The Malacca Conspiracy

Chapter 8

Paya Lebar Air Base

Singapore

8:00 a.m.

The US Navy C-130 Hercules taxied to the staging area at the end of the runway. Its four propellor engines spun in a shrill whine.

From her jump seat behind the cockpit area, Lieutenant Commander Diane Colcernian looked out the window at the rising sun, floating as a large, orange ball just inches over the horizon. A giant Royal Air Force C-17 Globemaster, the outline of its fuselage reflecting an orange tinge, was just in front of the Hercules.

“Strapped in, Commander?” the pilot’s voice squawked in her ear.

Diane pressed the Talk button. “Roger that, Lieutenant,” she said to the pilot.

“Got your life jacket, ma’am?”

“Check,” she said. “Not worried about anything, are you, Lieutenant?”

“No, ma’am,” the copilot said. “Just checklist procedures. We’ve got twenty-four hundred miles of ocean to cross. That’s more than I can drink.”

Diane smiled. “Just watched that movie Castaway on DVD last week. Great timing.”

“Hollywood.” The pilot shook his head. “We’ll be fine, Commander. I’ll bet that FedEx pilot was ex-air force. We’re navy. We’re used to flying over water. I’ve not dropped one of these birds in the ocean yet.”

“That’s comforting, Lieutenant.” She checked her watch as the engines roared louder and the C-130 rolled forward. “What’s our ETA?”

“We’re first in line after the Limey gets airborne.” Limey was a phrase that members of the US Navy sometimes affectionately used to describe members of the Royal Navy and other members of the British military. “After that,” the pilot continued, “depending on tailwinds, about four-and-a-half hours.”

Whooosshhhh. The long roar of four Pratt & Whitney turbofan jets pushed the RAF cargo jet skyward, leaving a trail of black smoke as it nosed upwards.

“Where are they headed?” Diane asked, as the big bird climbed off to the east, in the direction of the sun.

“Same place we’re going,” the pilot said. “But they’ll get there sooner. Jets versus props.”

“We’ve been cleared for takeoff,” the pilot said.

Diane sat back. A moment later, the C-130 lifted off, then banked to the left. It flew across the city, heading toward the Singapore Strait.

Down below, black oil lapped everywhere upon the once-white beaches. Hundreds of birds could be seen stuck in oil, some still alive and struggling, hundreds of others dead.

The plane crossed Sentosa Island, and over the edge of the jet-black Singapore Strait.

The Hercules banked again to the right, now headed west over the strait. Diane looked to her left at the city of Singapore with its mix of dazzling skyscrapers, colorful flowers, and swaying palm trees. Overnight, it had been transformed into the worst urban environmental disaster of the modern age.

She squinted her gaze back across Sentosa. The island was starting to disappear from view. Behind the island, back across the bay in the lush green somewhere, was the old British hospital.

Somewhere, he was down there. Her Zack. Handsome as a movie star with that dimple, stubborn as a mule on his granddaddy’s farm in North Carolina. Knowing him, he had gone AWOL. Part of her wished he would. She missed him already.

They’d been together at the Justice School, and in San Diego, then briefly in Washington. And now this? Was this their fate? To forever be teased with brief moments together, then to be subjected to forced separation again? Would it ever end?

The navy. She was a cruel taskmaster. A jealous lover indeed.

Perhaps one day.

She looked out again and saw that Singapore had disappeared. Now, there was nothing but water. At least it was blue water.

The plane entered a steep climb. Diane closed her eyes, pictured Zack’s rugged face, and wondered when she would see him again.

Then she remembered that she had a job to do.

Jakarta Air Base

Indonesia

8:50 a.m.

The early morning shower had waned to a muggy mist. Between the dissipating cloud cover, the sun’s rays were starting to poke through.

Captain Hassan Taplus popped down the sun visor, clicked the windshield wiper to the off position, then tapped the brake pedal. The Mercedes, bearing the flag of the army chief of staff on the front left hood and the flag of a four-star general on the right, slowed as it approached the main gate of the Jakarta Air Base.

