Don Brown: The Malacca Conspiracy

Careful, Hassan. “Colonel Croon was ultimately in charge of security over our operational plans.” Better to lie than risking a bullet himself. “At least that part of the problem has been taken care of.” Perhaps he could find a way to kill the general and go ahead and take charge of this entire revolution.

“Yes, of course,” Perkasa said. “But what do we do now that they are looking for the U-Hauls? I suppose we could transfer the nuclear device to another vehicle, but they have shut down Washington.”

“Not to worry, General. Croon was in charge of protecting the integrity of the program, but I masterminded it, and there is a backup contingency for this sort of thing. I did not write it into the plan so that if the plan were compromised, there would be no record of the backup plan.”

“Good thinking.” Perkasa reholstered his pistol, to Hassan’s delight, and sat in his chair. “Tell me about this contingency plan.”

“Nine-Eleven was long ago. But we still have pilots in America trained and waiting to be called upon for jihad.

“There is a special e-mail that I have set up. All we must do is log into the e-mail and type the code word. Once that is done, our driver will be alerted and will immediately divert to the town of Winchester, Virginia, which is seventy-seven miles from Washington.

“We have a Muslim brother there. A pilot. He has been waiting to be called upon for years. He too will receive the e-mail message. At that point, he will meet our driver. They will load the bomb on the plane and fly it into Washington at treetop level, careful to avoid radar. The bomb will be detonated over the US Capitol building.”

The general grinned. “Brilliant, Hassan. Brilliant.”

US Navy F/A-18 (“Viper 1”)

Over Bandung, Indonesia

3:42 a.m.

Viper 1, Reagan control…Turn to course three-one-five degrees. Stand by for targeting coordinates.”

“Reagan, Viper. Roger that,” the pilot responded, pulling the plane’s yoke to the left. “Turning to three-one-five degrees. Standing by targeting instructions.”

The Hornet swung through the dark skies around to the northwest, in the direction of the national capital at Jakarta, which was seventynine miles to the northwest.

“Viper. Reagan. Target is at 6 degrees, 16 minutes, 22 seconds south latitude; 106 degrees, 48 minutes, 18 seconds east longitude.”

“Reagan. Viper 1. Copy that. Target at 6 degrees, 16 minutes, 22 seconds south latitude; 106 degrees, 48 minutes, 18 seconds east longitude.” The pilot punched the firing information into the plane’s fire control computer. “Reagan. Viper 1. Be advised that missile is armed and ready for launch.”

“Viper 1, Reagan control. Move into position and fire at will.”

“Roger that. Fire at will.”

The pilot’s thumb depressed the button that said Fire Missile.

The pilot felt a slight bump upward just as two AGM-88 HARM missiles dropped from the plane’s underbelly. They rocketed away from the jet like giant burning cigars vanishing into the dark distance. The missiles left twin streaks of smoke trailing behind them to mark their paths.

“Reagan. Viper. Missiles away.”

“Viper. Reagan. Copy that. Now we wait.”

Residence of General Perkasa

Jakarta, Indonesia

3:44 a.m.

Are you sure this will work, Hassan?” The general, who had suddenly become Hassan’s best buddy, was leaning over Hassan’s shoulder peering at the computer screen. This was a good thing. After the annihilation of Washington, Hassan would press the general for promotion from colonel to one star. Things were working perfectly, according to the plan of Allah.

“Yes, of course this will work, General.” He was logging into the e-mail account especially set up for the contingency. “All I have to do is type one word”-he typed the word airborne on the e-mail as he was saying it-“and hit the send button, which will go to both the driver and the pilot. Immediately, the contingency plan will go into effect.”

“Do it quickly, Hassan,” Perkasa said.

“Here we go.” Hassan clicked SEND, instantly sending the cryptic message into the galaxies of cyberspace. “Done,” Hassan said, exhaling. “Now, we wait.”

BOOM! Two great thunderbolts shook the building. Dust and plaster immediately rained in torrents from the ceiling, and then the ceiling began to fall. Hassan tried scrambling for the doorway, but a steel beam dropped from above and crushed his head. It would be his last memory of life on earth.

And then, fire.

US Navy F/A-18 (“Viper 1”)

Over Jakarta, Indonesia

3:46 a.m.

Reagan. Viper 1. Looks like we’ve got a double hit. Both missiles detonated on target.”

“Viper 1. Reagan control. Good shooting. Climb back to eighteen thousand feet. Resume patrol and await new orders.”

“Reagan control. Viper 1. Roger that.”

Martinsburg Pike, near I-81

Winchester, Virginia

5:00 p.m.

Salaam sipped the hot coffee and pressed his foot on the accelerator. He pulled out of the McDonald’s parking lot and swung right onto the Martinsburg Pike, only a hundred yards or so from Interstate 81. Long dark shadows stretched across the road, as the sun set early in northern Virginia in the wintertime. He glanced at the digital dash clock.

As he drove under the Interstate 81 overpass, he put down the coffee and instinctively flipped on his headlights.

A second later, the truck passed on the other side of the interstate, just northeast of town, headed toward Washington.

His cell phone beeped. Someone had sent him a text message. He flipped open the phone. New e-mail waiting!

He hit the send button. Connecting to e-mail…a few seconds passed. Connected to e-mail!

He opened the newest message. AIRBORNE!

He hit the brakes and pulled off the side of the road. He looked at the message again. AIRBORNE!

His heart was beating out of his chest. “Praise be to Allah!” He needed to get to the airport. Now.

Perhaps the timing of all this was perfect. The airport terminal had just closed at five. There was no tower at Winchester Regional and no one to monitor nighttime takeoffs and landings. With a bit of luck…or divine providence…if the driver responded and received the text message…

He quickly did a U-turn and headed back toward I-81, taking the ramp to the southbound lanes toward Roanoke. Four minutes later, he exited onto US-17 south, and then quickly turned another right onto the Front Royal Pike. The dark of dusk was blanketing the Virginia countryside now, and the lights of only a few cars were passing in the opposite direction down the pike.

Two minutes later, he turned left onto Airport Road. A minute after that, he pulled into the asphalt parking lot in front of the small terminal building. No cars were in the lot. Where was the U-Haul?

He got out. The air at dusk was cold, chilling his lungs as he inhaled. He checked his watch. Five-ten. Surely the driver had gotten the message. Of course he had.

He leaned against his truck and pulled a pack of Camel cigarettes from his front pockets. The Bic lighter came from the pockets of his blue jeans. A single flick of the igniter, and a blue and white flame leapt from the top of it. He cupped the flame with his hand and sucked through the filter of the cigarette, lighting the other end of it.

Headlights.

Thrusting the cigarettes and lighter into his pockets, he drew smoke into his lungs and watched the headlights approaching down the airport road. The vehicle drove into the parking lot, shining its lights toward Salaam.

As it came closer, he made out the image of a box panel truck. Under the red running lights, he made out the black lettering against the orange and white panel.