Don Brown: The Malacca Conspiracy

“Diane!”

He sprinted to the burning hotel, passing coughing staffers and guests who were stumbling outside.

Zack stepped into the lobby. Flames lapped up silk draperies near the left wall.

The smoke-filled lobby was already like an oven on low heat. Guests gasped and choked, stepping over themselves, frantically grasping for the outside. Others lay on the floor moaning. Some were motionless. Sunlight poured into the lobby through open areas, but the smoke was thickening, making it difficult to breathe. Sirens from the harbor police blared.

“Diane!” The crackling flames absorbed Zack’s scream.

“Everybody out!” a voice blared over a megaphone. “Get out now!” the voice announced in English, then switched to Mandarin.

“Diane!” Zack put his face into his T-shirt, plunging through the smoke.

“Out! Out!”

Pockets of warm air shrank under thickening smoke. Images grew opaque.

His hands found a counter. Squinting, he realized he had found the front desk. A woman was on the floor behind it. Zack crawled over the counter, bent over, and pulled the woman’s arms over his shoulder.

As the heat sapped his strength, he lifted the woman onto his back. She gave him no help. Only dead weight. He laid her down on the floor, then repositioned her body and lifted her, cradling her in his arms.

She coughed.

Good. At least she was alive.

He stumbled through the mix of smoke and air toward the light streaming in from where the revolving doors stood just an hour earlier.

The bright warmth of sunlight crested his face. Fresh air. Sirens closed in on the building.

Zack collapsed on the grass, the woman still in his arms.

Singapore Changi International Airport

2:05 p.m.

The Royal Saudi Airlines Airbus A340 rumbled along the concrete runway of Singapore’s Changi International Airport. Bander Omar finished his call, then turned his cell phone off, leaning back against the headrest for takeoff.

A moment later, the plane’s nose lifted skyward, its rubber wheels breaking contact with the runway. The giant bird banked to the right, presenting a panorama of the city jutting into the blue waters of the straits. It was like Allah had provided a cinematic view of his divine handiwork.

In the straits, just off Sentosa Island, white-orange flames raged into the sky, morphing into black smoke rising from two oil tankers moored just offshore. Harbor police in fireboats sprayed long blasts of white water through fire hoses onto the decks of the tankers.

Just a few yards inland, rising from the cove of lush green palms, smoke plumed from the Rasa Sentosa Resort. The wind was sweeping the billowing white columns in the direction of the burning tankers.

Cheering erupted from the back of the plane.

Bander turned and looked over his shoulder. A number of his fellow citizens, Saudi nationals, were glued to their windows, peering with delight at the sight below them. Farouq would be pleased.

The Airbus rolled back in the opposite direction, bringing into view a deep blue sky, then continued its climb into the sun on its journey to the Saudi homeland.

Bander pulled the shade, closed his eyes, and felt a satisfied smile cross his face. Un hum del Allah. Praise be to God. The Council of Ishmael had prevailed. It had begun.

The White House

2:06 a.m.

Colonel?” the navy commander said, as Colonel Abraham Rogers, United States Marine Corps, stepped from the West Wing corridor into the small communications office just down from the Oval Office.

The navy commander, intelligence officer Bob Gleason, handed his boss a white, steaming mug with the gold-and-red globe and anchor emblem of the United States Marine Corps emblazoned upon it.

“Thanks, Bob,” Abe Rogers said. He accepted the black coffee and took a refreshing swig. “What’s going on tonight?”

Commander Gleason finished his own sip before answering. “Not much, Colonel. All’s quiet on the western front.”

“Music to my ears, Bob.”

Abe Rogers was a Marine’s Marine. His cool head and bravery under fire in Iraq had led the commandant of the Marine Corps to nominate him for this job in the White House. “Abe, you’re just the man to run that job in shipshape fashion,” the commandant had told him. He’d taken command of the White House Communications Office just three weeks ago. So far, none of the world’s hot spots had even percolated. Not yet anyway.

Rogers had just taken his second swig of black coffee when the secure line rang from the Pentagon.

“Commander Gleason.”

Rogers watched Commander Bob Gleason’s mouth drop open. “Aye, sir, the colonel’s right here. Yes, sir.” Gleason held his hand over the receiver and looked at Rogers. “Colonel Evans over at J-2. He says it’s urgent.”

Rogers set his mug on Gleason’s desk and took the phone. “What’s up, Joe?…How many were hit?…Did they get past our destroyer escorts?…Oh, they got past the Brits?…And SECDEF wants me to wake the president? Very well…Understood.”

Rogers hung up the phone and looked at his deputy, now standing with widening blue eyes and raised eyebrows.

“We’ve got two oil tankers ablaze in the Singapore Straits, Bob. They tried striking a third, but your navy guys on the USS Reuben James blocked ’em.”

“Holy Toledo…” Gleason said, as if he were Robin responding to a pronouncement by Batman. “Reuben James is commanded by Adam Shugert. He’s an Academy classmate of mine.”

“Well, your buddy Captain Shugert earned his pay,” Rogers said. “Looks like a suicide boat made a run at the tanker SeaRiver Baytown. The Reuben James took ’ em out. Can ’t say as much for the Brits.”

“What happened?”

“Two freighters they were escorting are burning right now. Along with a resort hotel on Sentosa Island. Looks like coordinated terrorist strikes. The problem is we don’t know where it’ll stop.”

“Scary,” Gleason said.

Rogers polished off his coffee. “The Singaporean president wants a carrier task force sent into the Malaccan Straits. That’s drawing protests from Malaysia and Indonesia. Secretary Lopez wants the president awakened.” Rogers checked his watch. “Better get rolling. Bob, notify the Secret Service duty officer. I’ll need to get an initial briefing prepared for the president.”

“Aye, Colonel.”

Hotel Al Nemer

Dammam, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

9:08 a.m.

Mr. Omar just called before boarding his plane,” the security chief said. “He reports total success in Singapore. The hotel is on fire, two tankers are burning, thousands of gallons of black crude saturates their beaches, and overnight oil futures are skyrocketing. We have made billions on this day alone!”

“Excellent! What about in the straits?”

“No news yet. The American navy was escorting the target tanker there.”

“Let me know when we hear about that.”

“Yes, sir.”

Farouq extracted a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it, inhaling a cloud of sweet nicotine. He knew his trust in Bander, his second-in-command, had been well-founded. “Is the council ready?”

“Yes, sir. The council is assembled.”

The top floor of the hotel had been reserved for this briefing. Soon, however, Farouq Al-Fadil would, for security purposes, need to relocate the Council of Ishmael headquarters.

A door opened into the ornate hallway from a large conference room. A voice blared from inside the room, “Rise for your new leader, Farouq Al-Fadil.”

The security chief stepped into the hallway and looked at Farouq. “They are ready for you, my leader.”

Farouq put out his cigarette and followed the chief and two security guards into the ornate room. The guards followed on his footsteps.