Even after eight months on staff as the general’s driver, Hassan still relished the looks of awe on the stunned faces of members of the Indonesian military as the chief of staff’s car approached. Khaki-uniformed gate guards jumped to attention, saluting as if someone had just lit their behinds with a blowtorch.

“Atten-CHUN!”

“Atten-CHUN!”

Taplus could not suppress the smile.

“Morning, General!”

“Morning, General!”

The Mercedes cruised slowly past the guard gate and onto the premises of the air base.

Taplus glanced in his rearview mirror.

The general, in full uniform replete with his dozens of shining service medals, greeted his starstruck subordinates with a dismissive hand gesture, somewhat pompous, really, as if he were the pope. Colonel Erman Croon, Perkasa’s chief of staff, an idiot whom Taplus did not care for, simply returned their salutes.

Taplus drove on past the guards toward the terminal. The Malacca Plan was entering its next phase, and this drive to the air base was the beginning of it. The general’s mission had to succeed, and the three men in the staff car knew it.

Taplus had decided not to mention the security breach. The only person who could have seen the file was Madina. The possibility that she was a double agent continued to nag at him.

“Is my plane ready, Captain?”

“Yes, sir, General,” Taplus said, as more stiff-saluting guards waved the Mercedes through chain-link fences and onto the rain-soaked runway. The general’s 737 was already waiting on the tarmac.

Taplus drove the Mercedes onto the tarmac and stopped about twenty feet from the front of the parked aircraft. Several military officers approached the car, standing ready to assist as soon as the general got out.

“Very well, Captain, let’s review my itinerary.”

“Yes, General. Your plane is fueled and ready for takeoff. Distance to Karachi is just over thirty-four hundred miles, sir. Because of the distance, we’ve arranged for you to land and refuel at Colombo, Sri Lanka, and then straight on to Karachi. Your cruising speed will be just over five hundred miles per hour, and when we include the stop in Sri Lanka, total flight time, General, will be approximately seven-and-a-half hours. You should land at three-thirty in the afternoon, local time in Karachi.

“Our Strategic Alliance partners have arranged transportation for you and the colonel at the airport. From there, you will be taken to your hotel to rest, and then your meeting with your Pakistani contact is scheduled. For security reasons, it will take place at an undisclosed location just before sunset.

“Your contact is a high-ranking Pakistani military officer, whose objectives are like-minded to ours. He will not be in uniform but will be wearing civilian clothing.”

Taplus pulled out an envelope from the inside of his jacket pocket and handed it to the general. “Here’s an extra copy of your itinerary, sir, for your reference. I also have an extra copy for Colonel Croon.” He handed another envelope to the colonel.

“This envelope contains names of points of contact and security codes that will need to be verified by your contacts in Karachi before we can begin discussions. A code will need to match with the driver picking you up. Simply ask the driver for the code, and he will repeat it before you should go with him.

“Likewise, there is a separate code for the military officer that you will be meeting, along with a photograph of the officer and a brief bio on him.”

“And this officer has the authority to give us what we need?”

Taplus nodded. “According to our contacts in Saudi who arranged all this, he has ample authority, General.”

“Excellent,” General Perkasa said. “Colonel Croon, are you ready to fly to Pakistan?”

“Yes, General.”

“Very well,” the general said, checking his watch. “It’s almost nine o’clock. Let’s go.”

Captain Taplus stepped out of the car and motioned to one of the military aides standing at attention. “Help the general and the colonel with their bags.”

Taplus stood by the back right rear door, flashed a sharp salute, and bellowed, “Atten-CHUN!”

Perkasa stepped out of the car. The sound of clicking boots echoed across the tarmac, as once again, at least a dozen army and air force personnel jumped to attention.

Perkasa threw a salute at Taplus. “Thank you, Hassan,” he said, doing something he rarely did, calling Taplus by his first name. “Keep everything under control until I return.”

