront,” Admiral Jones said. “From this point, he’s only about five miles from the bridge, and luckily he’s in slow-moving traffic, which gives us a slightly easier target.”

“Zoom back in,” the defense secretary ordered. The marine repeated the order into the headset and instantly, the Predator was beaming back close-ups of the U-Haul, which had a minivan to the left and was to the rear of an SUV. The CHIPs car was about three cars behind it.

“Logistical details aren’t my specialty,” Mack said, “but wouldn’t we have a better chance of protecting these folks in the cars beside and in front if we had a chopper swoop down in front of the U-Haul and just fire a machine gun through the glass?”

“Actually, Mr. President,” Admiral Jones said, “the HARM missile is laser-guided and is more likely to land on target. Yes, we could lose some people in the adjacent cars because of the explosion, but machine-gun fire from a moving chopper could easily go off target and kill civilians too. Plus, there’s a chance that if we miss, or if he sees the chopper come into view, he could detonate the nuke before we take him out.”

Secretary Lopez spoke again. “I recommend that we take him out now, Mr. President. On your order. We’re running out of time.”

Jesus, help me, Mack thought.

“What’s that?” A blond head was hanging out of the window of the minivan right beside the U-Haul! Small hands and arms were waving under the blond head. “Close up on that minivan!” Mack ordered. The marine repeated the president’s order.

“Dear God! Is that a child waving out the window?”

The blond head disappeared back inside the minivan.

“Mr. President, we have to move now,” Admiral Jones said. “Our deadline is in less than three minutes. If he blows that bomb, that child’s going to die anyway. And possibly thousands of others. The military cannot authorize use of force inside the United States without presidential approval, sir.”

Mack’s hands covered his face. “Lord, give me wisdom.”

US Navy Seahawk

Over Bogor, Indonesia

3:13 a.m.

The choppers were moving fast through the night, and as Captain Noble barked last-second instructions that did not apply to her because she had been ordered to remain in the chopper, Diane gazed down through one of the chopper’s windows at Istana Bogor, the lavish presidential palace that she had studied but never seen in person. Illuminated from the air, with its square central structure connected by two flanking wings, it looked like Merdeka Palace bore a remarkable resemblance to the White House.

The captain’s commands pouring into her ears reminded her that this was not Washington, that the palace was not the White House, and that they were on a dangerous military mission that could end in death.

“On my mark, we hit the deck and shoot anything or anyone offering resistance. Move in twos. Remember, the XO has plans to the building and is going in. Our job is to protect the choppers on the roof. Everybody ready?”

“Aye, Captain!”

“All right. Lock and load!”

The choppers were feathering down toward the roof, slowing their descent. Then, a burst of machine-gun fire from the choppers. Chita-chita-chita-chita-chita-chita-chita-chita. Then another burst.

The loudspeakers from the pilot blared. “Captain, a couple of snipers on the roof. We opened fire to try and clear ’ em out. I think we got ’em. Be careful.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Noble said.

Contact. The chopper landed. The doors swung open. “Move! Move!” Noble shouted, motioning his SEALs quickly out the bay door.

Zack turned and caught her gaze.

“Don’t go!” she said.

Zack kissed her on the head, and hopped out onto the roof to the sound of gunfire.

“Jesus, let him live,” she prayed aloud.

The White House

4:14 p.m.

You’ve got forty-five seconds, Mr. President,” Admiral Jones said. “If that fool is true to his word.”

“But he’s not at the bridge yet,” Mack said, hoping that the minivan with the blond-headed boy would turn onto a side street.

“No sir, but his deadline is four-fifteen, and he’s there, on the ground in San Francisco. Suppose he blows on his own time frame.”

“Thirty seconds, Mr. President,” Cyndi Hewitt said.

“How can I do this?”

“You’ve got to do it, sir,” the defense secretary said. “We have a point-blank shot, and we’re running out of time!”

Mack knew that his advisors were right. “My Lord and God, forgive me for what I must do!” Mack closed his eyes and gave the command. “Fire!”

“Fire! Fire!” The marine repeated into the headset.

The president could not bear to watch. Yet he had no choice. He opened his eyes. The clock showed exactly four-fifteen as the U-Haul still crawled parallel to the minivan in slow-moving traffic.

A streak of white smoke jetted from the camera. Two seconds passed.

Against a backdrop of morbid silence, the U-Haul exploded in a ball of orange flames and black smoke, now billowing with fury into the San Francisco sky.

The situation room was devoid of cheering or discussion. Only quiet. Some exhaling.

The silence was broken after a few seconds by the somber voice of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “We got him, Mr. President.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Mack said, staring at the billowing smoke that made the Embarcadero almost invisible. “It looks like we did.”