“With pleasure, General!”

Perkasa dropped the salute, and then turned and headed up the portable stairway into the 737, with Colonel Croon on his heels. The pilot stepped forward and closed the door.

Taplus got in the staff car and drove back just to the gate leading off the tarmac. From there, he watched the 737 quickly taxi to takeoff position. A moment later, the plane lifted off, and within minutes, had disappeared behind the spotty cloud cover.

He exhaled. Taplus had unfinished business, and he needed the general out of the country so that he could get on with what he needed to do.

He picked up his cell phone, and dialed the general’s residence. A familiar voice answered. “Chief of staff’s residence.”

“Hello, Madina?”

“Yes?”

“This is Hassan.”

“Who?”

“Captain Taplus.”

“Oh, Captain.” Instant glee lit her voice. “Perhaps you are ready for that second cup of coffee?”

“I have a better idea,” he said.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“And what might that be?” A sultry, suggestive tone.

“How does sunset at the beach sound?”

“That sounds like a great idea!”

“Great. Ever been to Pelangi Island?”

“No, but I’ve always wanted to. I hear it’s beautiful. Clear beaches. No one around.”

“Exactly. The general’s out of town. So is the colonel. That means I’m in charge. So why don’t you leave about two o’clock and meet me at Ancol Marina at Jakarta Bay about three? We can take the general’s boat. The island is about forty-five miles out and will take an hour-and-a-half. I’ll pack dinner, complete with wine. We can ride out, watch the sunset, and return tonight. What do you say?”

Silence. Then, “I’d love to.”

“Great. Bring your swimsuit. See you at three.”

Residence of General Perkasa

Jakarta, Indonesia

11:05 a.m.

Madina checked her watch.

Scrubbing the toilet bowl in the downstairs bathroom had taken twice as long as usual. Thank goodness the general was out of town.

The telephone call from the handsome Captain Taplus had sent her concentration level into a tailspin. She checked her watch again. Four more hours. What to wear?

Perhaps a short, bright sundress for the boat ride to the island. She could hide behind a palm tree and change into her swimsuit once they arrived.

Or perhaps she could wear the swimsuit under a T-shirt and a pair of shorts.

But the sundress would be more feminine. And after all, he did say to “bring your swimsuit.” Not wear it, but bring it.

Now that she thought of it, it wouldn’t seem awkward for her to change behind a tree somewhere.

Yes, that was it.

He would like the sundress, she thought, and then hopefully he would like it more when she changed into the swimsuit.

What was this foolish feeling that felt like champagne bubbles floating inside her? She was like a silly teenager in love for the first time!

Perhaps they would have a military wedding. Yes, a military wedding, complete with swords and rifles. He would shine like a handsome prince in his dress uniform with all his shining medals. Her wedding gown would be long and flowing. Diamonds and rubies and precious jewels would adorn her ears and fingers.

Perhaps they would marry at sunset at Merdeka Square, with the general and other members of the Indonesian high command present.

Hassan would rise quickly in the ranks of the army. He was the best of the brightest, hand-selected to be on the general’s staff. Most likely, he himself would be a general one day. And she would be the loyal wife of a general. With elegance and grace, she would move among Indonesia’s ruling elite. Perhaps even dine with the wife of the president of the Republic. Being married to such a rising star would indeed have its advantages.

“Stop daydreaming,” she said, seemingly to no one. “You’ve had just one cup of coffee together.”

Yet she knew better.

It was more than just a cup of coffee.

In his dark, black eyes, she had seen the look. She knew.

Surely he had noticed hers. They had both felt electricity as their hands brushed in the kitchen and the hallway. The chemistry was undeniable.

And now he had asked her to one of the most romantic places in Indonesia, a beautiful secluded island to view the sunset with no one else around.

The doorbell rang.

She sauntered into the foyer, passing the general’s study on the right, and opened the door.

Three Indonesian men, two middle-aged with pot bellies, and the third, who was slim and fiftyish, stood at the door. “We’re from TVRI,” the older man said, referring to the state-run Indonesian national television network, Televisi Republik Indonesia. “We have orders to bring in some broadcasting equipment to set up in General Perkasa’s study.”

“Broadcasting equipment? What kind of equipment?”

“Television cameras. Lights. You know, equipment if someone goes on television.”

“I know nothing about it,” she said. “Normally, Colonel Croon or Captain Taplus would be here to approve.”

“Colonel Croon signed the work order himself,” he said, then thrust the paperwork forward. She examined the work order. It appeared to have the colonel’s signature.

“What have we here?” A woman’s chirpy voice came from high and above. She turned and saw Kristina, the general’s lover, descending the staircase. She was in a yellow sleeveless dress, like a chirping canary, and was smiling and beaming as if she were the general’s wife.

Although she and Kristina were nearly the same age, the general had insisted that staff members call her “Miss Kristina,” as if they were indentured servants, and “Miss Kristina” was the mistress of the house. Oh, Kristina was a mistress all right-one who had slept her way into the halls of power. That much was obvious.

“They want to put television cameras in the house. In the general’s study,” Madina said.

“Oh, they do? I know nothing of it,” Kristina said. “I’ll see you sometime, Madina. I’ll be gone for a while.” The human canary smiled and stepped around the television crew, then walked outside, swiveling her hips in an obvious attempt to catch the attention of other men while the general wasn’t looking.

“Good-bye, Miss Kristina.” No answer from the canary. Madina looked back at the TVRI crew. She had no time for this. She had to get ready to go and meet her captain.

Perhaps the canary had left some spiffy little sundress upstairs that would fit the evening’s occasion.

“Very well,” Madina said. “The general’s study is right through there. Take your time, but I may have to leave before you finish. Just close the front door when you are done.”

“Thank you, madam,” the man said. “It may take a few hours.”

“Fine,” she said, waving her hand at them in a dismissive gesture, then heading up the stairs to the general’s quarters.

There was no telling what delightful delicacies the canary may have left behind.

US Navy C-130

Over the Indian Ocean

10:30 p.m.

We’ve got a great view of Diego Garcia if you’d like to come up to the cockpit, Commander.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Diane unbuckled her safety harness and made her way into the cockpit. The magnificent crystal-blue vista of sun-sparkled waves on the open ocean was splendid, a revivifying contrast to the oil-drenched environmental disaster on the beaches at Singapore.

The sight of God’s panoramic masterpiece made her forget, momentarily, that she was on a mission to investigate and combat the modern scourge of the twenty-first century: international terrorism.

I wish Zack could be here.

“Where’s Diego Garcia?”

“Look to the left, Commander. About ten o’clock.”

She did. “Wow. It looks like the outline of a giant footprint in the ocean.”

“This your first visit to the Rock?”

“I’m afraid so, Lieutenant.”

“Welcome to the middle of the Indian Ocean.”

The plane banked to the left, and Diego Garcia was now visible, almost in front of the aircraft, but just slightly to the left. Lush palm trees and vegetation glimmered in the sunshine. “It doesn’t look like a rock,” she said. “It looks like an atoll.”

“That’s right, ma’am. I’m not sure where it got that name. But it’s really a huge tropical atoll. From the air, it looks like a giant footprint. The Brits own it and provide a token presence, including a provisional government. But the US Navy leases it, and we’re the main occupant.

“The whole place is only about seventeen square miles,” the pilot continued. “But the water in the middle of the lagoon is hardly like an ordinary lagoon.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, the water in the middle of it is so large and so deep that we could bring the entire Seventh Fleet in there if we wanted. In fact, the water is so deep around the place that those huge tsunamis that swept across the Indian Ocean in 2004 barely caused any damage at all.”

“Wow.”

“Wow’s right. This place is America’s best-kept secret in this part of the world,” the pilot said. He pushed down on the yoke and the plane nosed down. “You say it looks like a footprint,” the pilot continued. “Well, the British and American navies have for years called it “The Footprint of Freedom.” We’ve even let the Air Force borrow it to launch B-2 and B-52 airstrikes from here against Iraq and Afghanistan. President Bush visited back in 2007.”

The pilot banked the C-130 again to the left. The Footprint was in the middle of the sparkling blue ocean, right in front of the nose of the plane.

“Amazing that a place so far from everything, a place that most Americans have never heard of, would have so many names,” Diane said.

“True, Commander,” the pilot said. “Diego Garcia. The Footprint of Freedom. The Rock.” He took a swig of bottled water. “But know what the best one is?”

“What’s that?”

“Well, a few years ago, Stars and Stripes ran an article about it and called it Gilligan’s Island with Guns. That nailed it. That’s exactly what that place is-a beautiful tropical island with white sands, clear water, coconut and palm trees, multicolored fish, and enough firepower to single-handedly take out most nations on the face of the earth. In fact, USS Abraham Lincoln is moored there now. Just waiting for your arrival.”

Diane let that thought sink in. She would have no time for picking coconuts or fun in the sun.

“We’ve just been cleared for landing, ma’am,” the pilot said. “You may want to strap in.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Diane moved back to her jump seat and clicked the aluminum buckles of her shoulder harness. She tightened the belt and then sat back and closed her eyes.

In her stomach, she felt the plane descending more rapidly now, but it was an easy descent, free of turbulence, indicating smooth, warm air and no cloud cover.

A moment later, the plane bounced slightly on touchdown, its rubber wheels hitting the concrete runway a little too hard for comfort. The pilot threw the props in reverse, and the reverse wind drag slowed the plane on the runway.

“Sorry about the bump,” the pilot said. “Got a little wind shear just as we touched down.”

“Not a problem.” Diane unbuckled her shoulder harness. The plane was in a slow taxi now. A few minutes later, the plane stopped rolling. The engines whined down and cut off.

A moment later, the copilot stepped back out of the cockpit area and opened the outside door of the airplane. Bright sunshine, a warm, tropical breeze, and the roar of helicopter engines all rushed in.

“Commander, we’ll get your bags.”

“Thank you,” Diane said. She donned a pair of shades and stepped onto the ladder, where she stopped to enjoy the tropical ambiance before beginning her descent. Swaying coconut and palm trees surrounded the inside of the runway. Off to the right, a giant British C-17, one that looked just like the one that had taken off ahead of them in Singapore, was parked on the tarmac.

To the left, a US Navy helicopter, a gray, carrier-based SH-60F Seahawk, was sitting on the tarmac about fifty yards away with its engines running. On the fuselage of the Seahawk, painted in black, was the word NAVY. Painted in smaller letters, also in black, was the name of the ship to which the Seahawk was assigned, USS Abraham Lincoln.

A few sailors wearing blue baseball-style caps, white T-shirts, and blue jeans were milling about down on the tarmac at the bottom of the portable staircase and over near the helicopter.

Where was her escort? She impatiently checked her watch.

The JAG officer from Abraham Lincoln, Lieutenant Commander Bruce Dejardins, was supposed to escort her onboard the aircraft carrier. But where was he?

She started to descend the staircase, and when she was about halfway down, she noticed a US naval officer step out of the helicopter. He was trim and physically fit in his well-cut khaki uniform, and he was wearing dark shades.

A gold oak leaf on his collar, showing that he bore the rank of lieutenant commander, glistened brightly in the afternoon sun. The officer was walking from the chopper in the direction of the C-130. He looked familiar from a distance, she briefly thought. She took her eyes off him to descend the rest of the aluminum staircase. Probably Lieutenant Commander Dejardins.

Good.

About time.

“What’s up, Diane?” a familiar voice called out as she stepped onto the concrete. She looked up and saw that the handsome officer, still approaching on foot and with a huge grin on his face, was now close enough to her that his identity was no longer in question.

“Zack!” she shouted instinctively. A rampant fluttering rocked her heart. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve got friends in the British military. Remember?” A wider grin crossed his face. He pointed at the Royal Air Force C-17 sitting on the tarmac.

That response prompted her to pop him on the arm, half angrily yet half playfully. His reference to the British military was a joking reference to the British Royal naval officer in Australia. Zack could joke about it easier than she could. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital recuperating. Remember?”

He laughed. “Doc said a tropical environment would be the perfect antidote for my smoke inhalation.”

“I won’t ask.”

“Don’t,” he said. “Just let me kiss you.”

“Zack,” she uttered a sheepish protest. He pulled her to him. “The navy has rules against public displays of affection,” she whispered.

“I’m a JAG officer. You don’t think I know the navy’s rules? The heck with the navy. For now anyway.” He ripped his sunglasses off.

Bolts of lightning shot through her body at the touch of his lips. Oh, dear. What had she been missing all these years? The heck with the navy, he had said, and he was right. At this moment he was right. And the heck with everything else. For now…

“Excuse me, ma’am.” She looked around, prompting Zack to roll his eyes to the tropical sky. The copilot of the C-130, a lieutenant aviator type, was standing there, holding her bags in both hands. “Where would you like these?”

Zack spoke up. “You can take them over to the chopper, Lieutenant. He’s going to shuttle us over to the Abe.”

“Yes, sir, Commander,” the copilot said. He started walking toward the roaring chopper with Diane’s briefcase in one hand and seabag in the other.

They followed, holding their heads down as they stepped under the rotating chopper blades. A petty officer took Diane’s hand and assisted her into the cargo bay. Zack stepped in and announced to the pilot, “Let’s do it.”

With the cargo bay door still open, the rotors revved faster, and the chopper lifted into the sky, about a hundred feet off the ground. It rotated fully around, as if at the center of a merry-go-round, then dipped its nose and flew over the lagoon, where the mighty aircraft carrier USS Abraham Lincoln was at anchor.

The chopper flew perhaps a half mile, if even that, and hovered over the anchored aircraft carrier. Within less than a minute, the Seahawk was feathering down onto the massive gray flight deck of the carrier.

Flight deck crew members, clad in multicolored motorcycle-style helmets and dark shades, were giving hand signals as it touched down.

The pilot cut the engines, and the rotor blades whirled to a stop. A tall naval officer approached the chopper. Two sailors flanked the officer and were walking slightly behind him. “Zack, Diane, welcome aboard the Abe,” Lieutenant Commander Bruce Dejardins said, approaching the open bay door of the helicopter.

“Glad to be aboard,” Zack said. He stepped out of the chopper and onto the deck of the aircraft carrier. He offered Diane his hand. She took it and stepped onto the sun-drenched deck.

“Thanks for having us.” Diane extended her hand to shake the commander’s. “Anyway, I wish we had time for pleasure. Unfortunately, whatever’s happening out there, we’re trying to shut it down before it goes much further. We’re hoping that we can pick up some clues from the guys stationed on board the Abe.”

“Understood,” Dejardins said. “If you’ll both follow me, let’s get to work.” He turned and led them on a brisk walk across the breezy deck.

Ding-ding. Ding-ding. Loud bells pealed over the Lincoln’s PA system. “Abraham Lincoln. Departing,” a voice on the loudspeaker said, indicating that the commanding officer of the Abraham Lincoln was at that moment leaving the ship.

“The skipper apologizes for not being able to personally welcome you aboard,” Dejardins said. “He’s got a meeting with the CO of the naval station, and we’re shuttling him over there by motor launch.”

“No problem,” Zack said.

“Anyway, Bruce,” Diane spoke up, “what can you tell us about these two wayward sailors that were on board the suicide boat?”

“This way.” Dejardins opened a door to a passageway leading inside the carrier’s “island.” They stepped into an elevator, and he punched the down button. “Both were loners.” The elevator doors opened and the officers stepped in. He punched the button for four decks below the flight deck. The doors closed, and the elevator started descending. “Muslim. Educated in Muslim schools in the Detroit area.

“Both kept their noses clean. No trouble from either one. Both took thirty days’ leave, which they were entitled to do. Then they go on this crazy suicide mission, and now, you guys show up.”

The elevator doors opened. “My office is to the left.”

They stepped into the passageway, turning left. Dejardins kept talking. “We’ve got their seabags and papers available for your inspection. But we found something in Seaman Moore’s locker that you might find interesting.” He stopped. “Here we are.” They stepped into the JAG offices.

“You’ve got my curiosity up,” Diane said. “What do we know about Moore?”

“Rahim Moore, Seaman Recruit. US Navy. From Dearborn, Michigan. Kind of a loner. Apparently of Middle Eastern origin, but we’ve heard that his father changed the family’s last name for whatever reason.”

“Wonder why,” Diane said.

“Who knows? Could be anything,” Dejardins said, then turned to one of his men. “Petty Officer Jones, lay the contents of Moore’s seabag on the table.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clothes, shoes, boots, ball caps were spread out in front of them-the typical belongings of a sailor in the US Navy. In the middle of all the clothing, Dejardins reached down and picked up a small plastic card and handed it to Diane.

The card had a photograph on it, and the red-and-white flag of Indonesia.

“Unbelievable,” Diane said. “I don’t read much Indonesian, but we’ve got an Indonesian Armed Forces military identification card on our hands. Service member by the name of Susilo Mulyasari.”

“Susilo Mulyasari.” Zack repeated the name. “Can you tell which branch?” Zack asked.

“Looks like navy.” She looked at the card again. “Yep. I’m pretty sure the phrase Angkatan Laut is a reference to their navy.” She held the ID up against the fluorescent light. “Why’s this familiar?” She looked over at her bags. “Petty Officer, pass my briefcase, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The legalman handed Diane the briefcase. She opened it and retrieved a file that she had quickly started assembling last night. From the accordion file, she pulled out a sub-file containing several eight-by-ten glossy color photos that had been taken on board USS Reuben James.

She laid one photograph on the table and compared it to the Indonesian identification card. She looked at Zack, who was standing to her right. “What do you think?” she asked him.

Zack picked up the color photo and studied it under the bright fluorescent lights. Bruce Dejardins crouched to Zack’s right, put on his reading glasses, and also peered at the photo.

“A little hard because it looks like a fifty-caliber round must’ve glazed part of the guy’s skull. But from the nose down, the mouth, I think we’ve got a match.”

Diane nodded her head.

“Bruce?”

“Agree.”

“I agree too, guys,” Diane said. “So that gives us a potential identification on one of the two non-Americans who tried to attack the SeaRiver Baytown.” She looked at Commander Dejardins. “But why would this Indonesian sailor’s ID be in Moore’s seabag?”

“Good question,” Zack said. “My experience has been that criminals can be both brilliant and stupid at the same time. The Indonesian must have given it to Moore at some point. Maybe they were trying to keep his identity anonymous for whatever reason.”

“Hmm.” Diane scratched her chin. “And we’ve searched and haven’t found anything in either of the two seabags that would give us a clue about the other guy?”

“Nothing, other than this one identification card,” Dejardins said.

“Well, the identification card is a start,” Zack said. “The more we learn about this cat, the better.”

“Agreed.” Diane turned to the Lieutenant Commander. “Bruce, could you arrange for me to use the ship’s message center to send a top-secret flash message to our embassy in Jakarta? I’d like to see if we can get the cooperation of the Indonesian military to get some background on this guy.”

“Consider it done,” Dejardins said.

“Then I need a flight back to Jakarta ASAP.”

“Oh, I’m sure we could find a few pilots lounging around here who would be happy to volunteer for that duty.” Dejardins smiled. “I’ll check with the air wing commander.”

“Appreciate it, Bruce.”

“Mind if I tag along?” Zack raised an eyebrow, a curious puppy-dog look on his handsome face. “Can’t leave a lady in a plane alone with some rugged, uncivilized flyboy.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Well, this is an Indonesian matter, and I’m the attaché to Indonesia and you’re the attaché to Singapore.” Of course she wanted him to come. But she couldn’t make it appear too obvious.

“You don’t think what these guys did affected Singapore? Did you see the beaches and the straits when you flew out this morning?”

That was a good point. “Okay. But won’t you have to get permission from Ambassador Griffith?”

He just shook his head, with a When will you ever learn? half-grin now on his face.

“Okay, I forgot. The great Zack Brewer never has to ask permission,” she said. “Sure. Tag along. But just remember. You’ll be a guest at the embassy at my invitation. Promise to behave yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, with a wink.

USS Abraham Lincoln

Indian Ocean

One hour later

Zack Brewer stepped up the small stepladder and onto the wing of the EA-6B Prowler Jet. The Prowler, a four-seater with highly sophisticated technology and used for electronics jamming against enemy radar, would serve as their ride to Indonesia.

The pilot, a navy lieutenant, and the copilot, a lieutenant juniorgrade, already in their flight helmets and sitting side-by-side in the cockpit, turned and saluted Zack.

Zack saluted back, then reached down and grabbed Diane’s hand, pulling her up onto the wing behind him. They stepped into the back two seats of the cockpit, Zack first, and then Diane.

Two navy petty officers, aviation specialists, climbed onto each wing and helped Zack and Diane with their flight helmets and oxygen masks. They buckled the JAG officers in and pulled on the shoulder harnesses, tightening them in preparation for takeoff.

A moment later, the petty officers closed the canopy, bolted it down, and were exchanging thumbs-up signs with the pilot and copilot. The petty officers backed away from the plane, and the whine of jet engines crescendoed from under each wing.

Plumes of steam rose off the carrier’s runway. Jet engines reached a near-deafening pitch.

“Stand by, Commanders.” The pilot’s voice came over the headset. “We’re clear for takeoff.”

Adrenaline rushed through Zack’s body. Being shot out over the water in an airplane by a steam-powered steel catapult that served, essentially, as a giant slingshot, was more thrilling than riding the Space Mountain roller coaster at Disney World. Every carrier launch that he’d experienced made him regret turning down the opportunity to go to Aviation Officer Candidate School in Pensacola.

Diane, on the other hand, had never relished the experience. She reached over and grabbed his hand, squeezing it as if about to have a shot of Novocain stuck into her gums.

Outside the jet, a navy petty officer crouched down in front and just to the right of the plane’s nosecone. The petty officer, known as the “shooter,” wore a protective helmet, goggles, and a yellow jacket. He kneeled down on one knee and gave a thumbs-up to the pilot. The pilot returned the thumbs-up. Then, like a hunting dog that had sniffed a trapped fox, the shooter turned and pointed straight out over the end of the flight deck.

Whooosssssssssshhhhhhhhh.

The jet moved forward faster, accelerating, and then shot off the front of the carrier, with a slight dip downward as the pilot pushed the jets to full throttle.

Up, up they climbed, with G-forces from the rapid ascent pushing Zack and Diane deep into their seats. Zack tried containing the exhilaration flowing through his body, which became almost impossible when he looked over at Diane and saw her expression.

Why did her nauseated look make him want to laugh? In the whirl of the moment, he was overcome with a long-lost boyhood mischievousness that drove him to play pranks on girls back at Washington Street School in his hometown of Plymouth, North Carolina-like the time in the fourth grade that he got into trouble for sneaking a frog into Sally Swain’s lunchbox. He smiled at the distant memory.

A minute later, the Prowler leveled out, and Zack remembered that he was a naval officer, indeed, the world’s best-known naval officer, and that he was thirty-some years removed from Mrs. Dunning’s fourthgrade class in Plymouth.

He kissed Diane’s hand, gave her a reassuring smile, then closed his eyes and prayed for the Lord’s favor as the jet banked and set a course to the northeast.